#but then WHERE do the templar quarters go? should it be like the circle tower or should it almost be like there are different compounds?

[oopsallmabari]

me: oh i should write a flashback scene in ostwick circle that'd be a good thing to explore

me, 5 minutes later: i need to diagram the entirety of ostwick circle in my mind with floorplans

[nirikeehan]

wip wednesdaaaay

tagged by @theluckywizard this week! Thank you!

I really felt like some angst lately so here is some intro to whump. No special verse, just something random I'm working on for a DADWC/Bad Things Happen Bingo.

---

Cullen went through bouts of tumult without lyrium to steady him, and with every upswing Thalia worried about the oncoming down turn. She still remembered the strained look on his face when he’d explained it all to her: it was impossible to know if cutting lyrium from his system entirely would kill him. He’d wanted her guidance, perhaps as the leader of the Inquisition — but more so, she’d sensed, as a friend. 

Thalia had reeled from the stark nature of the confession. Through her mind ran every encounter she’d ever had with a Templar while at the Ostwick Circle. She’d known, vaguely, that they’d used lyrium, but it was to her just another alchemical substance. Mages often used it to aid spells. She’d never thought about what it might do to people without the gift for magic. She’d had no idea it chained them for life. 

She’d been able to see the benefits to suggesting — ordering? — Cullen continue to take the lyrium. A military leader should always be clear-headed and strong, at his best. And part of her was selfish: if he died, then what? He was her mentor and her friend. How could she go on knowing she’d sanctioned his self-destruction? 

But she’d seen the desperation in his eyes and been unable to say it. Despite his words, she’d known what he had wanted.

And she was a bit more than a friend to him now. 

“I’m sure Cullen will be fine, Lady Thalia,” Josephine said, touching Thalia’s hand soothingly.

The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter, as they’d covered all they could without Cullen’s input. Thalia left the war room as the first few snowflakes drifted by the window. By the time she’d made it through the Main Hall to the courtyard, the sky was a leaden grey and the snow fell in earnest. 

Thalia shivered. Skyhold often ran warmer than the surrounding mountains; surveyors speculated there might be hot springs running throughout the ground beneath the keep. Solas scoffed at the idea and suggested there was likely powerful warding magic at work. Whatever the reason, the grass grew and the trees kept their leaves even in winter, but today the forces that guarded the keep could not withstand the oncoming storm. 

She crunched her way across the courtyard. She really ought to return to her quarters for a cloak, but the thought of turning around dismayed her. If Cullen is unwell, he should not be in that tower by himself. Not in this weather. He hadn’t exactly invited her back to his room quite yet — not for that reason — but she’d been in it a few times. Once was to grab a report he’d left up there during their long nights in his office, spent tracking the movements of General Samson. Another was to find a poultice for the pain when he’d been too shaky to the take the ladder. Thalia had looked around the space in wonder each time. The glimpses one took into the life of someone cherished: it felt so overwhelmingly Cullen, down to the rickety roof he still hadn’t gotten around to repairing. She didn’t even think he had a brazier. He’d freeze to death up there. 

Thalia wasn’t sure where she could coax him — her own quarters came to mind, with its large hearth and fire that the servants kept crackling all day long. She smirked; wouldn’t everyone talk then? No, the infirmary was probably better. He’d hate that, because then he’d have to explain what was wrong to the healers, but at least she’d feel at ease. Fear crept into her often when the worst of the symptoms gripped him, making him delicate and volatile. But no one must know, he insisted again and again. No one must find out.

Thalia cracked the door to his office and peered inside. The candles were unlit, the space dim and quiet. Snow already piled against the panes of the narrow windows, casting a sickly, muted light into the room. Thalia slipped in and leaned against the shut door. She listened to the silence. Her shallow breathing puffed white clouds in the cold air. 

She kicked the snow from her boots against the doorframe and strode to the ladder that ran up to his room. It was dark up there too. Thalia swallowed. She didn’t just want to climb up unannounced.

She balled a fist and knocked against the side of the ladder. “Cullen?” she called, feeling slightly absurd. Why couldn’t he sleep in a room with a door? Why must he always be so close to his work? “Hello? Are you here?”

---

Tagging, if interested:

@oxygenforthewicked | @highwayphantoms | @monocytogenes | @inquisimer | @bluewren | @delicatefade | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @little--abyss | @rowanisawriter | @zenstrike | @melisusthewee

[viiisenyas]

I know I posted like two days ago, BUT I finished up Cullen’s POV of my ‘Destruction of Lothering’ Chapter and I figured I’d share it. I honestly felt bad for him. For like a second. Warnings: Torture

He was silent as he stored the letter addressed to Trevelyan’s mother in the small chest full of Elliott’s scarce belongings. He volunteered to pack The Knight-Corporal’s things to send them back to Ostwick as the other Knights tended their duties.

He hadn’t left the Templar quarters in days. It was the only place where he felt peace after the mages returned from Ostagar. Rumours grew legion among them— whispers of the Tevinter’s disappearance and Trevelyan’s desertion. But Cullen knew better. It was a ridiculous assumption. Elliott didn’t abandon the Order— he never would. He was proud to serve the Chantry and the Maker.

The memory of his last interaction with Elliott pressed into the forefront of his mind. He remembered reporting the Tevinter’s frequent excursions with Amell to Trevelyan after the Harvestmere celebration when he saw them again. He remembered Trevelyan’s eyes narrowing, jaw clenching.

Are you certain of this, Rutherford? I saw them, Trevelyan. We must to bring this to Greaigor’s attention. And why haven’t you done anything about it?

Elliott narrowed his eyes as Cullen paused and cast his gaze downward. He didn’t want to admit that his curiosity of her got the best of him. He didn’t want to admit that he floundered in his duty in favour of his desires.

Andraste’s ashes, Cullen. First Surana, now the Tevinter?

Cullen’s expression soured at the mention of the elf. He didn’t mean to kill her. 

You said you wouldn’t speak of her again. I cleaned up your mess when I disposed of her body for you, didn’t I?

Trevelyan scoffed, and ran his fingers through his golden hair before folding his arms over his chest.

Look, Irving will do anything to protect his precious little mages, especially that Amell. Informing the Knight-Commander won’t solve your little problem. What are you going to do, then? What you should have done. Greaigor mentioned that she’s going to Ostagar, as am I. She will be dealt with.  You aren’t going to kill her, are you? What I decide to do with her is none of your concern, Rutherford.

Cullen gritted his teeth as he closed the chest. He wasn’t sure what Trevelyan was planning, but it was obvious that it didn’t work out in his favour. His mind began to reel with the many possibilities regarding his disappearance, and each conclusion centred around the Tevinter’s hidden malice. Her seemingly innocent nature, soft-spoken words, and doe eyes— it was all a façade. 

And Amell’s betrayal of the Circle in favour of another blood mage became all the more clear as Cullen recalled his departure just a week following hers. It was far too well-timed to be a simple coincidence. Their passing of notes, longing gazes at one another... their meetings in the caverns. He didn’t think much of it, then. Now it all made sense. She planned the perfect diversion right under his nose. And in spite of his actions, that weasel still managed to evade punishment for his crimes under the protection of the Wardens.

What wickedness did they plan together against the Order? Was a demon lying dormant within her this whole time?

Distant screams echoing from the stairwell interrupted his thoughts and the air grew cold. Hurried footsteps ascended, growing louder from behind the door, and Cullen’s eyes widened. The door flew open, and he watched as the Knights clamoured, pouring into the quarters.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Cullen exclaimed.

“Uldred has gone mad! They’ve all gone mad!” A Templar cried, slamming the door shut, “Abominations lurk within the tower!”

Cullen’s heartbeat drummed in his ears as blood rushed to his head. His stomach lurched in fear as he heard more shouts resonating from behind the door. The Templar Hall was in complete chaos as the Knights scrambled to barricade the door with bookshelves. 

The Knight-Templar quickly rushed to help them. He braced his palms against the sturdy wood and pressed against it with all his strength as he gritted his teeth. The gargantuan bookcase groaned before it toppled in front of the door with a deafening crash.

“There’s too many of them— This won’t hold them off!” A Templar-Recruit sobbed. He was only eighteen.

“Get ahold of yourself, Uriah!” Cullen barked as he clasped the boy’s shoulders, “Remember your training!”

“Where is the Knight-Commander?” Cullen shouted above the rabble.

“Greaigor sealed the doors in the apprentice quarters,” Another Templar answered, “Dieter and I tried to get out, but he refused to open up!”

If he’s already sealed the doors then that means...

Heavy thumps could be heard from behind the bookcase, and he realised more people were attempting to get in. He wasn’t sure if they were mages or more Templars and his stomach twisted once more.

“They are coming!” Uriah whimpered.

Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword, fighting the urge to shiver. The sharp ring of steel reverberated as he unsheathed his blade, and the other Templars followed suit. He could see them trembling with fear, and the Knight-Templar steeled his resolve.

“Come, now. Let us in,” Uldred’s voice was muffled behind the door, “We only want to talk, dear Knights.”

There was a shift in the air and an eerie hum began to drone. Cullen observed the other knights hesitantly lowering their blades. As if in a trance, Uriah dropped his sword, letting it clatter on the stone. The Templars slowly began to walk towards the door and Cullen blanched.

“What are you fools doing?!”

His exclamation was ignored. Cullen quickly moved towards Uriah, grabbing his wrist. The boy turned to look at him. His brown eyes were wide with fear and a single tear rolled down his pallid cheek.

“I-I c-can’t…” Uriah started, “I must do this.”

A whisper sounded from Cullen’s left. It was soft, beckoning with gentleness.

I know what it is you want, Knight-Templar. Let us in, and we will give you what you long for.

His joints popped as his body was stretched, and Cullen cried out, miserably behind the dirty handkerchief that had been stuffed into his mouth.

“Now, now, Felicity…” Uldred tutted above him, “We don’t want to maim him just yet.”

The Senior Enchanter turned the wheel of the mechanism, and dread gripped the Knight-Templar’s heart. He could feel his muscles threatening to tear as he was being moved perpendicular to the ground. His weight betrayed his arms, and he let out an agonised growl through the cloth. He clenched his eyes shut and hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

Cullen opened his eyes, breathing heavily as anger rose within him, and he fixed his gaze on the younger mage. His pleading expression went ignored, and he realised that whatever good that existed in her was long gone when her hazel eyes met his, and her full lips curved down into a malevolent scowl. She was always courteous to the Knights, always eager to assist.

He remembered her volunteering to send off the letters he’d written to his family. A kindred spirit, she was. But he was proven to be wrong in his assumptions about her, and the gentle light that beamed through her eyes diminished. All that remained was pure malice.

She was supposed to be good.

“Just kill me.” Cullen whimpered, voice muffled behind the gag.

“What was that?” Uldred taunted, arching a dark brow.

Cullen repeated himself. Mid-sentence, Uldred pulled the handkerchief from between his teeth.

“…Kill me.”

“Kill you?” Uldred chuckled, “No, that won’t do… You will watch as you have watched before, Knight-Templar.” Uldred hissed, grasping his jaw.

Cullen exclaimed as electricity stung his flesh, and his breath hitched. The Senior Enchanter extended his arm in the direction ahead of him and Cullen’s eyes widened in horror as he saw Uriah being freed from the barrier that the blood mages had erected around him.

The boy was delirious, and he swayed as he walked forward before he collapsed.

“Strip him!” Felicity barked.

Cullen’s stomach lurched as three mages crowded around Uriah, and they quickly dismantled Uriah’s armour from his body, just as they had done to him. They ripped his tunic, baring the alabaster flesh of his back and Felicity slid her gaze to Cullen. His bruised lips fell open when she winked, and her mouth twisted into a chilling grin.

Felicity turned on her heel, slowly approaching the others and an elven enchanter handed her the familiar whip that Cullen once saw Trevelyan wielding.

“No! Don’t do this to him, please!” Cullen cried, “He’s just a boy!”

The Templar struggled against the iron that bound his wrists to the platform, and groaned once more, slumping forward in defeat. His entire body ached with hunger and exhaustion.

She ignored his plea as she unravelled the cords. Cullen turned away and shut his eyes before Uldred shocked him again.

“You will watch.”

A crack emitted in the air as Felicity swung the cords. Uriah howled in agony as she struck his back.

“Stop,” Cullen said, weakly.

Another strike. And another. His flesh slowly peeled from his back as the mage viciously flogged him, and Uriah called out for his mother. Cullen’s heart dropped. Many mages had done the same when Elliott and Biff disciplined them. But this was different. It was unprovoked. Undeserving.

Mere minutes felt like hours and Uriah finally slumped forward, and a sick sound rattled in his throat. Felicity pressed the sole of her boot against his back before the boy began to sob.

“Death is too good for you, Ser Knight. I have plans for you.” Uldred released his jaw and stepped away from him.

Cullen fixed his brown eyes to the ceiling and a wave of dizziness overcame him. His skin heated and sweat began to form on his brow. His mouth became dry before a familiar rancid taste coated his tongue, yet nothing came. His stomach had already voided time and again throughout the long week that he had suffered at the hands of the blood mages.

The sound of clinking emitted from below, but Cullen had neither the strength nor the will to turn his gaze. He could feel Uldred’s hands on his ankle, and he realised his shackles were being removed. The Templar felt no relief as he knew what was to come next.

[mllemaenad]

Cruelty vs Compassion: Cullen and Niall in Broken Circle

Cullen: Uldred tortured these mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don’t know how many of them have turned.

Irving: What? Don’t be ridiculous!

Cullen: Of course he’ll say that! He might be a blood mage! Don’t you know what they did? 

Greagoir: I am the knight-commander here, not you.

I know much is made of the torture Cullen suffered in the Fereldan Circle. In Dragon Age 2 it is used to set him up as an extremist, and an ally of Meredith. In Dragon Age Inquisition it is used to excuse and moderate his actions in the previous game, and to justify his ongoing persecution of mage characters.

However, I think it’s worth looking at that scene in the original context, in Broken Circle. Here, it isn’t really about Cullen’s pain at all. Rather, it is about establishing him, as well as his fellow templars, as the bad guys of the quest.

Bioware and its grey morality is ... a thing. When it works, it offers layers and complexity to the world and its story. When it doesn’t, it can leave the player frustrated and angry with a story that’s asking them to sympathise with vicious slavers, nobles and religious extremists.

Origins’s take on grey morality is to ... more or less literally let the player get away with murder, if they want. One way or another, you’re going to end the Blight, and then your Warden will either be a dead hero, or the living Hero of Ferelden, who can damn near do no wrong. While in Inquisition, and even DA2, it can be difficult to remain friends with a companion if you take a hard line stance on something they hate, in Origins they rarely have strong reactions to quest-based decisions. And hell, I have the Feast Day pack, so Seanna could disagree with her companions all day and then feed them cake until they loved her again, if she wanted. Origins is big on options; low on consequences.

It does, however, tend to give you a broad sense of which would be the ‘good’ or ‘evil’ options in a given quest. Murdering slaves to increase your stats is evil. Saving children from demons is good. Some quests have multiple options, and I don’t necessarily agree with the framing (the morality of The Urn of Sacred Ashes is pretty fucked up, if you ask me), but you can generally get a sense of whether your Warden’s behaviour counts as moral.

Cullen’s torture in Broken Circle, and his reaction to it, exists in counterpoint to someone else’s torture, and his reaction to it. Cullen is a foil to a much more important character: the man with the plan, and possibly the true saviour of the Fereldan Circle – the mage Niall.

Niall: Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you a demon?

Cullen: This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t work. I will stay strong.

Niall: This place drains you of everything ... hope, feeling, life ...

Cullen: Enough visions. If anything in you is human ... kill me now and stop this game.

Unless you actively choose to go back downstairs after completing the Fade sequence (who hasn’t forgotten they still need to fight Shah Wyrd and made a last minute dash to the ground floor at least once?) you’ll likely have these encounters one after the other. Collecting the Litany of Adralla is the last step before you’re ready to take on Uldred.

It’s impossible to miss the parallels in these encounters: both men have been captured and tormented by demons; both are exhausted, despairing and at the end of their endurance; both have been confused enough by demons and Fade dreams to initially mistake the Warden for another spirit.

Niall: I gathered some of my fellows and we obtained the Litany from the stockroom. I thought if we disabled the others, we could throw everything we had at Uldred.

Niall: But I saw my friends fall, one by one, and now it’s my turn.

Cullen: You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake ... for theirs ...

Both have lost the friends they came with, and have found themselves the last man standing against an enemy they have no hope of defeating. Both have, in short, had a really shit couple of days. They’re not equally bad, of course: Niall is being quite literally eaten alive by a sloth demon, and will not survive the day; while no doubt exhausted and distressed, Cullen is more-or-less fine. But let’s not quibble: they’re both in a bad way.

Niall: It is time for us both to be on our way. Remember the Litany of Adralla. The Circle is all that matters now.

Cullen: To ensure this horror is ended ... to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone up there.

And, significantly, both characters advise you on how to complete the quest: Niall wants you to save anybody who’s still breathing; Cullen wants you to murder everyone. Niall’s plea, while impassioned, is also reasoned and well thought out – he came in with a plan, a good plan, and he only needs your help to complete it. He is profoundly dignified, even at the point of death, after days of wandering through the same hellscape you just golem-and-fiery-skeleton-ed your way though. He judges himself for failing to win a battle he should never have had to fight. Meanwhile, Cullen is aggressive and demanding. He rejects any offer of compassion – especially from Circle mage Wynne, despite the fact that she has come to save him – and he doesn’t really have a good argument as to why you need to kill everyone. It boils down to ‘kill them just in case’.

You don’t need to put a halo and a pair of horns on these two to guess who is sitting on which shoulder.

It’s worth noting, at this point, that the choice between Niall’s way and Cullen’s sits against the background of information you’ve gathered as you ascend the tower. Mage wardens will obviously have a little more context for the places and characters you meet, but you don’t need that. The story establishes it on its own: templars are full of shit; mages are pretty awesome.

Greagoir: We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike. I realised we could not defeat them and told my men to flee.

Greagoir: They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations – not the horde that fell upon us.

Greagoir: No one could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find ... nothing.

When you first enter the Circle you encounter Knight-Commander Greagoir, who makes it abundantly clear that, though the templars are technically trained in dealing specifically with demons and blood magic, they were in no way prepared for any situation involving demons, plural. They cut and run immediately, leaving behind both the entire mage population and their own templar brethren. Greagoir is firmly of the opinion that the situation in the Fereldan Circle is not survivable. Everyone in there who is not a demon is dead.

Wynne: It’s you! No ... come no further. Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand!

As soon as you step through the doors, you find that he is thoroughly and disastrously wrong. You encounter an entire section that has been successfully cleared and secured. You watch a mage defeat a demon – entirely without your aid. You see that, not only are there survivors, some of the survivors are children.

Greagoir: This situation is dire. There is no alternative – everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again.

Wynne: Yes. Even if we cannot eliminate all the demons and abominations, together, we could lead the survivors out.

Greagoir’s plan is simply to murder everyone: to charge in and stick a sword in anything that moves (children included) without any thought of strategy or reason. Wynne would like to be methodical: she would like to go from room to room, killing any hostiles she encounters, and send survivors down to safety.

We already have evidence that Greagoir's assessment of the situation is wildly inaccurate – the mages in front of us. Likewise, we have evidence that Wynne and her people can follow through on the plan: they’ve already cleared this area, and protected the children.

Wynne pairs with Greagoir and Niall pairs with Cullen. The debate you hear at the bottom of the tower is repeated at the top. In both instances, the mages present solid plans to save as many people as possible; in both instances, the templars advocate wanton destruction for no clear reason.

The templars’ argument is further undermined by evidence you find as you climb the tower:

Pile of Rubble in first area after ascending to this level: I have the utmost sympathy for what happened to your charge, but it is beyond the Cicle's ability to anticipate every obscure demise that an apprentice might face, especially involving methods outside the already extensive realm of magical study. We simply don't have the room for additional training facilities, and there are concerns about becoming too inclusive that I will not elaborate on. Your request is denied.

--First Enchanter Sinclair

Pile of Books in next room after escaping from the Fade: If space is your excuse, I will surrender my quarters. If it is about money, I will hire the appropriate people. I will not graduate another student ignorant of weapons that any ditch-digger can shove into his ribs. We teach them to append ridiculous glamours on parade arms, but they don't know simple steel. That is criminal.

--Enchanter Bergin

Pile of Books in room with Blood Mage and Charmed Templars: Notice herewith that the exercise area on the fourth floor shall serve as permanent berthing for the templar garrison stationed at the tower. Since facilities that accommodate their particular training requirements are already on hand, they will be assuming an even closer watch over Circle affairs. Enchanter Bergin's optional weapons training is canceled until further notice. Enchanter Bergin has additionally stepped down from teaching duties.

--First Enchanter Sinclair

– Extracurricular Studies

It’s established that the mages have been actively prevented from learning how to defend themselves. There used to be combat classes, taught by someone named Enchanter Bergin, but he was forced to stop and templars moved in to his space to “assum(e) an even closer watch over Circle affairs”.

Owain: Please refrain from going into the stockroom. It is a mess and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.

Tranquil: Thank you. That was an uncomfortable experience.

Nevertheless, there are several encounters with mages and tranquil in this quest who are fighting, hiding, resisting torture – still trying to find a way through this nightmare. There are survivors. Despite what the templars tell you, there are people you can save.

Desire demon: We are partners. I give him what no one else can, and through him, I experience what it is to be mortal.

Meanwhile, Cullen outright admits that the rest of his comrades broke (we have only his word that he didn’t, which strangely enough he expects us to accept, while not regarding Irving’s word as good enough), and there are no free templars in the entire quest. They are all possessed or charmed by demons.

Broken Circle is asking you a simple question. Which do you want? Warriors trained in dealing with the arcane and the monstrous who will absolutely scream and run away if the fight gets a little bit difficult? Or civilians with no combat training who have proved to be surprisingly resilient in a crisis?

Strategically, that might be a bit tough: what you actually want is competent professionals, and those are in short supply right now. Morally, it’s an easy call: the mages are heroes, survivors and innocents; the templars are murderous cowards.

Alistair: His hatred of mages is so intense ... the memory of his friends’ deaths is still fresh in his mind.

Wynne: He’s suffered pain and anguish like few have had to endure. That and his lust for revenge have confused the issue –

Cullen: Do not presume to judge me, mage! I am thinking clearly – for perhaps the first time in my life.

Cullen: As you can see, I am in no position to directly influence your actions, though I would love to deal with the mages myself.

To return to Cullen’s motivation – while no one is disputing that he’s had a really bad day (We’re not! We’re all being very understanding about his demands for mass murder!), the story doesn’t actually emphasise his distress very much. That is raised and dismissed. What is raised and accepted is that Cullen is angry. Cullen is vengeful. The mages (some of them, anyway) have risen up, and templar blood has been spilled. Now mage blood must be spilled in return. It doesn’t matter very much if the mages were involved in the uprising or not. He just wants to kill them in an act of revenge.

While we can understand Cullen’s grief over his friends at a personal level, it’s worth considering whether it’s reasonable. We have just established that the mages are imprisoned in the Circle tower, that they have been prevented from learning how to protect themselves, and that the templars have not only abandoned their charges to die, they are actively in favour of murdering them.

Do ... we care that much about their deaths? This looks like the only part of the uprising that went right.

This is like Nathaniel Howe’s distress over his father’s death. Of course you can sympathise: this was his dad. But at the same time, you expect him to look at the evidence, and come to understand that his father was not an innocent. Nathaniel does, because he is a fundamentally decent person. Cullen doesn’t.

Put another way: if you’ve played Fallout 4, you’ll note that the NPC raiders sometimes cry out in grief and distress when their comrades fall in battle. That’s a nice touch on the AI: the raiders are human beings, with human emotions, and the people you’re killing are their friends, their family. But when the battle is done and you walk into their camps ... and you observe the bloody remains of their victims scattered about for decoration ... maybe you don’t feel too bad about making them sad?

Same deal.

The original epilogue for this quest has this:

Templars

Once the tower was rebuilt, Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped down from his post and retired to a life of private contemplation as a brother in the Chantry. His health failed over time, and after refusing treatment, he perished in his sleep. Knight-Commander Cullen was said to be more strict and less trusting of the mages even than Greagoir was. He ruled the Circle with fear.

Mages

The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered.

– Epilogue

Now, I realise the details of this have been pretty thoroughly retconned. There is absolutely no point in bringing this stuff up in relation to later games. However, it is worth looking at the epilogue in relation to the original quest. Regardless of the ending you choose, these epilogues tell you that the real threat was never the mages, or even the demons. The threat was the templars – the individual murderer, or the institution with a cruel man in charge.

The mages are not possessed (at least not in a harmful sense – Hi, Wynne!). They are not evil. But the templars always have power over them, and they can hurt them simply because they hate them. Cullen hates them, and was thwarted in his vengeance. So he hurts them.

Also, if you mash those two endings together and change the location you’ve pretty much got the plot of Dragon Age 2. So the details have changed, but the theme remains the same.

To end: Broken Circle fundamentally lets you choose. You can show compassion to the tortured mages, who asked for none of this, and who were never prepared for this violence. You can accept the aid of their heroes, enact a plan, and save the survivors. Or, you can murder them to satisfy the vengeance of their gaolers who resent having to take any risks on behalf of their charges.

Niall represents that compassion. Cullen represents that cruelty. It isn’t really about Cullen’s tragedy at all. If anything, it’s about Niall’s. And yet, two games on, he is effectively forgotten.

Niall: Dark times, greater acts of heroism, eh? You may be right.

A salute to Niall – who fought for compassion and saved the Circle (at least from my save game) when the templars would have destroyed it.

[chipfics]

Rest Easy

crossposted from Ao3 Characters: Alyssa Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford About: Relationship fluff with some spicier implications/mentions. Set in a Trevelyan Siblings AU.

Summary: Alyssa has trouble sleeping- but she’s not the only one. 1700 words.

Sleep came scarcer and scarcer each night lately.

Alyssa's quarters in Skyhold were comfortable, spacious, well warmed by the fireplace. Much different from the drafty little cabin she had shared with her brother in Haven. Now he was in the quarters just below hers in the main tower, hopefully sleeping peacefully with no whispers from nightmares or worries of any kind. And hopefully no pains from the mark on his hand. She knew it still bothered him at times.

Alyssa herself had many little things to keep her mind in ill company now.

The Ostwick Circle had fallen suddenly, before the war between the mages and templars had fully begun. The rebellious there had staged a bloody uprising, and it had left Alyssa with little choice but to flee the place entirely or be singled out as one of the rebels by the templars who would not pause to ask any questions.

She had stayed with a Dalish clan after that, until word of the Conclave reached her and she chose to attend.

She had already developed sleep problems by the time she reunited with her brother there for the first time since leaving Ostwick. Most of the dreams that overtook her were full of the smell of the Circle burning, the noise of the fighting, the ache of her feet as she trekked further north to avoid getting her family caught up in the mess that was the spreading mage rebellion.

She still dreamed of that day even now. And now also of Haven burning, of Tristan facing Corypheus down alone and being lost in the blinding white of an avalanche, thought dead for days before a rear patrol found him exhausted and starved in the snow.

By some strange twist of luck she was now settled within the position of Inquisitor as well. So many people whose lives and faith depended on her. Every word she said could be twisted for good or ill now and the anxiety of the notion kept her awake as much as trying to avoid the nightmares.

And so tonight she found herself curled against the arm of a sofa in front of her fireplace, reading through a copy of Hard in Hightown and drinking tea that had long since cooled.

She knew the crime serial almost by heart now. It had been a favorite of hers for quite some time, and it was still an odd thought to realize she was now close friends with its author. Still, even as familiar as the words and imagery were they provided enough distraction to keep her calm. And failing that, she could always dress herself again and take a brisk walk. There were night patrols and it wouldn't be unsafe as long as she stayed within the fortress walls.

She was in fact beginning to consider doing just that when she heard the knock. A few quick, hard raps that didn't match the knock of the runner that usually interrupted her sleep with urgent business of some sort.

Alyssa paused, at first not sure she had really heard it. Several seconds passed, and she heard it again. Real, then. She marked her place and stood, smoothing out her shift and reaching for her nightrobe. She pulled it on and tied the belt then padded across the floor and to the door. She hesitated only a moment before opening it just a crack. Whoever it was, they needed her for something to be there at nearly two in the morning.

It wasn't a runner standing in the darkness of the hallway like she expected.

It was a man, tall and strong, wavy blonde hair mussed and hanging into his face. A five o' clock shadow was on his chin that she would know anywhere.

“Cullen?” She asked incredulously, and opened the door the rest of the way to get a better look.

His hair wasn't combed back the way she was accustomed to seeing, and it gave him a very different air. Disheveled, almost, but still very attractive.

“I'm sorry,” He said quietly by way of greeting, “I know it's late.”

“I wasn't asleep,” Alyssa informed him, “it's all right. Do you need something? Is anything wrong?”

She reached a hand out to grasp one of his. Bare, knuckles scarred and nails cut short. Now that she looked closer he was wearing his nightclothes without so much as a robe or jacket to keep warm on his walk from his own quarters. Alyssa frowned.

They were in a relationship- she had no qualms about him being here, even if it wasn't something he had ventured to do before. Cullen was shy in some ways, and very proper most of the time.

...Very improper other times, she recalled, but pushed the thought of his desk under her back from her mind. This wasn't the time.

“I,” Cullen hesitated, “It's not...I mean, there's no work you're needed for.”

He brushed his hair back out of his face. It fell back into place. Alyssa had a brief thought that she wanted to run her fingers through it.

“I couldn't sleep,” Cullen finally said, “And I...started walking, and somehow I ended up here.”

Alyssa pulled him forward. He offered no resistance and she tugged him through the doorway and into her quarters, into the warmer air. She closed the door behind them.

“It's frigid tonight,” She reprimanded softly, “You should have at least put on your boots.”

Cullen responded by drawing her into his arms and bending to bury his nose in her hair, made a brighter orange than normal from the light of the fire. There was the sound of him inhaling deeply and letting out a long sigh.

“You smell nice,” Cullen murmured. Alyssa pulled away and bounced onto her toes, kissing his chin.

“I took a bath after returning from the Graves this evening.” She said, “Come sit down, Cullen.”

She led him to the sofa, where they both sat down. Her book sat forgotten already on the coffee table and Cullen fiddled with his hands, stared absently at the fire.

“Bad dreams again?” asked the Inquisitor. Cullen nodded dumbly.

“I...” He looked up, “You said you weren't asleep? After riding all day yesterday?”

Concern shaded his features and Alyssa squeezed his hands with her own. The smile she gave him was weary.

“I have bad dreams of my own,” She said, “About Ostwick, about Haven...Sometimes it's easier to just do without sleep than...”

“I see,” Cullen said. He laced their fingers. “I am sorry.”

“It's all right,” Alyssa said, “I feel better with you here anyway. Seeing your face always heals me.”

The kiss he gave her in response was warm, tender. It fell more on the corner of her mouth the first time, so he leaned in again after. She smiled, pressed back, and once they had parted again she picked up her book.

“You can read with me, if you want,” She offered.

“A bedtime story?” Cullen's voice was tired but tinted with humor, “Aren't I a bit old for that?”

“I guess you don't want me to do the voices then, do you?” Alyssa quipped back easily. Cullen laughed.

“Lie back,” Alyssa said. Cullen listened, propped himself against the arm of the sofa with a throw pillow. Alyssa leaned back against him and opened the book.

“I'll start from the beginning,” She said.

The next half hour passed calmly. Alyssa read just loud enough for Cullen to hear and he let his hands wander a little, pressed kisses to the side of her neck every so often. His body was chilly to lie against at first, but he warmed up to the temperature of the room quickly enough and soon his hands ceased their aimless journey and settled around Alyssa's waist.

When his breathing started to slow, she closed the book. “Sleepy?” She asked.

“Hmm,” Cullen replied, “Your voice has a soothing effect.”

The book found a place on the coffee table again and Alyssa turned over onto her stomach. She left a trail of light pecks along Cullen's jawline and moved her hands to sift through his hair. It was as soft as it looked, she decided. And she was starting to feel the need to close her eyes as well.

“We can stay here,” She said quietly, “Or sleep in the bed.”

“You want me to spend the night?” Cullen asked groggily, “People will talk.”

“I mean, you're already here.” Alyssa replied, “People already talk. And I don't think you get to talk to me about what's scandalous after taking me against your desk.”

Cullen's eyes snapped open and his face flushed. “That was-” He sputtered, “Listen, you seemed to enjoy it quite well, so-”

Laughter bubbled out of her and Alyssa kissed him silent. “I was teasing you, love.”

Cullen sighed. “The bed,” He said after another moment, then added, “So I can get you out of those clothes later if I have a mind to.”

“Going to work on memorizing all my freckles, I suppose.” Alyssa kissed his nose and stood, happily considering the prospect of Cullen's hands all over her again. Rough, strong, warm hands.

For now though, it could wait. She shed her robe and nestled against Cullen snugly in her bed, hummed old lullabies as he curled his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Soft songs from her childhood, which had the commander snoring softly in only minutes. Alyssa was not far behind him.

The nightmares were not so bad that night. Fewer, less violent. She drifted in and out but after each waking she felt Cullen next to her, resituated closer to him if necessary, and found rest again in moments.

At one point just after dawn she awoke to find him half leaning over her, eyes boring into her face. The fire had died down and the light from the tall windows cast a pale gray about the room. It framed Cullen in a cool, wintry sort of glow. Alyssa smiled blearily at him.

“We'll have to get up soon,” She murmured sleepily.

“We can sleep in an hour,” Cullen replied just as soft. “But I haven't rested so well in years, I'll have you know.”

“Me either,” Alyssa said.

“Perhaps I should stay up here more often?” Cullen bent to kiss her. She lifted a hand to card through his hair, hummed.

“Just stay every night,” She murmured against his lips. He hummed wordlessly in response and kissed her neck.

The day would have to start eventually, but they had time to sleep or fool around a little as they pleased. And Alyssa felt rested in a way she hadn't felt for months now.

[in-arlathan]

These Stolen Moments

More Solavellan fanfiction, yeah! <3  ______

Time period: During DA:I Characters: Female Lavellan (Elenara Lavellan), Solas, Leliana Pairing: Solavellan Chapters: 1/1, Length: 2,971 words Rating: PG-13, Teen And Up Audiences

Summary: One night at Skyhold, Lavellan finds herself unable to rest. Trying to find peace in the Inquisition library, Solas seeks her out to offer some comfort.

A/N: Like many Solasmancers, I thought the relationship between him and Lavellan deserved at least one more cut scene. But since the game didn’t give us that I spun my own little fantasy and transformed it into fanficition. It’s much more romantic than the stuff I usually write, but it made me happy so I wrote it anyway. I hope you enjoy it. <3

You can also read this on AO3.

______

The castle was quiet at last. She couldn’t recall the last time things at Skyhold had been so peaceful. Ever since the Inquisition had taken refuge in the old edifice, the courtyard and corridors had been bustling with people. Even the gardens, a place dedicated to silent contemplation, was filled with an on-going hum of conversations and prayers.

Elenara stood in the door that led her quarters in the Inquisitor’s tower and breathed a sigh of relief. She had grown so accustomed to the noise that she almost forgot the comfort of silence.

In her youth she would often steal away from the camp of her clan to seek out the quiet places in the forest. She would look for clearings or a patch of grass by a water course where she would lay down and stare up at the lush canopy and the bright blue sky beyond. In these moments, she felt the vastness of the world that made her sorrows seem small and petty by contrast. She would close her eyes and just listen to the rustling of leaves or the distant songs of birds and allow herself to just be.

How much simpler life had been back then.

Elenara readjusted the stack of books she carried with her and began walking down the great hall.

Once, she had listened to the voices of nature. Now, all she could hear was the sharp metal shriek of blades, the commands bellowed by Cullen and his officers, the battle cries of thousands upon thousands of Inquisition soldiers. And the prayers, of course. More prayers than she had ever heard before. Even at night she could hear the faithful calling out to her. Not much else seemed to exist, but the crushing burden their words carried to her.

So, she was glad for these rare moments of silence. She enjoyed the soft hissing of wind slipping down the hall, as well as the crackling of dying flames in the fireplaces.

She reached the door on her left that led to Skyhold’s rotunda and opened it. The circular room beyond was dark, just like the rest of the castle, and a pang of disappointment hit her. A small part of her had wished Solas would be awake, still working on his mural, but he was nowhere to be seen.

It’s alright, she told herself. You’ll see him tomorrow.

At least she hoped she would. Her entire relationship with Solas – if one wished to call it so – had been a constant back and forth between them. First, she had kissed him, but felt like she messed up. When she tried to withdraw from him, he held back and kissed her in return. Much later, he would come to her, admitting to having not forgotten what had happened between them, just to walk away from her. But not until they had kissed once more and he had said the words that turned her world upside down completely.

Ar lath, ma vhenan.

Her heart skipped a beat every time she remembered this moment. She was not certain if Solas had spoken in Elvish on purpose to conceal the meaning behind his words, or if he did it because he knew she would understand. Either way, she was very much aware of the meaning behind his words.

I love you.

Elenara felt her throat go tight. Solas was a mystery to her, one she would gladly like to figure out. But it would take time and if there was one thing she didn’t have in abundance, it was just that. For now, all she knew was that, if he’d stayed but a moment longer with her on that balcony, she’d told him how much she loved him in return.

You can wonder about this some other time, she thought, chiding herself like a child. Concentrate on what lies before you.

Letting out a sight, she crossed the room and slipped through the door to her left. Her steps echoed on the stone walls as she climbed the stairs to the rotunda’s upper floor.

The library was silent as well and the candles had been put out a good long while ago. Luckily, she knew where Helisma kept the flintstone she used to light them.

Elenara placed the stack of books on the chair Dorian usually occupied during his studies in the library and hurried over to the researcher’s desk. With only soft streaks of moonlight to illuminate the room, she had to fumble around before she found what she was looking for. With the flintstone in hand, she returned to Dorian’s reading nook and lit the candles on one of the candelabras. Their golden glow was soft and subtle, but it was enough to help her read the titles.

She turned to the pile of books and picked the one on top. It was a massive tome with golden letters ingrained on its cover and spine, an old Tevinter text Dorian had recommended to her to help her understand the inner workings of his homeland. The writing was so dry and tiresome, it had taken her ages to get through the text, but it had provided some insight into the cultural shift from the worshipping of the Old Gods to the Chantry, and that was good enough for her.

Scanning the spines, Elenara searched for the spot where the book was kept on the shelves. Thanks to Dorian, all of the books at Skyhold were sorted in alphabetical order which made the task of returning them to the library much easier. When she found the gap on one of the shelves where the Tevinter tome used to be, she put it back and returned to the rest of her stack.

She had just grabbed another book when she heard something. For a second, she believed it was a soldier or a servant walking from the tavern across the courtyard, but she dismissed the idea quickly. The sound had been much closer and much softer, not like the heavy cluck of booted feet.

“I see you are still awake,” someone said.

She whirled around on instinct, her senses on alert, her body ready to fight. Only then did she recognize the elven figure that moved closer from the other side of the library.

“Solas!”, she exclaimed and let out a sigh of relief. “Good Creators, you startled me!”

He chuckled softly as he stepped into the circle of soft candle light. The golden glow covered his face with stark shadows. “I’m sorry, vhenan,” he said wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to.”

She let out a long, shuddering breath.

“It’s alright,” she told him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Where did you come from? I thought you’d already gone to bed.”

“I was out on the balcony for some fresh air,” he said gesturing towards the door through which he’d entered the library. “Then I heard footsteps and concluded that it was you, so I came to see if you’re alright.”

“You knew that it was me … by my footsteps?” she asked, baffled.

“Of course.” He said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just… something a hunter might do, not a mage.”

“You should never underestimate my tracking skills, vhenan.” A sly smile tugged at his lips. “I survived on my own in the wilderness for a good long while, after all.”

For a moment, he seemed incredibly young. It made her think about a conversation she’d overheard back at the Storm Coast. She and the rest of her party had been tracking down a group of red templars that sought to gain a foothold in the area, when Blackwall and Solas had started to exchange war stories. She remembered the Grey Warden being delighted to share his experiences with another soldier, and also rather perplexed.

“For all your experience, Solas,” Blackwall had said. “You don’t carry yourself like a soldier.”

And Solas had beamed at the elder man. “Oh, you should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight.”

She’d never admitted to Solas that she, too, had had trouble picturing him as a warrior in full armor. But now … with this smile …

It made her want to kiss him, badly.

“Why are you still awake?”, she asked quickly.

“There was something wrong with the tea”, he replied and pressed his lips together for a moment. “It was caffeinated and kept me awake long after dark. Well, keeps me awake”, he clarified and looked around the empty library. “I am still waiting for the effect to wear off.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said and gave him a warm and soothing smile. She knew Solas found comfort in the Fade just like she used to find comfort in the old tales and legends of her people. Without it, life was much harder to endure.

“What about you?” he asked, looking at her intently.

She weighed the book in her hand and hurried to place it back on the shelves. “Couldn’t sleep either,” she admitted and was surprised by how tired she sounded. “There is just… so much to think about…”

Solas took another step towards her. Before she knew it, he reached around her with his left hand and placed it on her lower back. The faint smell of his skin lingered between them. Her heart jumped into her throat. Suddenly, she was very aware of his presence.

“If you like to share your thoughts with me, I’d be happy to listen,” he said in a quiet voice.

She coughed and looked away to avoid his gaze. His eyes were filled with such longing that it was almost too much to bare.

Studying the tomes on the shelf beside her, she said: “I’ve been reading all lot of these books lately. I had hoped to find some answers in the old text, but all it did was made me think. How can anyone do justice to this world? How can you set everything right, seeing all the bad things happening to good people?”

She sighed. “How am I supposed to do all this?” she asked in a much lower voice. Her throat went tight with grief and the crushing feeling of responsibility.

A saturnine look crossed his face. “I don’t know if I can provide a satisfying answer to your questions,” he said. “I’m not sure if anyone can. All we can do is trust in your capabilities to lead this Inquisition, for better or worse.”

Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “I was afraid you might say that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, looking more troubled than she had ever seen him.

“Don’t be,” she replied. “It’s not like any of this is your fault.”

His hand on her back twitched ever so slightly, but she noticed it anyway. These days, she seemed to notice everything about him. The slight changes in his moods, the way he carried himself when he thought no one was looking. Even the expression of serene joy and delight when he was working on his mural. He was a miracle with a thousand little details and she wanted to know each and every one of them.

“Is there something on your mind?”, she asked. “You seemed to be on edge these last couple of weeks.”

That must be the biggest understatement in all of history, she thought to herself. Solas was always on edge, especially when he was alone with her.

“It is nothing to concern yourself with,” he said evasively and his gaze flicked to her lips. “My troubles will pass, one way or another.”

“Is there anything I can do to lift your spirits?” she asked teasingly.

“A kiss might be a good way to start,” he admitted after a short silence.

Elenara raised her eyebrows in surprise. Did she hear that correctly?

“Come here, then,” she said softly and turned until they stood face to face. Her heartbeat quickened, as she placed a hand on his cheek. He let his hand slip from her back to her waist, bringing up the other one to hold her tightly.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he’d said the last time they kissed. Since then, his words had made her wonder what he truly meant. She knew there was something between them, he had admitted it himself. Yet, he was determined to not give in to his feelings for her. But why?

Was it because she was Dalish, still?

Back in Haven, he had confessed to her that the Dalish had attacked him on sight and that he had no desire to get in touch with the clans any longer. His words had caught her like a kick to the stomach. Though it had not been her own clan who had attacked Solas, she knew it might has well have been them. She herself had fought off countless bandits in her time as a hunter.

Yet, she knew that the clans were only protecting themselves and more often than not, they had good reasons to be suspicious of strangers. But the thought of Solas being wounded by a Dalish arrow had left her feeling guilty and distressed. She wanted him to see the many admirable attributes of her people in the faint hope it would make him feel less lonely. To show him that there was no reason to be afraid of them.

Of her.

“My heart,” she breathed, caressing his lips with her thumb. She smiled at him, then guided his face towards hers. He allowed Elenara to brush her lips against his, while he drew long breaths through his nose. And she drank from him, relishing the taste of his mouth.

When she was out of breath, she pulled back ever so slightly, resting her forehead against his. Letting out a quiet satisfied moan, she let her hands slide down to his chest. He was breathing just as heavily as she was. His chest heaved under her touch.

“I enjoy kissing you far too much,” he said with a soft smile. His breath smelled of honey and herbs, sweet and delightful.

Elenara tilted her head to look at him. Was that regret in his voice?

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

His cheeks colored. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” he hurried to say. “It’s just... I’m not …”

“… used to it,” she said, finishing the sentence for him. “I know. We should do this more often, then.” She let her lips touch his once more. It was not a kiss, not quite, but it set her body on fire nonetheless. “Besides, I enjoy kissing you, too.”

She pulled him closer and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. His body tensed and for a moment it seemed like he wanted to flee from her, but when she opened her mouth and deepened the kiss, he finally relaxed. Accepting the invitation, his lips parted and his tongue entered her mouth.

There was the passion she’d first experienced back in their shared dream in the Fade. It washed over her like a rising tide, almost sweeping her off her feet. She returned his kisses with the same fire, losing herself in the embrace. She couldn’t tell if his hunger was greater than hers or if it was the other way around. All she knew was that they both wanted more, fully aware of the fact that no kiss would never be enough.

“I want you,” he whispered.

His body was radiating heat like a bonfire. She wanted to take it all in, even if she might get burned in the process. All her life, she had waited to meet someone like him. Someone that made her feel alive.

“I want you, too,” she said and kissed one corner of his mouth. He sighed softly, his eyes half-closed. It was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard in her entire life – and she wanted more of it.

With the greatest effort, she let go of him.

Elenara took his hands and squeezed them gently. “Come with me,” she said, nodding in the vague direction of the Inquisitor’s tower. Up there, in her chambers, they could continue what they had started in a more private setting.

“I don’t think…”

“Lady Inquisitor!”

She flinched.

That was Leliana’s voice!

In an instant, Solas parted from her and took a step back. The lack of his warmth right next to her hurt more than she would like to admit. “Don’t…” she gasped, but Solas simply shook his head.

“You have other matters to attend to.”

She knew he was right. If Leliana needed to speak to her at this hour of the night, it must be important. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

She only hoped her face didn’t look as warm as it felt.

“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” Solas said in a casual tone and took another step back. He bowed ever so slightly just when Leliana reached the top of the stairs. The spymaster stopped dead in her tracks and watched as the elven apostate turned on his heels and headed in the opposite direction.

Elenara felt like her heart would tear apart at any moment, when she forced herself to look at Leliana. “How can I help you?”

Leliana stared, as if she had forgotten, why she wanted to speak to Elenara in the first place. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway through which Solas had made his exit.

“Leliana?”

The spymaster blinked, her focus returning to Elenara.

“Oh, yes! I’m sorry” she said and squared her shoulders. “I have news from Halamshiral, my lady. You should look into this.”

Right back in the mess, Elenara thought as she followed Leliana up the stairs to her office.

__________

Thanks for reading. <3

[trulycertain]

Morgana

For @unofficialdragonageday, my first venture into Dragon Age fandom... with a slight redux of eight years’ more writing practice.

Another one. And this one’s embarrassing. That’s the word around the dormitory, and everyone burrows further under their blankets. Maker’s sake, it’s the eve of Satinalia, and we’ll all get punished if she can’t shut up, one of the older apprentices mutters.

Jowan should burrow and ignore it, too. Usually he prefers to stay quiet and in corners, not be any trouble. But something makes him creep to the door and look.

The girl’s kicking, screaming, sobbing, yelling for her parents. Trying to wriggle out of the templars’ grasp like she has a chance of succeeding. Even Jowan, who’s never had to be disciplined by the templars, can see that a small girl against several fully-grown men in heavy plate armour doesn't stand a chance of... doing whatever she’s trying to do. Escape? Everyone knows that’s impossible.

Her face is red and tear-stained, and there are red burns on her hands. Suddenly small sparks fly, and -

“Stop,” a templar orders. “Stop that.”

She’s still crying. “I can’t. I hurt them, I, I can’t make it stop, make it stop...”

The smite nearly knocks Jowan off his feet; he has to catch himself on the door. He knows templars don’t feel it as much, but he wonders how. She slumps in the templar’s arms, and she almost looks like she’s asleep.

It’s quiet, then. Nothing more to see. He goes back to bed.

He’s half-asleep when the door opens. She’s carried into the dormitory and placed gently on the bed next to his. The templar creeps out again, with the quiet clanks of plate, and then it’s silent, the door slightly ajar for the corridor's candlelight to slip into the room. Ser Bran does it; he knows that some of the very young apprentices, including Jowan, are scared of the dark, but tonight it feels like it’s needed even more. Jowan remembers the screams.

He rolls onto his side, pretending to be asleep, to sneak a look at the new arrival.

She’s facing away from him, but he can see brown hair that clashes with the blue of her new apprentice's robes. Even though they’re a children's set - she’s lucky; he had to wear men's robes for his first few weeks in the Tower and had looked even more ridiculous, and he heard people laughing at him - they quite obviously don't fit her. And she’s still crying. Why?  The templars let her go, didn't they?

He’s nearly six, and he’s seen a lot in the Circle, but this he still doesn’t understand. The templars let her go, and it’s Satinalia tomorrow. What does she have to cry about?

He’s too scared to approach her, but her crying keeps him awake all night. He stares at the wall, sick and… sad? He’s not angry like the others.

Later, when he’s older, he’ll realise it was pity.

Every child in the Tower looks forward to Satinalia, even though all they receive is an orange from a scowling templar. A simple gift is better than nothing, after all. He’s sure the templars hate giving them - he's heard them grumbling about "Irving and his bloody oranges. Giving the little monsters gifts. Making them feel special..."

He wakes up in the morning, which means he must have got to sleep at some point, even with the crying. The girl’s sitting on her bed, rubbing her still-red eyes.

She looks up when she sees him stir and get out of bed. Frowning, she watches him reach to the bottom of his bed and pluck an orange out of the sock hanging off his bedpost.

She does the same, only to find nothing there. Her face falls just a little more, and his heart sank.

Later, it’ll occur to him that she was new to the Tower, and not on the phylactery list yet. But now, he’s five, and his reasoning is simple: every child gets a gift at Satinalia. That’s just how the world is. No gift was just... wrong. He reaches out and offered her his orange.

She takes it gingerly, offering him a tentative half-smile. He's never seen her smile before; it’s nice.

"I... I'm Jowan," he says, wanting to kick himself for sounding shy. Apprentice Leorah always says he’s a mumbler. Speak up, boy!

"M’ n’m ‘s Morgana," she said, through half an orange. She swallows it. "How old are you?"

"Nearly six," he says, proudly.

"Nearly five," she replies equally proudly, and they share another smile - a proper one, this time.

"My mother always used to give me Satinalia gifts," she says. After a moment, she adds, quietly: "She cried, too."

She was lucky - her parents loved her. When they found out what he could do, his treated him like a monster. They called the templars immediately, keen for him to be shipped off to the Circle as soon as possible. Of course, he’ll only grow to resent them for it when he’s old enough to comprehend it - for the moment, he’s just sad, and sometimes cries when he thinks of his family. Everybody does, sometimes. You pretend not to hear, or the other apprentices yell at you.

She looks up, and her face brightens. "You're... quite nice," she says, in wonderment. "Will you be my friend?"

He nods, and goes to sit on her bed, the way dorm apprentices all do when they’ve made a friend. The templars yell at them about bed-swaps, but the templars yell at them about everything.

For that half-hour in the early morning, before breakfast and lessons, they aren't two mages - they’re a shaggy-haired, awkward little boy and a smiling little girl, sitting sharing an orange on Satinalia morning.

Morgana returns to herself with a sword at her throat, and all she knows is panic. She freezes and then the blade’s gone, and she’s falling to her hands and knees.

She looks over her shoulder. There’s nothing following her.

She tries to stop the fear, tries to breathe, but there’s powdered lyrium caked under her fingernails, softly glowing in the half-darkness of the chamber, and that only reminds her of where she’s been, what she’s been forced to do...

She looks up and they’re there: swords drawn, advancing on her. She has the brief, sharp thought that at least the demon pretended to be human; the templars show what they are immediately, no matter how much they try to do otherwise.

She stares at them, defenceless, and still they’re coming. Her mana is gone, and while she may be afraid now, if she tries to strike out it is certain they will kill her. “Please,” she manages, her voice cracking. A sob is beginning to rise up from her chest, and she has to work to hold it in. She’s not sure exactly what she’s asking for: let me go or get it over with.

Greagoir is at the head of the pack, and he reaches her first. The plate creaks and scrapes as he crouches. He looks into her eyes, assessing, and then he calls over his shoulder, “It’s her.”

“She’s passed,” Irving adds, like this is some sort of victory.

She looks back at him, too numb to even be relieved. The stone of the floor is cold under her hands. She retches, her head swimming, and then... and then there’s only darkness.

“Jowan.” It’s the first thing she says when she wakes up. It often is, they’ve shared a dormitory long enough, but… this time is different.

He’s there. He’s always been there. He puts a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her, and it feels like an anchor. In the fading fear and the increasing fury that the templars would send them to this, bait them to the deaths, he’s there: afraid but gentler, when all of her is so focused on the pain that she feels that anything she touches, she might cut. He’s softer. She needs softer.

He asks about the secrets of the Harrowing and she tells him everything, without remorse. She knows that she shouldn’t, but that doesn’t stop her.

The templars call her quiet, well-behaved, the Amell girl simply lives in the library even if she does talk to the Anders boy. They can’t see the anger simmering inside her, clawing at the walls of her. She’s relieved for that. She used to be sure that they could, when she was a child; that it must show in her face, that it must change the way she looked, somehow, that a rage demon had found her in the night and she hadn’t even known…

She realised eventually that it was just this place. She tries so hard to accept it, but some days she realises that she can’t remember a sunset and she’ll never see another, or the rumours about templars spying on the apprentices, and those days… those days, it feels like if she opens her mouth, she’ll scream. So she avoids the other apprentices, the templars; both scare her, even if the templars scare her more, and books are safer.

Quiet, the templars say. Stuck-up, the other apprentices say.

But she can talk to Jowan. She can always talk to Jowan, somehow.

But now she’ll have to be a mage, and she’ll have to take new quarters, and what if she can’t see him? There’s Anders, but Anders is gone again, in solitary. It isn’t the same.

Irving gives her the robes and clasps her on the shoulder, so proudly.

“I… Thank you, First Enchanter,” she manages. When he can’t see, she runs her fingers over gold silk and wonders why they feel like they’re made of stone.

She looks up, and the Warden’s watching her. His eyes are steady, curious. She stops like she’s been stung. He notices that, too.

She inhales, quietly enough Irving can’t hear it, when she’s asked to escort the Warden to his quarters. He’s a steady presence at her side, armour and thoughtful silence; there’s a stillness about him that’s unusual in a tower of fidgeting apprentices, scowling templars and absentmindedly casting enchanters.

At least, until he says with a hint of amusement, “You may ask, apprentice.”

She realises with a flush of embarrassment that her own curious glances have been caught. “I… Ser?”

“It seems you have questions.”

She swallows. “The war… the darkspawn have returned?” She thought they were just a legend, something to frighten apprentices into eating their porridge, the same sort of story as The Nose Monster. She realises with shame that she barely remembers what she read. Intellectual laziness, Irving chides gently, in the back of her mind. I thought better of you. She tries, “You think there may be another Blight?”

“For now, I can only hope not. There has been no trace of the Archdemon.” And at her look, he explains that an Archdemon is a great, tainted dragon that leads the horde.

It all sounds, still, like some sort of story. But then so do lakes, and sunsets, and families. She’s questioned enough. She can question one more thing.

And there’s something else, too. “You’re recruiting mages?”

She’s ashamed of herself for even asking. She’s barely-Harrowed and wet behind the ears. Irving says she’s fine in every school, but she and Wynne both know that her strength lies in Creation, and she’s still terrible with a staff. (You can’t cast with your hands like a child, Sweeney reprimanded her last week, for the hundredth time, and she has a horrible feeling that’s why Sweeney’s fudge stash disappeared and Anders started grinning the next day.)

Besides... she doesn’t want to hurt anybody. She’s never wanted to hurt anybody.

And yet. The darkspawn aren’t anybody.

That doesn’t change the shrewd look that the Warden gives her, and she wants to sink into her shoes. She shouldn’t have asked. It was arrogant. “Yes,” he says, “I am. For the king’s army, and for the Wardens. Would you like to join us?”

She can’t look at him, then. She tries to find a diplomatic answer, too aware that he can see her choosing her words. “I doubt I’d be allowed. I’m only an apprentice. I’ve only just been Harrowed.”

“A green mage is far, far better than no mage,” he says with a frightening certainty. “But let us keep moving.”

She trails after him, and tells herself not to hope.

[trvelyans-archive]

she swears she can feel her heart pounding in her ears.

no one should be able to find her. she’s wedged between two of the most disused bookshelves in the circle’s library - to the right is books on blood magic and ancient tevinter magisters, which no one dares to even glance at the spines of unless they’re asking for the templars to take them to the dungeons, and to the left is out-of-date tomes on the magical properties of ancient herbs. somehow they’re equally as dangerous, if not more so - opening one would enshroud the reader in a cloud of heavy dust, and if they managed to survive it, boredom would surely kill them soon after. 

no one should be able to find her, she reminds herself, glancing around the drafty room with quick and clear eyes. no one would think to look there, either, especially not at midnight and especially not when the weather outside is as calm as it is. if it was storming, that would be a different story, but the water of lake calenhad is nothing but a distant gurgling as the gentle waves lap up slowly against the shore.

she’s never snuck out of the apprentice quarters before. she snuck out of the nursery once when she was five or six with a mission to retrieve an iced apple roll from the circle’s kitchen, but one of the kinder templars caught her the second her first foot was out the door and shooed her back inside before she could get into anymore trouble. that was the first, last and only of her covert ventures to the parts of the circle she wasn’t supposed to be. 

until now, of course.

and it’s not even that she’s not allowed to be there, she tells herself unconvincingly - she’s an apprentice! she lives and breathes the musty smell of stale books and burnt parchment from morning until evening each day and has done so for the last nearly 10 years. she spends more time in the library than she does in her own bed. surely a templar would let her off scot-free if they caught her...

but she remembers earlier in the week when another apprentice was locked up in one of the isolated rooms in the tower just because he accidentally set a chair in the dining hall on fire and regrets her decision to sneak to the library in the first place, especially when a sudden burst of air sends the pages of her books fluttering and the flame of her candle flickering. she’s lived in the tower her whole life and knows when a gust of wind doesn’t come from the windows and instead from a door being opened and shut.

the sound of slow footsteps echoes throughout the room, drifting to the vaulted ceilings before coming down to meet her ears. she inches back in the makeshift alcove, reaching for her books and tucking them beneath her legs, blowing out the candle before grabbing it, too, and stuffing it in next to her. but the wax is hot and burns her fingers, and she lets out an involuntary hiss before pressing them to her lips and blowing on them to cool, cursing herself for making a mistake that could give away where she’s hiding.

hiding. it sounds so evil and forbidden and suddenly she feels so scared. the footsteps are getting closer, after all, and she hadn’t planned for being discovered which she knows now was a mistake on her part. she doesn’t know what she’ll do if it’s a templar who finds her - submit? fight back? if she submits, she might only spend a few days in isolation or a week in the dungeons, but she knows she’ll lose her mind and irving would never respect her again - if she fights back, she’ll... die, she realizes with horror, her next breath hitching in her throat. simple as that. she’ll be slain or made tranquil. even with her superior reputation (in comparison to her peers, of course), she’ll get no leniency. 

but she can picture the disappointment on irving’s face and thinks briefly, for a moment, that death might be kinder before she tucks herself even further away from the moon’s silver spotlight that pierces through the window and roams across the floor and places a hand over her mouth.

she’s not even doing anything bad! she’s just studying. the other apprentices always complain when she tries to do it at night, even with her candle under the covers, and she always feels like she never gets enough done during the day. tonight is the first night she’s ever actually done snuck out. but is that a good enough explanation?

she cannot hear the quiet clanging of templar armor that always accompanies their approach and realizes then that it might be irving himself. she’s heard whisperings amongst the other apprentices that he’s known to walk the halls of the circle at night when he can’t sleep. if it is him, she thinks with a sudden rush of relief, then perhaps he’ll let her off with nothing more than a warning... perhaps he’ll even let her stay.

but when the footsteps stop, she squeezes her eyes shut anyway. in their place is the sound of something rustling together - fabric, maybe? papers? hands? and then there’s a loud thud as something drops to the floor - she breathes in sharply, pressing her palm harder against her mouth, praying that they didn’t hear her and, when she hears a murmured curse, begging the maker himself to come down from the golden city and shield her.

when she opens her eyes, there’s a face hovering in front of her, and it takes everything in her not to scream.

and then, after a moment, her breathing evens and her hand eases away from her mouth. the face is not old enough to be irving, greagoir, or a templar - it’s too young to be even the youngest of the knights, as well. she cocks her head at it - him - and frowns. “hi?”

he doesn’t answer for a second - instead he stares at her, uncertain, before moving his face closer. “hi!” he chirps a little too loudly, parting his lips to reveal a gap-toothed grin. “i - sorry. did i scare you?”

she balks at him. “yes!” she answers as if it’s so obvious - which it is, or at least it should be, she thinks. “who are you?”

“jowan.” he’s still hiding his body behind the bookcase he’s standing in front of and instead of shifting so he can join her in the alcove, he awkwardly sticks his hand inside, waving it in her face. “i’m not surprised you don’t know who i am. no one does, really. but i know you! you’re irving’s favourite.”

a furious flush spreads across her cheeks as she takes his hand and shakes it. “i’m not sure about that,” she says, but he shakes his head, sending his wavy raven-coloured hair whipping across his face. 

“it’s true!” he implores. “i heard him and greagoir talking about you the other day! you’re an ‘unusual talent’, he said. ha! i can’t imagine him saying that about me.”

he says it wistfully, but continues before she can dwell on it.

“that might change if you get caught breaking curfew, though,” he tells her matter-of-factly. “do you do this very often?”

“just tonight,” she answers.

“well... i’m not saying i would’ve found you if you hadn’t made those funny noises, but, just to be safe... i know a better place to hide.”

“i’m not hiding.”

“study, then! i go there every night.” he holds the hand that she shook previously out to her, wiggling his fingers. “you can join me, if you’d like!”

at first she thinks it’s a joke - she’s never noticed him before, so he could be bait from the templars to see if she’ll break the rules. maybe he’ll try and trick her into necromancy. maybe he’ll try and convince her to steal something from irving’s office. maybe he’ll try and convince her to dabble in blood magic. she’s ready to slap away his hand and sprint in the other direction as fast as she can when their eyes meet and, for the second time that night, her breath stalls in the back of her mouth.

he has such kind eyes. she can’t remember the last time she thought of something in the circle as kind. 

“okay,” she agrees then, smiling, delicately placing her hand on top of his. “okay. show me your secrets, jowan.”

she doesn’t have any time to regret it before he pulls her up from the ground in one swift movement and bends down to grab her books as she recovers. “you’ll like it,” he says, hugging the tomes to his chest as he hands her her unlit candle. “it’s... roomier than this nook that you’ve got here. and there are mice sometimes, too, that come to visit! i’ve even named a few of them...”

he talks and talks and talks under his breath with no concern at all as he leads her to an even more secluded section of the library. she doesn’t mind. in fact, it makes her feel even more calm, which is a feat she didn’t assume possible, especially not when he’s kicking out the back of a very bottom shelf and sliding her books into the darkness. “it’s a bit of a squeeze,” he begins, turning to her, “but...”

she looks at him, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“you’ll be fine,” he decides. “watch out for your ears, though! wouldn’t want them catching on a stray nail. the templars’ll have a fit if they catch blood on your sleeping clothes.” 

she gets on her hands and knees and crawls through the hole at the base of the towering bookshelf. the points of her ears barely even brush the wood above her, but she’s thankful for the warning nevertheless - if he hadn’t said anything, she probably would’ve banged her head, which she nearly does as she straightens up once she reaches the other side. he joins her a second later, hurrying to put the plank back over the hole, breathing heavily and leaning against what she assumes to be a wall once he’s finished (and lightly punched it back in place for good measure). 

“welcome!” he says breathlessly, his face lighting up in more ways than one as the candle flickers to life and he gives her another glowing grin. “i think this is better, don’t you?”

jowan moves over to make himself more comfortable and the book at his feet flops open. as he leans down to pick it up and prop it open in his lap, he misses the way she watches him with a small, bemused smile. yes, she feels bad for sneaking around behind the templars’ backs, and yes, she feels bad for pulling it off under irving’s nose, and yet she can’t help but feel a little thankful.

it’s nice to have someone to share a secret with.

[chiclet-go-boom]

cullen - fragment

I am never going to finish this, apparently.  /drops into the tumblr well and dusts hands

The world explodes.

There is everything and then there is nothing and then there is everything again and the blood runs from her ears, down her neck in a lover’s caress. She staggers, undone.

Then for a long heartbeat there is only emptiness, a soundless wave crashing against a shore she cannot see, cannot hear for panic and billowing dust. There’s something gritty under her fingertips, beneath her boots as she clutches the rail, oddly clear when nothing else is. She somehow still on her feet although she knows not how. She shakes her head once and then again as if it will help.

Far away, oh, so far away something whispers. She looks up to the stone vault so high above. The powerful buttresses arc in mathematical precision, built by men, built to stand, built this time to last. Sees in this moment of stillness between strike and impact with blood sticky on her skin the fractures race, shudder, streak like dark lightning.

The slow pieces start to fall.  

The boiling, malevolent sky chases them down.

Cassandra runs.

In the weeks that follow she begins to think of it as a kind of music. An opening overture of magic and fury, calling the dancers to the floor. And the worst part is that while the sheer scale is overwhelming, the tune is oh, so very familiar. She can all but see the notes swirling across the parquet of her mind’s eye, framed by the rubble and the bodies and the screaming.

Music from an orchestra she cannot yet see, that cannot be comprehended in its horror. Yet she is who she always was, a daughter of old royalty however far she has strayed from those long ago silks and no amount of time or distance can erase the knowledge from memory of how treachery always starts.

It is as old as empires and as fresh as the mud she kicks from her boots as she ducks under the lintel with new fear and old anger coating the back of her throat like a wine gone sour. The prisoner fuels both and she drags them into the weak sunlight whether they will or no but the sky still breaks and the tune still plays.

A turn, a pirouette, a sword thrust through a demon’s body and the wide eyed fear on another’s face. They advance. The only direction she will ever permit is forward.

She hates it. Hates every chaotic step she takes even as she bows to the necessity and does her best to lead. A bone deep surety hammered home by everything that has ever happened to her in her life that that she will never be politic enough, diplomatic enough, close enough to patient enough to win where Most Holy never even had the chance to fail.

For her strength is where it has always been - in steel and in relentlessness, in the searching and the finding and the naming.

So she finds. She names. And she recruits.

Leliana does not have to be asked, of course, although she does so anyway because she will take nothing for granted now. It is a measure of bittersweet grace that the Left and the Right have moved as one through these new steps, even with the master who yoked them together so long ago no longer holding the reins. That will be a grief for later, should there be time. It is a small comfort that between them they have saved what could be saved but there needs to be more. There has to be more or the way is already lost.

They speak over candlelight in the hearts of midnight and exhaustion and then messages as black as the crows they fly on are sent out, are returned, and are sent out again.

The Inquisition rises. A shaggy beast with half closed eyes, roused from the centuries of ash and destruction that had been its bed. Leliana sings and the jewel of the Montilyets answers, a diadem of discernment and perfume lured from its nest in Val Royeaux, come to rest on its heavy brow. Cassandra prays and hears no answer save that faith will always be the question, that the Maker does as He wills and answers only to Andraste, if He answers to anyone at all. She walks out of her tent in the morning and adds another player to the dance;  the fresh-minted Herald with their virulent hand holding up the light for the path forward.

She continues with the work.

The liar lies but his rough voice echoes into shadow, under stone, around so many unseen corners that she is persuaded to tolerate him, as much as Cassandra would prefer the dwarf in irons where he can do no harm and turn no profit. She looks to those of the Chantry that can be made useful and discards or ignores what cannot. Looks to the Gray Wardens, scattered as they are, even as she sends urgent missives to her own far flung sect. She looks to the mages even as they are gathered up and repurposed. She looks to the templars and finds Cullen.

She has watched this all before, and always there is an element of risk in the pieces, in the players. Can she do better for the Inquisition? Perhaps. But not soon and not easily. If the Champion yet lives they will not to be found conveniently lounging in a nearby tavern, ready to be pressed into service. The thief holds still the secret locked behind a wide smile, buried under the heavy pulse in his throat. Absolutely nothing she says or does has dislodged it which is infuriating.

She would drink if it help but it will not, so she makes her decisions based on what is and not what she would have it be. Cullen himself is not as she remembers but in the choking pall of the husked out Conclave there was no questioning his competence. Men fell into line without question, desperate for order, any order at all and he gathered them all as if born to it. His voice and his authority that bound them and sent them out to face the demonspawn that had all but overrun the staggering, shattered survivors. His was the path carved to safety, lined in bones and blood and fear.

In the evenings when she places her candles on the altar, one of them is always for the Knight-Captain.

Her sword is meant for a single thrust, her voice a single question, but his brought a victory to a battlefield that was lost before any of them knew it had even began. And his faith in her, at least, is steel. She raises him up with Leliana’s blessing and she watches. She waits. She speaks of many things to the wind-chapped Herald, tries to teach what she knows as fast as it can be absorbed, defers to others when she knows she is beyond her depth. There are not enough hours in the day, the nights lit a sickly green as the barrier between waking and dreaming, alive and dead shreds itself apart in streamers of color. She searches for both truth and Truth as she has done all her life, desperate to find answers faster than the questions can unravel in her hands. The how is important and she leaves that to Leliana to tease out the threads of it, but it is the who and the why that occupies most of her thoughts.  

She prays. People arrive in trickles, then in small streams. She shunts the mages to one side, the warriors and templars to the other and sets the rest between like a field of healing laurel. Whatever good can come from the wreckage of Most Holy’s dream, she hopes she can somehow make a space for it to grow.

The divide is deep though and tension simmers in Haven. There are fights; fast and some few of them vicious. The Chantry’s locked basement doors, meant to hold grains and leathers and barrels of fine oil, are grimly repurposed.

The Commander does not falter under the burden she has given him, the hardest of all save perhaps the glittering webs that Josephine begins to spin from raw hemp. She needs a force that will give others pause, needs it as fast as he can raise it and she has only the desperate and the trapped to give him.

She sees then what she supposes Meredith must have seen and Greagoir before her.

Was he always this way? She truthfully cannot remember. She hears the younger man he must have been once in the quiet of his voice, rarely raised even in close quarters; hears it again in the thoughtful advice he offers before he waits on the decisions made by others. Hers first and then tentatively the Herald’s with Leliana near silent as she lets the Right continue to carry their decisions forward, the public face. She sees it sometimes too in the wry smile he gives her, acknowledgement that they are only human and their tasks only greater with each day they continue. There is oddly little ego and in her spiteful moments she feels that he must have gifted the lion’s share of his to the Chancellor who seems to have brought more than enough for everyone at the table.

But those glimpses of another man are fleeting and brief. Cullen breathes the same biting air that she does, suffers the same complaints of inadequate shelter, walks through the same half frozen muck that claws at everyone’s boots and patience but that is all. If he eats, it is alone. He must sleep but when she could not say. If his body requires ease there are no rumors of it, salacious or otherwise.

Never unarmored. Never without a sword or knife to hand. That what she gives him he purifies ruthlessly and that the cold light of it does not seem to end.

She listens and does not know what she listens for. He does not speak of the Circle Tower although she knows something of what must have happened there, as much as anyone can know who did not live it. She tells herself if that no one would choose to revisit a place so corrupted, even in memory. He speaks only slightly more of Kirkwall and never of the rebellion itself, save a regret echoing in his voice that does not always reach his eyes.

Can she fault him for that? Could anyone?

Yet if he is quiet, if he is good at accepting orders, it detracts nothing from the fact that his dominion becomes firm, becomes absolute. The markers start to move on the table and the victories begin to pile like furs; small yes, but decisive. Their influence expands, testing its cage on the backs of restless horses. He trains with his men, rides with them, raises his seconds and then his thirds.

Fair of hair, fair enough of face and judgement but cold, cold as the winter winds that bite at everyone impartially. Even though she tells herself she knows his past it catches her by surprise when she starts to see his scars reflected on others.

A courier drops to a knee in the winter slush to give report and she watches as the Commander does not correct the behaviour. It is not wrong, to kneel before a superior officer, but it is still obedience, blind and unthinking. She opens her eyes and sees then as she had not before the clenched fists to chests as he passes, the voices a murmur like a fluttering breeze behind him. Lion of Ferelden. Hammer of the Gallows. Cassandra watches as a legion swirls and begins to coalesce like the rough cloak he wears pinned to his shoulders. Sees the eyes that follow with both fear and unnerving worship.

Meredith’s Fist.

She told him she needed an army so that the Inquisition will be unopposed as it does its work. Can she permit herself concern over how it is accomplished?

She cannot answer this. The Inquisition walks, eating as it goes, growing larger but still so fragile, so newly born. The sky boils day and unceasing night.

She looks to Leliana but the shadow has nothing to say. There is only approval of any method that advances them. That Cullen succeeds where so many others might fail? It is a blessing from the Maker Himself. Rough chaff, winnowed and cleaned and polished, blades that are bright and then red and then bright again with so few losses, considering all. She nods her head and withdraws. The Nightingale is not wrong. Still, if she has made a mistake, there may yet be time to correct it. She tries again to speak to the thief, to the liar, cornering him where he cannot evade but his secrets remain prisoners, starved and dying. The Champion is but a myth that he speaks of as if the stories happened a thousand years ago to someone else, a legend of fog and rumor with no strength in the now.

She pushes, pushes hard but there is no forward here, nothing for her to sink a blade into this time. It rouses her temper and her blood, both of those things dangerous.

Because his voice is as rough as it always is but there is a thread of sweetness now that runs through it, a shimmer of milk-dark honey. She distrusts it and him for it nibbles at her, a mouse pilfering in the dark where it cannot be seen and caught.

She spends longer with him than she intends, the words moving from accusation to argument and back again in convoluted spirals that spike both heartbeat and hair and she is more than unsettled when she finally, finally abandons the task, long stride once again carving distance between them.

Gold against his throat and the rhythm of his breath, the curling lick of his voice with oh, so many words that say absolutely nothing at all. She would throttle him if only to make herself feel better, but she has tried that before, her fingers twitching with the memory of warm skin under fingertips and she is no further ahead than when she started.

The secrets rattle their bones and laugh.

The word begins to spread that all is not, perhaps, lost. The streams of people become small rivers. If Cullen slept before, she is sure that he does not now. There are too many, those with skills and those without, uses that must be assigned, absorbed, made somehow to work. Idle hands belong to the Maker and she fills them all as best she can. Rough buildings begin to spring up like scattered flowers, stones brought up from the river to be smoothed and set into the ground for better roads, voices yell and grunt and spread.

Through it all Josephine is a whirlwind of dark hair and gleaming pins, organizing, sorting, soothing. Haven settles down restlessly under her touch even as Cullen tightens his grip beneath it and draws out the worst of the poisons that leech in with the tide. The companies ride out in waves to assure safety in wider and wider circles and some carefully carried away within them do not return.

Cassandra does not ask. She travels with the Herald and assesses the land for herself.

She seeks and seeks and she finds more yet more questions but also answers and finally, finally a name. Corypheus.

The liar swears in a voice she has never heard from him before and she tentatively names it fear. It throws her, a little. Never has she heard him afraid. But what cannot die? Apparently something that walked the Golden City an age ago and gloats that the streets of it are black, abandoned, dead. Something that has now found a way to tear open the very sky above their heads because there was nothing and no one to stop him. And now it comes for them, comes for them all, but most of all it comes for the Herald.

Can there be any mortal answer to that?

Yet she will not be driven from the field before it is truly lost. She asks then for time and is answered. They walk out alone, shoulder to shoulder like comrades, like the friends she would prefer to believe they are.

They don’t go far for it would be foolish beyond all words to pass out of sight with so much uncertain in the world. Only as far as the frozen lake, blue and ice and snow spreading before them in an afternoon much like all the others before it. The red of his cloak is the only color that she can see with the world sleeping in its winter, a winter that does not yet know what is happening, possibly would not care if it did and she takes deep, rigid breath.

What she seeks she always finds but she already knows this question will be poison. His will be the hand that must pin their enemy to the ground, should the Maker’s grace be with them that far. Should a thousand other things not defeat them first, the largest of them named Despair.

It’s quiet. The tip of her nose tingles, then numbs as they talk of, Maker bless, inconsequential things. How fast can he do this? How fast can she? What are they equipped to take on now, how much further can they go if pressed to the wall, how much more do they need? Plans upon plans upon contingencies written in plumes of frost.

This should be the War Table. The others should be here. But forward is what she knows and if she has failed with the trickster, she cannot risk failing here.

She has to know and know absolutely.

She speaks the words finally because she must. Kinloch, she says. Tell me of Kirkwall. Did he know what was coming when she asked him to walk with her so far beyond the walls? She strikes for where the worst of it must lie within him, aims for the center of the abscess that she knows must be there if only because he never speaks it.

When he breaks the silence, he tells her things colder than the world around them, when she’d thought his pain and anger would be hot as fire. His voice does not waver even if her breath does. The words are spare and unadorned, leeching away to fall onto the snow. That nothing stains around them seems an affront.

He does not lose control so neither does she. Yet when she thinks him done, a silence of heartbeats where the world thinks longingly of spring, it is then that he tells her of leash broken and a collar snapped. Some things become clearer, others much less so. He asks, in that quiet voice that she no longer believes holds calm, has ever held calm, what she would have him do. He trusts her. He will do as she bids in this but he will not put it on again. He will never put it on again. He will have control of himself in all things or he will have nothing.

His face is clean as she studies it, his eyes gold and remote. His hand rests on the pommel of a sword he is never without. A single, outward scar to stand for all the rest.

The trees sway on the other shore, their tops dusted in white and she listens to the remembered voice of the Nightingale in her ear. Her matched twin, asking who else could do all that he has done, in the bloody then and in the paralyzed now.

Meredith must have laughed at the end, she thinks, out of nowhere. She could not have seen it coming.

Will she see it coming? If he will not be held captive to anything again, if the shape he has been forced into is a man kneeling in the snow at his feet, can she accept that?

She has certainly seen worse in the world. May even have done worse herself.

Cassandra closes her eyes and chooses because faith is never the answer, only the question.

If the world will fall, it will not be because she could not trust. He has not faltered, never where it mattered, survived what would have broken any other. Has yet to fail her, with all she has given him. Does he not do only as they have asked him to, as she has asked him to and yet more besides, beyond expectation?

If he is the Commander, it is for a reason. And that reason has not changed.

A hand to his arm, gloved against the frost and the single, slow blink of his eyes. No more than that. She falls back from that edge and they speak then of all the ways they could fail, but she makes sure that they plan in the expectation of hope.

Cassandra does not second guess herself. There is little point in gnawing at decisions already made, sinking teeth into well chewed bones as if they will yield any more meat. The days are cascades of choices, each one of them just as likely to send them over into the abyss. She consoles herself that should it all end in cataclysm, she will no doubt have the opportunity to review every one of her errors before the final blow and no doubt the dwarf will be the one to read her the list. She will worry about it then.

The mages work themselves into daylight, the warriors ride and return and ride again. The Herald develops dark circles under their eyes that no longer fade but it is no less than anyone else and Cassandra can do nothing about any of it so she says nothing but does what little she can. A mug of mulled cider, spicy with autumn, a flight of new arrows left on a desk, fresh fletched. Cullen is there and then he is not for some weeks, two cohorts at his back. Leliana says nothing of import but acknowledges the Commander acts with her knowledge and that must suffice. Cassandra asks herself if she wants to know and concedes that she does, but the real question is need and that she does not have. The Left pursues her own purposes, as always.

The Commander returns with less than half his men but Leliana is serene so Cassandra leaves it to disappear under the papers that weigh down the War Table. One stack is held by a knife sunk deep and she imagines that’s probably where her answer is. They move on, always forward.

Then, somehow, the Breach closes. Is closed. The Herald smiles in the midst of exhaustion and no one could ask for more than that. Haven rejoices. No. Haven raises its voice and screams like a falcon at the end of a kill.

The kegs are split, the fires are raised. Revelry rings off the paving stones. She is persuaded to a drink herself. She listens to music that contains only voices and stamping feet as someone, several someones thump rough time on the wooden tables. Rough skirts swirl with dance and joy and knife-edge relief.

A voice at the gates ends all.

A man collapsed on his knee and struggling to rise. An army on the ridge. A warning too late, too late by far, barely enough time to turn and see the truth of it. The alcohol she has consumed burns fierce and bright in her gut.

Cullen is at her shoulder then, out of nowhere, red and blonde and focused as she has only seen him some handfuls of time in the past and she will never know how because in the moment she would ask, there is no time to care.

She is not as he is. Her gifts are a cousin only to his, born of a different, solitary faith. But she is close enough, aware enough to know when the waters of the world recede between one step and the next, stripped, sucked back into the sea and rising.  

Black. Malevolent. Templar. Her mouth is a desert, her shoulder shocked into rigidity. She stares as if she is he, locked on the single bared shoulder, the brown hand clenched around a mage staff. The weave and shine of expensive cloth meant to impress. At Tevinter’s snake unerringly picked out in metal and thread.

She does not, can not know what he feels, not truly, but she knows what he wants in that one moment as if they were twins, as if they had been raised from a single cradle. There’s a thunderhead in her throat, an earthquake under her heart. His hand is tight on his sword hilt, brushing against her hip, he stands so close. As if the occlusion of her body between him and the mage is the only thing holding him back.

The Herald is oblivious. They are all oblivious and she marvels at it, as one might marvel at a fever dream even as it passes. Words are exchanged, the danger sketched out in hoarse words as if eyes could not read the story now amassing on the mountain flank above.

She dares not look over her shoulder to see if Cullen’s eyes have turned black with strain. It is contained, he contains it. She wills it so. Each second bleeds away the likelihood that he will strike the man in front of them. It is potential only. It is only old training, old fears startled out of sleep. Maker, so deep.

Her fingers twitch and touch his hand so close to hers.

Time resumes.

Cullen strides away, his voice ringing out, mustering whatever defense they can, as useless as it will be.

She can feel the fury soaking in the ground where he shed it like a snake.

[bythexdreadwolf]

30 DAY PROMPT CHALLENGE.

day 03. quill. 

CULLEN RUTHERFORD//KATYA TREVELYAN. WORD COUNT: 1,538. BY KAZ. AO3 LINK.

The small box felt heavy in her hands.  She didn’t know why the thought of giving him something so simple felt so momentous.  It was a token of her gratitude for all that he had done for the Inquisition, a token of their friendship.  Nothing more.  So why did it feel as though something much more hung in the balance?  They were just friends.  He was the commander of her forces.  A trusted advisor.  She was his leader, his healer.  There was nothing else, could never be anything else.  He was a former templar and she a former Circle mage.  The chasm between their worlds was as wide as the Amaranthine Sea.  That they had bridged it in any capacity, despite their differences of opinion on so many things, was miraculous indeed.

They had both suffered at the hands of the institution that had failed them both, though neither of them truly knew to what extent their mutual disillusionment and abuse went.  Perhaps that — along with the camaraderie that came with fighting side by side against a common foe — was their only common ground.  So why, on her last excursion to Val Royeaux, had she been so utterly compelled to bring him back something?  To buy him a gift simply for the sake of making him smile?

You do the same thing for your other friends, the little voice in her head whispered.

True, but none of them make me feel like some stupid, blushing maid out of one of Varric’s serials.

And she did not, for example, fantasize about Dorian ravishing her senseless on top of the war table during advisory meetings.  A distraction that had proven, more than once, to be completely and utterly disastrous.  Sharing a room with four of the Inquisition’s most astute individuals meant her wandering mind rarely went unnoticed.  She highly doubted whether their spymaster believed her when she chalked it up to simply being tired from the road, if her raised eyebrows and knowing smirks were anything to go by.

She ran a hand through her hair, continuing to waffle about outside of the commander’s quarters, debating internally about whether or not she should seriously go through with this.  It was just a gift, right?

It’s not like he would want you like that anyway, another little voice sneered.  She had to concede that it had a point; he would never deign to court her in any fashion, so surely there would be no harm in giving him a small gift.  Steeling her nerves, she raised a hand and knocked.

“Enter,” he called out, and she felt a pang in her chest at how utterly exhausted he sounded.  This was a mistake; she should have left him in peace.  She knew how rare moments of much-needed solitude could be.  But she had already disturbed him, and she hesitated but a moment before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The office was warm from the glow of the fire and the mid-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows.  He did not look up from where he was perusing some missive or other, his brow furrowed in concentration.  The ever-present dark circles in under his eyes seemed worse than usual, his cheeks more gaunt, and she wondered if his headaches had gotten worse.  He had never told her their cause, though she highly suspected it was stress.  The man was, after all, married to his job.  It struck her, then, that he had not sent for her healing services in nearly a fortnight.  Since before she left for Val Royeaux.  It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.  The Inquisition was not wanting for talented healers; she wasn’t the only person in their ranks with the skills to help ease his pain.

“I swear to the Maker if you are here yet again about the incident in the barracks, I will not hesitate to assign you latrine duty until the end of days,” he growled, and she couldn’t help but chuckle a little as she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

“Should I be concerned about the fact that you threatened to assign me latrine duty, Commander?” she asked with a grin.

At her voice, his gaze snapped up from his work and he gave her a sheepish smile.

“I bet your pardon, Inquisitor.  I mistook you for someone else,” he greeted, rising from his desk.

She waved away his apology.  “Don’t worry about it. I feel like I should apologize for disturbing you; you’re clearly up to your ears in shit — apparently physically as well as metaphorically — but I was hoping — do you have a moment?”

His eyes flicked down at the disorganized array of papers sprawled across his desk for the briefest of moments before alighting on her face again.  She steeled herself for the rejection.  Can’t you see he’s busy?  You should have just left it outside of his door and buggered off.

“Of course.  To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

Her words seemed to get caught on her tongue as he regarded her with that amber gaze, heat spreading up her neck and across her cheeks.  She cleared her throat and tried again.

“I ah…on my last trip to Val Royeaux, I got you something,” she finished lamely, looking up at him from in under her lashes.  Andraste’s tits, was he even aware of the effect he had on women?  She highly doubted it.  He was handsome, but he seemed to be completely ignorant of the fact that he was absolutely devastatingly good-looking.  She plowed on.  It’s just a small token of friendship.  Between friends.  That’s all it is.  Friends being pals.  Pals being friends.  “To say thank you, and to hopefully brighten up your day.  You work so hard and do so much…It’s not much, I admit —”

“Katya,” he began, and the use of her first name instead of her title was enough to stop what was promising to be a good ramble on her part in its tracks.  He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a sigh, a small blush creeping across his cheeks and his ears.  Was he embarrassed? Oh, Maker no, she really should not have done this.  This was a huge mistake, this was crossing a line.  She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off.  “That you thought enough of me to do such a thing means more than you know.”

It felt like her entire body was going up in a towering inferno from both his words and those fucking eyes.  Maker, help her, but those whiskey-colored eyes of his were going to do her in well before Corypheus would.  She couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so she simply held the small parcel out to him, and watched as he carefully opened the lidded box.

Nestled inside was a quill.  Nothing exquisite; he was too practical of a man for frivolous stationary.  But its nibs were made of metal, and were far more durable than the ones that were standard Inquisition issue.  It was a quill made to last.  It had cost her a few more sovereigns than she would like to admit.   She watched as his fingers gently ghosted over the pen, hovering over the small inkwell and the spare nibs.  He swallowed.

“I cannot accept this,” he breathed, his voice barely audible.

“Of course you can,” she countered, taking a step into his personal space.  Her heart felt as though it were going to hammer its way out of her chest.  Stop that, she told it, though she was sure he could hear it in the silence of his office.  It was practically so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  Friends do things like this for each other.  He’s a friend, you absolute tit.  He looked up from where he’d been marveling at it, his brow furrowed.  “You spend almost as much time writing as Josephine and Leliana; you deserve something that’s going to stand up to the task.  It’s a gift, Comm—Cullen.  Plus, I’m your boss and I say you have to.  So.”

“I—thank you.  Truly.”

He was looking at her with such warmth and bewilderment that she was seized with the desire to reach out and cup his cheek, but she managed to reign the impulse in.  Barely.

She swallowed and took a step back in an attempt to ground herself; her legs felt as weak as a newborn colt’s, and it was suddenly incredibly hard to draw a steady breath.

“Well, Commander,” she tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.  “I’m glad you like it.  I shall take my leave.”  Before I faint or piss myself, in all honesty.  Both are a very likely outcome at present.

As she made her way to the door, he called after her.

“Inqui—Katya?  Would you care to join me for a game of chess tomorrow?”

She paused, turning to regard him over her shoulder.  His expression was unreadable but the same warm surprise -- as though he'd never seen anything like her -- was still in his eyes.  The swooping sensation in her stomach seemed to double tenfold.  “I—yes, of course.  I can’t guarantee that I won’t lose spectacularly, but I would love to.”

[jonogueira]

8 OC Facts

Thank you for the tags @laraslandlockedblues, @shannaraisles , @gugle1980

and I am so sorry it took me soo long to answer (sorry if anyone else tagged me and I didn’t tag here) 

Áine.

1. Claustrophobia:

After being tied to a table for days, Áine doesn’t like to be anywhere where she can’t see outside. The place has to have at least one small window through where she can flee. Even after months sleeping in Cullen’s quarters she still makes sure to be looking at one of the windows before falling asleep.

2. Afraid of magic:

Although being a mage, she is afraid of magic. She has seen what magic can do when a person is scared or doesn’t have full control over it. First Kinloch, where she saw abominations, blood magic, the things Uldred released in the tower and Aiden carving those symbols on her lower belly. The second was in Kirkwall, when after Anders – whose actions she doesn’t blame, but doesn’t also approve – blew up the chantry, things were chaotic. And third and last, in the Inquisition. The scar in the sky is magic made, and everything that came after the explosion is a result of it.

She tries to use her magic only in situations that she doesn’t have other choices. She knows her limits and limitations and works hard to improve them every day.

3. Afraid of tranquility:

She doesn’t like magic, but the thought of becoming tranquil makes her body tremble every time. Not being able to feel, really scares her. She knows tranquils, and she respects them, even if they’ve chosen to become tranquils the respect is still the same, not everyone is prepared to deal with magic. She is not best friends with Cassandra, but they see each other eye to eye, and when she finds out the rite can be reversed she keeps reminding the warrior through hints here and there.

4. Doesn’t like killing:

Life for her is precious. She knows some people are beyond salvation, but she still is against killing without a very good reason. “Walk a mile in other people’s shoes” is what she is always telling the others, before judging she likes to know what drove the person to do what he/she has done. And people tend to see this as a weakness and often exploit this side of her. She is thankful her family and friends are there to open her eyes.

5. Family:

She was taken to the circle when she was just a child, like many other mages, so family for her was something she only had after she fled Kirkwall. When her brothers and her mother found her in that cave, she thought she would die, but instead, they welcomed her as one of them, taught her how to survive and find her true self. She thanks the Maker every day after she wakes up and before going to bed, for he has given her a family, which she will do anything to protect. ANYTHING.

6. She is Pro circle.

Yes, you read it right. She is in favor of circles, BUT not as they were.

In her mind circles should be a place for mages to learn magic and how to control it, not a prison. She thinks mages should spend part of the day in the circle, mastering their abilities, and the rest of the day they should be outside with the people, – fear comes from something we do not understand. So how can people understand how magic works, if the people that have it, are locked away in a place they cannot see? – helping them however they can, and at night come back to the circle to sleep. This way people would learn that mages are people.

Magic is a tool to be used, like knives, shovels, carts, shields, and bows. The “object” itself is as dangerous as the person wielding it.

7. Likes to watch Cullen.

She dreamed of him for YEARS, and now that she has him she can’t believe it. How can he want her? He is much more than she is. He is the Commander of the Inquisition; she is a spy. He is an ex-Templar, an ex-Knight-Captain; she will always be a mage. So she likes to watch him, and memorize every scar, every curl of his hair (she hates that he styles his hair, and every opportunity that she has to run her finger though it she takes it). She watches him eating, and working and exercising ~wink wink~. She knows he watches her in her sleep and she doesn’t mind because she does the same. She is always touching him, to know it isn’t a dream. She thanks the Maker for allowing this happiness in her life as much or even more than she does for her family.

8. Aiden.

He is her BIGGEST fear.

She dreams with him and wakes up cold. After she started her relationship with Cullen, she learned how to control it. She still sits up abruptly in the middle of the night sometimes waking Cullen up, but it is a rare occurrence now. She never talks about him with anyone, including Cullen. He used to ask her about him, but after times and times she refused, he relented. She knows he means well, but it haunts her, she carries Aiden’s touch with her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, wherever she goes.

She is most afraid because she knows it isn’t over yet. She knows he is just waiting for the right moment to act. He once told her she was his, and he isn’t going to give up his prize.

[runespoor7]

Broken Circle: downstairs

Fun fact if you bring Zevran to the Tower, when Wynne unseals the barrier she made, he talks up your competency at felling people sent to kill you.

After talking a bit with Wynne, Iris has a better grasp on the situation. In particular she knows that when Wynne last saw Irving, he was in a very bad position. Still, once they're here... Finding Irving is their only hope to keep the Templars from killing everyone. If Irving's dead, then... The Templars forces were thinned out, but was it enough that she and the others can take them on and win? Maybe, if they can trap them deep enough inside the Tower. Jumping down the Tower is also a possibility. Morrigan can't turn into the kind of giant bird that Flemeth did to carry Alistair and Iris to safety, but if they combine their ice spells they could try and make a slide to the lake.

Of the people you meet with Wynne, I get the sense that Petra used to be someone who looked over the apprentices and explained their homework when she was an older apprentice herself. Jowan used to look up to her and he did kind of the same thing (but probably with the younger kids, he wasn't as academically accomplished as Petra), but as Iris only came to Kinloch Hoch six to eight years ago, she was never in a position to be close to Petra herself. 

Still, Petra treats Iris as Iris saw herself, returning, if that makes sense. As an accomplished, competent, bad-ass adult, who happens to have links with the Circle, in the distant past.

Kinnon – the male mage apprentice – keeps talking to Iris like they're buddies. Keili definitely became more unhinged since Iris last saw her, and the others are far more patient than Iris is. If Iris was in a siege and there was among their rank someone wailing that it would be right for all of them to be killed so as to be cleansed of the sin of being born with magic, Iris isn't sure she wouldn't look for an opportunity to throw her at their enemies. It's also a bit disquieting, because like so Keili's definitely a risk for possession, but Petra and Alistair will know what to do if she changes. (in case they have to run into the Tower to escape from the Templars, if Iris runs out of lyrium, there's Keili.)

Summoning exercises in the library: there's been slight changes in the angles between focus points but on the whole now that she's been outside Iris gets that they're basically impossible to replicate in non-Circle conditions. (and the times she did try to replicate them in her dormitory she failed, maybe because magical exxercises are more often done in the library than the dormitories and so the Veil is thinner in the library.)

She puts the glyph – as asked by a customer in the Mages' Collective – in the middle of the room leading to the Senior Enchanters Quarters. Vindication. She was sure this room would amplify that kind of things (and that's without taking into account the Veil being thinned, because she hadn't taken it into account when she'd done her calculations – now she wonders how much of an influence the Veil being thinner makes, and what kind. She's been too busy since she left the Circle to check how her calculations hold out out there, but when she does get the time it might be cool and/or good to know. It might explain why Shock is a bit less reliable than it should – she'd chalked it up to nervousness, or enemies moving in ways she's not used to compensate for yet, but what if the lightning doesn't reach the way it's supposed to because the air's different? Something to keep in mind once the Blight's over!) /I bet you didn't know Iris was a big nerd. It's okay I didn't know until recently either. It's okay Iris doesn't consider herself a nerd, she's just a girl who can make numbers do wicked things in the name of moar power in her thunder.

Semi-lore notes: when you take the stairs, Morrigan comments that “can't you feel the charge in the air? Great power was unleashed here.” self congratulations are in order because what I decided Iris tasted last time meshes pretty well with that, imo! Also, on other semi-lore notes, it's worth noting that there's no mention of blood magic at all during this questline until Owain mentions the Litany of Adralla, and Wynne says “it protects from mind domination. Is blood magic at work here? I was afraid of this...” Worth mentioning because aside from this quest there's usually not far to go to find one being linked to the other. Here the characters don't jump to the conclusion that blood magic is involved until now. I don't know what I make of it, except that I find it cool.

Owain's insistent wishfulness for “the way things were” is terribly creepy to Iris, who's never considered the past a comfortable place to inhabit. “The way things were” sucked.

Then we meet the sympathetic Blood Mage! I wish she had a name, I love her, she's great. The bit where she says she used blood magic because it gave her the power to fight for what she believes, and Wynne goes “fighting for what you believe is commendable but the ends do not always justify the means”, and she replies “you don't really believe that, do you, Wynne? Change rarely comes peacefully. Andraste waged war against the Imperium; she didn't write them a strongly worded letter. She reshaped civilization, freed the slaves, and gave us the Chantry. But people died for it...”. She's written as being sympathetic, we also know she's sincere in her belief that things went too far (when we meet her she's fighting against former allies who disagree with her on that point, and when I say fight I mean casting spells). Iris would have found her sympathetic even without the mention of Andraste. “Don't you remember what it was like living here? The templars watching... always watching.” So she recruits her. “You have power. I have use for you.”

The Blood Mage does not actually appear after this scene again, which is a shame if I can say so myself, as it gives the idea that she got herself killed before she could reach the apprentices. (this is where we send her after recruiting her. “Join the apprentices downstairs. Do not say who you are.” I love this, Iris Amell for the protection of blood mages who mean well and just want to be free and don't want everyone in the Tower to die.)

I love Broken Circle so much.

[ariannadi]

Her Heart on its Knees

AU thing I thought of… Cause y’know lmao

Sooo basically Arian and Cullen exist in a variety of different universes, one where she meets him in Kirkwall, one where she joins the Inquisition as a member of the inner circle, one where she stays with her clan, one where she becomes Inquisitor, etc. etc. etc. This takes place in the second one. Evelyn Trevelyan is Inquisitor, and Arian, curious about human society, joins the organization in hopes that her clan will warm up to the idea of becoming its ally. 

Over the months, Arian falls for Cullen, and the two become very close - though she’s convinced he’s involved with the Inquisitor. When Perseverance rolls around, Evelyn does what she believes is best, and Arian takes immediate action.

“How could you!?”

Evelyn glanced up from her stack of reports to find Arian, the young Dalish woman who had joined them in Haven, standing in front of her desk, looking angrier than the Herald had ever seen her. 

“How could I what, Arian?” she asked, genuinely confused.

The elf just inched her way toward the Inquisitor, her crystalline eyes sparking like flint on steel upon closer inspection.

“You said you would look out for him; you told me outright that you would help him in anyway you could. How does telling Cullen to go back on lyrium accomplish any of that!?” she barked, her bared teeth only adding to the effect.

Evelyn just blinked, setting down the quill she’d been writing with. “Arian. The man was visibly troubled, and he wanted to continue leading the Inquisition’s army. I did what I believed best. We will figure out a better solution once-”

“No!” Arian interrupted, slamming her hands down on the desk’s surface. “You don’t get it, do you? Cullen has one chance to be rid of everything he’s faced, and it needs to happen now. I don’t care if lyrium is easing the hardships of his position - it’s the one thing still leashing him to his past. If you cared about him you would believe in his capability to overcome this. Instead you’ve given up on him, and for what? Your army?” She rose from where she’d been hunched over, flinging her arms outward. “I hope you’re happy with the choice you’ve made." 

"Do not question my means of solving matters, Arian.” Evelyn seethed, standing from her desk and towering over the elf. “Cullen could very well die if he continues abstaining from lyrium. Would you rather that happen?”

“You don’t know that. Cullen isn’t like the other templars who have quit. He’s proven himself time and time again.” Arian argued, her voice tight.

Evelyn really didn’t have time to be lectured by the girl - instead pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“The decision has been made, Arian. Now I suggest you leave me be. I have a multitude of reports to finish up.”

The elf, her expression completely wounded, slowly shook her head. “Fen'Harel ma ghilana,” she whispered, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.

Evelyn plopped back down into her seat the moment the door to her quarters slammed shut, a tired breath passing through her lips as she stared up at the rafters of the ceiling.

It took everything to will the angry tears in her eyes from sliding down her cheeks, but the more Arian pondered the situation the harder they fell.

This wasn’t fair. Cullen didn’t deserve this, especially from the woman who was supposed to have his love and support no matter what. How she wished she had been there the day they came to the Commander’s ultimatum; she would’ve done anything to prevent the current outcome from happening.

Perhaps she could still make an impact, she thought as she marched through the main hall of the castle, cutting through Solas’ veranda to cross the bridge to Cullen’s office. As expected, the man was present, hunched over his desk with a determined look on his face. Although Arian was quiet in her entry, that didn’t stop him from glancing up once she had shut the door behind her.

“Arian,” he acknowledged, rising upward. “Is there something you need?” He must’ve noticed the tears on her cheeks, for a second later he came right up to her, his expression concerned.

“I’m sorry, I just-” she wept, scrubbing at her face, “Cullen, why did you listen to her? You had come so far and…” she lowered her head, hugging herself. Cullen looked as though he wanted to comfort her, but his hands just hovered at his sides.

“Is… Is this about the lyrium?” he asked, and she nodded helplessly. 

“I know she’s the Inquisitor, but you’re so much stronger than you realize, Cullen,” she breathed, looking up at him. “Maybe it’s too late to convince you otherwise, but…”

Cullen appeared to be visibly touched, and finally he reached out and placed a shaky hand on her shoulder.

“Arian, I…” he started, but was interrupted by the door to his office swinging open. Both the Commander and elf turned to eye the interloper, who ended up being Evelyn.

“Inquisitor-” Cullen began, but went silent once the woman held up her hand.

“I should’ve known you were going to come here after our spat,” Evelyn directed to Arian, displeasure lacing her tone. Cullen seemed surprised at the comment, his eyes flickering between the two women.

Arian regarded the Herald with a blank expression, her breathing steady. “I couldn’t abide by your decision, Inquisitor. Dismiss me if you must, but at the very least reconsider your choice.”

To the elf’s shock, Evelyn’s face shifted; a small, respectful smile appearing on her lips.

“You needn’t worry about being dismissed,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m… impressed that you stood up to me on your own accord, all for the sake of someone else.” Her eyes shifted to Cullen. “Commander, you have my permission to continue abstaining from lyrium use, if that is your wish.”

Cullen looked dumbstruck initially, but he quickly collected his bearings, clearing his throat. “Inquisitor. That day when you came here after my…outburst, I never actually went through with your orders. I almost did, held a vial to my lips, even. But… I couldn’t.”

Arian’s face brightened, a gasp of breath escaping her lungs as she quickly turned to face the man. 

“You haven’t taken it again?” she beamed. Cullen shook his head.

“I… I actually wanted to ask you how you felt about it first, Arian.” he explained, rubbing at his neck. “I probably should have done so sooner, seeing as you found out elsewhere.”

The elf felt her mouth part slightly. “You wanted my opinion?” she questioned in disbelief, and the man nodded.

“You are genuine in your observations. And, well… you have always had my best interest in mind. It seemed appropriate.”

Arian felt her cheeks heat, a gentle smile rising on her lips as his words nestled their way into her heart. 

“Well, I think we’re all quite aware of how Arian feels,” Evelyn said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Now if all’s settled, I have more reports to tend to. Commander. Arian.” She gave a halfhearted salute to them both, then proceeded to exit Cullen’s office. 

“You… you were really so concerned for me that you stood up to the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked once Evelyn had left, his voice quiet.

Arian chewed at her lip, knowing she was likely in for a lecture on obedience. “I couldn’t watch you suffer, Cullen. I know the Inquisition is important, but, so are you. I respect Evelyn, but I couldn’t stand by her decision. You… you mean too much to me.”

Cullen was silent, likely contemplating a proper response. All the while, Arian stared down at her feet, knowing she had overstepped and hoping he wouldn’t be too harsh on her. She was, after all, simply looking out for her best friend.

And the man who held her heart.

“Thank you,” he finally said, and Arian’s eyes flew upward. The Commander was regarding her with a tender expression, his tawny eyes more compelling than they had ever been.

“Thank you?” Arian repeated, confused.

Cullen offered her a smile. “It’d do me well to remember that even if Evelyn is Inquisitor, I do not always have to abide by her commands. After everything that happened that day, I suppose I was simply inclined to agree.”

“You’re your own person, Cullen,” Arian murmured, stepping closer. “Not everything needs to be order and formality.”

The Commander chuckled at that. “Something I am slowly learning every day,” he admitted, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword.

Arian found herself regarding him for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he took in a deep breath. His eyes were fixed on the far wall of his office, giving the elf an opportunity to study the sharp angles of his profile, the sculpted slope of his nose.

She found herself smiling. Even now, he looked to be at peace.

“Hopefully Evelyn won’t be too angry,” Arian uttered, twiddling her fingers. “I wouldn’t want to put a rift between you.”

“Colleagues disagree sometimes. I am sure she won’t take the objection to heart, Arian.” the man replied, turning to look at her properly.

The elven woman blinked, then shook her head. “No, that’s not… I mean, I meant, I wouldn’t want this to tarnish your… personal relationship with her.”

Cullen raised a brow. “Personal?” he inquired.

Arian sighed, her shoulders sinking. “You and Evelyn are seeing each other, right?”

“H-what?” Cullen chuckled in disbelief. “If we are I haven’t been made aware. What would make you think such?”

Arian herself was stunned, just now realizing her hunch had been wrong. “You... well, you’re always working together and… well…” she stuttered.

Cullen shook his head, but a gentle smile graced his cheeks. “I do not have feelings for Evelyn, Arian. Our relationship is strictly professional. Besides, last I heard she was weasling her way into getting information about Krem from Bull.”

Arian attempted a response, but failed; the elf too busy processing all that he had revealed to her.

“Oh.” she finally spoke, feeling foolish. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean-”

“Arian,” Cullen nearly whispered, resting his hand on her arm. “Is there a reason you considered such?”

The elf looked up into his gentle eyes, and instantly she was lost. Something within screamed at her to take advantage of this moment, but the slightest bit of doubt still held her back.

“I…” she breathed, swallowing thickly. “Yes, but… I-I don’t want to ruin things. You’re a dear friend to me and I couldn’t bear the thought of…” she lowered her head, refusing to speak further.

She wouldn’t have to.

Before she knew it, Cullen’s hand had risen from her arm, instead cupping her cheek. Carefully he turned her face upward until she was gazing right at him, and only then did she realize just how close he was.

“You could never ruin things, Arian,” he reassured her, his words sweet and slightly timid. “For months now I’ve wondered… Arian, do you… have you ever thought about this? About us?”

Surely this couldn’t be happening. There was no way Cullen was asking if she had ever thought of being with him.

“I…” she swallowed, “Yes. But I-I don’t want to jeopardize what we have now. We could just stay friends and it’d be perfectly oka-”

Cullen didn’t allow her to finish. Instead, he had bent forward and slanted his mouth over hers; the tender movement of his lips drawing a soft whine from the elf’s throat.

There wasn’t a single word to describe how Arian felt in those precious seconds. Surprised. Relieved. Grateful. Warm.

The two eventually parted, both looking flushed as they simply gazed into one another’s eyes; both contemplating what this meant for them.

“That was…” Cullen breathed, all at once looking shy.

“Uh-huh,” Arian followed dumbly, offering him an affectionate smile. Cullen reciprocated it, the hand he still had on her cheek moving to tuck a strand of hair behind her pointed ear.

“I… I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned just how lovely you are,” he murmured, his eyes carefully studying her face. Arian giggled girlishly, her head gently falling into the crook of his neck.

“And now you can do so as much as you’d like,” she nearly sang, sighing happily when Cullen pressed his smiling lips into her hair. 

Likes and reblogs are always soooo appreciated!! <3

[thetiniestcave]

Circle Mage OC/Templar!Cullen Rutherford Rating: T - Mild language.  A/N: I’ve been working on this drabble for a few days, and I figured this was the best place to drop it. Simcha’s character sheet can be found on my OC page. This takes place pre-Origins. Please excuse any redundancy, I’ve stared at the google doc this is on way too long. 

He’d never been particularly good at reading lips; it wasn’t a talent that would see much use. Words were often misconstrued, reading lips only capable of carrying a message part of the way, so what was the point in excelling at such a thing? It was towards the end of Cullen’s first, solitary watch where he had found that particular train of idealism to be moot.

The Senior Mage Quarters was expected to be a quiet watch; most of the floor’s inhabitants being mages and Enchanters that had grown up within the Circle, and knew what behavior was to be expected of them. This was not the case for all, however. Cullen currently sat on the other end of what had quickly become a staring contest with one of the Kinloch Hold’s mages. The Circle’s youngest Enchanter -- a mute -- to be more specific. Simcha was quite the conversation piece within the Tower, though their name was rarely ever brought up in any sort of remotely negative context. It was baffling, Cullen had never heard of a mage being favored among Templars, it practically went against conduct. The mages were meant to be their charges; looked after, not fawned over. If that weren’t damning enough on its own, Simcha was still only an elf,and yet not once had he heard the phrase “knife-ear” used in reference to them. When Cullen happened upon them, Simcha had been fast asleep atop a tome that appeared far too large for them to have handled by themself. This behavior must have been something to be expected of them. Cullen couldn’t imagine a mage being so calm when caught out of their quarters after curfew otherwise. But Simcha smiles up at him upon properly waking, tired yet patient, and pushes the unkempt hair from their face, before rubbing the sleep from their eyes. A rather fetching pair, at that. Elves were said to have “unnatural” eyes, but that’s not the first word that comes to his mind with their heavily-lidded gaze directed up at him. Enchanting. They attempt to sign something to him, moving their lips to suggest the formation of words that might accompany the gesturing, but it’s all lost on Cullen.

It’s a struggle to follow, and Cullen finds himself lost between focusing on their hands or the words their lips silently form -- and looking at their mouth is a distracting feat on its own. Their lips look soft, despite the old scar that runs through their upper lip, faded, adding character more than marring them. And the way that they smile, Andraste. They have a gap in their front teeth, but it’s so charming on them, and then they smile wider, making way for a dimple on their right cheek.

The smile is apparently due to the fact that he’s distracted, not that Cullen is particularly discreet in his staring. “I’m sorry, I… you can’t-- Maker.” He attempts to get a hold of both himself and the situation, stammering as he does. It earns him a giggle that makes his heart thud. It’s a dainty thing, light and airy, but quiet, indicative of a voice that’s barely there.

“Maker preserve me.” He prays to himself as the heat residing beneath his collar rises to color his face. With some doing, he does manage to avert his eyes from the Enchanter. “You should be in your quarters, it’s well past curfew, and... I don’t want either of us getting in trouble.” He speaks in a hushed voice, clearly airing in favor of caution. The last thing he needed was to be caught being soft on his first watch.

There are a few more attempts made to communicate, the first few being very genuine attempts, before Simcha begins to poke fun at him in their own way. The only progress to be had is that Cullen at least understands “Andraste’s tits” as they mouth it, the gesturing done in accompaniment resulting in an eyeroll from the Templar, though his face burns a bit hotter.

“I don’t understand whatever it is you’re trying to say, but--”

The sound of their chair scraping against the floors brings pause from Cullen, as does the small hand that’s pressed itself into his gauntlet. It doesn’t linger, and neither does Simcha, though the brief moment they’re standing before him with their hand in his is enough to send his heart aflutter. They leave something in his hand before they walk off, something entirely separate from the touch that seemed to linger through his plated armor. Cullen doesn’t give what’s revealed to be a small note in his hand more than a glance before he moves to follow Simcha. The only thing that stops him is the guard meant to take second watch as she comes around the corner. He nearly barrels into her, his heart skipping a beat out of fear at the questioning look he receives, before the senior Templar breaks into a full smile.

“First time finding that one, eh?” She offers amicably, shaking her head in a manner that’s almost fond. “Odd, but a good sort, that lot. Can’t say that about too many of ‘em. Alright, you go on and get some rest then. No good to the order without any sleep, yeah?” Clearly a born-and-raised Ferelden, likely one that’s been stationed at the tower for her entire career. She was clearly a good sort herself, one that wasn’t too jaded in her career, and still found time to smile.   He’s at a loss, both on what to say, as well as the lack of reprimanding that should certainly be leveled at him. He settles for a salute that earns another shake of the woman’s head, a little bit of laughter following that prompts the heat on his face to burn hot once more. Cullen quickly sees himself out, putting a favorable distance between himself and the library. Once comfortably out of sight, he takes a proper look at the note Simcha had left with him, something scribbled, yet legible:

“It amazes me that you can spend so much time looking at my mouth and still lack the slightest clue as to what I’ve said. Rest assured, you won’t find any trouble with me. Though I wouldn’t be opposed to finding some with you.”

He has to read it several times over before the implications behind their message actually sink in, leading him to hastily stuff the note away. “Maker above.” Cullen breathes, looking up in time to see a betraying set of glowing eyes disappear into their quarters down the dark hall. It startles him enough to send his hand to the hilt of his sword, but he does catch himself. He wills his heart to settle down when he realizes that it had been Simcha, but finds it difficult to do so for exactly that reason. He’d have to be more vigilant on these watches, he reprimands himself as he continues towards his own quarters, trying to banish any thoughts of finding his way elsewhere.

[talesfromthefade]

Marina Amell x Cullen Rutherford (DA:O Prologue) || angst || SFW || 2489 words

“Jowan, I’m sorry,” she whispers tearfully as the apprentice’s eyes widen in shock, then turn to her with burning fury as the Templars advance on them, Greigor pronouncing a death sentence for ‘the blood mage’ and the Mage’s prison of Aeonar for Chantry Initiate Lily.

“You betrayed us. Betrayed me,” he accuses. “I thought you were my friend. I trusted you.” Marina loses the battle with her tears, as they fall wet and hot down her cheeks.

“I had no choice,” the young woman offers sadly, shaking her head. Irving knew everything, how could she refuse the First Enchanter when he insisted she win the other’s trust, trick him into revealing himself and his plans to escape with Lily in such a way that they could prove the other’s guilt and responsibility in it all?

“I thought you of all people would understand,” he continues and Marina chokes back a loud sob, shaking her head once more. “It’s him, isn’t it? That fucking Templar,” Jowan growls suddenly, hands balling into fists. “Get in good with the First Enchanter and Greigor so they’ll give you privileges and freedoms, make it easier to see him, maybe even turn a blind eye? Was it worth it,” he hisses angrily, snarling like the small, wounded, and cornered creature he is boxed into a corner with Lily by the First Enchanter and several Templars who’d been lying in wait to catch their attempted escape. “Damn you. Damn you all. Maker forgive you for this, Marina, for I never shall,” Jowan vows, pulling an unseen blade from his robes and slashing across his palm before any can make a move to stop him. Blood pools, spatters his robes, then hovers as he casts his spells, a great gust of power crashing into and knocking all those gathered in front of them to their feet. Lily is crying, backing away from Jowan, clearly horrified and in as much shock as Marina that the other would resort to such evils.

Jowan sputters excuses, wanting to be a better, more powerful mage, to prove himself, that he intended to give it all up for her, but Lily backs herself into the nearest corner, cowering in fear, forcing Jowan to turn tail and run before the Templars can collect themselves and give chase. Marina rushes over to the First Enchanter, carefully helping a grateful Irving to his feet, before cautiously approaching Greigor with him who immediately rejects both their help. Dusting himself off he quickly orders two Templars to collect Lily and ‘get her out of his sight’ before turning his attention back to the Circle’s newest Enchanter and First Enchanter Irving. Greigor spouts something about Irving being irresponsible in the way he chose to handle the situation, of not being able to trust Marina’s loyalty to the Circle or even her own mind after spending time in the company of a blood mage.

Marina for her part, only dimly registers what is being said, searching the gathered Templars while the two older men argue until her gaze alights on a familiar form, as the Templar takes off his battered helmet to reveal tight blonde curls. She cannot afford for her attention to linger on him, even if half the Circle- mages and Templars alike seem to relish whispering about the two of them. She is momentarily relieved, however, and lets go of a breath she had not even realized she was holding when she observes that besides having the wind knocked out of him by Jowan’s spell, he seems no worse for wear.

The Grey Warden, Duncan, she met and escorted to the guest rooms of the tower approaches, just as the Knight-Commander is winding up, and suggesting at the very least there will need to be a full-inquiry into the events that have transpired and allowed a dangerous mage to escape their grasp. Suggesting that there are greater concerns and more powerful forces at work, the Warden offers to recruit Marina not only to fight for the King at Ostagar, but to press her into the service of the Wardens themselves instead. Greigor blusters, but Irving’s lack of reaction is far more telling. He expected this, perhaps even desired as much for her from the start, Marina thinks watching him as Duncan continues to argue with the Knight-Commander. Two years ago, had she been presented with any reason or opportunity to escape the tower and the Circle, she might have jumped at the chance. Marina doesn’t fool herself in thinking that her life is as bad as some of her fellows, and the tower is the only home she has known for most of her life having demonstrated magical potential and been snatched away from her family by the Templars at a very tender age, but that hasn’t stopped her from seeing it for the gilded cage that it is. Two years ago, the chance for such freedom, to prove herself like this, and with such a distinguished order as the Wardens, would have been a kindness. It still is, she supposes, there are plenty within this very tower who would jump at the chance, kill to be in her shoes.

But she can feel wide, sad, amber eyes trained on her without even looking up to meet them. Irving and Duncan pose it as a question, make it sound as though she has a choice, while Greigor makes it all too clear he won’t grant her the same patience and courtesy now she has cost him an initiate and caused his order to lose track of a potentially dangerous blood mage. Life in the Circle will not be what it was before if she remains here. The thought of leaving makes a cavity of the place in her chest where her heart should beat, but can she really stay knowing full well the Knight-Commander will always be watching, never trusting, and never allow her so much as a stolen moment of conversation with him again?

No. She’d rather die, and Cullen would be better served to move on- better able to keep his promises to the Templars without her near. And to die a free mage, to die fighting for her country and countrymen, for the hope that one day her fellows might not fear- might even respect and treat her kind as equals- it isn’t such a terrible fate, she thinks. She swallows hard, gathering her courage and finding her voice again, before confirming that it would be an honor to join Duncan and his order in their fight against the Darkspawn, while doing her best to avoid the young Templar’s gaze.

There is little need for her to take anything with her. Even less that the Enchanter actually possesses, but Duncan manages to lead her quietly away from a still arguing Irving and Greigor before turning her loose with a sympathetic expression that rather hurts to look on, and the excuse of collecting her things, so that she might say her goodbyes. There’s nothing in her room, save for a mostly empty trunk with her old apprentice robes and staff and a journal containing notes from her various studies. She’s not even slept in the bed yet, sheets and quilt untouched, having only moved in this afternoon after passing her Harrowing and being promoted to the Senior Mage’s quarters. Still she stands there for an unaccountably long time at war with herself, one foot towards the door, the other the bed, irrevocably torn.

She wants to see him. Wants to say goodbye. That can only be what Duncan had intended in giving her this time before they leave. But… what is there to say? What can they do, but stand to hurt one another further? A goodbye might put some of her heartache at ease, but Marina doesn’t for a moment allow herself to believe it might cure it, and what might such a thing do to Cullen? Can she really be that selfish?

She’s resolved herself to go and find Duncan again so that they might leave when the door creaks on its hinges as it’s gently pushed open, as the familiar clinking of armored boots against stone floor follow after. Once again choice has been taken away from her. But at least, for better or for worse, the choice was his and not someone else’s on their behalf, the young woman thinks, slowly lifting her head, turning electric blue eyes up to meet his. Maker, but the pain of his gaze, of knowing what follows is beyond anything she has ever felt.

“My lady,” he says softly, bowing his head to her in greeting, carefully checking for any watchful eyes or ears- Templar or mage, before pulling the door shut behind him to grant them a moment’s respite and privacy. Marina smiles softly, just as she always has at his use of the title, before her eyes cast down to the floor, finding it too painful yet to look at him for long. It has no meaning here. Her family name too, worthless from the moment she accidentally cast her first spell. A child, barely more than eight, and a stupid tantrum because she was too young to go play with the older children like her siblings Leandra and Gamlen. Still, when he calls her such, for a moment she feels like a lady, can pretend that she is one, that she is anywhere but here, that they are anyone but themselves, two people who can love and be together without the odds and the whole world seemingly stacked against them.

She thinks briefly of Anders. Of her friend’s many escape attempts. Of his most recent one after Enchanter Karl was assigned and relocated to the Circle in Kirkwall. Of the lover’s whispered promises to each other in the dark the night before they’d been split up. ‘Ten years, a hundred years from now… Someone like me will love someone like you, and there will be no Templars to tear them apart.’ She hopes Anders managed to find and free them both, that the Templars never catch them. That they might find the happiness it seems she and Cullen are never meant to. A good Andrastian would probably say that there is a point to all of it, a grand design. Cullen seems to have such faith, but if Marina Amell ever did, it has long since waned. She sees no beauty, no higher purpose in all of this, only pain.

“My brave knight,” Marina returns softly with a tearful half-smile, still staring at a particular stone on the floor at her feet as he crosses the room to stop in front of her, one gauntleted hand slowly and with infinite care reaching out, and lifting her chin, drawing her eyes back up to his, before cupping her cheek, cool gleaming metal caressing her pale, freckled skin, fingertips weaving gently into her soft blonde locks. They are a breath away from each other. Closer than they have ever been permitted or managed before. And somehow, he already feels farther away, more out of reach than he has ever been to her. Slowly and with the same kind of infinite care the mage lets her hand reach out for him, fingers to caress his jaw, a warm palm to flatten against his cheek, relishing the slight rasp of barely there evening stubble.

“M-Marina, I… “Cullen whispers softly, frowning a little when the words won’t come. But what is there to say? So much, and yet so little will do either any good now.

“It will be alright,” she soothes softly, her other arm wrapping carefully around his waist to keep him close as she allows her forehead to press, melt against his own. “I will be alright,” she promises, though she knows as well as he does it is not a promise she can truthfully hope to keep, certainly not forever, or with the path that has been laid out for her future. “All is as the Maker wills it,” she whispers softly, hoping against hope the words will be of greater comfort to him than they are to her, even as he draws in a shallow and shaky breath against her, arms dropping to her waist to pull her as tight against his chest as his armor will allow for without hurting her. It is such a little thing. Far too little, but it must be enough. This moment all they will ever have.

He starts to try and speak again, no more successful than his previous attempt as she carefully places a finger over his lips to stop him, then slowly removes it, chasing his mouth with her own. It is a gentle kiss. Tentative. Chaste, but full of the utmost tenderness and fondness for one another. The first they have ever shared. The only one they shall ever share. She takes her time with it, they both do, all the time they can afford. Hands grapple with one another’s hips through armor and clothes, but not to grope, merely to reassure themselves that the other is there, to anchor themselves to one another, to this stolen, all too fleeting moment of happiness before it is taken from them. Please, she thinks perhaps a bit desperately because she knows she cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud, cannot bear the thought of shattering this moment with a reminder of the loss and pain that will swiftly follow it, be safe, be happy.

Duncan knocks, then enters, and he must know, even as she manages to straighten herself up and Cullen has backed away to a more respectable distance, but the older man only looks sympathetic, and says nothing, only asking if she is ready. She is not. But, Marina thinks sadly, sparing the other man a sidelong and mournful glance, she is unlikely to ever be more ready than she is now. She nods to Duncan, taking her better staff in hand, tucking her notebook into the small pouch at her belt. She gives the room one last parting glance, considering before snatching a small square of cloth from the top of her trunk. A handkerchief. Poorly stitched, from when her mother had been trying to teach her the finer points of embroidery. The only thing she was able to keep from her life before- a life before magic or the Circle, a life where they might have been afforded better, more than this. She crosses the room once more, and hugs him tight, kissing his cheek, before tucking the small token into his hands with a sad smile, and follows Duncan out of the room and back to the waiting boat that will carry her across the lake and to the destiny that awaits her far to the South.

[andee-land]

Happy Birthday Lissie

My birthday gift to the one and only @lizmapes, a probably completely not-canon story about her favorite OC--Elisabet Trevelyan.  I didn’t proofread it, I probably got lots of background facts wrong, despite my constantly annoying her with questions, but I did my damndest and LIZ I HOPE YOU LIKE IT I HOPE I DIDN’T ABUSE YOUR BABY WITH MY FUMBLINGS.

Seven Years Old

“Elisabet?  Elisabet, come out now!”  Holding back giggles, Lissie watched from the gap between the tablecloth and the floor as her nurse’s shoes walked back and forth through the hall, opening different doors.  As she heard a door right by her open up, she couldn’t help but let a little shriek of a giggle escape, clapping a hand over her mouth to contain it.

“Ah, I heard that, I did,” the nurse said playfully. “Think you can hide from me, do you? Not for long!”  Lissie let another giggle escape, muffled though it was by her hand.

The shoes appeared in front of the table, then knees and a hand, and then the tablecloth was pulled up, revealing the kind face that Lissie knew so well.  “Gotcha!” the nurse laughed.  She held out a hand to the little girl.  “Come out now, you silly girl.  It’s time you got ready for dinner.”

Lissie frowned, but took the hand that was offered to her.  “I don’t want to go to dinner,” she declared. “It’s so boring, and Father always talks about boring things and no one wants to hear me say anything.”

The nurse smiled kindly at Lissie, brushing her wild hair away from her face and attempting to contain the mess—usually a losing battle.  “Well, you’re only a little girl, Elisabet,” she reminded her.  “Your papa is a grown man.  It’s not a surprise you don’t have many overlapping interests.  But it’s your birthday, and he wants you to join them for supper tonight.  It’s a nice grown up dinner!”

Scowling, Lissie scuffed her foot against the floor. Nice grown up dinners were so dull—her father and stepmother just talked about more fancy people that they knew.  Father never wanted to talk to her, barely even looked at her any time.  And all of her older siblings were grown-ups already, so he could talk to them. 

With a sigh at Lissie’s forlorn expression, the nurse stood up and reached down to take her hand.  “I don’t think you know how touching it is that your father wants to celebrate your birthday with you, young lady,” she said a bit firmly as they walked down the hall towards Lissie’s room.  “It’s a very hard day for him.”

“I know,” Lissie muttered, dragging her feet down the long hall.  “After dinner, can I have cake with you and Nik?”  Her three-year-old half-brother was by far her favorite family member.

They reached the door to Lissie’s room and the nurse sighed again as she turned the knob, shaking her head.  “Yes, all right, after dinner, we can all have some cakes together.”

That brought a grin right to Lissie’s face, and she ran into the bedroom to hurriedly get ready, pulling open the armoire doors.  The nurse took over, pulling down a nice dress for her to put on.  “You are a strange little girl, my dear,” she said with a slight smile, and then kneeled down to be at the same height as her and helped her pull off the dirty play clothes she had been wearing. 

Soon, Lissie was properly bathed, brushed, and dressed in a fine little pink dress, with her hair fluffed and tied with a pretty white ribbon.  She stared into the mirror in her room and shifted a bit uncomfortably, her face holding a scowl that didn’t quite match her pretty outfit.

“Aren’t you lovely?” the nurse said, placing her hand gently on Lissie’s head.  “Happy birthday, Elisabet, dear.”

Eighteen

“Psst!”  Lissie looked up from the book she was engrossed in and glanced around, trying to find the source of the noise.  Several other apprentices were deep in their studies, and didn’t even seem to have noticed. She looked back down at her book, but then it came again.  “Psst! Lissie, over here!”

She looked around behind her and saw a familiar face leaning in the door of the library.  A few other people looked up as well, seemingly annoyed at the interruption, but Lucas didn’t seem bothered.  He waved Lissie over.  She got up and went to join him outside the library.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked. “I’m busy!  I’ve got my Harrowing to study for; not all of us have passed ours yet!” 

Lucas was a few months older than Lissie, and had taken his Harrowing accordingly, a few weeks earlier.  He’d been moved up to the mage’s quarters and Lissie had scarcely seen him in the past few weeks since.  Lucas scoffed.  “Please. Lissie, you’re a natural, you won’t fail your Harrowing.  And besides I missed you guys.”

Lissie raised an eyebrow.  “If you’re worried about Alice, I’m taking care of her,” she told him.

With a laugh, Lucas crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.  “What, by punching anyone who comes near her?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Lucas laughed again.  “You need my charm to deal with people, admit it.”

Lissie scoffed, rolling her eyes.  “Please, no one needs your charm.  Anyone who finds you charming just doesn’t know you that well.”  She accompanied this teasing with a light shove to his arm.

“I’ll have you know that plenty of people find me charming,” Lucas countered.

“What Templar did you sleep with now, you desire demon?”

Lucas waved a hand.  “That’s not the point.  The point is, where is Alice?”

“In the dormitories, probably—it’s getting late. Why?”

“Excellent.  Get your books—we’ll drop them off when we get her.” 

“Excuse me?” Lissie asked, affronted by these sudden demands.

“You heard me.”  Lucas gestured for her to get the books.  When Lissie didn’t do anything he pouted a bit.  “I’m your elder, you won’t listen to me?”

“You’re a twat is what you are; what’s this about?”

Exasperated, Lucas threw his hands in the air.  “It’s a surprise!  Now come on!”

Lissie rolled her eyes, but went to gather her belongings nevertheless.

“I could get in a lot of trouble for letting apprentices up here, you know,” the young Templar said, unlocking the door behind him.  “It’s only because I know you’re trustworthy, Lucas.”

“What can I say?” Lucas replied, spreading his arms wide as if to present himself.  “I’m a respectable grown mage.  These apprentices will be safe under my care.”

Lissie scoffed and exchanged a knowing smile with Alice, who peeked out from under her scarf conspiratorially.  They followed Lucas into the spiral staircase and waited for the door to close.  When it did, Lissie cocked her head mischievously at Lucas.  “You slept with him didn’t you?”

Lucas looked a bit like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar for a moment.  “I…don’t kiss and tell,” he replied.  “C’mon!” He took off up the spiral steps.

Lissie and Alice followed a bit more slowly. “Doesn’t kiss and tell, my arse,” Lissie murmured.  “I’ve heard a shocking amount of details before.”

“Tell me about it,” Alice agreed with a small laugh. They both picked up speed to match Lucas and joined him as he reached a ladder and trap door.

“Oh, what is this?” Lissie asked, interested now.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Alice reminded her. She was looking fretful, twisting the fringe of her headscarf in her fingers.  “You’re basically a full mage already, your Harrowing will be any day. Mine’s months away.  I’ll get in more trouble.”

Lucas glanced down from where was on the ladder. “You two won’t get in any trouble. If anyone will, it would be me, but we won’t, so there.  Come on!”

The girls followed Lucas up the ladder as he unlatched the trap door and pushed it open.  He reached back down to help Alice up, and then Lissie.  When she looked up and around her, she was awestruck.

They were on top of one of the towers of the Circle. But not one of the smaller ones that apprentices had their astronomy lessons on—this was one of the two high towers in the middle of the building.  There were still high walls around the edge, so no one could fall over accidentally, and it was clear that from the chests up here that mages used this tower for astronomy study.

“It’s so clear up here!” Lissie breathed, gazing at all the stars that had come out while she’d been studying in the library all evening.  And it was—away from the bright lights from windows and torches on the lower towers, you could see more stars from up this high, and more clearly.  “Look at all of them!”

Lucas cleared his throat and gestured.  Tearing her eyes from the sky, Lissie saw that there was a picnic set up, with a selection of sweets and cakes no doubt pilfered from the kitchens earlier that evening.  “I thought this would be a good present.  Stars, sweets,” Lucas said, then grinned and placing his arm around Alice’s shoulders.  “And the two of us as your captive audience while you tell us all of the constellation names.”

Lissie laughed, running her hands through her hair. “Lucas, I love it, I…” She sighed, unable to fully voice her appreciation.  “Thank you,” she said simply.

“Of course,” Lucas said.  “Happy birthday, Lissie.”

“Yes,” Alice agreed, smiling now, seeming to have forgotten her anxieties for a moment.  “Happy birthday Lissie.”

Twenty-six

Lissie stopped to catch her breath, her hand that held her staff trembling a slight bit.  For a while, she had thought the battle would not end, but it seemed they had beaten back the last of the darkspawn.  “This must be where they’re coming through,” Cassandra commented, walking towards the large hole burst in the cavern wall.

“I’ll take care of that,” Lissie said, stepping forward and straining her last bit of energy to magically lift the rocks and boulders to plug the hole.  When they were in place, she released, stumbling back a bit, weary.

“That should do it,” Blackwall commented, looking approving—or as much as he could from behind that beard.  “You might have made a decent warden, Inquisitor.”

Lissie laughed, albeit a bit breathlessly and without much humor.  “Inquisitor is enough responsibility, thank you,” she replied.  She glanced back to the cave door, seeing the orangey light outside.  “We should probably make our way back to the campsite now—it’ll be dark by the time we get there.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Cassandra agreed, and she took the lead out of the cave, allowing Lissie, Blackwall, and Varric to follow.

As they walked, Lissie found her thoughts wandering.  She wondered how many weeks it had been since they arrived at the Storm Coast this time. Surely at least two, but perhaps three. She started counting back and realized with a start what day it actually was.  “Oh,” she said, quietly to herself.

Blackwall glanced over.  “Something the matter, Inquisitor?”

“No,” Lissie replied, almost automatically. “Nothing, sorry.  Just thinking about something.  It’s not important.”

It wasn’t surprising that her birthday had arrived with so little thought—there were a million more important things going through her mind at this time, that she couldn’t possibly be expected to waste a bit of thought on her own birthday.

They reached the camp with no resistance met—thankfully they’d cleared out the enemies on the way, so they weren’t fighting anyone in the dark.  Everyone went their separate ways; Varric placed himself in front of the fire, Cassandra walked over to discuss something with the requisition agent, and Blackwall was cleaning off his sword on the edge of camp.

Lissie squatted down in front of the fire, across from Varric, staring into the flames as she let her thoughts swirl around in her head.  It was her birthday.  She’d actually made it to another birthday.  For the past few months, she hadn’t thought that would be possible, but here she was. 

But would she see the next one?  Or would she be dead, failed in her mission to defeat Corypheus, the world a ball of flame to match the campfire?

“You deep in thought there, Zapper?”  Lissie focused her eyes past the flames to see Varric looking back at her with a smile in his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry,” she replied.  “Were you saying something?”

Varric chuckled and shook his head.  “Nah, nothing important.  Hey, you did some good work out there today.  That brother of yours will be green with envy when he finds out how many darkspawn there were.”

Lissie hummed in agreement.  Nik almost certainly would have remembered her birthday. He was thoughtful like that.  “How old are you, Varric?” she asked.

This question caused more laughter from Varric. “Oh, I’d rather not say; I’m ridiculously old at this point, it’s gotten out of hand.  Why’s that?  How old are you, Inquisitor?”

“Twenty-six,” Lissie answered.  “Today.  I’m twenty-six today.  It’s my birthday.”

“No shit!” Varric exclaimed, and Lissie heard the sounds of Cassandra and Blackwall joining them at the fire.  “Hey, did you know it’s Zapper’s birthday today?”

“Is it truly?” Cassandra asked.  “Well, I’ve never been much of one to celebrate birthdays. But, I wish you a happy one, Inquisitor.

“Aye, it’s always good to have made it through another year,” Blackwall chuckled.  “Especially in this day and age!”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Lissie said with a small smile.

Varric was searching through his pack.  “We’ve gotta celebrate somehow.  Not much hope of a feast of any kind out here on this dreary coast, but I think…I’m sure I packed…ah ha!”  Varric held up what he was looking for, triumphant.  A set of cards.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise.  “Varric, you can’t honestly want to play here, in the mud and rain.”

“Oh come on, Seeker,” Varric implored.  “It’s Zapper’s birthday!  What do you say, Zapper?  Up for a game or two of Wicked Grace?  Might be minimal betting right now, but there’s charm in playing for fun.”

Lissie smiled wider.  “Actually, yes, that sounds like fun.”  The group moved to one side of the fire as Varric began to deal out the cards.  There was something to this—this simplistic celebration in accordance with the mad times that they lived in.

Varric tossed her a card and gave her a lopsided grin and wink.  “Happy birthday, Zapper.”

Twenty-eight

“Inquisitor!”  Josephine swept over at a speed that Lissie had not thought possible given the fancy dress that she was wearing.  “Oh, I do hope you’re enjoying the evening.  It’s been so lovely to organize a birthday celebration for you this year.”

Lissie offered as much a smile as she could muster. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Josephine,” she said.  She’d promised Josephine the ball several months ago, but hadn’t really thought that she’d make half as much a fuss as she had. 

She really should have known better.  She’d known Josephine for how many years now? The woman loved a good party.

“I do hope the refreshments are to your liking?” Josephine asked, gesturing to the plate of tiny cakes that Lissie was holding.  “I ordered in an assortment—I know you’re partial to the ones with the orange frosting, so there are extras of those.”

“Maker, the refreshments are the best part,” Lissie replied with a small laugh.  “Don’t fret over me, Josephine.  Enjoy yourself.  I’m absolutely thrilled.”

With a smile and nod, Josephine disappeared into the crowd again, leaving Lissie to shift uncomfortably in her gown, scarfing down another cake when she thought no eyes were on her.  She fanned herself with a free hand—the hall was quite sweltering with the amount of people that were in it—it seemed Josephine had invited most of Orlais, and half of Fereldan for the festivities.

Lissie placed her plate on a table nearby, where it would surely be very quickly collected by a servant.  She made her way through the crowd, stopping and exchanging words where it couldn’t be avoided—pleasantries were something she found to be an unavoidable annoyance at these sorts of events. 

Finally, she reached the door that led out to the gardens—it was wide open, of course, letting people spill in and out. However, the crowd was far lighter out there than it was inside, the attraction of food and music winning out over the attraction of shrubs and Andraste statues.

Taking a deep breath of cool, fresh air, Lissie felt some of the nerves leave her chest.  Even after all her time as Inquisitor, large events such as these still gave her a bout of nerves.  It was nice to be outside, to look up and see the stars and be able to steady herself.

A hand touched her waist and she jerked in surprise, feeling electricity start to spark from her fingertips as she whirled around.  “Calm down!” a familiar voice laughed.  “It’s only me.”

Lissie gasped as she focused on the face behind her. Alistair, turned out smartly in a handsome suit, was there, hands held up in mock protection against her magic. “Alistair—you’re here!” she exclaimed, reaching out and cupping his face in her hands, pulling him in for a long kiss.  She could feel herself getting lost in it, the way that the two of them just seemed to fit together like one—she had missed that feeling. She pulled away just as abruptly as she had kissed him, wanting to stare at his face more.  “Maker, but—how?”

Alistair laughed again, placing one of his hands over hers on his cheek.  “Josephine wrote to me months ago, when she started planning,” he explained, his other hand settling on her hip and tracing up her waist and back down again.  “She wanted to be sure I would arrive from the Anderfels for the event—as it was, I was still a bit late, wasn’t I?”

Shaking her head in awe, Lissie moved one of her hands from his cheek to rest on his chest.  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered.  “I’ve missed you so much.  I can’t believe you’re here.”  She kissed him again, this time starting slow and light and growing into something deep. Her hand on his chest wrapped around to rest behind his head, burying her fingers in the close-cropped strawberry-blond hair.  It had been so long since she’d held him and yet all of her memory was there—his smell, his feel, his touch, all of it was undeniably Alistair, and she knew it all.

When they finally pulled apart, Alistair grinned at her again.  “Not to change the subject from one that I do adore so much, but…I smelled the most fantastic foods in the main hall when I came in.  I heard something about fancy cheese plates?”

Lissie laughed, reaching down to take his hand. “Come on, let’s get to the food before Nik sees you.  He’ll pin you down and ask question after question about the wardens; you’ll never escape.”  The two of them began to walk towards the door back to the hall, but right before they walked in, Alistair pulled her to a stop.

He moved a loose strand of hair from her face, so gently and slowly that it was like it was happening in a dream.  “Happy birthday, Lissie,” he whispered to her, leaning in to kiss her one more time.

“Yes,” Lissie replied, once his lips were off of hers again.  “Happy birthday Lissie indeed.”

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIZ