#choking up just thinking about if it is varric who dies

[sleepyhurts]

finally sitting down to play veilguard pls nobody speak to me for the next week i am in gaming mode 🎮

[kittynomsdeplume]

oooh, I love the variety of your works, it's so great to see!

Could I ask you about Liddy, Regency AU 3 and Wet Little Wolf, please?

(also I just realised I was meant to tag the number of people as per the number of WIPs I listed and totally didn't lmao)

And thanks for playing!

Liddy is a fic that has been kicking around for a long time. The idea is that, after his true identity is revealed, Blackwall begins to talk more openly about his past, and his sister Liddy, who Blackwall believes to have died when she was a child. Eventually, something clicks in Evelyn's head, when she recalls that she knew a mage in the Ostwick Circle called Lydia, and it hadn't even crossed her mind in the past, but suddenly she just can't stop thinking that Lydia and Thom resemble each other to a degree. So Evelyn goes about tracking down any of the survivors of the Ostwick circle, hoping that Lydia made it out alive. Here's a little excerpt:

Evelyn leads Lydia from the infirmary and down to the courtyard. She spies Blackwall almost immediately, sitting in the far corner and surrounded by a gaggle of refugee children. They laugh and play as Blackwall helps them build knights and horses out of straw, and Evelyn’s heart trembles as she watches him — hope and fear warring within her.

Lydia fidgets anxiously at her side and Evelyn points him out to her. The enchanter’s eyes flare wide as she studies him. “Oh, Ev…” Lydia fumbles for her hand, crushing it in her own. “Is it?” Evelyn manages to squeak, trepidation choking her throat. Lydia nods, her lip quivering as she turns to her, tears welling in her eyes, along with endless unspoken questions. “Do you want to say hello?” Evelyn squeezes her hand and tugs her forward. “I don’t know, he…” Lydia shakes her head, holding back. “I’m a mage. An apostate!” “That won’t trouble him,” Evelyn smiles gently, placing her free hand on Lydia’s shoulder to reassure her. “Believe me.”

Wet Little Wolf is a borderline crack-fic, modern AU, in which Fenris and Hawke first meet as she's rushing out of work one day because she's late in getting ready for a blind date that Varric has set her up on. She barrels into Fenris and douses him in lukewarm tomato soup, which he is deeply unimpressed by, especially when Hawke only gives him a half-assed apology and continues on her merry way.

Only to arrive for her date an hour later and begins to think she's been stood up, until finally Fenris (yes, you all saw it coming) turns up late, because naturally he had to go and get changed. So he is even less impressed to discover that the woman Varric had talked up and badgered him in to meeting, turns out to be the soup bandit. Angry words are exchanged and Fenris ends up with Hawke's drink in his face, before she storms off.

To Fenris' dismay, he can't seem to avoid Hawke after that, as he's new to Kirkwall and the only people he knows all seem to be friends with her. The ice between them finally begins to thaw when Varric is picking them up one evening to drive them to the opening of a new bar, but he comes down with a bad case of food poisoning and Hawke and Fenris have to take him to hospital. So although he was miserable and in agony, Varric is still well pleased with himself that at long last they are finally starting to see in each other what he knew all along - that they are perfectly suited.

So the whole premise basically arises from my love of how much chaos Hawke aggravates Fenris, and poor bemused Fenris trying to understand why he's catching feelings.

[daitranscripts]

Here Lies the Abyss Pt. 6

Plan of Attack

Here Lies The Abyss Masterpost First: The Champion of Kirkwall Previous: Blood Magic

The PC speaks to Hawke.

Hawke: I’m ready to strike at Adamant whenever you are.

Dialogue options:

Investigate: Why do you hate blood magic?

Investigate: Why do you hate blood magic? PC: At the Western Approach, you had strong feelings about blood magic. Hawke: Blood magic has always been contentious. I had friends who thought it was monstrous, and others who found it no different from any other magic. Hawke (sided mages): But after watching First Enchanter Orsino destroy himself, after I defended him, after what happened to my own mother… It is too dangerous. Any mage who justifies its use eventually goes too far.   Hawke (sided templars): But after watching the mages tear Kirkwall apart, after what happened to my own mother… It is too dangerous. Any mage who justifies its use eventually goes too far.  

Scene continues.

The PC talks to the Warden.

Alistair: I can’t stand this. How many Grey Wardens died here? And for what? Erimond and the Wardens are definitely holed up at Adamant Fortress, by the way. Don’t know if Hawke told you.

Loghain: Did Hawke tell you? We tracked Erimond to Adamant Fortress. Idiots. So devoted to their cause that they abandoned all common sense.

Stroud: We tracked Erimond to Adamant Fortress. Hopefully we can stop this madness before it goes any further.

Hawke and Varric are talking in the hallway outside of the war room as the PC makes their way to plan with the Advisors.

Hawke: I tracked that Venatori mage back to Adamant Fortress. They’re looking at assault options now in the war room.

Varric: Thanks for coming.

Hawke: You did well, Varric. The Inquisitor is… just who we need.

Varric: Oh, it’s been great. Murderous Wardens, Archdemons attacks, plenty of blood mages, and crazy templars. Just like home.

Hawke: I know how much you hated leaving Kirkwall.

Varric: This is the ass end of Thedas. You know they eat snails out here? Still, I think… I need to finish this out. If it weren’t for me and Bartrand, none of this would have happened. So much for changing our lives.

Hawke: That’s what happens when you try to change things. Things change. You can’t always control how.

The PC heads into the war room, where the advisors are waiting.

Leliana: Adamant Fortress has stood against the darkspawn since the time of the Second Blight.

Cullen: Fortunately for us, that means it was built before the age of modern siege equipment. A good trebuchet will do major damage to those ancient walls. And thanks to our lady ambassador…

Josephine: Lady Seryl of Jader was pleased to lend the Inquisition her sappers. They’ve already delivered the trebuchets.

Leliana: That is the good news.

Dialogue options:

General: I’m listening. [1]

General: Yes, but what about demons? [2]

General: We’ll destroy them. [3]

1 - General: I’m listening. PC: And the bad news? Leliana: Erimond called the ritual at the Western Approach a test. He may already be raising his army of demons in the fortress. [4]

2 - General: Yes, but what about demons? PC: None of that accounts for the Wardens summoning a giant demon army. Leliana: That is the bad news. [4]

3 - General: We’ll destroy them. PC: If the fortress is vulnerable, let’s just pound it to rubble. Leliana: Even with the trebuchets, that would take months. That gives Erimond more than enough time to summon his demon army. [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Cullen: The Inquisition forces can breach the gate, but if the Wardens already have their demons…

Leliana: I found records of Adamant’s construction. There are choke points we can use to limit the field of battle.

Cullen: That’s good. We may not be able to defeat them outright…But if we cut off reinforcements, we can carve you a path to Warden-Commander Clarel.

Dialogue options:

General: This will be bloody. [5]

General: There’s no other way? [6]

General: Let’s do it. [7]

5 - General: This will be bloody. PC: Taking this fortress is going to get a lot of good soldiers killed. Josephine: Our soldiers know the risks, Inquisitor. And they know what they’re fighting for. [8]

6 - General: There’s no other way? PC: So our plan is to lay siege to a legendary fortress filled with demons? [8]

7 - General: Let’s do it. PC: It sounds like our best option. [8]

8 - Scene continues.

Cullen: It’ll be hard-fought, no way around it. But we’ll get that gate open.

Josephine: It’s also possible that some Wardens may be sympathetic to our cause.

Leliana: The warriors may be willing to listen to reason, though I doubt they will turn against Clarel directly. The mages, however, are slaves to Corypheus. They will fight to the death.

If the PC has enough power to begin Adamant: Cullen: We’ve built the siege engines and readied our forces, Inquisitor. Give the word, and we march on Adamant.

If the PC does not have enough power to begin Adamant: Cullen: We’re working hard on the siege engines, but they will take some time to finish. In the meantime, I suggest we bolster our military strength.

Next: The Siege of Adamant

[spaceaceathena]

The first time Aurora steps into Kirkwall’s Chantry, she almost expects to set on fire. She’s desperately out of her element but she persists, hesitantly trekking down the wide hall towards the looming visage of Andraste.

The cold, hollow stare chills her to the bone. It’s a stare that disapproves of her every action— a stare that she’s seen in her mother, in her older sister, in every person in Lothering.

Aurora wishes it weren’t so ingrained in her memory. When did it even start? When did she start messing everything up? She raises her gaze to Andraste, silent as a tomb, for some sort of answer.

Nothing. Why did she expect any different? The Maker and Andraste have been silent since her father died, since Carver died.

But then again, why would they spare their attention on someone too far gone? The last time she’d set foot in a Chantry, it was not to worship them or say a prayer— it was to fool around in a confessional box while a service was going on.

Clumsy hands and mouths seeking and finding one another in the tiny booth, the only sound being their breathing as they knew they both had to remain silent.

Aurora never has to wonder what happened to that boy from the confessional booth— fleeing Lothering had allowed her to stumble upon his body, demolished by darkspawn.

Now, she’s back. Alone and afraid in the vastness of this Chantry, with its high vaulted ceilings and copious amounts of candles.

Silently, she slips into a pew and kneels, hands clasping together. She tries to ignore the feeling that everyone there knows how badly she’s messed up. Every single error seems to be written on her back, a perfect view for any sister or mother that passes.

Aurora knows she hasn’t been much of a believer but, she needs some form of hope right now. Any little scrap will do. Her family is crammed in a house with their Uncle Gamlen, her older sister has taken Bethany on her expedition to the Deep Roads, and her mother is still mourning Carver’s death.

She practically begs Andraste for some little glimmer of hope that can keep her afloat. Aurora knows such selfish prayers go unanswered, instead turning her focus to Nevaeh and Bethany’s safety. It’s more charitable that way.

When she finally opens her eyes and lifts her head, she realizes that she’s not alone in the Chantry. There’s another person there— a brother no less.

For a moment, he seems to register that she’s staring, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he gives her an honest and warm smile. Aurora feels her face practically burn as she tries to look anywhere but towards him.

Being caught staring is another thing she can feel shame for— as if she didn’t have a list a mile long already. She doesn’t even wait to find out if he wants to come and talk after his prayers, she books it out of the Chantry. Perhaps that had been her small glimmer of hope.

The second time she works up the nerve to return to the Chantry, it’s 3 years after Bethany died in the Deep Roads. The memory of Nevaeh returning home with her ragtag group, her face a study in misery, is etched into her memory.

Finding out her sister died widens the empty chasm in her chest— it’s only getting wider and deeper at this rate with each family member’s passing.

The main hall of the Chantry feels as empty and desolate as she is. It’s dark and cast in gray, rain pelting against the stained glass windows in front of her.

It feels nice to be dry and indoors, it’s better than sitting alone in the Hightown mansion and whiling away the hours because her mother won’t let her adventure with her older sister.

Aurora understands, her mother has already lost two out of the triplets, she can’t afford to lose the third. It’s hard to lose your brother and sister, what do you do when the people you share birthdays with, tell jokes to and cling to are gone? What do you do when you’re no longer a triplet— you’re alone now.

In this case, Aurora finds herself empty, waiting for someone to fill in the cracks. She turns to Andraste once more, getting to her knees with her silver gaze towards the statue.

It takes strength to not react when Mother Petrice makes an offhand comment about how she didn’t expect to see Aurora here on her knees in the Chantry, she pictured her on her knees in the Blooming Rose.

The remark causes Aurora’s face to turn bright red but she chooses to ignore it anyways. She’s been far too exhausted lately to think about witty comebacks. In fact, she finds she’s too exhausted to even receive guidance from Andraste.

It doesn’t surprise her. The Maker and His bride have always been silent. If they cared, surely Bethany would still be alive.

Getting to her feet, she decides that maybe she ought to walk away but her eyes catch a glimpse of a brother replacing candles.

At this point, she knows him fairly well. Sebastian Vael. Prince, priest and friend of her sister’s. Aurora finds him more tolerable than Varric, who she spends a bit more time around than she’d like to. She takes a pause. Tolerable isn’t the right word, she doesn’t tolerate him. She genuinely enjoys Sebastian’s presence.

There’s something about him that makes her feel like someone genuinely cares and thinks the world of her when everyone else disapproves. Maybe he’s just like that with everyone.

It seems he’s caught her staring though, Aurora’s face immediately reddening all over again. She should’ve learned from last time but she can’t help that there’s something captivating about him.

Sebastian’s smile brightens and warms her day as she heads over to him. He knows how hard things have been for the Hawkes, offering his condolences and an opportunity to put Bethany’s name on the remembrance board.

Aurora doesn’t want pity... but she does want closure. She agrees to put Bethany’s name up, hoping it will make her feel better. Sebastian helps her find the perfect place to put it, guiding her hand with his. He’s as gentle and warm as she’s dreamt he’d be.

They both linger in silence, she’s not in the mood for idle chatter anyways. By the time her sister’s name is on the board, the rain slowly seems to move on its way, signaling she should head home.

Aurora offers him a grateful smile and thanks before she leaves the Chantry once more.

Aurora doesn’t go to the Chantry anymore. Why should she? The Maker and Andraste are silent after all— they’ve basically made a mockery of all her prayers. She’d prayed for both of her sisters to be safe and one died. The next she just prayed for guidance, anything but all life had done was take her mother from her too.

It’s just her and Nevaeh now. When your big sister’s the Champion of Kirkwall, you find yourself alone most of the time. Sure, Sandal, Bodahn, and Orana are around but it doesn’t feel the same.

Suddenly, the emptiness she’s felt in her chest after Bethany passed has suddenly grown. Aurora clings to the family’s mabari, he’s one fixture of the family she can trust to stay by her.

The whole mansion feels empty without family to fill it so she occupies her time to her room, it’s much less space to fill. Her days typically consist of sitting in front of the fire with their dog and reading, the dog content to be used as a small pillow while she rests her head on his side.

It’s odd to her when Bodahn knocks on her door to tell her she has a guest. Aurora never has guests, her sister maybe but never her. Her bedroom door opens slightly and it’s almost a relief to see Sebastian there.

He comes over to join her, sitting down in front of the fire as he sets down a small bundle between them, carefully untying the knot to reveal pastries from Hightown- tarts, small cakes, and she’s pretty sure she sees a cookie or two in the mix too.

Sweets do seem to make things feel a little brighter, she takes one of the cookies and splits it in two, offering the larger half to him. She used to do that with Bethany and Carver when they were in Lothering. It feels nice to be able to do it again.

Aurora’s almost glad Sebastian doesn’t say anything, she hasn’t felt up to talking in a few months. Nevaeh is hardly around after all and even if she attempts conversation, her throat tightens and chokes her out.

The past few months have given her time to reflect and she understands that deep seated need for revenge that Sebastian had for those mercenaries. The man who took her mother from her was killed by her older sister but Aurora almost wishes that she’d been the one to sink a blade into his throat. Wishes that she could see the fear in his eyes, fear she’s certain her mother faced in those last moments, before he fades away entirely.

The mere thought of it makes her blood boil all over again, her free hand clenching at the rug, knuckles stark white. Then she feels a familiar warm touch, Sebastian carefully taking her hand into his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Aurora glances to him, just carefully watching his measured smile as he squeezes again. It helps to ground her, even just a little bit. She leans into him, pressing as close as she can until he has his arm around her shoulders. It makes her feel safe, feel loved.

Then she realizes that maybe Andraste had heard her prayer for hope because when she’s with him? She feels she can handle anything.

[crqstalite]

after adamant.

ugly little fic that i wrote in the middle of the night a while ago and shared with a friend. post-adamant about my inquisitor trying to rationalize their losses at the fortress and in the fade. nothing’s capitalized, so if that annoys you, this isn’t the little fic for you.

chose not to use warnings? im not quite sure what to use here, so tread lightly.

dragon age inquisition. 

-

she stays strong, after adamant it’s all everyone needs. she sees to the few wardens that had been at the keep, had offered inquisition aid.  they thank her thousands of times over, as uneasy as they are.

their senior warden, alistair, won’t meet her eyes. deep brown orbs looking anywhere but at her, even with a smile on his face. he thanks her, quietly. bandages wrapped around his side, muttering that he’d need to get a letter out to the hero of ferelden — tabris.

she leaves him, offering to let leliana find her. to let leliana send the message and get it back to him as soon as possible. he agrees, numbly is when she swings a leg over the elk in the morning, sun peaking over the rise in the distance.

she knows that look that settles in his dark brown eyes, that look that cries it should’ve been me. but she’s sure he knows what he must do now, to lead the wardens properly against corypheus. she thanks him.

he doesn’t say it, but he does respond that hawke’s sacrifice would not be vain. that shatters a part of her, seals her lips all the way back to skyhold. thankfully, marzeyna is lucky enough no one else is in a talkative mood. but they will be, with questions, with reactions, maybe with thinly veiled anger.

she’s not sure if she’s lucky or simply being lied to when varric seems more despondent than furious with her. he simply responds there are letters to write, to bethany, to other friends she’d made in kirkwall. they’d been close. she bites her lip hard enough to draw iron laced blood to keep from crying.

he hugs her.

though he’s not mentioned, marzeyna doesn’t make the request to send a letter to the mage anders. though he will be left in the dark, surely varric would know how close they’d been. the way hawke spoke of him, with a wistful tone laced with uneasiness, she doesn’t want to look into his eyes and tell him she was the reason reyna hawke would not be coming home.

she makes her rounds. to cassandra, to blackwall, to dorian. then to the others who learning of it secondhand, to leliana, who’d been hurt over justinia. to sera, to bull, to vivienne, to solas, who was fascinated about her journey into the fade.

she doesn’t indulge him. any other day, she might’ve, but not today.

marzeyna has to put on a brave face when she’s nearly hit with what she assumes to be a lyrium kit when she visits cullen. to think she’d thought she’d get any miniscule amount of comfort from anyone after her return, she would’ve thought, just maybe, that it would be him. but no, her nerves are shot and she’s terrified and can’t think straight. she hasn’t slept since before adamant, doesn’t even want to think about dreaming in the fade. and yet, she’s able to give cullen the strength he needs to go on. 

she wavers. her tiny form struggles to make it back to the war room after the moon has long risen in the sky. working, bent over the war table. they’d head out for the exalted plains in the morning. switch out her ground forces, get to work.

get her mind off the blonde woman that haunted her thoughts these days. piercing storm cloud eyes with dexterity over daggers that she’d never seen before. a determination to save mages from the templars that burned white hot within her, flames licking everyone she met.

her voice never wavering when she’d accepted her fate. a strong nod when she drew her daggers for the last time.

she shoves the knife meant for josephine’s diplomatic mission into the table deeper than she’d intended, grinding it into the table with a groan. her fire red hair falls into her face, her once tight ponytail loosening into a lump of curls at the base of her neck.

magic crackles at her fingertips, papers flying off the desk and fluttering to the floor. lelianna’s secrets, cassandra and solas’ requests, josephine’s agreements, cullen’s reports.

yanking off her gloves in front of the fire in her quarters, she grits her teeth when she can’t yank a swollen finger out of it’s respective sleeve. eyebrows knitting together in frustration, fire climbing her thoughts.

why hadn’t she been quicker? why hadn’t she forced them ahead with magic? she could’ve done something, done anything different. could’ve fade stepped them past the bastard. but no, she hadn’t done any of those things. she’d knowingly sent hawke to her death, not fought alongside her and alistair, but sent her away so she and alistair could get away.

the glove comes off, pain reverberating through her hand in waves. she kicks off her boots, the pair thumping away somewhere in the darkness.

she should be the one in the fade. running for her life, terrified in the darkness of the spiders she saw racing towards her. reliving nightmare after nightmare.

marzeyna was a mage. she could’ve handled it longer before she went mad. reyna was not, she was a young woman from kirkwall. a rogue no less. so stupid, marzeyna should’ve been the one to stay behind. from what little she understood of the tensions between varric and cassandra, hawke could’ve been the inquisitor. hell she probably was supposed to be. or alistair’s love, tabris.

both were older, wiser than she was. with only twenty five years on her, she wonders if some God with a sick sense of humor had decided it should be her. things had only gone wrong when she appeared in haven, half alive and delirious. justinia had died, the mage/templar conflict in the hinterlands that she couldn’t solve, alexius.

then they lost haven. and so many people. the smell of wood burning around her and screams of people being cut down by red templars. her advisors asking for orders, her mind spiraling in a thousand different directions.

she wonders if cullen saw the terrified look in her eyes when he’d spoken to her. saw her fumbling for answers, saw the little girl that had been given too much power, much too soon. had second thoughts about her being the so called herald of andraste. had wondered why he put his faith in her.

marzeyna lavellan. she was a mage. and a dalish elf. two of the most marginalized statuses you could have in thedas, and so many people still looked up to her. asked her what to do, trusted her not to lead them astray. 

hawke had trusted her. marzeyna had promised her she’d get her out alive, had promised she’d get her back to bethany. to anders. that they could do this.

she yanks a box, some sort of box, maybe empty off the desk and throws it, chucks it into the wall just off the windows. it crashes, shattering into splinters of oak. then something else holding an ink quill, lighter, easier to throw. that too shatters, ceramic maybe. it’s satisfying almost, anger and regret and everything in between flooding her emotions like a tidal wave. they drown her, choking her when she screams like a caged animal, chucking another small box into the wall. raw magic dances at her fingertips and lights her ablaze, body glowing a gentle white as hot tears slide down her face in rivers.

justinia. maybe. she’s needed her and there was nothing she could do. she failed her.

every single person in haven believed in her. they needed her when corphyeus arrived with his forces.

hawke had believed in her. smiled at her. told her jokes. at first skeptical, as any non andrastian would be. but quickly had become her friend. her first real one that wasn’t asking her what was next all the time. someone she could go to when her advisors were too much that day.

her hands clench into fists in her hair, sobs heavy and heaving as she slides to the floor in a heap against one of the walls. now hawke was gone, and it was all her fault. just like it’d been before. another person who’d gotten killed because of her.

she’d tried to justify her decision. the wardens would need someone to lead them through this possible blight. tabris would need him when she got back with her research into the fake calling. 

nothing answers when she thinks about hawke. she can’t justify her death. she was a good person, supported mages to a fault. didn’t seem the type to kick puppies. was friendly to everyone, had a sister, had a friend in varric.

then, why isn’t marzeyna dead?

she has nothing. clan lavellan maybe, but they’d surely replaced her by now, it wasn’t as if she was coming back now. it wasn’t like they were clambering to see her again. she’s a mage, she’s already being persecuted anyway. and it wasn’t as if what she’d started with cullen couldn’t be forgiven. it wasn’t anything serious, he could meet someone else.

sure, she was young. younger than most in the inquisition. but others still had most of their lives ahead of them. she had nothing. no future beyond what lie inside of skyhold.

hugging her knees, the pants legs begin to wet with the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. the anchor was the only thing that made her important, that kept people from actually wanting to get her killed. people put their lives on the line for her. and she couldn’t even return the favor.

her nails dig into her biceps, curling in on her herself as a draft whips into the room. a shiver after the fire chases it away. 

then why is she still here? she’s nothing, no one. 

and right now, she doesn’t want to be anyone. she doesn’t go to bed that night, reading reports until she can’t. staving off sleep to keep from drifting into the fade against her will. eyes blurring and burning when she dresses herself in the morning, she avoids varric’s gaze following her down the corridor to the war room. josephine follows, rattling off things she doesn’t understand. nobles. treaties. alliances.

lelianna and cullen join them a few minutes later. if they notice her hands shaking, they don’t say anything. a glimmer of concern in cullen’s eyes, josephine outright with the words on her lips, gently biting them back.

she should be dead, she chants when they arrive in the plains, i don’t even have a right to be alive. she should be here, and yet i handed the situation to her like the scared child i am.

it’s the beginning of many restless nights.

[elfrootaddict]

Halla & Wolf Series - Vol. 4 Growing Pains WIP

Here is a WIP for my Halla & Wolf series - vol. 4 Growing Pains.

This weeks tags @kita-lavellan​ ​ @mrstethras​ @silvanils​​ @noire-pandora​@followingthewolf​ @queen-kass-the-writer​ @faelavellan​

WARNING: Contains the topic of death and dying. Please read only if you’re comfortable.

“Thank you, Scout Harding,” mumbles Lana eventually. “You’ve been really helpful.”

“You’re welcome,” remarks Harding as she offers a sincere, respectful bow. “I’m going to head back to camp. We already have a tent ready and waiting for you and your party, as well as a warm meal by the fire. It’s one of my mother’s actually - the recipe - you’ll love it I’m sure.” 

Scout Harding turns to leave, passing Varric and Solas, who also exchange nods towards Lana announcing their own departure. Alone with her thoughts, Lana turns back around and looks out over the hill towards the fighting not too far from where they are sleeping tonight. 

As Lana glazes out over the setting sun, she can see small flashes of different coloured magic light up the almost dark forest below. If she didn’t know any better, she could have mistaken them for small fireworks being used in some kind of celebration amongst a tiny village. Perhaps for a wedding or -

“Herald?”

But it wasn’t a wedding or some other arbitrary celebration the people commune over here in the South. The undeniable sound of battle and cries of dying men and women are far too hard to ignore. Templars killing mages and mages killing Templars.

No. Not killing . Murder. It’s simply cold, blooded murder.

“Herald, I believe there was more Scout Harding told you about the land?” 

Cassandra walks up to Lana’s side and notices her distressed and distractive gaze over the horizon, and realises that Lana is in no mind to talk strategies. The true horror and panic in young Lana’s large, lavender eyes is impossible to ignore, and Cassandra finds herself sympathising over the naive, inexperienced elf. 

Cassandra takes in a large breath before exhaling, looks out towards the horizon, and changes the subject to the real matter at hand, “I have found that war usually does not determine who is right - but only who is left,” Cassandra solemnly turns back to regard Lana and pauses before asking a ghoulish, heavy question. “You haven’t killed anyone before… have you?” 

“Is it that obvious?” murmurs Lana as she finally breaks her gaze and looks down towards her bare feet. 

“Not unless you have seen it many times before,” murmurs Cassandra with furrowed brows. “I had months of training before I killed someone for the first time. When I was still a Seeker, I saw many of my fellow brothers and sisters go through the same vigorous training as I did. They were always so confident in the confines of our order’s walls, but when the day came for them to put their training to use, they all had the same look in their eyes that you do now.”

“And... did they do it? When it came down to it?”

“They did. The months of training takes over your need to run in the other direction. You almost feel as if you have no control over your own body anymore, and you are simply doing what you have been trained to do. Strike down your enemy or die trying. It was as simple as that.”

Lana looks up at Cassandra with wide, fearful eyes for only a moment before turning her gaze back down to the ground, “I don’t think… I don’t think I can do it... if it comes down to it. I can’t take another person’s life,” Lana pauses for a significant amount of time before looking fiercely back at Cassandra, and with her voice trembling she murmurs. “I won’t. I won’t do it.”

Cassandra drops her head as she releases a loud, heavy sigh, “Then you would rather be the one who dies? Instead of the person trying to kill you in return?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“I understand that life as a Dalish has provided you some kind shelter, and I can see that your Keeper took great care in ensuring your clans safely, but you are no longer within the confines of your clan, Herald. Those mages or Templars will not hesitate to kill anyone they deem a threat.”

“I know. It’s just…they’re people. Their lives matter. And I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking their life,” Lana turns to meet Cassandra’s subtle surprised expression, “Oh I know, because I’m Dalish and an elf I’m supposed to think we are above everyone else in Thedas? Well, I wasn’t raised to think like that. The Keeper always taught me to respect all living creatures in this world. From the worms in the earth to the birds in the sky. You humans or dwarves may not believe in my gods, but that doesn’t mean you don’t matter. We all matter.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Herald, that won’t stop them from trying to kill you. Not everyone can afford the luxury of sticking to their moral code in times of war.”

The two women break eye contact and gaze back out towards the horizon once again. The sun is almost completely set and the stars are shining peacefully above, completely undisturbed by the chaos down below. 

With the posture of an experienced soldier, Cassandra turns back to regard Lana with a heavy heart, “You are the Herald of Andraste, and only you can seal the rifts. You simply cannot die. You are far too valuable to allow yourself to be killed over your morals - however virtuous they may be,” 

Cassandra turns to leave but before walking away completely, she turns back around to meet Lana’s gaze and sternly murmurs. “If you will not kill another to save your own life, then do it to save the thousands of innocents in all of Thedas. Do it for them.” 

As Lana watches Cassandra disappear into the night, she turns back around towards the horizon and notices how quiet it has suddenly fallen. There are no more flashes of magic or cries of dying Templars or apostates. Just deafening silence. 

Which could only mean one thing - everyone who was fighting is either dead or dying from their wounds. Praying to whomever they believe in to offer them a peaceful passage to a better afterlife, and swearing curses on those responsible for their demise.

The dead and dying mutilated bodies haunt Lana’s mind as she imagines them lying alone, choking on their own blood. The ground of the battle field littered with who knows how many grotesquely mangled corpses. 

Did they have children? A family? Surely not all of them are vial, vicious monsters everyone claims them to be?

Lana takes a deep breath and decides to head back to camp. The sound of Harding’s mother’s meal is exactly what she needs right now, and could use some conversation over a warm fire to distract her mind. 

As Lana almost reaches camp, she notices the soldiers and scouts who have decided to sacrifice their life, if it came to it, to the Inquisition. They are here to close the Breach, and they left their loved ones behind to do just that. Everyone in that camp is willing to sacrifice themselves to ensure the safety of Thedas. How could Lana not do the same? 

They do not have a mark on their hand to close rifts, and yet here they are. They aren’t called the Herald of Andraste, and yet here they are. She also might not be the only one here who hasn’t killed before, and yet... here they are.

Realising the extent of choices and sacrifices made by the very people surrounding her, she begins to feel less remorse over the deaths of people beyond the hill. Suddenly, her empathy towards their deaths begins to fade ever so slowly as she imagines the destruction they have left in their paths.

Are these not the same people who burnt down and slaughtered innocent people in pursuit of their cause to seek justice? Are these not the same people who attacked innocent farmers, merchants and children who did absolutely nothing to justify the defilement of their land and home? And are these not the same people who left hundreds of others destitute and turned into refugees?

Lana’s heart and stomach begin to turn over the conflicting nature of war - who is right and who is wrong? And that’s when Cassandra’s wise, and truthful words return to Lana’s mind. 

War does not determine who is right - only who is left. 

[sinsbymanka]

Update: Girl with the Arrow Tattoo Chapter 36!

Full fic is over at AO3! Modern Thedas AU with magic, demons, and so much angst and pining. Just... so much. 

Well, Maria thought to herself, she’d been a semi-decent Inquisitor for approximately seventy-two hours. In all honesty, a better run that she expected to have before she finally ran into the one thing she could not do. 

That one thing was reading a fucking speech. 

She buried her face in her hands, ignoring the scattered notecards all over the floor, the ones she’d thrown there in a fit of pique. She couldn’t meet Josephine’s anxious gaze one more time, but she felt it on her shoulders anyway. The silence hung over them like miasma, poison she was going to choke on. 

“Alright, Inquisitor.” Harding kept her voice carefully light. “Maybe we need to try something a bit different.” 

Maria looked up, spearing Harding with a glance she hoped conveyed her complete exasperation with the entire situation. She’d had it with the camera pointed at her damn face, the notecards containing Josephine’s carefully chosen words, and Harding’s disappointed little wrinkling her brow. She felt like screaming.

Instead, Maria sighed and bent down, sweeping most of the cards back into her hand, shuffling them back into order without thought. She stared at the neat, precise handwriting until her eyes ached. The words flowed when she read them in her mind, but the second she tried to push them into the air, they turned to lead weights and awkward silences. 

“Let me see those.” Harding plucked the cards from her hand and frowned at them. 

“Perhaps I should rewrite it. Again.” Josephine stepped forward over Maria’s shoulder. “Allow me…” 

Maria wasn’t certain that rewriting the speech she was supposed to be giving would help any more the third time around. She’d still be nothing more than a wooden puppet, dull and lifeless, stumbling over the simplest words, unable to look at the camera without turning red and stuttering. 

“Good idea! I’ve got a better one.” Harding grinned and held Maria’s gaze before tossing the cards over her shoulder where they fell like a deck of cards, scattering in all directions. Maria huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. 

“Does that mean we give up and I can go do something productive?” Maria asked. She had a little under a thousand things on her to-do list. Re-establishing connection with the outside world came with a cost, after all. 

It turned out, everyone thought they were ghosts. Orlais and Ferelden had rescue teams scouring the area, the meager forces either country could spare with Ferelden trying to clean up from the witch rebellion and Orlais in full scale civil war. The would-be rescuers were more than a little confused to discover that so many people had escaped Haven, found a magical fortress, and flourished in the aftermath. 

But it was Maria’s continued, implausible, survival that really astounded the world. Unfortunately, she was trending across all the social media channels. Again. Harding’s footage of the avalanche that buried Maria had gone viral almost immediately. Memorials sprung up in the most unlikely places, from Denerim’s chantry to the docks at Ostwick. Josephine released a statement, but it became increasingly clear it wouldn’t sate the appetite of Thedas. They wanted Maria, more than just the photographs of her greeting the rescue teams. More than the stolen video clips of her wandering Skyhold carrying supplies. They clamored for her to speak, to tell her story, to shine her attention on them. 

Maria didn’t really think even her sputtering on camera would be enough. She worried the world wouldn’t be happy until it swallowed her whole, honestly. 

“No more reading off these cards.” Harding stated, fiddling with her camera for a moment before putting it back on it’s tripod and dragging her chair over to Maria’s. Harding sat down and leaned forward, lightly placing her fingertips on the back of Maria’s palm. “To be honest, you suck at it. A lot.” 

“The honesty I need to hear.” Maria joked weakly, sagging back in her chair. “Tell Josie to give it up.” 

“Inquisitor…” Josephine sighed. Harding shook her head and smiled apologetically. 

“Sorry, we’ve got to try one more thing before you’re off the hook.” Harding tapped her finger lightly on Maria’s skin. “Tell me what happened.” 

“Fuck, Harding.” Maria raised her marked hand to her forehead and rubbed away the impending headache. “You were there. You know what happened.” 

“I know.” Harding said softly. Maria fixed her gaze on Harding’s and watched as the woman swallowed some great emotion, a shudder passing through her. “Hard to talk about, isn’t it? I swear every time I try to remember, I can hear the people we lost screaming. Smell the smoke.” 

Maria gulped down her own panic, the fear that she’d look up and see the dragon’s wings darkening the sky through the pretty windows. She sounded like she was begging, but she didn’t care. “Harding…”

“What happened first?” Harding pressed softly. “I was back with Varric, I couldn’t see. I heard the gunshots, they said you were on the frontline.” 

She’d been. With Solas, then Bull. The girl who died beside her, choking on her own blood. Maria never even knew her name. They’d lost so many people, and Maria never knew any of their names. She flicked her eyes to the camera and Harding squeezed her hand. 

“Don’t look at it.” Harding directed. “Look at me.” 

If she looked at Harding, she may cry. She blinked several times, trying to bring her expression under control. The silence stretched on until Maria let out a long, heavy breath. “The Templars came in armoured SUVs. We barely had any warning, so we erected barriers out of anything we could get our hands on. They’d been poisoned by the red lyrium, like we saw on the news in Kirkwall with the Knight Commander, but there were so many of them. They didn’t care if we shot them, they kept coming out of the darkness like a nightmare.” 

“But the Inquisition had explosives.” Harding supplied softly. Maria nodded, focusing on Harding’s hand on hers. 

“Yes.” Maria’s voice sounded a bit more sure. If she ignored the camera, ignored Josephine’s silent presence, and just focused on Harding it was easier. “Yes. They’d been left there. The Inquisition requisitioned your drone to deliver the explosives…” 

Harding gently prodded Maria through most of it, but the words flowed when she spoke. The templars. The dragon. Corypheus. The avalanche. One rolled into the other, but by the time they got to Skyhold, Maria felt raw, scraped clean on the inside. Harding pulled back, looked at Josephine expectantly. 

“We will need to edit it for length and clarity.” Josephine nodded, all business, but Maria saw her hands shaking as she typed something into her tablet. “But…. forgive me.” 

Josephine wiped her face briskly with her sleeve, shooting Maria a watery, wan smile. “I was not prepared to be so moved. I will remember that you should not be scripted. For the future.” 

“Well, Inquisitor.” Harding smiled, tears in her own eyes as well that she dabbed away. “How was that interview you said you’d never give me?” 

Maria laughed, the sound relieved and choked. “Maker.” She wheezed. “Did you get me saying that on camera the first time? If so, you should tack it onto the end.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Harding stood, extending her hand to Maria. “Not bad, Inquisitor. Not bad at all.” 

“I try.” Maria reached automatically for her phone in her pocket, frowning at the ever present notifications while she allowed Harding to hoist her up. She skipped the emails, those she needed to pick through at night when she wouldn’t be interrupted and they wouldn’t keep multiplying on her. The text messages usually were more urgent.

Usually being the key word. The first one, of course, was from Sera. It consisted of a string of nonsensical emojis (fried shrimp? Who actually used the fried shrimp?) plus a blurry photo that could have been Cullen’s desk chair on top of one of the turrets. She sent a simple thumbs up and moved to the next one. 

Varric. Again. She opened up the message, hunching her shoulders defensively as Hading and Josephine talked over her, to read the string of messages. 

Varric: Let me know if you get this. I made another minor adjustment. Maria: Stop fucking with it before you fall off the walls. We don’t have health insurance here. Varric: Let me guess, no worker’s comp either? Maria: Negative on the workers comp. We may have beer, though. Varric: That’s the best medicine. Hey, do you have a minute? Maria: Also negative. Cullen wants me to meet his senior officers and introduce myself properly. Varric: Right, when you have a second. Maria: Sure. Varric: How about now? Maria: Leliana’s explaining Orlais to me. Varric: Right. Let me know if you figure it out.  Varric: Later tonight? Maria: I can’t, I’m going over supply manifests with Josephine. Maria: Maybe tomorrow. Varric: So, it’s tomorrow. Just in case you haven’t noticed. Maria: I’ve been told. I’m sorry, I’m swamped. I’ve got a speech to memorize and give for Harding and Josephine. Varric: Alright, Princess. I’ll stop bothering you - come by when you can. Varric: And in case nobody told you yet today, you’re knocking this Inquisitor thing out of the park. Best inquisitoning I’ve ever seen by far. 

Fuck. Fuck. Why was this so fucking hard? Three days of messages, three days of ducking around Varric wherever and whenever she saw him. Three days nursing her bruised ego and railing against her own stupidity for believing for even a moment Varric fucking Tethras truly… 

He’d be what she needed, if she asked, because he was kind, because he felt bad for her, because she wasn’t bad to look at. But she could never be what he actually wanted, and that��� that stung. That stung far more than she could deal with just now on top of everything else. She certainly couldn’t spend time in his orbit, smelling his cologne, listening to his sinfully rich voice, waiting for his smiles and his laugh. 

But she couldn’t ignore him either. She couldn’t.

Maria: Wait until you see whatever just happened on TV later then decide my prowess.

As she typed the message, another one popped in. She swiped to view it and fought back a smirk. 

Dorian: Fasta vass, come here.  Maria: Where are you?  Dorian: Follow the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

What did she do to deserve Dorian Pavus’s histrionics today? Maria simply pulled up the group chat, typing one simple question into it. 

Maria: Anyone point me to our favorite neighborhood magister? Dorian: I am not a Magister, you heathen. Bull: Have you tried following the trail of spilled wine? Sera: or smell of hair wax Vivienne: Second floor rotunda, darling. You can’t miss his ostentatious shirt. Maria: Thanks Viv. 

She slipped her phone back in her pocket and frowned at Josephine. “I’ve got to go.” 

“I will email you the final footage for your approval.” Josephine declared smoothly, making a note in  her tablet. Harding simply saluted lazily.  

“Don’t.” Maria groaned, making a bee-line for the door. “I’m not going to watch it anyway. Just… whatever works. Do that.” 

She fled before Josephine could argue, flying through the crowd in the great hall before anyone could stop and catch her attention. She found that speed was the key for moving across Skyhold, because if she slowed down for even a moment, she got roped into a hundred different projects of varying degrees of importance. She slipped into the rotunda and turned toward the stairs…

“Inquisitor.” Solas called. “A moment?” 

Well, at least it was just Solas. She paused and turned to look at him. The elf was studying the blank wall in front of him, frowning thoughtfully. “What’s up?” 

“I find the act of painting meditative and I wish to design some murals for this room. I asked Skyhold, but I believe the spirit wishes you to make the final determination.” Solas turned his back on the wall and pierced her with his gaze. “Would you like to see some sketches before I proceed?” 

“You can paint?” She asked instead, curious. Solas simply smiled. 

“I can.” He admitted. “I think I do so rather well. One of my few true talents.” 

Sera could draw too, although she sincerely hoped Solas’s paintings were much less provocative. Sera’s most detailed sketches seemed to feature big breasted women in various states of undress. Maria wondered, momentarily, if it was an elf thing. Then, she internally winced and scolded herself for being a bit racist. 

“Yeah, sure. I don’t need to see them. This is kinda your office, isn’t it?” Maria waved at the room, empty of all but a neat little couch and a tidy desk littered with papers. “Whatever you want to do.” 

“A dangerous offer.” Solas smiled warmly down at her. “I shall try not to abuse the privilege. I thought, perhaps, to create a visual history of the Inquisition? The destruction of the conclave, the Inquisition’s formation, recruiting the witches at Redcliffe and…” 

“Haven.” Maria whispered softly. Haven. She ached with it’s loss and all the fallen they’d left, so raw and fresh again after the interview. She feared she would carry it with her the rest of her life like a scar on her heart. 

“Haven.” Solas repeated. “It weighs on you. I am sorry.” 

“I think we’re all still reeling.” Maria tried to make her tone light, shrugging. “How did you ask Skyhold? About the murals? Varric keeps trying to talk to her through Cole but I don’t think it’s going well.” 

“It is not, but Varric is a child of the stone. He does not understand such things.” Solas muttered, examining the walls.

Maria flinched just a bit. Well, maybe she should have asked about the painting skills being an elf thing then. If ‘children of the stone’ was getting thrown about so casually, it certainly would have put him in his place. 

“I want to understand.” She insisted instead. “You know about spirits. You said some of them were your friends. Can you… can you introduce me? Is that how it works?” 

“You wish to learn? About spirits and the fade?” Solas asked, incredulity lacing his voice, piercing her with his eyes. 

“Yes.” Maria answered sternly, lifting her chin. “You’re the expert. I can clearly do… something with this mark on my hand. Teach me about the fade before I shoot myself in the foot.” 

Solas continued to look down at her, blinking slowly, before he shook his head. “You are full of constant surprises.” 

It wasn’t a no. Maria smirked. “So… you will?” 

“Cadash!” Dorian shouted from above them. “I can hear you distinctly not making your way up here. Solas can wait his blighted turn.” 

“If you wish.” Solas smiled, hesitant. “But Dorian is right. We will do so at another time.” 

“Great.” Maria grinned, waved her hand at the walls. “Have fun. Don’t let Sera help.” 

With that parting bit of advice, she sauntered to the stairs, leaving Solas to his quiet contemplation. She made sure to take her time, lingering an extra second before emerging onto the next floor.

Which… had sprung bookshelves. Apparently. She blinked, looking around, taking in the rows of empty shelving. Dorian stood in one of the new alcoves, scowling and tapping his fingers on the wood. “Was putting me on blast in the group chat strictly necessary?” He asked grimly.

“Next time, you’ll answer my question instead of being so dramatic.” Maria tipped her head to the side, examining his tailored black shirt with the intricate silver embroidery over the shoulders. “I don’t think that shirt is so bad at all.” 

“Because you have proper taste.” Dorian sniffed. “You also have an empty library.” 

“Odd.” Maria agreed, tracing the nearest plush armchair with her fingers, taking in the rich velvet upholstery. “Wasn’t this Cullen’s office yesterday?” 

“That’s over on the battlements now, under his bedroom. Frankly, I think he’s happier.” Dorian waved Cullen’s migrating office away dismissively. “This lackluster excuse for an archive is outrageous. And Fiona will not see reason.” 

Maria finally noticed the other figure on the floor, the elf glaring holes into Dorian’s back. Fiona stepped forward, pleading. “Inquisitor, you must understand, I cannot simply agree to hand over our history for the perusal of…” 

“Ethnocentrism at it’s finest!” Dorian sniffed. “She’s concerned I’ll find something useful her people missed.” 

“His people tried to enslave us!” Fiona lifted her chin, icy and regal. “I will not…” 

“Dorian did an awful lot to prevent that from happening.” Maria wouldn’t sit here and just… let Dorian be slandered. Not when he was the only one who knew what Fiona’s idiocy nearly cost them. “What’s the issue?” 

“All the knowledge of the southern circles is sitting, abandoned, in their shoddy little prisons.” Dorian pointedly didn’t look at Fiona, but stared imploringly at Maria instead. “It should be here where it can be studied, where perhaps we can use what we find. Even Madame de Fer agrees, but unfortunately Fiona is rather distraught that my grubby little Tevene hands will be all over it.” 

“Those tomes are quite valuable!” Fiona insisted. “They must be left in…” 

“The circles you ran out of?” Maria broke in, raising an eyebrow. 

“Until they can be collected by the witches and catalogued appropriately…” Fiona persisted. 

Maria fought the urge to roll her eyes and balled her hands into fists, hunching her shoulders. She bit out the words like bullets. “Grand Enchanter, your witches joined the Inquisition because it wasn’t a very good idea to keep going it alone. May I remind you, now is probably an even shittier time to strike out solo.”

Fiona bristled. “Are you saying we would no longer be welcome if…” 

Balls. Who the fuck had time for this? Maria rubbed her forehead, attempting to soothe the headache returning with a vengeance. She lowered her voice to a steely command. “I’m saying that maybe you should remember you are part of a team and act accordingly. Which includes treating everyone here with the same respect you insist on receiving.” 

Fiona set her jaw and looked like she had every intention of continuing to argue, so Maria turned to Dorian instead. “I’ll get Cullen to see if we can spare some people once we’ve got a clear path in and out of Skyhold.” 

Maria paused, shooting a disdainful look back at the elf. “Unless that’s going to be a problem, Fiona?” 

“Of course not. Inquisitor.” Maria could feel the acid on the other woman’s tongue. “I hope this decision proves wise and that you are not judged harshly on your… trusting nature.” 

With that, the woman rotated robotically on her heel. She reached the nearest door and pushed it. The door remained resolutely shut even as she struggled. It finally fell open only once she pressed her entire weight into it, leaving Fiona scrambling in a rather undignified manner to regain her balance. Maria heard Vivienne’s voice drifting from the other room before Fiona slammed the door shut behind her. “Careful, darling. A fall at your age would be disastrous.” 

Maria barely covered her laugh with her hand, immediately looking up to see Dorian not even bothering to hide his smug satisfaction as he spoke. “Well. That felt rather vindicating, didn’t it?” 

“Is that why you wanted me? To make her give you books for our new library?” Maria asked, trailing after Dorian as he settled into one of the plush chairs at a rather sturdy table. “I’m guessing we can’t just order the ones you want online and have them shipped?” 

“If only. Although I do wish to place an order for some items from my homeland. Nothing illegal to get southern panties in a twist, I promise, just some charts. I confess I’m not entirely certain what our address is, however. Not to mention whether or not we’re eligible for two-day shipping.” Dorian’s fingers continued to tap, anxiously, on the wooden surface of the table. Maria wrapped her arms around her waist and waited. “You know. Corypheus claims to be Tevinter himself. A Magister, in fact.” 

“He didn’t look human to me.” Maria replied, shrugging. “He looked like a demon. Don’t demons lie? A lot?” 

“Perhaps.” Dorian mused. “They say the blight is punishment for the sins of our Magisters who dared to walk in the realm of the Maker.” 

“They’re also rather convinced I’m the Herald of Andraste.” Maria shrugged her shoulders a second time. Humans were strange. Fuck if she knew what the truth was behind Corypheus. Honestly, she didn’t see how it mattered one way or the other. 

“Not Andrastian, I take it?” Dorian teased, but the longer she listened, the more she heard something wrong under his light tone. He continued talking regardless, the words meaningless. “Not that I blame you. Boring stuff. I was raised Andrastian, of course, but I’m afraid that I’ve been lying about attending services to my eternally disappointed mother for…” 

“Dorian.” Maria interrupted. “What’s wrong?” 

Dorian’s fingers lost their rhythm, the incessant tapping ceasing while his dark eyes bored into hers. “You’re rather observant today.” 

“Survival instinct.” Maria claimed. One she’d finely honed. “Don’t change the subject. What’s happened?” 

If it was bad news, Maria wasn’t sure she could handle any more. Dorian simply sighed, slumping in his chair. He was silent for a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I received word from a few of my remaining friends back in Minrathous. Do you remember Felix?”

How could she forget Felix? Their, admittedly few, interactions were branded in her mind. Him stumbling against her, him pleading with his father, the ghoul with the unseeing eyes and Leliana’s arm around his neck…

“I never asked...” Guilt churned in her stomach. She hadn’t asked, she’d fled and let the Inquisition deal with it because she’d been choking on Varric’s blood and Hawke’s inferno. She’d been a weak, spineless thing good for nothing but being led back to Haven by her nose. 

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do that again. She was the Inquisitor now and she had to deal. She choked down the memories and took a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists until her nails cut into her skin, the pain a stark reminder of where she was, whose eyes were staring at her. “I never asked how he was. What happened to him and…” 

And his father. The man who would have killed them all.

“You were exhausted and there was no need for you to manage the fallout after… after everything.” Dorian frowned. “It was my mess to clean up, after all. We packed them on their plane and sent them back to Tevinter. Alexius was arrested as soon as he stepped foot in Minrathous on the King of Ferelden’s insistence, although I’m sure he’ll be quietly released once it’s diplomatically safe to do so. Felix…” 

Dorian’s voice grew hoarse with emotion, his eyes dropping to his hands. “I’m afraid Felix has passed. He pulled a thousand strings to get in front of the Senate, to deliver a rousing speech denouncing the Venatori cult and warning the Magisterium, and… then I suppose he laid down his sword.” 

Maria felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving them both floundering as Dorian struggled to bear the grief written all over his face. Maria’s numb lips asked the question before her brain could process it. “He was sick?” 

“The blight. He was on a research expedition with his mother into the abandoned Deep Roads. She… she passed several months ago. Alexius is alone now. I suspect all he really wished was the power to save his son.” 

Dorian’s raw devastation was the only thing that prevented her from pointing out that he’d nearly killed the entire world and everyone Maria had left in his mad quest to save Felix. She couldn’t forgive him. Not even for Dorian. 

But she knew better than to say it. Particularly when Dorian covered his face with one hand, the slight tremor in his shoulders the only sign of the sobs he struggled to hold back. Maria unwrapped her arms from her torso, hesitating only a moment. With Dorian sitting and her standing, she stood just a bit taller than him. She stepped forward, tentative, and rested her marked palm on his shoulder. His free hand reached up almost immediately to cover hers, a silent gesture of gratitude while his long fingers wrapped gently over her hand and squeezed. 

“He was the best of us, you know.” Dorian murmured beneath his hand. “You could always count on Felix. If he had not been my friend, I… I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t know if I would be here now.” 

“He clearly thought you weren’t half bad either.” Maria offered, at a loss for anything else to say with that weighted confession in the air. “He went along with your crazy plan in Redcliffe, didn’t he?” 

Dorian’s laugh sounded broken, laced with unshed tears, but it was still warm and unbearably soft. “Of course he did. It was a brilliant one.”

Dorian dropped his hand from his face, eyes shining with emotion. His fingers gripped hers again. “At least Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.” 

xx

Varric tried not to be overly obvious in his leisurely stroll to the rotunda. Up the courtyard steps, through the gallery where Vivienne set up her alchemy table because she claimed the light was ideal. Fiona nearly ran him over in her hurry to escape past the other witch, her face blotchy with fury. 

Maker’s balls, what did Dorian do? The last thing Maria needed was Fiona deciding to cause trouble because Sparkler stepped on a few toes. Varric scrubbed his hand across his jaw, casting his eyes back down at the group chat while he ambled past Vivienne holding up a glass beaker to the light. 

“Leave Dorian to his tantrum.” Vivienne advised, lifting her eyes from her work. “I’ve found the Inquisitor is the best one at talking him down. She’s more than capable.” 

“And miss the material for my next book?” Varric asked cheerfully. “Never.” 

Vivienne shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Suit yourself.” 

He would. At first, he’d been… understanding of Maria vanishing into the ether. He even tried to convince himself it was better, tried to talk himself into some gratitude that she wasn’t rubbing her rejection in his face. She was being kind, that was all, and sensible. Extremely sensible.

Except Varric needed to talk to her about an over growing list of items. He’d prefer to make his confession about Hawke in person, after all. He still needed to explain how the new AI on her phone worked and assuage any worries about robot eavesdropping, which was always better done face-to-face. The wi-fi in the castle was still spotty and she seemed to be the only one who could reason with her damn… 

As if it knew the direction of his thoughts, when he placed his hand on the door leading to the rotunda and shoved, Skyhold kept the door stubbornly shut. A gloating declaration that the group chat messages didn’t say Maria Cadash was looking for Varric Tethras, did they?

“You learn to read?” Varric grumbled quietly, praying to the Maker himself that Vivienne couldn’t hear him. He pressed forward again. 

The door didn’t budge. Varric knelt to examine the lock, frowning, but the knob rattled. It was, he thought, like a snake warning someone they were getting too close to its territory. 

“If you think I won’t pick this lock, you’ve got another thing coming.” Varric threatened. He had damn good lockpicks, and nothing but time. At the very least, he’d put some good scratches into… 

The door slid open silently just a crack, relenting to his whims. Or so Varric thought. When he went to shove it the rest of the way, it held fast. Varric could see a sliver of the room, now filled with empty shelves and plush chairs. One of those chairs contained Dorian Pavus, Maria standing in front of him, close enough to fall into his lap. She had her hand on his shoulder and as he watched, Dorian dropped the palm that covered his face to the table beside him. Varric could see the traces of lingering emotion etched into his handsome features. Maria smiled, a tenuous thing, but still there. She shook her head in silence, refuting whatever he’d said. Dorian took the hand he had trapped on his shoulder and lifted it, bringing her knuckles to his lips and placing a chaste, courtly kiss on them. 

The door closed gently, like a mother tucking their children into bed. A clear signal that Varric was interrupting a moment. One he had no part of. 

And the author in him, at least, could see the beauty in it. Dorian playing the part of an exiled stranger chased from his homeland, a prince in all but name trying to do the noble thing and fighting evil despite losing his family fortune meeting. Maria starring as a former criminal with a heart of gold, one who found herself lifted from the gutter to lead the righteous in a fight for the very soul of the world. It was a damn fine story. Varric almost wished he would have come up with it himself. Almost. 

The rest of him felt sick with envy. A monster inside him desperately craved the right to place a kiss on Maria’s skin, the opportunity to have her lean towards him with that same sort of careless intimacy, to have her fall against him the same way she had their doomed night in Haven. 

But it wasn’t him. Yet again, it was someone else who had that privilege. Varric turned, blindly stalking past Vivienne. He tried to ignore her sharp, lingering gaze on his shoulder blades. It didn’t burn as much as the jealousy in his stomach anyway. He threw the door open and emerged on the walls back above the courtyard. Down below, he could see children drawing on the ancient walls with brightly colored chalk. Their laughter rang brightly, full of sheer joy. 

It hit him like shrapnel and he ran from it, back up the battlements. He wasn’t sure, entirely, where he was going. He just needed to keep walking, to put the picture of Maria and Dorian firmly behind him until he could look at it with some distance. Until it didn’t feel like holding a bleeding heart…

“But it’s not like that!” 

Cole’s furious protest from behind him made Varric stop short, turning to watch the kid scramble after him. The kid’s cheeks were flushed pink like he’d run halfway across the castle to catch Varric. He huffed to catch his breath, staring down Varric with panic. “No. She wanted to show you, but it knotted up all your strings. He needed her. Loss comes in waves, a small smile sneaking snacks into the study. Gone. He’s gone now and he was one of the last bits of home that didn’t cut the wrong way. She knows grief. She understands how to carry it.” 

“Kid, it’s fine.” Varric pinched his nose, hard, hoping the pain would clear the image from his head. Maria’s flushed cheeks, her shy amusement as Dorian’s lips brushed her skin. His princess in her castle with her devoted knight at her feet. Not him. Never him. 

“But it’s not.” Cole protested vehemently. “You’re both so scared. But the fall isn’t far and it’s soft underneath the walls. Alone isn’t safe. If no one knows you’re alive, you aren’t.” 

The kid’s imploring tone softened, his eyes bright with emotion. “Tell her. You have the words and she’s been silent for so long.” 

He had a million things to tell her. But having her shoulder his bruised heart wasn’t on his list. “It’s alright.” Varric repeated. “It’s complicated, kid.” 

“It isn’t.” Cole protested. 

Varric’s phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down, the unknown number flashing across the screen. It could only be one person. “I gotta take this.” 

He transferred the call directly to his earpiece, answering with a small amount of wariness while he turned his back on Cole to stare out over the mountains. “Hello?” 

“I’ve got good news.” Hawke’s sanguine voice was just what he needed to hear. He closed his eyes to bask in it for a second. “And I’ve got bad news. Which do you want first?” 

“I could use some good news.” He looked back over his shoulder, but found Cole had vanished as suddenly as he appeared. That… probably didn’t bode well. He sighed and leaned on the battlements, looking out instead, ignoring the prickling in his gut. 

“The smuggler you sent me didn’t slit my throat on the freighter to Jader. Which, by the way, rhymes.” 

Varric chuckled almost against his will. “And the bad news?” 

“You know that sleeping thing I said I’d do on the ship? Well, guess who forgot how much she hates sea travel. I hope you’re not expecting me to be in working order when I climb those damn mountains, Varric, because I’m going to need a nap.” 

Guilt twisted inside him uneasily. He didn’t want Hawke exhausted, falling prey to red templars or Venatori on the road. “You can stop and rest, Waffles. A day or two isn’t gonna kill us.” 

“It may.” Hawke joked. “The way your luck’s been lately? I won’t chance it. Besides, the more distance in between me and Fen I can get is best.” 

If someone didn’t know her well, they’d miss the hitch in her voice, the careful lightness almost smoothing it over. Varric sighed. He hadn’t heard a word from the elf, but he hadn’t expected to. It wasn’t exactly Varric asking Hawke to come that caused the problem. It was Hawke declaring she was coming alone. 

Varric wasn’t entirely sure how that fight played out, although he knew it ended with Bethany sealing the lovers in separate rooms for a good long while. Hawke had her way, like she usually did, but Varric knew that wouldn’t last long either. The second Broody stopped brooding, he’d be off like a rocket on Hawke’s tail. It might take him a bit longer without Varric’s contacts smoothing the way, but Broody had experience smuggling himself out of and into places. He’d make it, eventually, Varric was certain.

“Should’ve just taken him with you.” It’s what Varric said the first time. And every time he’d spoken to Hawke since. 

Hawke gave varying reasons why he couldn’t come. The first, that Bethany needed him (patently false. Sunshine was perfectly capable of defending herself). The second, that he was just as much a fugitive as she was, clearly also false. 

“Bring him into a hotbed of Tevinter magic?” Hawke scoffed. “I’d never hear the end of it.” 

Another lie. Hawke wasn’t telling him something and she was hiding it from Broody too. That meant it was almost definitely going to bite them all in the ass. Eventually. Hopefully after they dealt with their Corypheus problem. 

“Any idea what your ETA is?” Varric asked. “Your trusty dwarf would very much like to get all the yelling and threats against my life done and over with.” 

“Depends on whether or not I can steal a car, how far that car can get me, and if I have to walk through snow up to my tits to get up there.” Hawke mused. “I’m in Jader now. Bet I can make it by tomorrow night.” 

“Take a nap.” He ordered. “Then you can start back up again.” 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Varric.” Hawke teased. 

For some reason those words sent an icy shiver of dread through him. They felt like a bad omen, and Varric wouldn’t count himself superstitious, but… 

“Be careful, at least.” Varric pleaded. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but we’d be lost without you.” 

“Varric!” He could see Hawke’s extravagant reaction in his mind, her fluttering hands, her mouth dropping into a startled, theatrical o. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

“Of course I care.” This was closer to honesty, to vulnerability, than either of them cared to go. But he’d called her here. Pulled her into danger again. His best friend, maybe the truest friend he’d ever had. If there was a time to be real, this moment with them standing on the edge of the end of the world was it. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.” 

Especially if she got hurt trying to save his ass. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Varric.” Hawke soothed immediately. “No need to get sentimental on me now. Besides, you need to save some of the good shit for my kickass memorial service, remember?” 

“Yeah, I remember.” He laughed weakly. “Pyrotechnics are already ordered, just like I promised.” 

“Excellent!” Hawke cheered. “Now, let’s see if I can remember how Fenris taught me to hotwire a car. See you soon, Varric.” 

The line clicked dead before he could get another word in. He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, staring out over the mountains. His head felt quieter already. Hawke was coming, fuck, maybe she’d know what to do about… 

“Cole told me I needed to find you.” Maria’s quiet voice was almost lost in the wind. “He said it was important.” 

Oh yeah, he knew the vanishing spirit kid was gonna be an issue. He spun, gluing on a smile, trying to replay the conversation. He hadn’t called Hawke by name, had he? Maker’s breath, how long had Maria been standing behind him, silent as a ghost, still as one of those statues of Andraste. Her eyes were unfathomable, the sky during a storm and she wore an expression Varric couldn’t quite read. It could have been anger, but it seemed to lack any heat. Maybe it was just weary resignation, a woman preparing for her eventual martyrdom.

Her eyes flicked to his earpiece and she jerked her chin at it. “Bianca?” 

Bianca. Hell, if she thought he was talking to his AI, he’d take it. And it was an excellent segway to the things he actually needed to talk to her about. 

“Nice to see you too, Princess.” He greeted, softening his smile into something more real. “Speaking of Bianca…”

Maria shut her eyes a second too long, opening them on a shaky exhale and plastering a wooden smile over her features before she interrupted him. “You seem fine. Cole thought you’d be jumping from the battlements, but I can see he was wrong.” 

Maker’s ass, Varric was going to have a talk with the kid. The last thing he needed the woman whose dad ate his gun worrying about was who’d be swandiving off the keep. Varric wasn’t that dramatic by a long shot. He grinned playfully. “It’s a long way down and we’ve got Netflix again, so I’m off the danger list.” 

“I can see now why you were so eager to get it up and running. I’m glad it worked.” Her facade was far too brittle, he felt like he’d shatter it with just the wrong word. She wasn’t even looking at him, but past him, into the abyss beyond. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Listen, if you’re okay I’ve got to go. I’ve got a million things and…”

She impatiently shoved her hair back from her face. Varric watched, wary. “Maria…” 

“Varric.” She snapped. “It’s fine. It’s fine, everything is fine.” 

Cause anything that had to be said three times was clearly true. But Varric couldn’t think of the right words to say to fix… whatever had just gone sideways. He wished he was brave enough to take her hand, intertwine their fingers together, make her stay put until he got to the bottom of it. 

She knows grief. She understands how to carry it.

His tongue froze inside his mouth while he tried to find his words. But really, he only wanted to say one. Just one. Stay.

Instead, Maria’s false smile seared itself into place. “See ya, Varric.” 

And as he watched, Maria fled back into her castle, leaving him bereft. Again. 

xx

Varric: In case nobody told you yet today, you’re knocking this Inquisitor thing out of the park. Best inquisitoning I’ve ever seen. Princess: Wait until you see whatever just happened on TV later then decide my prowess. Varric: Let’s forget whatever happened on the walls. I didn’t mean to get you worked up. Varric: I watched your interview. You did great. Varric: Talk to me, Princess. Please. 

Varric stared, morosely, at his phone. He’d been assigned a tiny broom cupboard off the side of the courtyard by Josephine, although he swore it had been larger. Now it seemed to barely contain his desk, bed, and a dresser with enough room to walk from one to the other. It also, Varric thought snidely, had some sort of issue with the heat. His crackling fireplace looked quaint, but it served no functional purpose. His room constantly felt somewhere just above freezing. 

He tore his eyes from the accusing light of his phone, his unanswered messages, and looked back at his tablet. He forced himself to watch the whole interview twice, even though it felt like rubbing against sandpaper to see Maria’s mouth spin the story of their desperate fight for survival, their half-baked flight into the void. 

Her own near brush with death before she stumbled into his arms. She left out that part, the way he held her, the way she tried to fight him off before relenting. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she didn’t remember it at all.  

The last five minutes were easier to watch. He hit play again, watched the last of the clip begin to roll, Maria’s voice quietly spinning magic as she spoke to Harding. “I want Skyhold to be a safe place. Not just for the people who fled Haven, but for everyone. The world is in danger from magic we don’t understand and we have to work together to take care of people who can’t fight on their own.” 

“Before the attack on Haven, people were frightened of what the Inquisition represented. Do you think the purpose has changed?” Harding asked calmly. 

“The attack on Haven did change us.” Maria insisted, a flicker of fire in those stunning eyes. “It changed everything. The Inquisition will unite Thedas around a common goal, protecting our people. Not just from Corypheus, but from the worst parts of these wars. Starvation, homelessness, and disease can kill as many people as a dragon. We have to be ready for that too. The Inquisition will serve everyone who needs us. Regardless of what they believe.” 

Maker, she was good. But the best part was what happened next. Whoever made the decision to leave it in was a genius. Her whole interview she’d been calm, although at times her eyes gleamed with both fury and unshed tears. There’d been no trace of nerves, Harding gently soothing them away as she was being interviewed. 

“Thanks Inquisitor.” Harding said, easily casual, falling back into reality. 

Maria’s eyes flicked directly to the camera, then back to Harding. A slow, small, triumphant smile tipped up one side of her lips, her eyes still glimmering with emotion. She looked heart wrenchingly vulnerable, easy to adore, and at the same time recklessly, amazingly brave. 

“Thanks Harding.” Maria breathed, shoulders relaxing, just before the image cut away to Ruffles. 

Judging by what he’d seen of the coverage, it was nothing short of a rousing success. A near miss that made their Herald a hero, made her an Inquisitor with just enough blazing courage to delight the masses. 

Varric hit stop on the video again, spared a chagrined glance at his phone. His own messages lingered pathetically. 

Bianca.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. Nobody knew. 

Except, of course, that probably wasn’t technically true. Somebody in Rogue Tech, Bianca’s secretary at least, had to have some idea. Hawke knew, although she was very good at pretending she didn’t know anything. What's-his-name might know. Varric didn’t care that much, but he might. 

How good was Nightingale? Good enough to ferret out his darkest secret? 

But even if Nightingale discovered their sordid affair, it’d been cooling for years. Fuck, he hadn’t even seen Bianca for at least a year. Kirkwall going to shit really ruined any furtive liaisons. Nightingale did know about Bianca’s digging in Maria’s past, of course. Was that enough for both women to draw their own conclusions?

Varric ran through his phone call with Hawke, again, listening with an outside ear. 

Of course I care. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.

He could have been talking to anyone, but she’d thought he’d been talking to Bianca. Maybe the real Bianca. If she’d heard what he’d said. If…

She heard. She definitely heard. That’s why she thought he’d been working on the communications so hard, to contact a lover. After, of course, attempting to seduce her in Haven. No wonder she wasn’t answering, no woman would. Even if she didn’t care about him, even if she’d rather keep him as a friend, the thought that he’d been lying or using her… 

His journal was open beside his phone, lines scrawled unsteadily on a blank page, the Lovers tucked in between the pages.

I never tasted the stars before your kiss Never relished the flavor of the universe imploding But now I’m watching from the center of the flames Awash in the uncertainty of oblivion Wondering if this is what it feels like to burn.

Fuck. Fuck.

It was getting late, but not so late that she wouldn’t still be awake. Varric needed to fix this, the longer it festered, the worse it would get. He’d already waited over a day and… 

He stood, knocking his chair back into the bed, grabbing his coat from where he’d thrown it on the comforter. 

Thank Andraste he did 

The trickle of dust from the ceiling was barely visible in the dim light of his shoddy lamp and inefficient fire, he barely had time to recognize it for what it was before the stone above him cracked open, dumping plaster and stone and one sputtering, irritated woman on his bed.

He blinked, shocked, down at Hawke’s sprawled form. She squawked, sitting up, coat askew, backpack slung half off, covered in snow and rubble. 

“Maker’s balls, Varric.” Hawke asked, inquisitive blue eyes skipping around his room, a teasing smirk twisting her lips. “Why did they stick you in a closet?” 

He didn’t bother answering. He pointed up at the rapidly closing hole above his head. “Explanation, Hawke?” 

“I was a bit lost. Maybe it’s the castle’s idea of a shortcut? You weren’t kidding about it being a bit of a diva, hm?” Hawke stretched, examining his repaired ceiling with a good deal of curiousity. “I like it when impressive medieval fortresses come with attitudes.” 

“Why didn’t you text me?” Varric demanded, exasperated. 

Hawke simply grinned, sitting up in the mess that had been his bed, extending her arms. “I wanted to surprise you! And look, I did!” 

She certainly had. And, as always, her timing was horrid. Varric chanced a glance back at his phone. The second he did, he watched Hawke’s sunny smile drop from the corner of his eye. Without her mask, Varric realized how fucking exhausted she looked, how brittle her own bravado was. 

“Varric?” She asked softly. 

“It’s fine. Let’s see if we can clean off the bed. You look like you’re running on empty. We can wait until tomorrow to…” Varric thought it would be excellent if the castle decided to clean it’s own mess up, but somehow he doubted that would happen. 

“I’m fine.” Hawke protested immediately. “I’m good to go, I swear. And I wanna meet her.” 

Her. Her. The inspiration for his latest shitty attempts at poetry. The woman he couldn’t get out of his head because she’d gotten under his skin. 

“Tomorrow.” Varric promised. “When’s the last time you ate? Real food, not candy bars and coffee.” 

“Varric.” Hawke repeated. And in that moment, he knew she’d seen. Somehow, he’d let his guard down long enough that she’d managed to glimpse his battered, broken soul. His insecurity and his vulnerabilities all laid bare. “What happened?” 

“Food first.” Varric muttered, tugging his coat on. “And fucking beer if I can find it. I’m gonna need it if you’re expecting to hear how badly I’ve fucked this one up.”

[trvelyans-archive]

my part of an art exchange with @pegaeae !!! logan asked me to write the weDDING for his hawke and her bf varric tethras and How Was I To Say No. thank you for being patient even though i took forever to finish and thank you for being okay with me writing way more than i think either of us thought i would !!! there’s a wedding but there’s also some angst, some fluff, some in between stuff... you get the idea ;) <3

without further ado... *drumroll*...

Varric Tethras did not consider himself to be a lucky man.

In fact, he was sure he was unlucky, if anything, even though he would never admit that out loud. He barely managed to leave Kirkwall with his limbs intact, and he only did because Hawke was as unlucky as he was and they had gone through all of that shit with the Qunari and the templars and everything in between together. If she hadn’t been there, saving his ass time and time again, keeping his head on straight, he’d have been killed by one of the many people who had grudges against him much sooner.

Hawke keeping him alive, he thought, was probably why he loved her.

Well, that wasn’t the only reason – there were plenty of reasons to love Hawke and plenty of reasons why Varric did. She had a wicked smile that could convince anyone to do anything, eyes that were bluer than the sky over Kirkwall on the rare day it wasn’t raining, and even he had to admit that he was, when it came down to it, a shallow man. What could he say? The woman had nice hips. 

And she cared about him and listened to him and made him feel safe. She joked around with him and didn’t get offended when he joked back. She had the loudest laugh. And he loved her.

When Varric fell through the Fade rift at Adamant and landed hard on the stone, the first thought he had was of Hawke. He didn’t think about the blood staining his fingertips or the shreds in his coat. He didn’t think about the demon that was, quite literally, the stuff of nightmares. He didn’t think even think about the Divine or the Fade or the Wardens. Instead, he thought about Hawke - where she was and if she was okay. His vision was still blurry and his limbs were still throbbing as he pushed himself up from the ground and looked around madly for her.

“Where’s Hawke?” he mumbled as he braced his knees against the ground and pushed himself up higher, searched for her even harder. No one seemed to have heard his pleas. “Where’s Hawke?” he repeated to the person nearest to him.

It was Cassandra. She said nothing – instead she stared back at him, features softening into something he couldn’t read. He was about to say something else when there was a thunderous noise behind him. He whirled around to find the Inquisitor trying to close the rift that they had all fallen from – on the ground at the Inquisitor’s feet was Hawke, blood smeared all over her clothes and forehead and a pained expression on her face.

Varric, on wobbly legs, ran over. He didn’t listen as the Inquisitor began to talk and he didn’t listen as concerned and worried voices rose from the group of Wardens. Instead, he focused all his energy on Hawke, and she hadn’t even stood up when he threw himself onto her, sending them both crashing back to the ground once more in an ungodly heap.

She felt so broken when he wrapped his arms around her. “Hawke,” he whispered through a wheeze as a cough rose in his throat from the dust in the air around them, “I was worried about you.”

Hawke chuckled humorlessly, squeezing him tighter, thumping the heel of her hand against his back to help clear his throat. “Back at you, dwarf,” she murmured, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “By the way, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re bleeding.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, so are you.” Varric pulled his head away from her and traced a cut above her eyebrow with his thumb. “What happened in there?”

She didn’t respond for a moment – instead she stared at him, her eyebrows suspended in question, and when he didn’t say anything, she jerked her head at the people surrounding them. “People are going to see,” she said under her breath.

But people had already seen – Varric knew that much when he realized Cassandra’s eyes were locked on him from across the courtyard. And he didn’t give a shit, anyway, not when Hawke nearly just died without Varric having the chance to say goodbye or tell her he loves her or kiss her one last time. They had always been careful about being romantic around other people. They had always tried to keep their relationship a secret - it was safer for the both of them if no one else knew. Now, neither of them were ever safe no matter where they went or who they went with, and there wasn’t any point in hiding it. Besides, he didn’t want to a wait a second longer to touch her.

Or he couldn’t wait. Or both.

“I don’t care, Hawke,” he chuckled, dragging his fingers up her face and pushing them through her hair, a smile cracking open the cut on her lip. “I’ll take every opportunity to be with you I can get after what just happened to you, to us. After not knowing if you were going to come out of that rift behind me. That’s the scariest shit that’s ever happened to me, Hawke, and that’s really saying something.”

The smile on her face died as her watery gaze flitted over to where the rift had just been closed. Varric, confused, followed suit, pushing himself up from her body as he did so. The Inquisitor, Theran, was standing alone on an overturned pillar, wringing his bloody hands as he choked out a speech to the remaining Wardens, struggling to keep himself together. Varric couldn’t blame the kid. Besides that, though, Varric couldn’t see anything else, and Hawke had looked so haunted. He didn’t understand why. He turned to face her again.

“What?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he moved his hands to her cheeks and shook her head to get her attention. “What, Hawke?”

“Mahariel,” Hawke whispered, squeezing her eyes shut until the creases in her forehead turned to canyons.

Varric looked over his shoulder and felt his face fall when he realized what he had missed and what was missing. The Warden Commander, who had journeyed through the Fade with them, was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t too worried about it at first – she had probably gotten lost in the commotion, or perhaps she had run off to find the healers. She was bleeding pretty severely when Varric last saw her, after all. But Hawke let out a strangled sob, and tears cut sharp lines through the layers of dust and dirt and blood on her cheeks, and he felt his bones buckling beneath him.

“Where is she?”

Theran was approaching them. He murmured Hawke’s name in a way that was different than his usual sweet, honeyed tone – it was clipped, cold, and then Varric realized how hard the Inquisitor was trying to hold himself back from crying, how close the dam was to breaking. Once he reached them, he didn’t say her name again. He must’ve realized too. Instead, he just knelt next to her and Varric and held his hand out.

“She stayed in the Fade, Varric,” Hawke managed to get out as she covered her face with one hand and gripped tightly onto Theran with the other.

“What?” Varric asked, his eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them as both started to break. Yes, she had been wounded, but she had been alive. She couldn’t have died in the few seconds between Varric’s escape from the Fade and then Hawke and the Inquisitor’s. “Why?”

“A creature blocked our path after you and the others escaped,” Theran explained. “Someone had to… stay back and fight it off.”

“I said I’d do it!” Hawke interrupted. “I told her I –“

She was cut off by a violent sob. Varric slid his hands under her back and lifted her up from the ground, cradling her against him, tilting his head to look at Theran and trying to focus even though his own vision was blurring with tears. Varric wasn’t a crier, but after everything that had happened, he let himself. No one would care much, anyway. “Go get a healer, kid,” he instructed as gently as he could manage. “You’re in bad shape.”

“But –“

“I’ll take care of her,” he said. He wasn’t sure if there was much he could do, but he wanted to be alone with her – it would be easier to calm her down that way. “You… take care of yourself.”

Theran hesitated. There was a pregnant pause before he stood up, wiping his cheeks and limping away from them with the rest of the injured Inquisition party. Hawke only cried harder after he left. Varric held her closer, his grip stronger. It’ll be a long trip back to Skyhold, he thought as he buried his nose in her hair and let his own tears fall.

And it was. He didn’t know what was worse, seeing Hawke sad or seeing her happy only to have the smile crushed like a bug beneath a boot. At night, when the army stopped travelling and set up camp, they’d sit around the fire with the other members of the Inquisition’s inner circle and eat the stale stew prepared by shaken up Inquisition soldiers and play cards or exchange stories and Varric would think that finally Hawke was fine, but eventually, each night, Varric would catch her watching Theran fiddling with his Dalish vambraces, turning to say something to the empty space next to him only for the words and the smile to die on his lips, and Hawke would quickly retire to their tent, leaving Varric to hurry after her with his arms open and empty.

He thought returning to Skyhold would be better. They’d keep a wide berth from everyone else for a while and Hawke would finally get time to recover from her wounds, both physical and emotional. She hadn’t been too close with the Warden-Commander, but they were friends, and Varric knew she felt guilty about leaving her behind in the Fade. He also felt guilty to be thankful that she had, and it only got worse when they stepped through the passed the fortress’ gates, weeks after the battle at Adamant had ended.

The Warden-Commander’s husband, Zevran, was waiting on the steps for the Inquisition’s arrival, a small elven girl sitting next to him. When the sea of soldiers finally parted to reveal Theran and Varric and Hawke at the centre of it, he ran over. He looked tired but expectant, and Varric quickly grabbed hold of Hawke’s wrist and dragged her in the opposite direction. It was not a conversation that either of them could or should have been around for, especially not when the night before had been one of Hawke’s worst, but they hadn’t even left earshot when the two men began to talk and she stopped in her tracks.

“My wife is not with you?” Zevran asked. “Where is she?”

The question was met with a answer of silence. “She…” Theran’s voice was hoarse. “… Isn’t with us.”

“Did she go off on another one of her crazy adventures without telling me?” Zevran chuckled. “She does that a lot, you know, and leaves me to take care of the baby! Not that I’m complaining, of course, I love my daughter. She’s not a baby, now, anyhow. Do you know where she is, however? I had a great many things I wanted to say to her and tell her about, but I suppose I will just have to send her a letter.”

“You… can’t.”

“Hawke, come on,” Varric urged quietly, but when he tried to pull her away she wouldn’t budge. She was rooted to her spot like a statue. Her face had gone pale to match.

“What do you mean?”

“There was a creature… I’m sorry.” Theran swiped at his eyes. “Lyna is… gone. We were trapped in the Fade, and I - We fought a nightmare demon, but before we could escape, our path was cut off by this creature, and she… She insisted that she stay behind to fight it… She sacrificed herself so Hawke and I could live.”

“I…” Zevran took a step away from Theran and stared at him, a smile still on his lips, disbelief painted on his face. “What? She is… dead? Or she is… in the Fade? I…” Varric had never seen the man at a loss for words before. “I… She cannot be dead. Surely, you must be mistaken -”

“It’s complicated, but…. I can’t explain it right now.” Theran’s face crumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

He brushed past Zevran and Dorian, who had come up to greet him and instead was left watching as he ran away up the stairs. It took a moment for Varric to catch the mage’s eye, but when he did, he jerked his head after the Theran. If anyone could make him feel better, it was Dorian, and if he couldn’t, then they were all in trouble. Dorian hurried after the Inquisitor, leaving Zevran alone by the front gates. He stared at the ground with a blank look on his face as the small elven girl next to him – his daughter – began to tug at his sleeve.

Varric looked over at Hawke to find her already crying. He sighed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him as he led her up the stairs. “You need some sleep,” he murmured. “And a hot bath.”

He didn’t even know if she was listening until she muttered, “And you.” To that, he smiled.

“Alright. Whatever you want, Hawke.”

But not much made her feel better. They tried to play chess in the garden on sunny afternoons but she’d catch sight of Theran weakly tending to his plants and have to return to Varric’s quarters. They tried to eat dinner in the main hall only to find Zevran’s daughter trying to convince him to eat as she ignored her own bowl. They tried to walk along the battlements on crisp mornings when the sky was clear and cloudless but they’d have to turn around once they reached the Warden-Commander’s office and saw the furniture being carted out from it. It seemed like they couldn’t go anywhere in Skyhold anymore.

Besides the chapel. Ironically enough, considering they were two of the biggest blasphemers to ever grace the face of Thedas (which he told her late one night as they were curled up on the pews, resulting in a tearful giggling session on her behalf and a relieved one on his).

It was a small room, filled back to front with candles and well-worn copies of the Chant stacked from floor to ceiling in haphazard piles. Hawke would sit next to Varric as he leaned against the wall with her legs slung across his lap and her head tilted against his shoulder and she’d watch the candles burn and burn until they were down to the very bottom and then she’d wait a few minutes for the warm wax to cool before sculpting them back into misshapen versions of their old selves. It felt poetic. And that was annoying.

He hated the chapel. She did, too. Both of them felt stiff and uncomfortable and awkward, and she joked one night as they wandered back to his quarters that she didn’t even want to talk about her feelings with the statue of Andraste staring down at them. “She’s judging me!” Hawke exclaimed, blue eyes alight for the first time in weeks. Yes, she was ranting and raving like a woman who lacked a good night’s rest, but Varric cherished the outburst of energy anyway. “She’s just… judging me, Varric!”

“Then let’s find someplace else,” he suggested simply, continuing down the stone walkway when they reached the door to his quarters and passed it.

As it turned out, the battlements were nearly abandoned at that time of night, save for the occasional soldier or two who passed by with their eyes locked on the horizon. It was a little colder than it was during the day – that mountain breeze was about as unforgiving as Cassandra was – but it was… calmer, too. And the both of them needed someplace calm to be.

Hawke planted herself in front of one of the parapets and stared out at the white, empty expanse in front of them, a sigh escaping her chapped lips. Varric stood behind her, winding his arms around her waist and hugging her close. Another thing he loved about Hawke – she was always so warm. “When I die –“

“Nope.” Varric buried his face into the back of the jacket of his that she had donned earlier that day. “We’re not having this discussion.”

Not because they didn’t need to have it – they absolutely did. He just didn’t want to talk about it any more since it had been one of the only things running through his head for weeks and the topic was growing tired. He was growing tired.

“Give the estate away,” she continued, ignoring him. “Garrett and Anders won’t need it. Put it to good use - an escape route out of the city for mages o-or something.”

She was beginning to tremble. Varric held her even tighter, inhaling deeply, reveling in mingling smells of them both on his jacket.

“Or give it to Mahariel’s husband,” she added quietly. “It’d be a nice place to raise a child. Lots of light in the morning. Not too far from the market or the Viscount’s Keep. He deserves it after what I did to him.”

Varric drew away and spun her around by the hips. “Hawke –“

“It was my fault,” she seethed through the spit pooling in her mouth, wiping her wet lips on the back of her hand. “I should have stayed and helped, or convinced her to come with me, or –“

“And then what?” Varric demanded. It felt like a dam somewhere within him had finally burst and at once, a tidal wave of emotions came rushing out of him. “And then you’d have died, too! What would that have solved, Hawke? Tell me, ‘cause I’m trying to figure it out myself!”

“She has a child! And a husband!”

“And you have me!” He gave a bitter laugh. “I mean… Shit, Hawke, I know you’re down in the dumps, but doesn’t that matter to you?!”

“Of course it does!” she argued, eyes blazing.

“Really?” he asked. “Because it doesn’t feel like it! You’ve seen me through Bartrand and that mess with the mages and templars and everything that came before and everything that came after and… What do I have to say or do that would convince you that losing you would kill me?”

She stared at him, taken aback at his outburst, stepping away from his as her eyes filled with tears.

“Shit.” Varric ran a hand through his hair and reached out for her. “Look, I’m sorry, Hawke –“

Her hand slipped out of his grasp. “Go to bed,” she urged him quietly.

“No!” he replied with a disbelieving, humourless laugh. “I’m not just going to… leave you here –“

“Please, Varric.”

There was a moment of silence and then he took a step away from her, too, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly, eyes locked on the snow coated stones of the battlements. “Fine,” he repeated, throwing his hands up in defeat, “I will.”

He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t upset with her and upset with himself. He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t crushed that she was so miserable and that he couldn’t convince her not to be. He had been trying his hardest for weeks and weeks to make her feel better, but knowing that there was nothing he could do… it made him feel like shit. The whole situation made him feel like shit.

With that, he turned to leave, but lingered a moment longer to add, “I… love you, Hawke. I hope you know that.”

He had already begun walking away when she said it back.

She didn’t return to his room until a few hours later. He had finally managed to nod off when he heard the sound of the door creaking open and, afterwards, the sound of her boots squeaking as she hesitated at the threshold. As if he was going to turn her away. Varric, groggy and grumpy but glad she didn’t stay out all night, shuffled over in bed to make room for her beside him, not bothering to look up to see if she would take him up on the wordless offer.

Eventually, as he expected, she slid beneath the covers. Her nose was cold as she pressed it to the nape of his neck and pushed his hair out of the way, nuzzling the top notch of his spine. The last thing Varric did before falling asleep was grab her hand and hold it tight against his chest and, despite everything, smile.

This, begrudgingly, became their routine. Hawke would spend most afternoons cooped up in Varric’s room, sitting in front of the window and reading, too uncomfortable to go anywhere else, and, after his work for the day was done, he’d bring her dinner and then take her on a walk of the battlements until the sun was long gone. But it didn’t feel any different to what they were doing before – in fact, it felt worse. Hawke wasn’t getting any better and both of them had all but stopped trying to make her.

He was taking up a bowl of stew to her one night when he passed by the chapel to find the door open and Cassandra kneeling inside. Usually, he wouldn’t have stopped. He might’ve closed the door for her or he might’ve just kept going. But that night the door creaked loudly as he pushed it open with the tip of boot and he grimaced as Cassandra whirled around.

It was almost funny how her eyes first looked to the top of the doorframe and then dropped to Varric’s height with obvious disappointment. Almost funny, but not quite. “Oh.”

All she had to do was say one word and he already regretted joining her.

“Hello to you too,” he mumbled, turning around, ready to leave as quickly as he had come. The sound of her clearing her throat made him halt.

“How is… Hawke?”

As if you care was the first response that formed on his tongue, but he realized that was unfair – besides, she didn’t need to care just to ask if one of her allies was healthy enough to be helpful again. “Not great,” he answered with an honest sigh.

“The Fade was an ordeal for us all,” she tried to say in comfort.

“Yeah, and yet you and I feel well enough to leave our quarters.”

Rarely did anything shut Cassandra up. That did.

“Anyway… I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he mumbled, “so I’ll –“

“You want something from me.”

He raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “What?”

“What is it?”

“You think I…” He shook his head. “What could I need from you, Seeker?”

If anyone had watching them, the comment would’ve come off as harsh, and he’d have come off as an asshole. Their relationship – the strained thing that it was – was antagonistic at best, and it took him a moment to realize that she seemed to be offering whatever it was she thought he wanted with genuine concern.

“I don’t know,” she said plainly, shrugging as she stood up from where she had been kneeling in front of the statue of Andraste. “I would normally offer to pray for you, but I think that the Maker would smite me if I tried.”

Varric tried to hide his snort of laughter.

And then she smiled at him – an earnest smile – and he looked to the floor. “I just… don’t know how to show Hawke how badly I need her,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“The Varric Tethras? Needing something?” Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast making a decent joke? I never thought I’d see that day, either.”

She strolled towards a pew pushed up against the wall and sat down. Her hand raised as if she was going to pat the seat beside her and beckon him to sit down, and then she just clasped it in her lap with the other.

Andraste’s tits. When did things get so weird?

“I’m trying to think of what some shitty protagonist in a cheesy Orlesian novel would say or do,” he muttered, “but I’ve done it all. Everything I can think of… and it’s not enough.”

Cassandra laughed, and Varric glared at her, eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

“Marry her.”

His heart nearly leaped into his throat. When he tried to speak, nothing came out, and he could see Cassandra rolling her eyes.

If Hawke were here, she’d be rolling her eyes, too.

“Shit,” Varric murmured breathlessly, “you’re right.”

“You of all people could use a promise of devotion or two,” she said in an almost informative tone as if she needed to convince him any further. “Hawke, too. The pair of you live and breathe sacrilege.”

But the insult fell on deaf ears – Varric had already turned on his heel and was sprinting out the door, spilling soup on the floor beneath him as he went. “Thanks, Seeker!”

She might have given him a reply, but he was too far away already to hear it.

His quarters were empty when he reached them, the front of his shirt dripping and his hairline beading with sweat. A part of him was relieved Hawke wasn’t there – he had no idea where he’d put the damned thing the last time he took it off and she’d get suspicious if he spent an hour searching for something he refused to tell her about. The bowl clattered rather unceremoniously to the floor as he hurried over to his desk, talking to himself as he went

What the fuck was he going to say?

Would he give her a proper proposal or bullshit his way through it? Hawke might like the charm of a blustery, bullshitted thing, but… like Cassandra said, it was supposed to be a promise. And Varric needed her to know that this promise was going to last them through the Fade and back and back again… and back again, probably, knowing them.

A proper proposal it was.

He slid the Tethras signet ring onto his thumb, grabbed a warmer coat, and headed for the door with one last glance at his quarters - then, at the last second, he hurried back to his bed and made it.

“This is it, then,” he said to himself.

He pushed through the door and shut it firmly behind him.

Hawke was standing at her usual place on the battlements and she didn’t turn to face Varric as he approached, crunching snow under his boots and whistling under his breath. Fluffy flakes fell all around her and clung to her coat, cloaking her in what looked to be swathes of heavy white cotton, and when he reached her he raised a hand to wipe her shoulder clean until he could see the familiar, well-worn leather of his coat – well, their coat now, he supposed – underneath.

“Hi,” she greeted with her eyes closed. He continued to dust her off until he could make out the colour of the scarf she was wearing – pale blue, he noted, just like her shirt and her stockings and everything else.

“Hey,” he replied, chest filled with a familiar warmth at the sight of her. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good, actually.”

He smiled. “Cold?” he suggested. She giggled.

“Cold,” she agreed as he slipped his hand into hers and leaned his head against her bicep. Despite everything, Varric thought, he still loved being with her. They fit together so perfect. “Anyways…” He heard the smirk on her lips before he even looked up. “Something tells me you didn’t just come here to flirt.”

Damn it. She knew him too well for him to be able to pull something on her. He should’ve guessed. “If you think that’s me flirting, then I’ve been doing a shitty job in wooing you,” Varric grumbled, trying best to divert the conversation away from his failing deception.

“You wooed me the second you shot a bolt at my would-be thief’s head,” she teased.

If she didn’t sound so hopeful, he wouldn’t have relented. He’d have talked a little while longer, or he’d have tried to surprise her, or he’d have tried to cheer her up first. But she already looked… happy. Or happier than she’d been, at least. And he’d do everything he could to try and keep her that way.

So he pulled away, hiding his hand in his sleeve so he could brush the pad of his index finger over the ring adorning his thumb.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said. A few seconds of silence passed in which she was clearly waiting for him to continue before she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Oh?”

A heavy lump was going in his throat. It was the first moment that it occurred to him she might say no, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit it threw him off and nearly convinced him to pretend it never happened.

Nearly.

“And… Uh…”

He heaved a great, dramatic sigh, holding his hand out to her – well, he flapped it at her, more accurately, an ineloquent sort of thing that almost made the both of them laugh if the conversation hadn’t taken such a serious turn. “Do you remember this?” he asked her, curling his hand into a fist and holding the ring’s face in her direction.

“Yes, I do,” she answered quietly.

He wasn’t surprised. She was the one who had given it to him, after all – or, rather, given it back to him after his bastard of a brother pawned it off for some money to put towards their Deep Roads expedition. Varric had been furious when he found out, and though he eventually let Bartrand believe he had gotten over it, he never really did, and he kept an eye out for it wherever he went even though he didn’t really have any hope that it was still in Kirkwall.

He hadn’t expected to ever find it. He didn’t expect Hawke to look for it, either.

She had her legs kicked up on his headboard, the rest of her body sprawled beneath it across his orange-and-golden blanket like a cat in a sunbeam. The most delightfully devilish smile that was teasing the corners of her lips matched that attitude, and Varric couldn’t help but laugh, sitting a short distance away from her.

“What?” he chuckled, taking his glasses off and tossing them onto a pile of crumpled papers next to him.

“I’ve been meaning to give you something,” she announced, tilting her freckled face away from him to look down at the pocket she was wrist-deep in.

“Oh yeah?” he replied.

When she pulled her hand back out, she was clutching something in her fist, but quickly closed her fingers around it so he could see. “No peeking,” she told him. “It’s a surprise.”

“If it’s one of those leather whips they sell in the Hightown Market, Hawke, you know what I think about those -”

To his surprise, she bent over, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it at his face, shutting him up with a dull whump. “It’s better,” she responded. “Close your eyes.”

As his heartbeat began to pick up in his chest, he tried his damned best to look as ambivalent as possible. To Hawke’s enemies, the suggestion of a surprise would not be a welcome one; to her friends, it would be more than such. To Varric? 

“This better be good,” he answered as begrudgingly as he could pull off while he bit back a grin, dutifully following her orders and shutting his eyes.

Nothing happened at first – there was the sound of papers and fabric rustling and the occasional soft grunt that Varric would’ve smiled about had he not been so nervous. And feeling like a fool, too. He didn’t get nervous about anything, and yet his best friend had a surprise for him that left him feeling sick.

It took him a second or two to realize she was waiting for him, and he cracked an eye open.

She was sitting up, cross-legged and close to him, so close that he didn’t realize what his gift was because he couldn’t even see it until he finally looked down to where her fist was practically pressed up against his chest. There was a flash of gold and red in the light as angled her hand back and forth, showing off the gift in a theatrical manner. He couldn’t quite make out what she was showing him until he grabbed her gently by the wrist and eased her to a stop.

And then it hit him.

He felt his jaw drop, then, sitting on his bed with her in Kirkwall while she held the signet ring out to him with a smug look on her face. “Is that the Tethras signet ring?” he asked her.

Standing on the Skyhold battlements, however, Hawke’s jaw didn’t drop. Instead she watched completely silent as Varric took off the ring and held it between his thumb and his forefinger, tilting his hand so that it glinted in the silver sliver of moonlight piercing through the clouds.

“It’s the Tethras signet ring,” she told him finally.

“It is,” Varric replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

Hawke’s gaze flicked back and forth between his face and the ring, taking a step closer so that the distance between their bodies was practically nothing. “And… what?”

Varric looked up at her, forcing a smile. He’d better pull the bandage off quick. “And I wanted you to have it.”

“Why –“

“And I wanted to know if you’d marry me, Hawke.”

The words came out quickly and slurred like he was a man drunk. He sounded that way, anyway, and since Hawke wasn’t expecting it, he was sure she might think that he was, too. Afterwards, there was a profoundly long silence.

He wasn’t drunk, but at that moment he couldn’t wait for the conversation to be over so he could be.

Of course she wouldn’t want to marry him. After everything that happened in the Fade, after seeing Zevran feeding the Warden-Commander’s baby alone in the great hall, after Kirkwall –

“Varric?”

He had squeezed his eyes shut. It took Hawke’s finger hooked under his chin and the feeling of her breath washing over his face for him to open them again.

He immediately looked away, however. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked –“

“Of course I’ll marry you, Varric.”

There was a grin so radiant on her face that it outshone the moonlight peeking through the clouds above them. Varric felt blinded. “Really?” he asked, stammering in disbelief.

“Yes!” she replied. “Yes! Of course! I’ve been waiting, you idiot!”

Hawke let out a happy whooping sound, throwing her arms around his waist and hoisting him into the air. Varric, not knowing what else to do or, perhaps, not wanting to do anything else, began to laugh. He couldn’t help it. For a moment – one long, shining moment - he felt truly weightless.

And then they both fell hard onto the slippery stones, each landing with a string of various strangled ‘ow’s that were only drowned out only by the sounds of them beginning to laugh again.

It was a while before they picked themselves up – in fact, Varric had resigned himself to sleep there when Josephine, bleary-eyed and blinking, hurried towards them with Theran at her heels.

“What is it?” the ambassador demanded, nearly tripping over her own feet as she came to a sudden stop in front of them. “Are there assassins?”

Hawke, lips as blue as her eyes and teeth chattering at the pace of an Orlesian flute during an opera, held up the Tethras signet ring adorning her thumb.

“We’re getting married!” she exclaimed with a wheeze.

Josephine, clearly having thought there to be a more urgent matter, stared at them for a moment before eventually letting out a good-natured huff. “Well… congratulations,” she told them with a smile, smoothing her slightly messy hair down against her head. “That’s wonderful to hear.” And then, under her breath, “I’m sure the Seeker will be pleased…”

“Au contraire,” Varric interjected. “It was actually her idea.”

Josephine’s manicured eyebrows nearly flew off her head. “Really?”

“Yeah. Believe me… I was surprised as you are.”

Theran had been watching the conversation unfold with his hands folded behind his back – as he stepped forward with a kind smile, he held one out to both Hawke and Varric respectively. “Congratulations,” he said quietly. “I’m… very happy for you.”

Hawke looked at his hand for a moment before taking it. “Thanks,” she replied, beaming at him as he helped her up.

“Yeah, thank you,” Varric said. “I hope you don’t mind having it in Skyhold…”

Before Theran could reply, Josephine stepped forward. “I think that is a great idea!” she said, eyes already sparkling as the gears in her head began to turn. “It’ll be good to boost everyone’s spirits, especially after what we faced at Adamant.”

At the mention of it, both Theran and Hawke became silent, and Josephine touched a hand to her mouth. Varric wasn’t about to ask everyone to stop mentioning what happened at Adamant – there was no way to get around talking about it sometimes – but he tried to avoid it as much as he could, for Hawke’s sake as well as his own. Josephine must have realized that.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “If that’s all, Varric, then I hope you do not mind if I return to my quarters…”

“Of course not,” Varric said with his best attempt at an easy-going smile. “Goodnight, Ambassador.”

“You, too,” Josephine said. “Hawke. Inquisitor. You have a good night, as well.”

Theran nodded in response and waved her good-bye while Hawke turned to Varric again, cupping his stubbly cheeks in her damp hands and running the back of the ring over a scar near his nose.

“Let’s go to bed, too,” she murmured, her hair falling in front of her face as she bent down to press a kiss to his forehead. “I think we should… celebrate.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” Varric said as the two of them exchanged crooked smiles. No matter what sort of mood he was in or how much brooding he had been doing, she always knew exactly how to smile to make him feel better. She pulled away and, while she slipped her hand into his and dusted snow off their jacket, Varric looked towards to where Theran was still standing on the battlements, staring out at the snowy mountains.

“You should get to bed, too, kid,” he suggested. “You know how Sparkler is.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes moved over to him and a bemused expression flickered briefly his face. “I do,” he responded with a curt nod. “You’re right. Goodnight, Varric. Goodnight, Hawke.”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” Hawke answered as Theran turned on his heel and began the long, lonely trek back to his quarters.

Varric made a note to check in with him before they left for the Arbor Wilds. He had been spending so much time with Hawke that he didn’t realize until now how wounded Theran must’ve been, too.

Poor kid.

“So,” she said then, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Engaged.”

“Engaged,” Varric agreed, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. He tugged on her arm. “Did you ever think we’d get here?”

“Oh, no. I thought some templar would’ve killed me years ago.”

He chuckled in agreement. That made two of them. “And yet, here you are…”

“Here we are,” she corrected. “Even after everything that’s happened, here we are, alive and…”

As she trailed off, Varric squeezed her hand. “Alive and well,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied, half to him and half to herself. “I mean… getting there.”

That was something, at least. Varric kissed her shoulder, leaving a lip-shaped imprint in the layer of snow, and then stood on his tip-toes to kiss her cheek. “Well, I’m gonna be there with you the whole way,” he told her as smirk teased his lips. “Not that I have much of a choice anymore –“

She shot him a glare full of daggers and rammed her knobbly elbow into his side. “Ow!” he exclaimed, yanking his hand out of her grasp. “I was kidding, Hawke!”

“Mm-hmm.” Hawke wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him close as they rather clumsily walked together towards the lights in the windows of the tavern that appeared like orange phantoms between the flurries of fluffy snow. “You might want to take it back anyway, since I had some very nice things planned for us tonight and I’m not sure if a naughty man such as yourself deserves them anymore…”

“I take it back,” Varric replied as he tipped his head back to look up at her. “There’s nothing in the whole of Thedas I want more than to marry you, Hawke, and I’ll be damned if something or someone tries to stop me from doing just that.”

She dropped a kissed to his nose, nudging open the door to one of Skyhold’s towers with her shoulder. “We better get planning, then.”

And they did. Varric’s letters piled up on the desk in their room until spilled all over the ground and Cassandra’s patience grew very, very thin, but he didn’t particularly care. Wedding planning was a lot more work than he expected. Not only did he have to spend hours arguing with everyone – particularly Dorian – about what decorations he and Hawke were going to decide on and what food they were going to serve during the celebrations afterward, he also had to figure out what he was going to wear.

Hawke didn’t have the same problem he did. They had only been engaged for two days when he sealed and sent away a velvet sack full of sovereigns that was payment for her wedding dress. “And I don’t even get to see it,” he grumbled as he passed it to the courier standing besides Skyhold’s front gates.

Hawke, standing behind him with her hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, gave an unsympathetic laugh next to his ear. “You’ll get to see it when we’re getting married,” she told him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “Isn’t that enough?”

“What if it doesn’t even fit?” he asked.

Hawke spun them both around, pointing them towards the tavern.

“Josephine was very particular about getting my measurements right,” she assured him as they began to struggle up the stairs. “I think she’s more excited about this than we are.”

Varric didn’t doubt it. He wanted to marry Hawke, of course, and there was nothing that could change that, but the whole ordeal felt like a little too much, especially when he wanted to do it as soon as he could. It was just their friends attending, after all - it didn’t need to be some big thing. But Josephine insisted, and then Hawke insisted, and… well, he’d do anything to make her happy, especially now and especially when he wasn’t sure how long it’d last until something else came along and crushed her.

Though Isabela being in Skyhold made that seem a little less likely. He had been mildly horrified when Hawke said she invited Isabela to officiate their wedding – “She officiated Mahariel’s wedding as well!” she informed him rather matter-of-factly without even catching herself – and yet… the thought of seeing her again was a damn nice one.

They had to trudge through ankle-deep snow in Skyhold’s courtyard just to reach the front gate on the day of her arrival. To Varric’s absolute delight, she was still wearing her pirate hat, though the edges were weighed down with snow.

“This had better be worth it,” Isabela said with her usual smirk. “My fingers falling off wouldn’t be good for anyone. And please tell me Carver is coming - I want to see that silver hair of his in person…”

“He’s coming,” Hawke replied, “though I think you’ll be disappointed about his hair.”

“Carver’s coming?” Varric asked as the two women embraced. It seemed that Hawke had done even more for the wedding without him than he even realized. He wasn’t surprised, though. Once she put her mind to something, she’d do it or die trying. He knew that all too well.

“He’s due here the day before the wedding, but…” Hawke shrugged, reaching up and smacking one of the heavy feathers hanging down from Isabela’s hat out of her face. “We’re not having without him.” Varric couldn’t help but agree.

Isabela grabbed Hawke’s arm and took off towards the tavern, tugging her along easily despite the height of the heels on her pirate boots in the snow. “What about big brother Garrett? Will he trudging through the mountains ass-deep in snow just to see you walk, as well?”

“He and Anders are helping the wardens recover after… after Adamant,” Hawke answered before Varric could jump in.

It was the first time she had said the name in weeks. She hadn’t even spoken of Adamant at all since the night of Varric’s proposal. He supposed that the less she brought it up, the less she thought about it, which was something he fully supported, but he couldn’t help but notice the faltering in her step as she spoke about it for the first time in a long time.

Isabela stopped, then, slowly turning on her heel to look at Hawke. “Yes, about that -”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hawke interrupted with an uncomfortable laugh. “At least not right now. We should celebrate that you’re here, instead!”

She didn’t notice the obviously concerned glance that Isabela shot in Varric’s direction before grinning. “I suppose the bride-to-be should be the one to claim all the shots… as long as I get to choose what drink is in them.”

“Deal.”

The two women hugged again once more, long and lingering, before starting off towards the tavern again.

Hawke was quiet that night when she and Varric returned to their quarters, stepping through the piles of papers and unwashed clothes on the floor of their quarters to get to their dresser and then, eventually, their bed.

“… I still can’t believe she almost out-drank Bull,” Varric laughed as he pulled his tunic over his head and threw it onto the chair that stood untucked from his desk and untouched for days. “She doesn’t even look like she’s aged a day since Kirkwall. I mean, how does she –“

He turned around to see Hawke sitting still and staring out the window. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it had become an unwelcome one, and also one Varric didn’t think he’d again see for a while. Letting out a sigh, he watched her for a moment, her shock of short red hair fluttering in the breeze coming in through the slit in the window and her blue eyes even bluer with a watery sheen, before padding around the room to blow out all the candles but one and then joining her on the bed.

“You’re allowed to be happy, you know,” he said gently, sitting against the wall and reaching forward to ease her back down into his lap.

“I know,” she replied on a hitched breath, closing her eyes as he swept her hair from her face and ran his fingers through it. “I mean… I think I know. I want to marry you, Varric, that hasn’t changed. But then I remember the look on the Zevran’s face or I see him and his daughter looking so lost without Mahariel and I…”

She swore to herself and Varric grimaced.

“I know,” he said. “You think I don’t struggle with shit like that too, Hawke? We all do! This place, this country… Everywhere you look and everywhere you go, there are warzones and dead bodies and…”

“And what to we do?”

Tension enveloped to them for what felt like a thousand years when finally Varric cleared his throat. “What I’ve learned…” He bent forward so they were face to face and he hung there, wordless, until she cracked an eye open. “Is that we just gotta really… take life by the tits.” He kept talking through her laughter. “And we’ve gotta live. We’ve gotta live for the people that didn’t and for ourselves, too. ‘Cuz you don’t want to die thinking ‘I wish I married Varric’, do you? I certainly don’t! Some day when some assassin runs me through, I want to think, ‘I’m glad I married Hawke because I fuckin’ love my wife.’”

She met his eyes. “Wife.”

“Damn right.”

There was a giggle at the back of her throat. “Just a short time away, now.”

Time had gone by so quickly he could barely believe it. On the other hand, however, he felt like he’d been waiting for it for centuries. “Yeah,” he said, “let’s hope those assassins don’t come early, then.”

He left Hawke laughing, crawling to their bedside table and blowing out the last candle he had left aflame before joining her beneath the blankets and hugging her very close, whispering reassurances in her ear until they both managed to fall asleep.

In the days leading up to their wedding, Varric spent a lot of time thinking. He watched Skyhold’s workers string up fake frilly flowers on the walls and tested various meals Josephine had laid out for him to taste and sat in on war table meetings about what the army was expecting to face when they travelled to the Arbor Wilds at the end of the month and he thought. He thought about Bartrand and Isabela and Anders and Fenris and Aveline, and Knight-Commander Meredith and Enchanter Orsino, and he even thought about Carver occasionally but, mostly, he thought about Hawke. He thought about how grateful he was that the Maker, if He was really out there, made their paths cross that day in Kirkwall. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

Varric was not a man to play down his talents. He knew what he was good at, what gifts he had, and he took great pride in them. But he was most proud of the fact that a woman as wild and as wondrous as Hawke loved him and kept loving him each and every day even when the world tried its hardest to split them apart.

And they were getting married. Ha! If only Bartrand knew their little expedition to the Deep Roads would lead to this.

Carver arrived the day before the wedding as planned but he was thoroughly miserable – he had been caught in a snowstorm on his way up the mountain and spent two days in the Inquisition camp in the valley. When Hawke and Varric met him at the front gate, his cold glare and hard frown were almost a match for the ice he was unsteadily standing on.

“You’re lucky I was already in Ferelden for Warden work,” he grumbled as Hawke launched herself at him. “If we weren’t as disorganized as we are, then I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to come for this.”

“Oh, drop the act, Carver,” Hawke scolded into his neck as he tightened his arms around her waist. “I know you’re happy to see me.”

He rolled his eyes at Varric but his frown was gradually easing into a smile. “Yes, well… after what happened –“

“No Adamant talk,” Varric cut in almost a little too harshly. “Not until after the wedding, at least.”

“Right. The wedding.” Carver put Hawke back down and patted her shoulder. “Good to see someone’s finally going to make an honest woman out of you.”

“Oh, Carver… No one could make an honest woman out of me. Especially not Varric.”

He laughed, reaching up and running a hand through his hair – black for the most part with the faintest hint of silvery tips. Varric hadn’t even noticed them before.

Maker, they were all getting old. But it was a good feeling.

“I suppose that’s true,” Carver said. “By the way… I couldn’t help some scouts talking in the valley –“

“Yes, Isabela is here,” Hawke replied.

Carver gawked at her. “How did you know that’s what I was going to ask?”

“Because I just knew.” She grinned at him. “And, by the way, she’s excited to see you.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

She linked her arm through his and led him towards the tavern, where the ship captain was already waiting for the both of them, talking all the while, and Varric followed behind slowly, face turned toward the clouds.

Skyhold had been hectic in the days before Carver’s arrival. Not only in preparation for the wedding but for the Inquisition’s journey to the Arbor Wilds, as well. No one had much of an idea as to what they were going to face, and they wanted to be ready. And if they weren’t ready… well, they didn’t want to leave Skyhold weighed down by regrets. The wedding had come at the perfect time.

Dawn came slowly on the morning of their wedding after a much-needed sleep, and with it came Hawke’s early departure. “It’s bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day,” she said after Varric awoke, planting her hand over his eyes before he even opened them so he couldn’t look at her.

“All these rituals,” he murmured as he puckered his lips to kiss her palm.

“I want to do this right,” she replied. “I want something to go right.”

“It will,” he assured her. “Everything with you and me always goes right.”

He wasn’t wrong. He hoped she knew that, too. If something was going to go well, it’d be their wedding. He had made sure of it. Hawke moved her fingers just enough to lean in and press a quick kiss his lips. “I need to go,” she whispered against his mouth. “So no peeking.”

“No promises,” he said, pulling her in for a second kiss and then, after a happy hum of approval, a third.

After she had gone - without Varric daring to take even the sneakiest of glances, as per her wish - he dragged himself out of bed and set up a small looking glass on his desk to stare at himself in. Unlike Hawke, no one was clambering to help him get ready, so he supposed he’d have to do it himself.

Of course, that was when Dorian knocked on his door. Well, knocked on it and then promptly opened it.

The morning blurred into the afternoon in a haze of boot polish and a hasty last minute wash of Varric’s nicest white shirt and, before he even caught a moment to sit down and catch his breath, it was time to head to the chapel. Hawke wasn’t there when he arrived, nor was Carver, but Isabela was standing proudly beneath the statue of Andraste with her pirate hat jauntily tilted on her head and an entertained expression on her face as she examined it. He walked over to her, wringing his hands together.

She turned around at his approach. “You should see some of the paintings of Andraste I’ve seen…” She gestured towards it and frowned. “This doesn’t compare in the slightest.”

“No? I heard dresses made out of stone were very in-style these days.”

“They couldn’t have even painted the skirt white or shown a bit of leg. How boring.”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “You should tell the clerics in the Grand Cathedral that. I’m sure they’d love your input.

“Hmm… I should go to Orlais soon, and if not to piss off the Chantry than for the wine. And the cheese, too.”

“They do have good wine and cheese,” Varric said, shifting back and forth on his feet. “Is there anywhere you’re looking forward to go after this is all over?”

“Here and there,” she answered. “And I’m hoping to make some more coin before I do. Actually, you know, I was thinking about it last night… This is, what, the second wedding I’ve done?” She turned to him with her hip cocked. “I should start charging for this. Cruises and weddings by Isabela – now that has a nice ring to it.”

“How about honeymoons?” Varric chuckled. “After this Inquisition business is over and done with, Hawke and I might need to get away for a while. Before going back to Kirkwall, I mean.”

“You don’t even need to ask,” Isabela replied. “I have missed my favourite drinking buddies.”

“Yeah, well… We’ve missed you, too.”

She was about to say something else when her amber eyes slid over to the door and her smirk grew into a smile almost as wide as the brim of her hat.

In the time he had approached Isabela and started talking to her, everyone else had been seated in the few pews they managed to keep in the chapel after setting up all of the decorations, and as soon as he followed her gaze he could see Hawke and Carver standing in the doorway, silhouetted so strongly by the bright sunlight in the garden behind them that they were nothing more than two shadows. Only when they stepped further into the room and the door was shut tightly behind them could Varric really, truly see her.

“Andraste, eat you heart out,” Isabela commented under her breath. He didn’t even hear her.

Varric had seen many things over the years. He had seen Orlesian paintings smaller than the nail of his thumb and taller than the ceiling in his room back at the Hanged Man. He had seen all sorts of statues – marble, gold, bronze, silver. He had seen Hightown during thunderstorms and Lowtown during hurricanes, and he had stood in the Kirkwall harbour and seen every colour of every kind of sunset that one person could see, and yet nothing – nothing – was as beautiful as Hawke was. He told himself he wasn’t going to cry, but… he couldn’t really help it when he began tearing up. Especially not when she was tearing up, too.

The dress was pretty – white, with flared sleeves and embroidered flowers – but she could’ve been wearing a sack for all he cared. In fact, she could’ve just emerged from the Maker-forsaken swamps in the Fallow Mire with twigs sticking out from her hair and mud caked on her face and he would’ve thought she looked perfect.

When she reached him, they were both crying, and whatever speech Isabela was giving went unheard. Varric was trying to wipe the tears from Hawke’s cheeks at the same time she tried to get him to stop laughing and it wasn’t until Isabela cleared her throat that they remembered other people were there and that they were listening. The ceremony was short. Within minutes, they were being prompted to kiss one another while the small crowd of spectators in the chapel began to clap and cheer them on.

Hawke twined her arms around his neck and leaned in close. “Husband,” she murmured to him.

“Wife,” he murmured back before he pressed his lips to hers.

Night had fallen as the after party finally rolled around and they headed into the great hall. The room, already, smelt of booze and Ferelden stew, and though both of them were eager to sit down and talk to their friends, instead Varric and Hawke took up positions by the door to the garden where members of the Inquisition greeted them and congratulated them as they entered. Cassandra, to their surprise, shook both of their hands. She might’ve even winked at Varric.

Afterwards, there was dinner, and after that, there was cake. They even popped open a bottle of some fancy Orlesian champagne that Hawke and Varric both drank more than their fair share of before finally passing off to Carver and Isabela. The whole ordeal was the same as their relationship – a little messy, a little chaotic, but also warm and loving, and Varric was so unbelievably happy. Which, he thought, he deserved. Both of them deserved it.

They didn’t get many wedding gifts, but they got a few. Theran’s in particular surprised them both. “I don’t really know how to give you this,” he began uneasily, holding a rather large crate in his arms that Varric swore was moving of its own accord.

They shared a look.

“It’s not something deadly, right?” Varric asked.

Theran looked upset. “No, it’s not! Well… maybe,” he replied. “But… um… look, maybe it’s best if you opened it?”

He set the crate on the ground. As Varric crouched down to remove the blanket covering the top of the crate, however, he was surprised to find that something else – the thing inside - did it first. After some rustling and some untangling on Theran’s behalf, Varric and Hawke were presented with a small puppy.

Huh.

“It’s a… well, it’s a girl. You can name it whatever you like. I thought it might be fun for the two of you to have one, a-and I thought that if you ever needed comforting then, you know…”

“You got us a dog?”

The colour bled out from Theran’s face at Hawke’s surprised tone. “If you don’t like her, I can always –“

In her usual fashion, Hawke threw herself onto Theran as she hugged him, and it was only his strength that kept them both from falling to the ground. “I love her,” she whispered excitedly into his hair. “Thank you so much, Theran, for everything.”

He was blushing when he set her back down, wringing his hands nervously, eyes dancing around the room. “I don’t know if I have much to be thanked for –“

“You do.” Hawke planted a firm hand on his shoulder, her tone light yet insistent at the same time. “You’re a good person. Don’t get too down on yourself, okay?”

He looked like he was going to cry. “Okay,” he said, nodding to himself. “Okay. I won’t.”

She smiled before giving him a gentle shake and nudging him in the direction of the musicians. “Looks like a certain someone is waiting to dance with you,” she said, lifting her eyebrows in Dorian’s direction. “Go have some fun.”

For the first time since Adamant, Theran looked at peace. “Okay, I will!” he chirped, dashing off towards the makeshift dance floor and leaving them with a puppy at their feet that he, within seconds, came back to scoop up in his arms. “Though I’ll probably… bring her upstairs for tonight,” he said sheepishly. “Just in case you… Yes.”

They all knew very obviously what he was implying, and even Varric felt himself beginning to flush. “Thanks, kid,” he said good-naturedly, waving Theran off. “Take care of her and then go dance with Sparkler. You earned it.”

As Theran pushed through the crowd with a crate and a puppy in his arms, Hawke turned to Varric and smiled. “Do you have any other surprises for me?” she asked.

“Me?” Varric hadn’t planned on getting a dog. “That was all him.”

She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “Is it gonna hurt your feelings when I tell you that that was the best part of my day?”

“Yeah, a little!” Varric replied haughtily. “But hey, I’ll make it up to you…”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow as he snaked an arm around her and hugged her close to his chest. “And how are you gonna do that?”

He let his lips ghost over hers before abruptly pulling back and leading her towards the dance floor.

“I’ve been practicing my dips,” he announced to her as she groaned and rolled her eyes and trudged after him. “You’ll be veeeee-ry impressed.”

“And if I’m not, then you’ll get us another dog?”

“I make no promises.”

Neither of them were particularly majestic creatures, and their dancing certainly wasn’t, either, but it was fun, especially when Hawke accidentally broke both of her shoes and received an amused scolding from Josephine and especially when they were almost kicked off the dance floor for being too tipsy (but they played the ‘marriage’ card to get a special pass). Hours passed, however, and by the time midnight came, the two of them were the last ones to be dancing after everyone, save for Isabela and Carver who were flirting in the corner, went to sleep.

“… And I thought it’d be too much if I asked you if I could sleep in your bed.”

“Yeah, but you did anyway.”

“Yeah, because you offered!” Hawke protested.

“Only because you were drunk and I wasn’t convinced you’d be able to crawl yourself back to Gamlen’s house and get there in one piece.”

“Hey.” She frowned at him and punched him playfully on the arm. “I’d barely make it, but I’d still make it.”

“I know you would,” Varric replied. “You’ve got all the determination of a mother bear and all the grace of one, too.”

She punched him again, more times than he could count, until he kissed her to get her to stop.

“Do you ever think about that?” she asked once they had taken up their dancing positions again and started twirling around even farther in the room. “Being parents? Having kids?”

The thought had crossed his mind once or twice, but he’d never wanted to bring it up before. “We already have a kid, now, don’t we?”

“I mean other than the dog,” she tutted.

“Well… yeah, a few times, a guess,” Varric answered in truth. “Why, do you want some?”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “It’s certainly something we should talk about more,” she told him, though he could tell in the wistful look on her face that she had more than made up her mind. “But, as of right now… I think we have our own private celebration to get to.”

He hadn’t realized it, but she was tugging him down the length of the great hall towards the doorway that would, eventually, lead them to their quarters.

“Oh, do you now?” Varric said, bemused.

“I do indeed.” She squeezed his hands. “And I had another bottle of that champagne sent to our quarters…”

Varric would never tire of hearing her say that.

“Well then, wife,” Varric replied with a grin, “lead the way.”

They didn’t do much sleeping that night, though, nor did they do much of anything else – they ended up lying half-clothed on Varric’s floor, Hawke knuckle-deep in his chest hair while he played with the lacy hem of her nightgown, talking about whatever they could think of off the top of their heads. Occasionally they got up to refill their tankards, and on one occasion Hawke dared Varric to sneak down to the kitchen and steal a cinnamon roll fresh from the ovens – which he managed to do without getting caught, though a suspiciously familiar Antivan accent called out to him at one point from Josephine’s office – and they… laughed. They talked and they laughed until the sun was rising and Varric convinced Hawke to move to the bed (which she did, eventually, after plenty of protesting).

Both of them were drifting off to sleep when Varric, his face previously pressed up against Hawke’s chest, drew away and looked up at her.

“Are you happy, Miryam?”

She scoffed and didn’t even bother opening her eyes as she answered. “With you, Varric?” she said. “Always.”

Hawke fell asleep almost immediately after, but Varric didn’t. He was awake until the sun came up and long after. There was a certain serenity to just being there with her in silence – no war table meetings, no responding to letters, no warding off Cassandra, just being there with Hawke and playing with her hair as she slept next to him. It was the most at home he’d felt in… probably his whole damn life.

He never thought anyone would mean this much to him, but Hawke did. She’d waltzed her way into his life, latched her fingers around his wrists and seared her smile into the backs of his eyelids, and never let him go. And he was thankful. Not only had she saved his life a thousand times, but she made him laugh and smile a thousand times a day, and, most of all she made him feel so at home. His things were not his things anymore, his quarters not his – they were theirs. And he felt so damned safe with her, because, when the world threw demons and mages and templars at the two of them, Hawke and Varric threw them right back.

After some consideration, Varric decided that he was a lucky man, after all.

[everlock101]

Sister

Another random drabble idea I had between Iron Bull and my OC Lucy.

Summary: Bull gets hurt. Lucy isn't happy.

When the Iron Bull awoke, he was on a bed. A rather large bed which was unusual because he didn't fit in most beds over here. While not entirely pleasant, he was accustomed to his tiny bed in the inn. 

He fit on this bed. It was nice, luxurious. Even his horns fit without falling off the sides. 

Where was he? 

He finally opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings. The room was unfamiliar but the presence beside him was not.

Tilting his head, he found Lucy. 

She sat beside the large bed, head tipping forward so he couldn't see her face. Her whole body was tense and her fists in her lap were shaking. 

Immediately, Bull tensed. What was wrong? Had something happened to her? If someone had hurt her, he'd rip them apart. He'd- 

She sniffled. Bull watched as a few years splattered on the backs of her hands. 

Oh, now there would be blood. Lucy was family. She was sister, although it had taken living here and getting to know her to fully understand what that meant. Whoever had made her cry would beg for mercy. They'd-

"How could you do that?' her question was quiet but it stopped the raging thoughts in his head. Bull's brow furrowed. 

"Pardon?" His voice was gravelly from sleep. How long had he been lying in this fancy room? Her shaking got worse. Bull wanted to reach out, to try and comfort, but as he moved, pain split up his side.

Oh. Right. That. 

They'd encountered some red Templars, vicious ones with nasty serrated swords. One of them had descended on Lucy's exposed side. Bull had seen she wouldn't turn in time. 

"How could you just take that hit?" Her voice shook with anger. "How could you dive forward like that with no consideration of your own life? How could you do that?!" Her voice rose, breaking, but she still hasn't looked up at him. 

"Lucy," he said firmly. "He was going to get you. I had to-"

"Dorian had a barrier over me! Sure I might've been knocked down but I'd have been fine. I wouldn't have been lying there bleeding to death." Her fists tightened. Bull could see the white of her bones. She was furious and Bull wanted to help but he didn't understand. 

"Kid," he started, impatient to figure this out.

She jerked to her feet cutting him off. Her hair still hung over her face and he wished he could see her expression. 

"You idiot!" She shouted. Bull's eyes widened in surprise. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?! Krem has been beside himself! You've been unconscious for days. Your heartbeat stopped twice and the healers almost didn't manage to bring you back the second time! You could have died!" She was openly weeping now and while Bull understood now, he didn't quite understand. 

"You...were...worried?" At that, for the first time, her head jerked up. Her hair fell away revealing an angry looking cut on her cheek that was starting to heal. Tears spilled over her pale cheeks. She looked sick and gaunt and exhausted. 

"What?" The question sounded strange after all the yelling, sharp and quiet. Bull frowned as he tried to explain. 

Worry, was simply something he felt for others, not something felt about him.

"Of course I was worried about you?" The words came on an explosive breath. Lucy stared at him and Bull gazed back trying to comprehend what it all meant.

She worried about him.

That was a new feeling. 

"It's my job to protect you," he tried. "You shouldn't worry about me." Her face twisted in sadness.

"Bull, do you still only see me as a job?"

No. No. That wasn't what he had meant. 

"No, that's-it's-" What was happening? Bull had never been lost for words before. Never. 

"We're family." She sounded so small when she said it and when Bull looked at her, she just looked vulnerable. "You called me sister once. I call you brother. Bull, I love you. If you died-" Her voice broke and she choked on more tears. "I was so afraid I was going to lose someone else that I care about." More tears and Bull just wanted them to stop. His little sister shouldn't be crying. 

Slowly, he sat up, conscious of his burning side. 

"No," her hands fluttered, trying to push him back down. He ignored her and managed a semi-upright position. 

"I'm sorry." The words were simple and he wasn't sure if they were the right ones but they were all he could think to say.

Because now, he understood. 

The reason she was crying and yelling, it was the same reason that had driven him in front of that hit because how would he have felt, if she had been the one lying on this bed, if she had been the one whose heart had stopped twice? 

He'd be just as angry, just as scared, just as lost. 

She sat beside him, finally giving up the fight of pushing him back down. Her hand found his and held onto him tightly. 

They sat in silence for a moment as Lucy spilled the last of her tears. When she finally looked back up, her eyes were clear. 

"What happened?" Bull asked quietly, pointing to her cheek. A watery smile. 

"The guy who stabbed you. I tackled him." She blushed and Bull couldn't help a surprised smile. "Varric killed him but not before he managed to hit me with his gauntlet." 

They sat there some more until a knock came.

"That'll be Krem," she said softly. "I'll get it." She stood and wiped her face carefully but Bull grabbed her hand again before she could leave. She looked at him.

"I love you too." He never said the words before. Never expected to say them ever. But they fell out of his mouth naturally with her. Her eyes watered again but she smiled and squeezed his hand. 

Sister. 

(Don't own anything but Lucy)

[ellstersmash]

Three: Nine

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU) / Minor Cullen x f!Lavellan

Rating: T for Teen

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Cullen stares at her open palm.

“That’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” She laughs mirthlessly. “Uh, unless you’ve got another girlfriend stashed somewhere, I damn well think it is my business.”

He snatches the box from her hand, snaps it shut with a heavy click, tosses it in with his things.

“Let it go,” he says.

“Right,” she hisses. “Sure. Let’s forget about the engagement ring you had wrapped up in your boxers. Let’s just not talk about that.”

“Why not?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We can put it with all the other things we don’t talk about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what I said: we don’t talk about things.”

“About what?”

“About anything! About us, and this, where it’s going, if you’re happy, and every time I try, you shut down or deflect.”

“So, what, you bought a ring just to make me talk about it?”

“No, Athi, I didn’t.”

“Oh gods,” she groans. “Tell me this isn’t like, your grandmother’s or something.”

He folds his arms in front of his chest like a shield, and does not answer.

“Fuck.” She’s pacing now, stomping over sleeping bags. “Fuck, Cullen, you can’t just shove this into the fast lane! I don’t even know if I want to be with—”

Cullen’s eyes narrow and go a little cold as she cuts herself off.

“Care to finish that sentence?” he asks.

She does not. “Quit turning this around on me, it’s not about me.”

“That’s funny,” but he isn’t laughing. “See, because you always make it about you. Even this, which really, truly is not about you, you've made about you.” Even this close to a whisper, his words cut like a blade, sharp and pointed and made to hurt.

“Fine, then,” she says and crosses her arms. “By all means, enlighten me. What's this really about?”

He closes his eyes, inhales slow, exhales through pursed lips.

“I’ve been waiting,” he finally says. Softly, and after all his harshness, it feels like a trap. “Pretty damn patiently, I think, for you to give me something. Anything. Some part of you. Something real, some . . . I don’t know, indication that you want this. Want me.”

“It’s a pretty big jump to—”

“Maker’s balls, woman. I’m trying to be honest here. Could you quit talking at me for a damn second?”

She snaps her jaw shut.

“I’m sorry, just—” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “What do you want from me? Because I can’t figure it out to save my life. You didn’t have to call me, but you did. You didn’t have to stay with me, but you did. Now we’re together, playing the happy couple, but I have no idea how you feel about me. I thought this”—he gestures around the tent walls—“meant something. Your family’s far away, I understand that, and I don’t want to rush you. But meeting your friends? That’s something.”

He fishes the velvet box out from his pile of clothes, thumb rubbing against the lid but he doesn’t open it.

“This was . . . this belonged to someone else. She loved me, and she said yes, and we planned our life together. And then she died. A few weeks before our wedding.”

It comes out of nowhere. Feels like a sucker punch, and she’s reeling.

“Creators, Cullen.”

“I tried to sell it, but couldn’t imagine it on someone else’s hand. Her parents wouldn’t take it. So I figured I’d hold onto it until maybe I could let it go. Then some years passed, and I healed, and then you came along and . . . ” He shrugs. “Anyway, I thought this was something.”

Her stomach sinks. “You were going to let it go.”

All of her words—her assumptions, her accusations, her almost-admissions—still hang in the air, a deafening miasma that burns when she breathes it back in.

“Clearly, I was mistaken, because I still don’t know why I’m here. I still don’t know what you want.” He drops the box back in his bag with his shirts and socks and deodorant. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Cullen shakes his head, and a slew of emotions flicker across his face like slides of an old film. “I am not a man who settles for half-measures, Athi, and I am tired of this one. So tell me. What do you want?”

Her mouth falls open, but she has no answer for him.

“No, you know what?” His voice is icy now, his gaze unyielding steel. “It doesn’t matter. What you want doesn’t matter. Because I’m done.”

Athi chokes back something—not a sob, not really—and he kneels to pack his things. He’s neat, tidy, and there isn’t much to gather; it doesn’t take him more than a minute.

“I’m sorry, Cullen. I tried to—”

“You tried.” He laughs, cold and harsh. “Tried, what, to love me?”

The shame burns all the way to the tips of her ears. It sounds ridiculous, said out loud. Said like that. She cries, then, but it feels like begging and she scrubs the wet from her face with the back of her hand.

He hoists his bag onto his shoulder. Looks around the emptier tent.

“Kind of wish you hadn’t.”

She stares at the shifting circle of light as he leaves her. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t draw it out. Shoves past her, slams the car door, and drives away hating her.

The smoke from off her skin stings her eyes.

When the sound of his engine fades into cricket mating calls and a crackling fire, she grabs a bottle of something from the stash by Sera’s tent and takes it to the lake. Doesn’t look at Solas, though she sees him, illuminated, from the corner of her eye.

Knees hugged close, she drinks too-sweet rum by the water like a godsdamned pirate, and she cries and she drinks and she plays back all those months. All those half-truths. All those excuses. All those choices she got wrong. All those things she shouldn’t have said before he left, and all the things she should have.

She cries and she drinks and she thinks and she feels.

Sick. Empty. Guilty. Lonely. Foolish. Frightened.

Free.

    “Hey.”

Sera’s voice brings the sun in with it. Cruel and sudden, a flash of red on the backs of her eyelids, and Athi groans. She doesn’t remember coming back to her tent, or really much of anything past a quarter-bottle. Something hovers just out of reach, faint and wavering, and the harder she tries, the less certain it feels. Something about her head tipped back, watching the stars below the water from upside down.

She lets it go, for now. It doesn’t make enough sense and the sharp pain gripping her skull makes remembering seem a lot less important.

“You okay?” Sera asks. “Need anything?”

“Fuck off,” she says into her pillow.

Sera sighs, sounds like the sweet spot of the scissors catching on wrapping paper. One long clean cut. “Don’t be an assface,” she says.

Athi huffs, and it hurts. “Thirsty.”

“Behind you.”

She turns, no small effort, and peeks one eye open. That hurts, too. Sure enough, though, there’s a clear plastic bottle, half-hidden by the blanket she’d thrown off at some point. She gulps down half its tepid contents and caps it tight.

A rustling sound, and then a warm body presses in close behind her, arm tight around her middle and a raspberry blown on the back of her neck. She flinches away from the unexpected contact, but Sera gathers her back in.

“Sera what the—”

“I’m being here, stupid. For you.”

“For me.”

“But Cullen’s the stupid one, you know. For leaving. You’re a catch, and the fish are in the sea, and all that.”

“Um. Thanks.”

Fucking void. They hadn’t been that loud, but then . . . Solas had been right there.

She really hadn’t pegged him as the type to run his mouth, though.

Whatever. That’s a problem for later. Athi shifts in Sera’s arms and rolls her neck with a series of cracks that sound a whole lot more satisfying than they are. Straightens her spine, curls up tighter. Then she gives in to the discomfort with a whimper.

Everything hurts.

“What if I wanted to be the big spoon?” she grumbles.

“Psh, you’re teeny. Got to be big for that . . .”

Got to be big. It’s fading fast, fraying at the edges, flashes of moving horizontal under the trees. And something about her father? But again, the memory unravels even as she grasps at it, until she’s not sure she remembers it at all.

“Might make a decent backpack, though,” Sera continues. “Now shut up and sleep while I still can.”

Sleep she can do. So they doze until it gets too hot, sun on canvas and bodies and blankets.

The second waking is almost worse. Sera goes looking for lunch while Athi changes. It's slow going; her muscles are stiff and sore, and this is why she doesn’t drink rum. If it weren't so stifling, she’d consider never moving. Never leaving this tent. Never facing what Solas does or does not know, shared or did not share. Never telling them why she’s alone.

A person can go more than three weeks without food. What’s one day?

But her teeth feel gritty and her stomach grumbles and the heat makes her head pound. So she forces her chin up and emerges into the light.

They’re scattered around the cluster of campsites, all of her friends and their faces full of pity. Except Leliana, who sets her hands on Athi’s shoulders and offers to kill him.

She is probably kidding.

“So, Cullen really just left?” Josie says gently. “Are you certain it’s over? Perhaps there was a misunderstanding.”

There was.

Cassandra answers for her. “It does not sound that way, Josephine. Ugh, and he seemed so genuine.”

He is.

“Do you want me to write him into my book?” offers Varric. “I think there’s room for one more dastardly villain.”

Dorian tsks him. “He is, at best, a lowly scoundrel. By the by, is there perchance any room for a handsome, yet also quite brilliant hero?”

Everyone’s around except Solas, and Athi’s not sure if she’s relieved or annoyed. By his absence, by their attention, by everything and anything and nothing at all. By the gnawing in her gut as they crucify Cullen’s character, and as she lets them, using their distraction to sidle away unnoticed.

The table is spread with food, chips and bread and meats and cheeses, fruit, a tray of brownies and crumbs, but it might as well be empty. None of it looks appetizing. She settles for an apple, yellow-green and freckled with brown. Supposedly, they’re almost as good for energy as coffee, which sounds like a load of halla shit.

Feels better in her mouth, though. Less like earth, more like air.

She sits, hunched over the table, and carves off slices with a knife, focused in on the shapes of crisp white flesh rimmed in gold.

Bull steps over the bench, holding a sandwich the size of his face on a comically small plate.

“Scoot.”

She does, and he sits, and the table wobbles backward.

“Sure, make me look selfish,” she says, waiting to see how he's going to fit it in his mouth.

He doesn't try, though.

“You know, I didn't really like the guy much anyway,” he says, more to the sandwich than to her.

“It wasn't him,” she admits. Then, because Bull has a way of getting more information than he asks for, adds: “I think I was an ass.”

“Oh yeah? Good, because I was lying.”

She laughs, just a huff of amusement, but it feels good. Her head, on the other hand, is killing her.

The apple’s too much; she leaves it to brown and buries her head in her folded arms. A reprieve from all the brightness and a satisfying stretch along her back.

Bull lays one huge, heavy hand over the ache of it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I really, really don't.”

The pad of his thumb presses into her skin, digs a broad line along the curve of her neck and rubs small circles into the knot he finds where her neck meets her shoulder. He increases the pressure and she grimaces as he bores in toward her bones, but then he slides it away down her spine, and a guttural, broken moan escapes her.

His hand doesn’t stop, even as she tenses at the primal sound.

“Uh . . . do you want to talk about that? ” he teases.

Athi giggles despite herself. Then freezes, feeling a different sort of twisting in her gut.

Her stomach lurches, threatening, and she tumbles back over the bench, runs to the woods. Waits, pulling fresh air into her lungs, anchored by her hand on the rough bark of a tree, trying to ease her churning insides back from their precarious ledge.

It’s no use; she empties the meager contents of her stomach into the weeds.

She deeply regrets the apple.

A rustle ahead and she glances up, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth. It’s Solas, because of course it is, eyes shifting uncomfortably toward her, then away, then back. She’s not sure if she’d rather use her last dregs of effort to glare at him or compose herself.

“Oh. Hello. I was just—” He points back the way he came with a thumb over his shoulder, which means less than he apparently thinks it does. “I did not realize you were awake.”

There is no room in her head for witty one-liners. It’s all don’t throw up, so she only answers: “Yep.”

“Well, are you . . . Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I think you”—she stops to take a slow breath, deep and even, don’t throw up, don’t throw up—“you’ve done enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“What you heard last night was—” Another wave of nausea hits, and she leans her forehead against the young bark. “That was private, Solas . ”

A long silence from him, followed by a heavy sigh. She’s not in the mood to argue anyway, just spits into the grass, turns away with a dismissive wave.

“Athi, I—”

“Gotta go,” she tosses back.

Brush my teeth.

For, like, an hour.

The rest of the day flies by.

She bums some coffee off Varric, which helps immensely with her headache. Then she packs up Cullen’s tent, moves all her stuff into Sera’s, goes swimming again, and again gets too much sun.

Solas keeps his distance, even after her head stops hurting and she wishes maybe he wouldn’t. And when he is finally forced into proximity by the promise of dinner, there’s nothing remorseful about it. He is silent, brooding, chatting privately with Varric until she makes some joke about an ancient ritual.

Should have known it would be a hot-button topic for him.

“I am pleased to hear the Dalish have at least recalled its existence,” he says. “Even if only for the sake of crude remarks.”

It surprises her, the bite of his words. The venom behind them. The arrogance in his voice and the hard, angry look in his eyes.

As if he has the fucking right. She leans forward, elbows on her knees.

“What,” she taunts, “am I not respectful enough for you, Solas? Too casual with my own people’s culture?”

His calm is unflappable. “That is one way of putting it.”

“Here’s another,” she says, and coolly flips up her middle finger.

Bull and Sera chuckle beside her, but Solas scoffs. “Forgive me, but your intent is unclear. Are you attempting to debate my point, or make it for me?”

Athi seethes. And wonders why she ever yearned for his unattainable approval.

Varric, bless him, swiftly recovers the mood, and the collective sense of relief is palpable. Not for her, though. Cullen’s anger didn’t hurt this much.

Solas remains aloof until he retreats to bed after dinner.

Good riddance, then, she tells herself and stays up with the others. Playing cards by the lantern light and trying to keep her eyes on her hand and off his little blue tent. Trying not to think of the way he looked at her last night. Trying not to think about him at all.

    He’s gone when she wakes up. No little blue tent, no rust-eaten sedan, no goodbye.

Not that she was really expecting one.

The others are packing up as well; all except Sera, who’s wandering around looking just as dazed as Athi feels.

Varric, bless him twice, left the last of his coffee behind him. It’s good stuff, too, if a bit lighter than she’d like, and she and Sera sit and sip it on the dock in the late-morning quiet.

Toes in the water, but this time there’s no wind. The lake is placid, mirror-like, peaceful. She’ll miss it when she’s gone.

“So,” Sera says, “that Solas is an interesting one, yeah? Lots of teeth when it comes to old elves and stuff.”

“Apparently, he has a lot to say about a lot of things.”

“Yeah. Wait, what?”

“Forget it.”

Athi takes a long draw of coffee, just barely on the near side of too hot.

“I mean,” she continues, “it was none of his business.”

“Right. Still what?”

“Cullen! Solas was still up. I guess he heard us fighting, and then he fucking told everyone! I mean, what the fuck?”

Sera stiffens, stares into the sky with her face twisted all funny.

“Yeah,” she says. “Right. What the fuck, him.”

But her discomfort is telling. No, Athi thinks. Pleads. No.

“Sera.”

“Mhm,” she says into her mug.

“Sera.”

“Okay! Okay. It was me.”

Athi groans. “Sera!”

“Oh come on, it’s not like they weren’t going to notice his fancy wheels had up and rolled off! I was just preparing the room, is all.”

“And who told you?”

“What, like I can’t work it out for myself?”

“Did you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well I could have.”

“Sera,” Athi sets down her mug, like somehow that means she’s serious. “What did he say?”

“Ugh, fine. Elfy told me that Cullen left, and you had gotten wasted, but he didn’t say wasted, he said something all fancy. Think he used the word ‘imbibed.’ Said you might be confused about where you were, and he asked me to check on you.”

“And that’s when you told everyone else.”

“More or less,” Sera mumbles.

“So I yelled at him for nothing.”

“I mean, he was acting kind of up-there.”

“No, no that.”

Athi shakes her head, hard, and something clicks.

She remembers, just a little. A soothing voice—“Are you all right?” —as the sky rippled above her. Her feet, swept sideways as he lifted her in his arms. The bottle of water he placed next to her bed, tucked in with a reminder to drink it in the morning. Those unraveled pieces, pulled back into focus by one common thread.

He was there.

Oh, she is absolutely, undeniably, unequivocally, an ass.

[thrandilf]

So Distracting Ch 7

The DA2 crew on an adventure

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000896/chapters/35367981

Qunari pirates were the problem of the week. Hawke led his rogues plus Merrill, Anders, and Fenris to The Wounded Coast. It was a full day cross country trek, but traveling with Hawke and the company he kept was never boring.

"You gotta give me SOMETHING," pressed Varric, trailing behind Anders and Fenris. The wild coast was a pleasant walk filled with trees and sunshine when not overrun with bandits and slave traders and one could almost pretend they were out for a picnic if it wasn't for all the heavy armor and weaponry. "Hawke has his romantic comedy going on with his fish out of water over there, but you two? You hated each other! You're angsty! It's what people want."

Merrill wrinkled her nose. "I'm not a fish!"

Anders was used to having a reputation for sexual trysts and tricks, but it hadn't mattered before. And now, with someone like Fenris? "I'm not saying a thing. You'll have better luck getting details on Prince Charming's quite dead love life."

"Don't need 'em!" Varric grinned, teasing. "He's handsome, pure hearted, fierce, faithful, probably good with kids- and completely unattainable. Someone has to stay single for the ladies and a few gentlemen to guiltlessly pine for. He's perfect."

Prince Sebastian laughed, a blush creeping over his face. "I'm a mere chantry brother, Varric. Nothing so high and divine as you say."

"Humble too. Maker, you do it on purpose or what?"

"If only you'd come into my life before I swore my love to Andraste, Varric!" Sebastian playfully pretended to swoon. "In a different life-"

"Oh if only- my rogue in shining armor-"

"Good GOD you two!" exclaimed Hawke over a few giggles. "Varric, aren't you straight?"

"I like to keep people guessing."

Fenris rolled his eyes at the bantering and teasing, but a smile threatened to appear on his face. Never before Kirkwall had his companions been so filterless and free with affection and insults. He watched as Hawke led the group like an exasperated mother hen, as if their verbal entertainment wasn't at least half the reason he brought them anywhere. Merrill and Isabela followed him with arms around each other's waists, Merrill laughing often and Isabela smirking. He wondered if Hawke knew his girlfriend had a crush on Isabela, but then again anyone having a crush on Isabela was nothing new.

"Okay but really, Blondie. You weren't so shy about Isabela putting your electricity trick out there on the table."

Anders sighed. "Drop it, dwarf! Fenris and I-"

"He's loud," stated Fenris. Anders choked and Sebastian suddenly looked away and rubbed his neck while Isabela tuned in with grin. Fenris took Anders's hand in his and shrugged. "You all know we're together. Just stating the obvious."

Varric snorted. "Yes, Broody, I definitely knew that one. Who swept who off their feet?"

Isabela hung back to elbow Varric. "No one sweeps anyone off their feet for hate sex!"

"Correct," said Anders with relief. "No sweeping at all."

"The real question is who said 'shut up' and who said 'make me'!"

Fenris and Anders's silence was telling. Anders squeezed Fenris's hand and flashed a smile. Fenris wished he didn't think that grin was so light and beautiful. "Whatever this is between us, consider yourselves lucky we know how to behave in a camping tent with other people, since there's only two tents," said Anders. "Unlike some people I know."

Merrill giggled and Hawke's ears turned red.

"I wanna be in the shenanigans tent!" declared Isabela, looking at Hawke and Merrill.

"Pass," said Sebastian.

"Pass," said Anders.

"Pass," said Fenris.

"Pass," finished Varric. He looked at his three temporary roommates. "Great, I'm sleeping with a bunch of glow-sticks."

Sebastian shrugged, the metal on his armor glinting particularly bright in the sun. "Just the blessing of the light of the Maker."

The Maker also blessed them with an ogre to fight. The group sprang into action, rogues diving in all directions to confuse it while the mages hung out in the back. Fenris rushed in front alone, swinging his sword with deadly strength and phasing partially into the Fade when the beast swung at him. Isabela took the ogre from behind (ew) and her blades thrust in deep before she sprang back with lightning reflexes. Actual lighting crackled past Fenris's head alongside arrows and crossbow bolts. The ogre roared.

Fenris was the only one it could directly attack- and so it did. He couldn't phase entirely out of a blow and groaned as the ogre's fist collided with his shoulder as he cut into it's thigh. "THIS IS A VERY UNBALANCED TEAM!" he shouted in pain.

Anders's healing magic immediately mended his wound as Isabela took a backhanded hit. "I need healing!" she yelled.

"I need healing!" said Hawke.

"I need healing!" shouted Varric with a smirk.

"I need healing!" Merrill laughed.

"I need healing!" roared Fenris in genuine need as the ogre dislocated his wrist.

"ANDRASTE'S LIPS ON SHARTAN'S COCK!" bellowed Anders, drawing on Justice to heal Fenris first and to instill a stream of healing energy inside the elf. Perhaps Fenris should've taken the healer to bed long ago if this is how he showed his affection. He sank his blade deep into the ogre's chest as Isabela stabbed its neck, killing the beast.

"Ha!" Isabela exclaimed. "Dead!"

Anders scowled and healed her wound, suddenly angling his head up. "My darkspawn senses are tingling!"

A group of darkspawn rushed the party and Fenris charged back, lyrium glowing bright. Darkspawn fell around him from magical blasts and arrows as Fenris ripped through darkspawn in front of him with a snarl. His sword and gauntlets tore and sprayed blood all over his armor and skin as he relished in the gore he could so easily inflict. Anders kept him shielded and healed and Fenris was almost invincible, drunk off the unnaturally murky blood that gushed at his command, the final living head of a darkspawn exploding as he thrust his fist inside the Fade and then caused it to materialize inside the monster's skull, yanking with dark pleasure as it died.

"Holy shit." Hawke stared at Fenris in the center of his blood hurricane. "Remind me to never ever get on your bad side."

They cleaned up and checked for serious wounds- one of which being Sebastian's ears. "Maker, Anders! Could you have said anything more offensive? Andraste's- no I can't even repeat it?"

Anders shrugged. Being both Andrastian and a mage, he danced between devout belief and mandatory blasphemy. "I probably could if you gave me time to brainstorm."

Isabela laughed. "I suspect that particular exclamation came from personal experience?" She eyed Fenris. "Recent experience, perhaps?"

"Oh shut it Isabela!" groaned Anders, albeit without venom. "The priest doesn't need to know how much I like being on my knees!"

"Maker no." Sebastian sighed deeply. "Maker forgive your children..."

Fenris eyed Varric. "Everything you say can and will be used against you, Anders. The dwarf will remember that."

Varric feigned innocence. "Remember what?"

-~-

They set up camp a ways from where they were to make their attack on the pirates before dawn. Isabela, Hawke, and Merrill retired remarkably hastily to their tent and the other four exchanged looks.

"I'll take watch," volunteered Sebastian.

Varric shrugged. "I'm not sleeping yet. I've got fish to fry, quite literally."

"Ew." Fenris moved upwind of the cooking fire Varric was starting and sat by Sebastian. The chantry brother smiled at Fenris and opened his copy of the Chant of Light. It was a wordless invitation and he simply started speaking, not missing how Fenris's eyes followed his voice across the words of the page.

"'Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing,

An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown.

You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr.

Within My creation, none are alone...'"

Sebastian might've irked everyone with his faith or appear too righteous for the likes of their company, but Fenris couldn't help a wave of appreciation for Sebastian wash over him as he let Fenris read alongside him without pushing his beliefs or making a scene of teaching him. Didn't matter that he was an elf, uncertain in his faith, a killer, or anything else.

Fenris was a person, and Sebastian seemed to be one of the few who made him feel just that.

Varric cooked him and Anders dinner in a small frying pan Anders imagined doubled as armor when against his back. "So, Blondie. Justice will let you both eat AND sleep in one evening?"

"Surprisingly, yes." Anders stretched out by the fire, basking in the warmth like a cat and ignoring a high pitched sigh from Hawke's tent. "Possessing a dead body when we first met meant he wasn't prepared for a living one. It's taken time for him to understand my needs beyond activism, but he gets it. Mostly."

Anders flickered blue and Varric huffed. "Seems like he disagrees."

"No, sorry about that." Anders sighed and inhaled the aroma of cooking fish. "I think he still longs to interact with this world more. He appreciates beauty, but feels torn whenever he's distracted from his purpose. A life is going to be many things. Justice, funny as it may be for something usually represented by scales, has no sense of balance."

"So you're trying to teach a Fade spirit to change? What would he be then, a spirit of Freedom?"

Anders paused. He grinned and a flicker appeared on his skin again. "More like indecision is how it feels like. Justice has already changed since joining with me and is confused. Perhaps you're not far off- don't we fight for Justice so others may have freedom?"

Varric served them both their fish and sat back, happy to not have to share his ale with Anders. "I've got characters who talk in my head all the time- call it overactive imagination. I can't imagine a spirit."

"Ha! A lot is direct conversation, but even more so are impulsive and intrusive thoughts." Anders sighed. "Sometimes we really do agree and have the same mind on things, other times it's confusing. My organic impulses tend to be 'run after the stray kitty cat' or 'oh wow, what a good butt', while Justice's impulsive thoughts tend to be 'that's a starving child and I should dump out my pockets for them' and 'gravity is boring outside the Fade'. It's a bit crowded in here."

"Ever think of letting him out to say hello to more people?"

Anders snorted and covered his mouth. "Justice and Sebastian together. Just imagine it."

"Point taken."

"He also has no filter."

"Are you implying YOU do?"

Anders finished his fish and lounged back. Varric took in every word and book ammunition or not, Anders needed someone to listen. "In all fairness, I'm pretty sure Justice has saved my life. He doesn't sleep. Sure my body does and I do, but he's in the back of my mind in case anything happens. He's something of a guardian to me."

"You sound attached- literally."

Anders's grin faded. "Friends are more important than anything, Varric. Maybe I've finally made one no one can ever take away from me."

Varric put a hand on Anders's shoulder. "Look around. You can count more than one, Blondie."

Anders wished he had Varric's certainty.

-~-

Sebastian took first watch as promised as Varric, Fenris, and Anders went to bed. Varric apparently had the dwarvish gift of heavy sleeping and slept almost immediately after unfurling his sleeping mat. Fenris unrolled his sleeping bag and Anders blanched as he looked inside his backpack.

Well, shit. Anders curled up on the ground and rested his head on his hand. Justice sent a small wave of apologetic guilt through Anders. Anders had been tired and rushed to get the clinic together and had been distracted by Fenris- so while Fenris got to go back to his mansion and grab a pre packed bag, Anders and Justice had enough Lyrium potions thrown in their backpack to put on a fireworks show while healing everyone Anders had ever met, but no sleeping bag. Figures.

"Mage?" Fenris propped himself up on his elbow, under his bedding. "What are you doing?"

"I was in a hurry to pack when Hawke showed up and uh, um. Justice forgot too so I don't have a bedroll." Anders squirmed. The evening sea breeze wasn't particularly warm, but he'd live. "I've slept on rocks before, the grass is fine."

"Stupid forgetful idiot!" Fenris's scolding might've sounded more threatening if he wasn't trying to tug Anders into his sleeping bag. "Be useful and get in here."

Anders's heart leapt but he still felt sheepish. "I don't want to impose-"

"Cuddle me." Fenris gave an order rather than a request and Anders grinned. Fenris rolled over and sighed with satisfaction as Anders spooned him and held him close in their bedding, bodies pressed together so Fenris only felt warmth and softness. "Good. This shall compensate for having to share."

Anders's height helped him be a good snuggler, Fenris's head tucked under his and their legs twined together. He kissed Fenris's hair and pet his chest, nuzzling him and pushing up Fenris's tunic to rub his abdomen. It was tactfully under their blanket and facing away from Varric, but not an available route after already teasing Hawke for his displays of affection (made relevant by another moan from the other tent).

"If you arouse me-" growled Fenris under his breath, turning his head back to hiss near Anders's ear, "I'll have you crying and screaming your throat raw over whatever I damm well feel like the next time we set foot in my house."

It occurred to Fenris after Anders shivered and bit hit his lip that maybe growling and threatening a man who liked his growls and threats was not a good way to diffuse the situation. "If I behave myself, can you promise to do that anyway?" murmured Anders. Fenris hoped he was only imagining Anders being turned on behind him.

"If you behave, I'll be open to a great many things. Requests, if you will."

Fenris could hear Anders smirking. "Oooooooh, I could definitely give you ideas." Anders stopped his petting but still cuddled Fenris close. "Alright, lets sleep then."

Fenris, who was generally a horrible insomniac without his alcohol, passed out within minutes of being snuggled in Anders's arms. Anders wished he could sleep as easily, his body eager at the idea of showing Fenris what Anders could do on his knees, or kissing every single line of lyrium and making Fenris's nerves sing with pleasure. He wondered if Fenris would enjoy tying him up-

'Sleep,' rumbled Justice inside Anders's head.

'I can't. You know why. You can feel it too.'

Justice took over partial control of Anders and tuned him into Sebastian reading softly under his breath outside, the words of Andraste and the Maker quelling both Anders's desire and his will to stay awake. Justice also started reciting historical timeline events of the Blights and Anders was gone. 'I'm impressed but not surprised by your capability to kill boners,' thought Anders at Justice before he slipped into the embrace of deep sleep with Fenris.

[royal-babey]

Connections

Small ficlet I wrote for my Hawke twins.

Main POV is from Logan Hawke’s, but his sister Marian comes in near the end.

Featuring Leandra and Varric.

-

Logan Hawke was to blame for everything.

From the moment he and his twin sister Marian were born, they were the reason for all the misery in their family.

At least Mari was closer to their mother than Lo was.

When Bethany died, Leandra couldn’t even look at the twins.

When they got to Gamlen’s place after finally gaining entry to the city, she only spoke to Carver and Mari.

Lo was left out.

That’s okay though. He was used to being the unwanted child.

Then one night, Leandra got drunk. It had been a month and Gamlen had brought home some alcohol. Cheap ale but Leandra drank more than her fair share.

She turned on Logan quickly enough.

“You were her big brother, Logan! You were ssss’posed to protect her!...You let mm...My baby die...She should be here...If only you had been a good...A good boy for once…”

Logan was used to these rants. At least Leandra was usually sober when she started. But her being drunk...It made it sting more...She hadn’t said it, but Logan knew she meant “She should be here instead of you”...

And so, he snapped too.

He stood up from the small dinner table all of a sudden, and looked his mother straight in the eyes. Something he hadn’t been able to do since his father died.

“Maybe, if you weren’t such a selfish bitch, who relied on other people to fix your problems, and actually took initiative for YOUR OWN FUCKING CHILDREN, BETHY WOULDN’T BE DEAD. DON’T YOU DARE BLAME HER DEATH ON ME. I DIDN’T KILL HER. DO YOU HEAR ME?! I. DID NOT. KILL. BETHANY. YOUR OWN NEGLECT DID.”

The palm that struck his cheek hurt, his mother's wedding ring cutting in and leaving a small bleeding wound. He was breathing heavily, knuckles white as he gripped onto the table.

His mother was seething, face like murder, eyes empty of any love or compassion that was previously there. Not as if it had ever been directed at him anyhow.

Logan fled the house, slamming the door shut behind him as he stormed out into the freezing cold night air. He isn’t sure how long he ran for, but when he stopped his lungs were burning and he dropped to his knees behind a building, trying to catch his breath.

Once he had, he brought his scarf up to his face.

And he screamed.

He screamed until anger and grief were no longer choking him. Screamed until fat tears were rolling down his flushed cheeks and he was shaking and shivering.

If anyone thought he was getting murdered, well, they weren’t very concerned.

Eventually he had to stop. He lowered his scarf from his face, and tired breathy sobs left his lips. He couldn’t bring himself to cry properly anymore. He was surprised he even had any tears left.

He felt a hand on his shoulder all of a sudden, and when he looked up, there was a dwarf with blonde hair pulled back and abnormally large crossbow attached to his back.

He nodded towards the inn, the hanged man Lo thought it was called, in offer of a drink.

Lo sniffed and nodded, and took the hand being offered to pull him back up on to his feet.

He was glad to be inside, even if the place smelled of ale, mead and stale piss. It was warm, the large fire roaring in the fireplace, and Lo was more than happy to take a seat in the corner of the room and rub his face with his scarf until he hoped the tear tracks were no longer visible.

When he removed the scarf again, the dwarf was back and sliding a tankard of..Something, across the table to him.

“Drink, it’ll warm you up.”

Logan nodded silently, not thinking to question it much. He slowly took it and rose the tankard to his lips.

Then immediately began coughing as soon as he took a sip, choking as the alcohol burned his throat and he slammed the cup back down on the table, causing a small spill.

The dwarf burst out laughing, then quite easily chugged his own.

Logan watched in horror and worry, and wondered how the dwarf wasn’t dead by the end of it.

He also had a few burning questions though, to accompany the burning in his mouth.

“Um...Who are you?”

The dwarf smiled and winked, then offered a hand for Lo to shake.

“The names Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong. What about you? It’s not often I find a kid in the middle of the streets. You can’t be, what...Older than fifteen?”

That brought a tight smile to Logan’s lips, and he let out a breathy chuckle.

“Yet you still bought me a drink..? I’m twenty one, for the record. And my name is Logan...Logan Hawke…”

Varric raised an eyebrow at that. Logan had a feeling he recognised the name. But he never said anything. Instead, he pointed to the wound on Logan’s cheek.

“What happened there?”

Logan winced and looked down. The pain had long since numbed but thinking about it…

“...Nothing…”

He knew it was a lame excuse, vague if anything, but Varric didn’t push. And Logan was grateful for that.

He did plan to either ask another question or just drink his drink in silence, but the the tavern door is swinging open and there’s a familiar voice calling his name.

“Lo!”

He looks over and sees his sister racing towards him, and in a matter of seconds, she’s pulling him up out of the seat and hugging him tightly.

Lo just hugged her back, feeling tears begin to well up in his eyes again. He fought them back though, and rubbed at his eyes furiously once she pulled away.

Lo looked at Varric, who was smirking at the two of them, and Logan thought he better introduce them.

“This is my sister...Mari.”

Mari grinned and wrapped an arm around her brothers shoulder, giggling and winking at Varric.

“Before you ask; I’m the older twin. Thanks for finding my idiot brother. I was sure he had went and wandered off the docks or ended up in the Viscounts underwear drawer.”

Logan’s blue eyes widened and he turned to stare incredulously at his sister, who in turn just stuck her tongue out.

Varric chuckled and stood up, patting the both of them on their arms.

“Need directions back to your Uncles?”

Lo was confused for a few moments, wondering how Varric knew they were staying with their uncle, but then he remembered that Varric recognised his name and Gamlen isn’t exactly unknown in the city…

Logan shook his head.

“No thanks, I think we’ve got it. But um...Thanks for the drink.”

Varric smiled and shook his head, then offered them a piece of paper. Mari took it, Logan figured he could ask her about it later.

“No problem kids. Stay safe out there.”

They both nodded and replied with “We will” at the same time, and then Mari was dragging her brother out of the inn and back out in the cold. She did pull off her cloak though and throw it over her now very concerned brother.

“What are you…?”

“You’re freezing, and I feel warm anyway.”

Mari shrugged nonchalantly, and Lo just sighed as he pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

“Is she…?”

“She pretty much passed out straight after you left. Carver is looking after her. Gamlen said to give you some time….Logan?”

Logan make a small inquisitive noise, turning his gaze towards the ground and kicking a rock once it came within reach.

“...No ones angry at you...For what you said...In fact, I had to stop Carver from lunging at mother for hitting you...You’re right, you didn’t do anything wrong…”

Logan just sighed quietly, shrugging. He was too tired to talk about this...It was comforting to know he wasn’t completely hated though..

“Thanks, Mari…”

His twin bumped shoulders with him playfully, and he looked up to give her a weak smile.

Whatever the morning brought would be hell he was sure, but at least for tonight he could rest easy.

There was still that note Varric handed them though…

-

Dear Hawke Twins.

My brother and his people have heard of the work you’ve done so far for the Smuggling group and mercenary company.

In eleven months time, we are planning a trip into the deeproads.

Hope to see you there.

Sincerely, Varric Tethras

[tenderthings-archive]

the long night (solas/f!lavellan, post-break up)

rating: T

word count: 3k

warnings: horror themes; blood & gore; angst without a happy ending; mild eye trauma (only to a baddie); idk don’t read this if you don’t want to feel sad???

a/n: i’m open to critiques on this piece, especially for the action & scary bits!!

summary:

During a mission gone wrong, Solas witnesses the first of the damage he’s caused and a change takes place within the Inquisitor.

“They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.”

ao3 link: (x)

As night falls, a chill sinks down Solas’ spine. What had been a simple reconnaissance twists into a fight for survival. An unnatural silence renders them mute; wildlife all but fades away. The forest canopy devours the moons and stars. Within an hour, they were virtually blind. Well-hidden, yes, but if the enemy were to fall upon them again, he doubts they’d live to see daybreak.

Before the attack, all seemed well. They were making good time on their journey so the Inquisitor called for a rest.

One moment, she was talking to him for the first time in weeks. The next, she’s shoving him out of the path of a shadow made of crystal and warped flesh.

By the time he and the others lost sight of their attackers, they veered off any path they knew.

Lost in the midsts of the Graves, the thick brush was near impossible to navigate. They rely solely on high terrain, areas that have not seen creatures walk up-right in hundreds of years. Titan, willow-like trees provide cover, but Varric struggles. Injured, on top of ill-suited eyes and stature, his wheezing only gets worse by the hour. What aid Solas provides must be preserved to keep them moving—for within the long dark, what the humans call the witching hour comes to a head.

It begins with eyes in the shapes of leaves. Then, bodies made of shadow and air. The squelch of mud beneath their tired feet begins to look, sound, and smell wrong, vile. None say it but they all know the illusion to be gore, sinking up from the earth, discharge from a mass grave.

Ghosts begin to stir, vindicated.

Whispers gnaw at the Veil, threatening in sacrilegious tongues. You are not welcome here. Only Varric has the pleasure of being deaf to it as Cassandra quakes, snapping her head at every clear word. Victims, without mercy or forgiveness, hiss at her piety, her humanity. Solas understands everything and more but ignores their revenge, as if his own crusade was not in play.

The only one amongst them suited to the tension and terror was the Inquisitor. Fearless, Iona acts as their last vigil and keeps the ghosts of murdered elves at bay.

She leads the group into the shade of an ancient tree trunk, as wide and broad as the roof of a house. She signals them to stop while she scouts ahead.

Solas sees they’ve reached a dead end, a fallen tower overtaken by the forest.

When she reaches the ruin, Iona runs her hand along its mossy wall, thinking. Then, she steps back, crouches down, and presses her ear to the earth. What tremors she hears, she chooses not to communicate.

She stands up again and takes hold of a vine-rope. She tugs hard before gathering her strength and climbing up. They watch her ascend, taken aback by her prowess, movements appearing both practiced and unnatural, spidery and beautiful. She is quick but not quick enough; the night only gets darker and there is no way around but over. What’s worse is the tinge of strangeness in the air, unlike what they’ve been feeling for hours.

When she reaches the top, she comes to a squat, braced by her hand.

In the emerald night, where the light comes in fleeting, her eyes reflect back. Her ears twitch. She looks down at them, as if prey found by the black panthers that prowled these wilds a millennium ago.

Solas is the only one who can make out her intentions, using his equally keen eyes.

“Be ready,” he whispers to the others and nods at the Inquisitor. She glares at him, out of habit now.

Minutes pass. Then, slowly, the Inquisitor rolls up to her full height as the ugly clang of metal enters the ditch below.

Cassandra unsheathes her sword and moves close to Varric as he finds cover and readies his crossbow. Solas summons a barrier but keeps his footing light. They will be running soon.

The Veil threatens to tear once the barrage begins. He and Cassandra scale down the hill and enter combat, fighting blind and scared. The spirits chant; Solas can feel their joy at spilled holy blood when in reality, fear is their greatest ally—’til it is too late for even that.

Red lyrium sets the forest alight. Inhuman cries drag life back into the world as one abomination falls after another.

All four have fought red templars a hundred times since the order’s corruption, but never like this—never so close to their faces, their crystallized eyes and flaking skin. Dread overlaps adrenaline and it’s not long before the Graves smell like death once again.

Above, arrows and bolts fly. Solas catches flashes of a gleaming-eyed figure leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, a sentinel like her ancestors but reinforced by a dwarf’s might. When she protects him, he heals her, balls of green magic in her wake. Soon, the templars grow wise to the sky and draw their attention to the hillside where Varric stayed.

They ascend, like vermin, and there is nothing Cassandra can do to stop the tide.

Varric pulls back but the ghosts draw in.

When Solas turns to run to the dwarf’s side, he is met with a pommel to the head.

  In the Fade, he watches Iona hold his body until her arms grow heavy. She lowers him into the ground then leaves, tearfully.

Gradually, the world expands. The night ends. The ditch grows into a valley, a horde appears from the bush—elves, humans; banners, religion. The Exalted March.

He is amongst his kind but not, smashed between bodies but not. He feels every bone in his body break beneath a human’s boot. He drags an elf boy the same age as his daughter through the dirt and kills him, slow. He cries a mother’s tears as the Divine orders the execution of all prisoners of war. He pisses on the effigies left by the elders for their lost children. He is called knife-ear, defiler, heathen. He stands amongst a thousand soldiers, broken treaties, and the final horn of retreat that comes too late. All is lost; they’re put in chains.

Solas wakes from the vision only to find himself alone, confused, a scream and a lover’s name caught in his throat.

Minutes or perhaps hours have passed. The enemy has scattered, spread into the undergrowth like poison. The ghosts warn him so, speaking a dialect no elf was allowed to remember.

Likely concussed, Solas gets to his feet and gathers his bearings as best he can. He takes one dizzying step before realizing his staff is lost and he recognizes nothing—not even his own body. Ice floods his veins, his knees buckle, but he refuses to fall.

He’s come so far, he has so much left to do, a birthright to rebuild—

Solas hears something in the distance.

The spirits whisper go, then leave, and finally liar, as if they understood. They can’t.

He doesn’t weep for them but follows their command. He is no shem; they don’t want him to dead yet.

The voices lead him to an incline, where the forest is dense. He walks it as stealthily as his shaking body can. Thorns and branches cut up his face and clothes, but the forest pleads him to go on—go on, if you dare. Eventually, he comes upon a wide break in the canopy where a stream runs through and the ground is leveled. Twin moons have turned the water-flow into glittering crystals and the grass, a prussian blue. In the middle of the meadow, far from where Solas hides, three templars stand amongst dead others. They circle a fallen figure.

At first, he mistakes it for a wounded animal. But no, it is Iona, unarmed and head bowed. He can hear her desperate breathing.

Instincts thrust Solas forward, but shock catches him dead. She’s jumped to her feet, then charges, as if flying.

There is nothing beautiful about her this time.

Her teeth, like fangs, meet and sink into the neck of a templar. Lithe limb encase a gigantic body, locking tight. A ghoulish noise rings out, but she is swift and uses her enemy’s weight to her advantage. They struggle and fall, rolling far and fast into the stream several feet away.

Before the others can advance, she rips out his throat.

Bloated and gray fingers clasp around a suddenly gushing wound, choked cries bubbling just as violently as she jerks up. She relieves the templar of his bow and quiver, blood smeared down her face and neck.

A single arrow kills the second attacker, straight between the eyes. His skull cracks.

The third attempts to flank, his sword sweeping low but not low enough as she ducks then barrels forward, head first. Bull would be proud—the templar’s withered body shakes in its metal case, like marbles, as they hit the ground. Arrows spill from the quiver. Lyrium spikes break. Jolts of static cast both in a red, haunting glow. The templar’s cry is a monstrous and twisted sound, echoing through the forest.

Iona climbs over the creature. Before anything can be done to stop her, she grabs a stray arrow and stabs into what remains of a human eye.

He—it—screams again. Hands jut out to catch her arm, but frantic magical energy descends its mind into delirium. The templar flails this way and that, crying louder. She anchors down through her thighs, her other hand round its throat, and lifts her fist only to thrust it back down, fast.

Again and again, she hammers the arrow in, gouging until the warped skull gives and the templar dies as cruelly as it lived.

Eventually, she stops, panting hard. She leaves the broken arrow within the skull.

As she gets back onto her feet, she spits on the corpse. Speckles of blood splatter along the chestplate’s holy emblem, Andraste’s flaming sword.

The first templar is still alive, sputtering as his blood pools into the stream. Iona picks up the bow and quiver and takes a minute to fix the latter across her chest. Then, she approaches and Solas watches on.

She doesn’t bother wasting a shot. Instead, she lifts her heel and digs into the templar’s face, shoving it to the side and into the direction of the waterflow.

Perhaps this one was not wholly gone. Perhaps she even noticed, or cared. The templar gives in to the pressure. His hands fall to the wayside and eyes slip shut. She closes her own and bears down through her leg until the body tremors stop.

At last, her strength is spent. When she steps away, her knees give in and she collapses by the gentle brook.

Solas’ stoic expression breaks as she lets out a soft noise, a quiet sob, barely caught between her teeth.

“Ir abelas,” she cries to no one. “I am so, so sorry.”

Beneath the full gleam of the moons, he sees her fully now—defiled in a way no battle as ever done before.

She’s turned pale, paler than the bodies she felled or the moons themselves. The fingers of her right hand dig into her left. Out of habit or pain, it’s hard to say. Her head falls back as she begins to rock, neck bared, face scrunched up. A torrent of prayers builds in her throat and she struggles to simply breathe, to not give in to the pain, or guilt, or history pressing down on and in.

Tears leave streaks through grime and blood. She has won, but Solas has seen her dreams. He knows a part of wishes she did not.

There isn’t a spirit around that doesn’t laud her strength or question his heart.

After a moment, Solas makes himself known, snapping a twig in the process.

She jerks at the sound. Her knees bend, one up, the other braced and Solas is greeted with an arrow flying overhead.

She readies another as he steps into the moonlight, arms up.

“It is only me,” he says, as softly as he can. “Be calm.”

She doesn’t let down her weapon, though her aim shakes. Panic floods her gore-stripped face as she blinks, rapidly.

He lowers one hand as if to reach out for her. “Inquisitor—”

“Don’t!”

She strengthens her pull, the arrow’s feathered back kissing her cheek. In that moment, he scarcely recognizes her.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Something akin to mockery slips into his head, snapping its jaws. What did he expect from someone so young, so broken, so fiercely in love? Of course a day like this would come. He’s seen it before, with others, friends, himself. This is his doing. This is his war.

He takes a breath and steels his heart from the ache taking root.

They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.

“Da’len, please. You know me; lower your bow.”

She’s confused, hurt. Scared. Another tear slides down her face. Then, she grits her teeth and snarls, and he knows his mistake before she even speaks.

“Don’t call me that. You know better. You’re not allowed to call me that. You’re not real, you’re not even here. You left me, you fucking bastard, you broke my heart and left me just so you could die in this fucking place!”

She thinks—what does she think? That this isn’t real? Is it? Is it?

The wind, difficult hear amongst trees so thick and old, now howls. They both fall silent to the sound of tree-tops shuddering.

It’s real, he thinks. It’s all real, from the bones the forest feeds off of to the woman before him, driven to the edge by thinking him dead.

Leaves rain down, but being so far up, they look odd, misshapen against the moonlight. It reminds him of ash, slowly descending upon a fallen kingdom. The smell of blood, fear, and sweat worsens the image in his head—and a woman. Another forsaken woman lies at his feet, scared to death.

They’ve survived the battle, but the war is yet to come. Looking back at her, at his inquisitor turned feral, now openly weeping at the sight of the stars, Solas tries to remember who she was before tonight. A doe? A rabbit? When he met her, she was soft, bright, and loyal to her people. Cassandra—if she still lives—doubted her god’s choice. Solas regrets his.

Harden your heart, he told her as he tossed it back at her. She snarled then too, but took the hurt he caused and shoved it inside her chest.

He hoped she’d never forgive him but hadn’t yet prepared himself for the day she’d take aim at him.

Today isn’t that day, however.

Her grip has loosened and she’s crying so hard, there’s no chance she’d be able to keep a steady grip. The spirits warn him not to approach. Whether they are protecting him or her, he doesn’t know but defies his descendants nonetheless.

He kneels before his former lover.

“Inquisitor,” he says then corrects himself. “Iona. Please get up. We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.”

She ignores him, dropping her bow to cradle her face in her hands. She cries harder, full-body throes.

He wants to hold her but doesn’t. Instead, he drops his voice to whisper, “Please. Please. We must find the others, we must make it back to camp.”

She shakes her head, a muffled ‘I can’t’ slipping past.

Gently, he grabs her wrist and pulls it to him. She lets him.

“Iona,” he begins, stops, and presses closer. He is real. She is real. This is real. He hurt her, and that’s real too.

“You can. You must. If we stay, more will come. You understand, don’t you? Corypheus will win if you die here. The Inquisition will be lost. Please, get up.”

He means more than she’ll ever know. And that’s the great tragedy, isn’t it? Everything he wants to say and everything he will do in spite of it.

“Iona.” He squeezes her wrist. Softly, he risks a kiss against her palm. “You must go on.”

Solas drags the Inquisitor to her feet, his legs wavering at the energy he expends. His head is still spinning but rather than heal himself, he holds her by the waist, cups her face, and focuses on her.

He fixes little, but that’s the point. He’s learned when to stop helping.

Warmth floods her battered body, like a sacred and sweet kiss. As bruises soften at his touch, Iona’s eyes slip open. For the first time since she walked away from him, she looks at him without malice or disgust. Her tears stop.

The forest shifts into a healthy green the longer he heals her. There’s love in her eyes, dreamy and sickly, followed slowly by clarity, recognition. His own expression remains blank.

When he pulls his hands away, he takes the warmth with him and the spell ends.

She gently pushes him back as reality snaps back into place.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“The Veil is thin here. You have nothing to apologize for, Inquisitor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. Only now, does she wipe away the blood around her mouth.

“I do, but you’re right. We can’t stay here.”

She looks around, at all she’s done, but doesn’t pause to let the disgust sink in. When she returns to him, her gaze is dulled, as if he’s insignificant. Good, he thinks.

“Alright.” She sucks in another breath. “Alright. Where is your staff?”

“Gone, broken.”

“And your head?” She gestures to the trail of blood, now dried down his face. He hadn’t noticed it before. “Can you walk on your own?”

“I believe I can.”

She nods, swallows, and looks around again. “I recognize this place. We can’t be far from the others, or the camp. With any luck, we’ll make it through to morning.”

He’s relieved but refrains from admitting so. She frowns at his silence.

“Stay close. I can’t have you dying now, Solas,” she says. “The Inquisition still needs you.”

She turns and chooses a path in seconds. Her body doesn’t shake nor does her stride waver. The forest is her domain; the night sky will guide them out.

Iona steps out of the moonlight and into the pitch black. He lingers behind, just to be certain how far she will go without looking back.

[rosexknight]

Why do you hurt?

“Rules: Take this quiz for one of your OCs. (Only 8 questions, some of them are a little… U-Quiz-y, but I liked the results.)”

Again, copied from @/lavellander I hope that’s cool ;-;

Initial results here and then longer more rambley thoughts under the cut.

Neria Surana:  you swallow pain & fold around it

you have always hurt. you hold it carefully, and twisted in such a way that other people don't have to see it. you don't choke on it. you don't drown. you just have it, the way some people have freckles, this is a thing that lives in your bones. you fold instead of fighting because you know how to make yourself small, tuck away the places where they have clawed at, swallow the bruises so you seem clean. nobody needs to see it. you will live through this on your own. you know what you need, and relief isn't it. this doesn't mean you cannot reach out - it means it is not in your nature to do so. you should. hiding does not mean you won't be seen.

Marian Hawke:  this isn't enough for you

the words creep into your head in the dead of night one night and you cannot get rid of them. 'this isn't enough for me anymore'. you thought this was enough for you at some point, or maybe you hoped that it would be, but it isn't, and it hurts. you need to change something, or die trying. this - life like this - does not make life worth living. there is a lump in your throat that demands attention every waking moment of the day. there is pain in your body like a cavernous maw you cannot keep balance over. this is not what you wanted. you need to change. you can't stay here. it is not a character flaw you want more.

Elanna Lavellan:  you're choking on how much you have to try

you have tried. you have carried the weight of the world on your shoulders and accepted more responsibilities than you have ever wanted, even intended to gain. it isn't crushing - you are strong enough to hold it - but you are choking. you don't know what to do with it. you don't know where it goes, how to move this weight everyone knows you can hold onto, and do you even want to get rid of it? Never. You would not give this to - force this on - anyone else. but you /can't/. but you are choking on it. your body will hold it up even when you lose all the air in your lungs, and your footing, and your courage. it does not mind choking you. it seems almost designed to do so. if you weren't wrung out you wouldn't be doing this thing properly.

They are so perfect. So painful. Y’all have no idea. Anyway have fun with my OC rambles.

Neria Surana:  you swallow pain & fold around it

Y’all have no idea how perfect this is. Neria went from a favorite in the Circle, completely untouchable, to a Greywarden freshly betrayed by one she thought was her best friend. Going back to the Circle after it had fallen FUCKED her up.  After Ostagar, when she, Morrigan, and Alistair went through Lothering, she heard whispers of something happening in the Circle. Gossip that something was wrong. But Arl Eamon’s sickness seems more pressing, and Alistair is worried, so her final decision is to go to Redcliffe first despite desperately wanting to check on her home. It isn’t until the battle of Redcliffe is won, Jowan is released, and the plan to get help from the Circle is made that they return. The Circle has fallen. The Right of Annulment is being approved, and Neria has to climb the tower, a place once her home, praying that SOMEONE survived. But this really starts it. She blames herself for the Circle falling. She blames herself for what happened to Jowan. She later blames herself for what happened to Anders and Amaranthine/Vigil’s Keep, etc. She’d blame herself for the Blight id she could. Alistair is really the only one aware of this flaw she has, and even then she has never told him the extent of the horror that the Circle brought her. Or how much returning to her apparently old home in the alienage in Denerim broke her. Or how much she felt like she failed at Amaranthine despite both the city and Vigil’s Keep surviving and the mother being defeated simply because Velanna was lost. Because it’s easier to carry that hurt. It’s easier to blame herself, to be angry at herself, than admit that the world is that cruel.

Marian Hawke:  this isn't enough for you

I pondered this one for a bit. Because, logically, it should be enough. Hawke went from a nobody in Lothering to the Champion of Kirkwall. My Hawke specifically, Marian, just wanted some peace and quiet. For a time, she had that. Yes, she lost her family, but she carried on. But then I realized, this is not referring to material wants. This is emotional want. Marian lost one family, and gained another. Varric, Fenris, Isabela, Merrill, Sebastian, Aveline. They’re thick as thieves. She loves them. They make her feel whole. It’s the romance that’s the problem. Anders. In Act 1 she falls fast and hard. Rebel mage with a heart of gold who just cares so damn much? They have a lot in common. In Act 2 she fights for his cause. Helps him in the Mage Underground. Helps him control Justice. Helps keep the Templars off their trail. But then her mother dies, and she sees the horrors. A thought slips into her mind: What if the Templars are right about Mages? She doesn’t care less, but it makes her more conscious of just what is going on with the mages of Kirkwall. Act 3 is when it all crashes down. The relationship starts feeling more hollow. Anders feels as if he’s pulling away, despite Marian’s attempts to keep him close. He asks for her help in the Chantry, and asks her to trust him. She does without question, because why wouldn’t she? (I know he gets super nasty if you decline or press for info but I just never got that far when I was playing.) The Chantry blew. The final battle ensued, and she left Anders behind. Because it wasn’t enough for her. When he comes back to her, it still isn’t enough for her. And it’s not a character flaw to want more.

Elanna Lavellan:  you're choking on how much you have to try

My Inquisitor, I think, is probably the most standard of these three. A Dalish elf. In the wrong place at the wrong time suddenly being revered as the herald of a goddess she knew nothing of and expected to save the world. She jumps into it immediately, whether out of self-preservation or a genuine want for more. She grew up on stories of the Hero of Fereldan and adored The Tale of the Champion. She studies the Chant to figure out what’s so great about Andraste. She learns some formal etiquette from Josephine. She spends time with Leliana and her spies. She spars personally with the troops and makes sure Cullen takes breaks. She writes with Varric. She meditates with Solas. She reads terrible novels with Cassandra. She trains with Bull and the chargers. She plays pranks with Sera. She studies Circle magic with Vivienne. She gets fashion advice from Dorian. She enjoys quiet moments with Blackwall. She listens to Cole as he reads those all around Skyhold. When Alistair and Morrigan and her son Keiran arrive she pesters for tales about the Hero, and laughs with them. But She wasn’t expecting it to be quite so…much. She wasn’t expecting to have half of Thedas on her shoulders. She is eternally grateful for her advisors and inner circle. When the world is on her shoulders it’s amazing to feel like she’s not drowning. Cullen is the most help. Somehow, he always knew when she needed a break, perhaps because he too was a workaholic. Or perhaps it’s because they’re simply stronger in each other’s arms. On quiet days when things are slow and the evening rolls in, she is sometimes caught walking the gardens and courtyard of Skyhold barefoot. It never quite feels the same.

[fanfoolishness]

the hard work of being happy

Received a lovely prompt from @theboringbaker ! Thank you, I hope this fits the bill!  2220 angsty words of Varric x Hawke to follow.

Prompt????? So Varric / f!Hawke where Hawke is confiding some concerns about Anders' spiraling passion/obsession with mage freedom/destroying the templars being scary/too Justice-y and no longer Anders?? And Varric has a Hard Time with being the Trusty Sidekick?? I dunno maybe its requited and she realizes hes better for her or maybe its not and varric is sad?? Maybe around act 2/3 idk have fun I just love hawke/varric so much gdi this dwarf and his lovely garbage fire human 

Note: occurs the same night as this realization by Min Hawke.    The ending to this piece is also illustrated here.

The knock at Varric’s door was sharp, frantic.  It startled him awake, his heart hammering in his chest.  “Who is it?” he called, squinting towards the door in the dim light of the fading fire .  He sat up and threw off the covers, reaching for his tunic with one hand and Bianca with the other.

“It’s me,” Hawke called, her voice low and thick.  He stopped still.  He’d only heard her sound that way once before, the night Leandra died.  Fuck.

Varric left Bianca in her corner, fumbled with pulling his tunic over his head.  He shimmied into the previous day’s trousers and padded to the door in his bare feet, his head spinning with possibilities, none of them pleasant.  He undid the catches on the locks and pulled the door open.

Hawke was… well, she was a mess.  He could smell the alcohol on her even without her opening her mouth, and her makeup was smudged and streaked.  She dragged a hand beneath her eyes, wiping at tears, and blinked down at him.  “Varric,” she whispered.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

Varric took her by the arm, ushering her in and closing the door behind her.  He chucked a few more logs on the hearth fire.  “C’mon, c’mon.  It’s okay, Hawke.”  He led her to the table, took a seat beside her, his stomach roiling unpleasantly.  This was something bad.  “What’s going on?  Is it Bethany?”

Hawke shook her head, her dark hair like ribbons.  “It’s Anders,” she said, and brought her hands to her face, stifling a sob.  

“What happened?  Did he -- is he all right?”

“Yes, yes, he’s at home, asleep,” she choked out.  She lowered her hands, sniffing as she attempted to compose herself.  “He doesn’t know I’m here.  He fell asleep tonight after we fought again, and I drank the wine I had at home, and I didn’t have anything else, so I came here and I drank more and then the bartender threatened to kick me out which I very much did not appreciate and I -- I came to see you instead.  I’m sorry.  I can go.”

Varric reached out, laid his hand over hers.  Just for a moment.  Not too long; he knew he shouldn’t linger, should only stay just long enough to let her feel his worry.  He pulled away, crossing his arms.  “Hawke.”

She gazed at him.  “Varric.”

“Talk to me,” he said.  “I want to help.”  And he did, yeah, wanted what was best for her like any friend would, wanted her to be happy.  He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back jealous fantasies of helping her realize who she truly loved, declaring his feelings for her, riding off into a Kirkwall sunset (or walking, since horses were terrible).  

Stupid shit, really.

He opened his eyes and saw no fantasies, just Hawke tired, frightened, needing his help.  “You can tell me anything, Hawke.”

She smiled at him, and even if it was faint and watery, it was something. “I’ve been so grateful for you, Varric.  You’ve never let me down.”

“Well, there was that time in the Fade,” he began with a grin.

She waved a hand at him.  “No, no, it’s all right, all my friends are terrible people, I understood perfectly.”  

“You want to talk?”

“Yes.”  She heaved a great sigh.  “We’ve been having trouble for a while.  Anders is secretive now.  I know for a fact he’s lied to me more than once.  I’ve been getting so lonely, so angry, and tonight I finally admitted to myself….”  She stared past Varric, focusing on the distant wall.  “I think he might do something terrible.  He’s sick, somehow.”

“Like possession shit?  Like Justice gaining control?” asked Varric.

“Not exactly; at least, I don’t think it’s Justice directly.”  She was pensive, calmer now, considering.  “I don’t know.  It’s like something in his head, in his mind, that’s still him -- but it’s all mixed up.  Some days he’s so grandiose, so certain he’s going to save the world.  He doesn’t sleep then; he just writes all night or spends the night in the clinic helping people or… sometimes I’m not sure where he goes.   And some days his mind is so dark, Varric, like I’m afraid to look down into it for fear it’ll steal all the light I have, and he sleeps and sleeps like a dead man, and when he does wake I find him crying in the study, and he’s so lost --”  She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard enough her knuckles whitened and his hand throbbed.  “I don’t know how to help him!”

Her hand was warm and strong as it squeezed the life out of his palm.  Hawke hastily pulled it back.  “Don’t know my own strength sometimes,” she said, fidgeting with her fingers.

Varric gave her a wan smile and rested his head in his hands, thinking.  Forget about Blondie, Hawke.  He’s no good for you, not like this.  Wouldn’t you rather have someone without all that baggage, someone with his shit together?  A best friend, perhaps?  Just a thought.  He let out a long breath from his nose, his lips thinning.  

He knew the advice he’d give if it was anyone else.  Not happy anymore?  Talk it out or leave, end of story.  But this was Hawke, this was Min fucking Hawke, and how the hell could he trust himself to be objective?  The fear nagged at him that no matter what he said, no matter what came out of his mouth, that it would be angling to push her into his arms.  Unfairly.  Selfishly.

He knew he could do it, too.  Had done it before.  Bianca’s letters, triple-locked and booby-trapped, were hidden in the secret drawer of the chest that sat two feet away.  Damning proof of a love that only worked through cheating, subterfuge, lies.  The difference was that Varric and Bianca had always been alike that way; something he’d loved in her, something he’d hated in himself.  The ends justified the means, didn’t they?

Hawke’s hands were dirty in a hundred different ways, but not this one.

He spoke haltingly.  It was suddenly very important that he get it right.  “Couple of questions for you, Hawke.  If you want my advice.”

“And I do.  I very much do.  You always know just the right thing to say,” Hawke said, staring hopefully at him.

Yeah, that one hurt.  “Question one.  You still love him?”  He stumbled over it.  His mouth didn’t want to make the words.

“Yes,” she said, and there was sudden fire in her, flaring determination, brilliant passion.  In the flickering light from the hearth, shadows deep beneath her brows and cheekbones, she was damn formidable.  He nodded, mostly to himself.

“So... you definitely want to fix things.  And he still loves you?”

On this she was less certain, taking a moment to answer; it tore at him.  If it was me, she’d never have to wonder.  “He tells me every day, even when we’re… distant.  I think so.  I -- I hope so.”

“Have you told him what you just told me?”  He leaned back in his chair and counted the beams of the ceiling, hoping to find some resolve among the sight of wood and plaster.

“Not exactly.  No.  I’ve only just started to put it into words tonight, what I’m feeling, why I’m angry.  Why I’m scared,” said Hawke.  “Hence the wine.  And the ale.  And the whiskey.”  She hiccuped.  “Maker’s balls, that is not how I meant that sentence to end.”

“Shit, Hawke, I hope you had some water.”

She waved a hand at him.  “A little.  I’ll be fine.”

“So… first thing, I’d say you need to tell him.  Tell him how you feel, tell him what he’s doing wrong by you and give him a chance to fix it.  Second thing, have you asked him how you can help him?”

She was quiet for a minute.  He looked back at her, saw her brushing her hair back away from her face.  “Yes and no.  I -- perhaps not exactly.”

“So ask him.  Hopefully he’ll tell you.  But Hawke, listen to me.”

Hawke leaned in.  This close he could see her eyelashes, kohl smudged onto them; he could see a faint scar on her chin he wasn’t sure he’d ever noticed before.  Her mouth was pink, pulled sharp to one side in concentration.  Get it right, dwarf.

“Third thing, have you asked him if he wants to be helped?”

She pulled back, suddenly bristling, shoulders squaring.  “What kind of a question is that?  Of course he would want help.  Why wouldn’t he?”

Varric held up his hands, heart beating more quickly.  “I don’t know, I don’t know.  But I think you have to ask.  Just a feeling.”

Hawke frowned, troubled, swaying slightly in her seat.  “Why wouldn’t he --” she said, trailing off.  She sighed.  “All right.  I’ll ask him.”

Varric spoke again, this time before he could help it, a question that he knew he shouldn’t be the one to ask.  He asked it anyway.  He couldn’t seem to control his voice -- did he really sound that way, so plaintive, so open?  “Are you happy with him?”

She scrubbed at her eyes with her hands, fighting back tears again.  “I don’t know anymore, Varric,” she whispered.

“Then you don’t have to stay.”

The suggestion hung heavy between them, thicker than the firesmoke or the darkness at the edges of the room, beyond the light’s touch.  For a moment, neither of them spoke.  For a moment, he knew, he knew, that he had revealed everything, dropped his cards face up into her lap, might as well have gone ahead and breathed into her ear I love you, Min --

Then the moment broke.  Hawke tilted her head to one side.  Leaned back, regarding him.  “I know.”  She took a deep breath.  “But if anything happened, if I left without trying and he hurt himself -- I could never live with myself, Varric.  Like I can’t forgive myself for Mum.  And Carver.  And Bethany.”

“Bethany’s fine,” he tried to protest.  “It wasn’t your fault she got sick.”

“Being in the Wardens isn’t fine.  Not for Bethany.  If I hadn’t brought her down there, she’d still be here with me, not far away and hating the nightmares and the killing and the darkness.  And as for Mum and Carver, if I could have done anything to save them, Varric, I would.  If I can save Anders, if I can save the man I love, then isn’t a little unhappiness worth it?”  She was panting now, luminous in the firelight.  

Varric just looked at her.  The man I love.  The words thundered, roaring in his ears.  Right.  Right.

He smiled at her.  Hoped she didn’t see the tremor in it.  Hoped she could understand that he only ever wanted her to be happy.  And if this was what she wanted —

“There’s our Hawke.  Fierce as hell.  So go get ‘im.”

She softened.  “I know you told me it wasn’t a good idea to be with him.  I know you’ll say you told me so—”

Sure, if he was dead set on scoring points, he could say something to that effect.  But the anguish in her eyes was real.  Red-rimmed and miserable, they held a pain that made him ache to his bones.   He swallowed.

“No. I’d never say that to you, Hawke.  Not on something like this.”

“Mind you, you’re probably right.”  She was rueful.  “Still, I have to do this.  I have to try.  So if it goes sideways, thanks for not rubbing it in.”  She pulled her chair close to his, and leaned toward him.  Before he realized what had happened, she was hugging him hard.  She trembled against him, warm and soft and grasping, her hands clinging to his back as if she was drowning.  

He raised his arms and pulled her closer.  She exhaled, slowly, her breath warm and whiskied against his cheek.  He buried his face in her shoulder, reached up to stroke her hair, gently smoothed it with an unsteady hand.  

Romantic scenes flashed through his head, shit he’d dreamed of, foolishly, in lonely moments.  The great reveal.  The heartfelt confession.  Her smile, spreading slowly into a delighted beam, imagined a hundred times, a thousand.  The feel of her mouth against his, the feel of her skin against his --

But he held her still and safe against him, and their chests rose and fell together, and he kept his big mouth shut.  There might be a moment, someday.  

It wasn’t tonight.

She left a few moments later, mostly sober now, still apologetic, Varric assuring her she had nothing to apologize for.  She closed the door behind her, and Varric sat there in his chair in front of the fire, its heat stifling even though the embers had begun to die.

He should get up, he told himself; shouldn’t dwell.  He hoped she could find what she needed.

He didn’t get up.  His only movement was to bring his hand to his face, fingers curled along his jaw, palm pressed tight over his lips, thumb gripping his cheekbone hard.  His eyes burned, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

He sat there, staring into the flames until they blurred.  He sat there a long time.

[talesfromthefade]

For DWC: OH! ❤ “That’s not mistletoe, it’s holly.” May I request Pavellan?! (I'm super excited about this prompt, like an idiot, because mistaking holly for mistletoe is like my biggest seasonal pet peeve...) ❤

Thank you so much for the request! ^_^ That’s definitely a pet peeve of mine too, and I always love to write about my baby June.

June Lavellan x Dorian Pavus, for @dadrunkwriting

“It’s the Vallaslin, isn’t it,” June sighs shaking his head, collapsing into the chair across the table from the dwarf just inside the great hall.

“Something troubling you, Stag,” Varric asks, carefully setting down his pen and shifting his papers out of the way to turn his attention to the elf. June smiles slightly at the nickname and shakes his head again. It really isn’t a big deal, he supposes. Ordinarily, he’d just ignore it, brush it off as yet another one of those times where the nuances of social interactions are escaping him, or he’s being too sensitive about the whole thing, except…

“If they’re going to go around calling me ‘the Herald of Andraste,’ doesn’t it follow that I would celebrate, or at least be aware of Chantry-based holidays,” June gripes. “Why does everyone seem to think they need to educate me,” the elf asks as the dwarf chuckles shaking his head. “I didn’t find the Dalish until I was nearly 18. The feast and gifts in the Alienage weren’t quite as opulent as the rest of the city, but I know what Satinalia is. I’ve missed it, actually,” June admits reflectively. “The clan didn’t really celebrate it. I haven’t since…” Since his mother had died, June thinks, though he doesn’t seem to need to finish the thought for the dwarf to fill in the blanks. Varric nods, reaching cautiously across the table to place briefly place a hand on his arm with a sympathetic half-smile.

“How did you celebrate it?”

“The same as most people, I suppose,” June shrugs, feeling a bit sheepish complaining. It isn’t as though there aren’t plenty of other more pressing concerns. Truth be told, he's not really expected it to affect him so, except, of course, it was easy to forget and not to miss the holiday, and he and his mother’s silly traditions with the Dalish for whom Satinalia was simply another day, a Shem holiday. “My mother tried to teach me how to bake and cook for it for a few years, but I’m afraid I never showed much aptitude for it. I lacked the dedication to apply myself, I suppose,” he admits with a slight frown. A part of him wishes now that he’d tried harder, if only so that he might have had one more thing of his mother’s to keep with him.

“What was your favorite dish,” Varric prompts, deftly steering the conversation around the potential emotional caltrops. He’s always admired that. The way the dwarf manages to make conversation with him seem easy, pleasurable. Nothing like the confusing and exhausting chore it is with so many others. Varric can always be counted upon to speak his mind or hold his tongue. He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. And if he lies, well it’s generally just exaggeration, for the best effect of a story. June, a lover and collector of stories himself, can appreciate and respect that.

“She used to make these cookies with pumpkin,” June recalls with a smile, almost smelling them as the memory comes flooding back to him. “Little pieces of chocolate sprinkled in too, when we could find and afford it. I always ate too many of them, but they were delicious.”

“Sounds like it,” Varric nods with a smile.

“The Vhenadahl used to sprout some Mistletoe every year,” he recalls with a slight chuckle. “It might have choked the tree eventually if left unchecked, but you’d never have guessed it. Some of them gave that silly weed more reverence than the tree of the people. They’d climb as high as they could, or dared to pick some and hang it in all the doors. The kissing plant.”

Varric shakes his head, laughing. “Kirkwallers were crazy for the stuff too. Daisy and a couple of the other elves from the Alienage started selling it. Earn a little extra coin for them.”

“Wish we’d thought of that,” June smiles, shaking his head, completely missing Dorian who had been making his way into the hall behind him and suddenly paused to listen in, before quickly turning and heading back the way he came. A kissing plant? They had such a thing here in the South? Scout Harding, she would have to know more about it, wouldn’t she? Maybe have some? Or that new requisition officer? Maker, what was his name again?

…

June frowns slightly, following after Josephine, only vaguely registering her words about a prisoner who is awaiting his judgment. He supposes it was foolish to hope that he might have even a small reprieve from the duties of being the Inquisitor for the holiday. Equally disappointing, he’s not seen Dorian all day. The Altus had still been there beside him when he woke that morning but departed shortly after the elf woke with an all-too-fleeting kiss and muttered excuses and apologies. The mage has responsibilities, he knows. Tasks that he has appointed himself, or is uniquely qualified for, efforts to impress upon the rest of the Inquisition and Thedas at large that not all Tevinters are terrible or moments away from summoning demons or stealing souls with blood magic. Still… he’s missed him, traveling the last week without his company and usual witty commentary, retiring to a tent that’s suddenly entirely too big, hadn’t been the same. Varric joins them at the large wooden doors, which the elf registers for the first time are closed.

Shouts and cheers echo throughout the hall as the doors swing open to reveal a long table laden with food and drink, and surrounded by his advisors and companions who raise their glasses in his direction, beckoning him to join them. The usual Inquisition heraldry has been temporarily replaced with drapes of red, green, silver and gold velvets from Ferelden, and glittering glass floating baubles from Orlais. A tiny wisp of light whose magical signature he recognizes dances just above his head, more of them floating about the room��s high ceilings, no doubt the source of Cullen’s slight discomfort as Leliana laughs pouring him another drink. He’s never seen anything like it, and yet… there’s just enough of everything he remembers and once loved for it to feel… comforting, familiar.

And at the center of it all, perched on the throne with shining eyes and a grin, is Dorian. Confident none of his companions will begrudge him visiting with each of them later, he crosses the room to his lover in a few long strides.

“Happy Satinalia, Amatus,” Dorian smiles warmly.

“Vhenan,” June whispers. “Did you do this?”

“I may have recruited some help,” the mage admits, uncharacteristically modest. “Unless of course, you really like it, in which case, absolutely. All me,” Dorian teases. Ah, that’s more like it, the elf thinks with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head.

“And the reason you’re over here, rather than over there with everyone else?”

“Strategy,” Dorian replies, eyes twinkling. “I’ve hidden the best wine back here,” he gestures behind the throne with a smirk. “And I was waiting for you. Look up.”

June does, examining the throne, which upon closer inspection has been draped over with some ribbons and greenery. Based on the Antivan woman’s smile when the surprise was revealed, June is relatively certain that the prisoner awaiting judgment was simply a ruse, but it would be… interesting to have the mighty Inquisitor judge someone in such a seat. That, however, doesn’t really explain why Dorian seems so excited about it, turning his attention back to the mage with a confused expression. Dorian’s smile falters slightly, suddenly recalculating his course of action.

“The kissing plant,” Dorian offers looking up and gesturing to the greenery that lines the seat, no longer quite so confident as he had been a few moments before, and June laughs in dawning comprehension, shaking his head.

“Uh, no. Not quite,” he replies with a smile at Dorian. “They don’t have Mistletoe in Tevinter, do they?”

“No,” Dorian frowns, looking frustrated. “So, what is this then?”

“Holly,” June smiles softly, plucking a small sprig and bringing it down to twirl admiringly between his fingers. “Pretty. It is often used to decorate for Satinalia,” he adds sympathetically. One couldn’t really be picky about which plants and blooms they used. Whatever was able to survive and thrive the cold of Winter had to do. “Dorian,” the elf continues, drawing the other’s gaze back up to him. “Thank you,” he nods. “This is… it’s wonderful,” he assures him, tucking the sprig of Holly thoughtfully behind one ear with a small smile. “But, you know, if it’s a kiss you wanted, all you had to do was ask,” June offers, smiling wider still as he leans over, tugging Dorian up to his feet to pull him into a kiss. “Happy Satinalia, Dorian.”