#da:i fanfic

[omg-dragon-age]

Hey so uh

Chapter 12 went up last night. It’s not as polished as I wanted it to be, but it had taken three weeks already and I am determined to keep this story moving now that I’ve gotten somewhat back into writing. Especially now that September looms.

Next chapter: Dorian and Aevrienne read the letter and decide to confront whatever is waiting for him at the Gull & Lantern in Radcliffe. Her words and actions surprise both of them and a bond is forged. But things never go well for long in this story…

Please. Read. All. Tags!!

Please. This story is so messed up.

My Bullevelyan longfic with a twist™️ has received a long-awaited update… I give you Chapter 11. It took over a year to get this one done because I’m literally afraid of the next two chapters. It’s gonna get so bad. But the good news (I mean maybe?) is I’ve already written quite a bit of the next few chapters, so updates should be coming sooner than a year. Yikes.

To all of you who have kept reading, kudoing, subscribing, commenting: you are equally responsible for this mess being on the internet! I cannot thank you enough for your support. You are who I’m writing this for… you and a broken woman whose story deserves a happy ending.

[thatwavephenomenon]

One of my favorite thing about the concept of Inquisitor Anders is imagining Sebastian's reaction when he hears that Anders, of all people, is now called the Herald of Andraste. What a world-shattering new for the Prince of Starkhaven. Because if it's true that would mean Anders was right and that everything Sebastian has been taught by the Chantry, by Elthina herself, was wrong. The denial would be immense. He would swear right here and there that after annexing Kirkwall his army will be turned against the Inquisition. Meanwhile Anders would be in Skyhold like 'Maker I hope no one will put a reproduction of my face on a belt buckle to decorate their crotch. *Starts the War Table Mission that will crush Sebastian's army*'

[vhenan-ma-ghilana]

Of Honey and Halla: A Solavellan Anthology

Chapter 2: Time Not For Tea: Little cakes. His favourites. Of Honey and Halla is an ongoing non-chronological Solavellan anthology. It will be a multi-chapter read focusing primarily on "slice of life" events, as well as explorations of canon in both Inquisition and Veilguard. Read on Ao3. ❗Writing style: literary, poetic, ornate, romantic, introspective. 📝 Chapter word count: 2,124 ☁️ Proofread: check! :)

[more of my wee art - the perspective and lighting kicked my *ss]

excerpt:

“Solas,” Lavellan gently called, walking into the room. She was smiling, wide and warm, and held something behind her back.

“Inquisitor,” Solas replied, straightening from his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A surprise,” she said, coming to stand before him. She lifted her head to meet his, eyes sparkling with mischief. “One just for you.”

“Is that so?” he answered, arms behind him. “And what have I done to deserve a surprise?”

“Nothing in particular,” Lavellan said playfully. A faint blush rose to her cheeks in anticipation of their meeting, the thrill of which fluttered her heart. “It’s something I thought you might like.”

“A gift?” Solas said. “You are of a generous spirit, indeed, Inquisitor. Do you normally endow your retinue with offerings?” 

“It is an utmost exclusivity I bestow to very few,” she remarked. 

“I would think you to take great pains in not showing favouritism amongst your companions,” he teased. It was difficult for him to bite back the smirk that so easily grew on his face in response.

“Some have caught my attention more than others,” Lavellan quipped, sharing looks, coy and steady. 

Solas watched her as from behind her back she revealed a container in both of her hands, bundled and tied in vibrant cloth. She placed the parcel on a stack of closed books at the edge of his desk, undoing the knot to reveal a silver vessel, covered with a metal lid. Lavellan opened the container to present several little cakes dotting the bottom. They were lavish, with colourful fondant and elaborately decorated with shining edible pearls and custard cream. Bulbous, round fruit laid atop a few. 

“For you.” Lavellan blinked at him, batting her lashes. 

“How have you managed to procure these?” Solas asked with a soft laugh, elated with the sight. 

“I might’ve taken a handful from the kitchen when the confectioners arrived for catering,” Lavellan admitted. “Josephine ordered far too many for our meeting with Orlais, as usual. No one will notice a few missing.”

“I quite enjoy cakes.” 

“I know.” Lavellan bit her lip, containing the smile that grew on her face. He looked at her in contentment, great pleasure, a spark of admiration and intrigue which called her to him: a gift, freely and thoughtfully given.

[rookinthecrownest]

Pondering King Alistair and Inquisitor Trevelyan. Considering Alistair King Alistair and Inquisitor Trevelyan. Slowly descending to hell over King Alistair and Inquisitor Trevelyan.

WIP almost-Wednesday or w/e

[weaveandwood]

In Hushed Whispers

There was a little interest in me posting some Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfic here, so I'm going to share the one shot I have written! I know I have a few mutuals who are also doing their first playthrough of Inquisition, so if you haven't done the quest this one-shot is named for, don't read this! Consider this your warning!

Pairing: Cullen/Female Lavellan (Brinni, my dual wielding rogue) Words: 1,374

Angst

Read on AO3!

Cullen threw the crumpled up message across the room and leaned over the war table, shaking his head, willing himself to take his next breath even as dread constricted every fiber of his being. 

Dead. 

He slammed his fist against the table, toppling over the markers that had been so carefully placed earlier that day. He told her it was a trap - he told them all! She wasn’t an idiot, she knew it was clearly a trap as well. Still, she was determined - and that determination had doomed them all.  

He paced the length of the room. Back and forth, over and over, replaying their last conversation in his head, trying to figure out what he could have said differently. 

“Redcliffe has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there you’ll die, and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it,” he had told her. Of course, there was the unspoken reason he hadn’t wanted her to go, one he was too foolish and too scared to voice. No, better to have her believe he only saw her as a tool, a weapon for them to wield. Nothing more. 

Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana argued the optics of marching on the castle, the consequences of leaving a foreign magister in power on Ferelden land. It appeared they had been outplayed. No matter how hard Cullen stared at the table, a strategy would not come to him. 

“There has to be something we’re not thinking of,” she had said quietly, finally breaking the silence and looking at each of them. “Another way in.”

Discussions took place. Brinni paced back and forth while Leliana and Cassandra spoke of the secret entrance for the family and planned the “distraction” Brinni and her envoy would be for the magister. Someone suddenly barged into the war room with insider knowledge of the magister’s plans - Brinni seemed to trust him and his easy confidence, so everyone else did as well. 

It was settled. They would leave first thing in the morning. 

 “The plan puts you in the most danger - we can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait. It’s up to you,” he said to her before parting, his cool demeanor soothing over the storm within. Don’t go. It’s a trap. You will die. 

She went. So did Blackwall (prisoner), Varric (prisoner), and the new mage, Dorian (dead). 

Dead. 

If he had just talked to her, told her how important she was - not just to the Inquisition, but to everyone in their inner circle even after this short amount of time, how he looked forward to reading her messages from her seemingly never-ending duties in the Hinterlands, how their conversations while he was overseeing the training exercises were the best sort of distraction…

He sighed. She still would have gone. Still would have died. 

He walked out of the building, staring at the breach in the sky. What were they going to do now? 

Months passed. It was almost a year to the day since the Inquisition lost their one hope at closing the Breach. Cullen had been right about Redcliffe. He threw troops at it, but they were no match for The Elder One’s demon army. Thedas was gone - everything was covered in red lyrium. Leliana had been captured on a spy mission months ago. Cassandra and Iron Bull led a charge soon after the news of Brinni’s death reached Haven with the rest of her companions - they never returned. Josephine tried her hand at diplomacy and was caught by a demon possessing a nobleman. 

Dead, dead, dead. 

Only a handful of troops remained. Templars, warriors, and even a few elves had traveled to Haven after everything really started going south about a month after…after her death. They fought for the fallen Herald of Andraste. He fought for her. Brinni Lavellan. He still found his thoughts easily drifting to her. He did a double take every time he saw an elf with short white hair the color of starlight. He missed her, even now. Even as he mounted his favorite horse outside of Redcliffe Village, ready to lead one last charge against the castle. One last attempt at saving the world, though it was certain they would all end up the same as everyone else who had tried.

Would he see her once this was over? He mulled the thought over as they marched on the castle through fields of red lyrium, the power surrounding it warm and intoxicating. He saw corpses with crystals growing out of them and shuddered. What world was left to save? They got to the bridge and he dismounted, taking all of the riding gear off of his horse. He dropped it to the ground before slapping the horse’s hindquarters, sending it off to live whatever life it could manage. There would be no one left to care for it after today and he could not bring himself to watch the horse die in battle. He smiled to himself. “The Commander has a soft spot” - she had teased him about that once in the stables, long ago.

A horrible grinding noise brought his attention back to the present, the telltale sound of the demons that had laid waste to the land and the people of Thedas. This was it. He raised his sword, rallying the small troop behind him and charged. 

They fought as well as they could, taking down a few demons while the demons took down more of them. He watched as they fought and fell, their numbers shrinking further and further until only a true handful were left, each fighting their own hopeless battle. A cry, a thud. Dead. A shout, a demonic laugh. Dead. 

“Sir, behind yo-” someone called out, seconds too late. Cullen started to turn, his sword preparing to strike when he felt a sharp pain in his chest, followed by searing heat and frigid cold seeping through his body. He fell to the ground, looking up at the roiling green-grey sky and tried unsuccessfully to remember what it looked like on a clear, blue, cloudless day before magic destroyed everything. He was lying in something warm and wet and he was tired, so tired. His eyes fluttered and the world grew dim. The cries of battle were quiet now and the grinding noise from the demons drifted further from his consciousness. 

It was over. 

“Sir? Sir? A message from Redcliffe,” a voice called from outside the door of his office, accompanied by urgent knocks. 

Cullen startled and sat up. Had he been sleeping at his desk? The long nights and early mornings had caught up with him, it appeared - he would need to keep a better schedule. He cleared his throat, calling for the messenger to enter and took the small envelope from him. 

He quickly ripped it open to read the missive from Brinni’s operation, his eyes scanning desperately for a key word to indicate how the mission went. He quickly crumpled it up and threw it across the room to prevent himself from spending all day reading it over and over again before leaning over his desk, his head in his hands. 

Mission successful. Recruited mages as allies. Will explain when we return. - B

She was fine. She didn’t die, she wasn’t taken prisoner, and she had recruited the mages as allies for the Inquisition. Once again, she exceeded his expectations. He leaned back in his chair, his face to the ceiling and laughed loudly, the cord of tension within him that had been wound so tightly since they left finally loosening. Was the tension he had been harboring solely due to the fate of their Inquisition? They would be able to continue closing Fade Rifts and perhaps close the Breach with the assistance of the recruited mages. Or…was it something that was beginning to take hold inside him, gentle and warm, just like the way she smiled at him during her rounds the other day when she found him in the stables, brushing his favorite horse’s mane and talking sweetly to it? “The Commander has a soft spot,” she had teased him. 

It appeared that the Commander may have had more than one.

[shouldaspunastory]

for @plisuu and @dadrunkwriting

Dorian Pavus x Cullen Rutherford (SFW, pre-relationship, pining, hurt & comfort), 515 words

-----------------------------------

“Ah, well, seems it’s once again time for my favorite pastime,” Dorian sighs shaking his head, mustache doing its best and failing to entirely hide the small frown behind it.

“Which is,” Cullen asks gently. He doesn’t know what exactly happened on the trip he and the Inquisitor took out to Redcliffe to meet someone the mage’s family sent to speak to him. Frankly, he’s not even sure whether it’s worth bringing up, whether Dorian is up to talking about it yet, or if their chess games together make them close enough he’d consider opening up to him. But Maker, but he wishes he knew what to say. Wishes any of the dozens of scenarios he’s imagined and conversations he’s practiced having with this man in his head were useful right now.

“Drowning my problems in ridiculous amounts of booze,” the Altus replies. He sounds almost cheerfully excited by the prospect, or he would, if Cullen didn’t know him better, if that smile actually reached his normally bright eyes.

“May I join you?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think too hard about them. Dorian’s eyes widen, the first genuine laugh Cullen has heard since they got back bursting out of him.

“You. Want to get drunk. With me,” Dorian repeats in disbelief. “Kaffas what did I miss while I was away? Are the newest recruits that bad?

“No,” Cullen replies, shaking his head. “They’re- well, they’ll do with some training,” he amends halfway through the thought, because, yes they are pretty green compared to some of the more seasoned fighters they’ve had join them, but it’s not as if they can’t be trained up. Dorian chuckles softly at his response, though it’s not as lively as he usually is, clearly still weighed down by whatever transpired between he and his family’s retainer. “I just… I’d prefer you don’t drink alone,” Cullen admits softly, before he loses his nerve to say it.

Dorian’s mouth falls open, then opens and shuts a few more times as he attempts to respond. Part of the Altus wants to argue that he has gotten drunk alone plenty of times before now and is no worse the wear for having done so. Another part of him, much as he hates to admit it, thinks he might be glad of the company. Of Cullen’s company specifically.

“The Commander of the Inquisition shitfaced,” Dorian whispers, falling back on a kind of pantomime of his usual sassiness as he pretends to consider the merits of the suggestion. “Yes, you know, I think I’d like to see that,” he nods.

Cullen feels a slight blush creeping up the back of his neck at Dorian’s teasing, even if he knows it’s not entirely as easy or sincere as it usually is. But perhaps, eventually, those laughs and smiles will finally make it to his eyes again. And if he can help in any way to make that happen, Cullen thinks as he collects himself and follows after Dorian, a little embarrassment and few jokes at his expense, seems a worthy sacrifice.

[schreibschuppen]

RaSen | DeviantArt

--- minimal NSFW i guess? --- “Das wäre alles.” 

Cullens Blick streifte sie nur kurz, als er seine Männer mit einem Nicken entließ. Fast bedauerte sie es. Seine gerade Haltung, die Härte in seiner Stimme, die keinen Widerspruch zuließ, die absolute Sicherheit in dem, was er tat… Kommandant Cullen berührte etwas in ihr, von dem sie fast vergessen hatte, dass es da war.

Mit festen, selbstsicheren Schritten durchquerte er den Raum, und sie war froh, dass die Steinwand in ihrem Rücken ihr Halt bot. Ihren Knien traute sie nicht, nicht wenn dieser strenge Blick in seinen Augen lag. Nicht, wenn er so dicht an ihr vorbei ging, dass der Geruch des Leders in ihre Nase stieg, die leise Ahnung von Metall, das leise Klirren seiner Stiefel ein dumpfes Ziehen in ihrem Unterkörper auslöste. Mit einer energischen Geste schloss er die Tür. Er lehnte sich dagegen, mit beiden Händen, als könne er so mit den Soldaten den ganzen Krieg aus dem Raum hinaus schieben. Kommandant Cullen schmolz, verflüchtigte sich mit einem leisen Seufzen. “Es hört nie auf, oder? Es gibt immer noch etwas zu tun.” “Wärst Du lieber woanders?” Cullen sah auf und warf ihr ein Lächeln zu. Ein müdes Lächeln, aber die Wärme in seinem Blick trieb ihr die Röte in die Wangen. “Nicht solange Du hier bist.” Er stieß sich von der Tür ab und ging zurück zu seinem Schreibtisch, der noch immer von Papieren und Krügen übersäht war. Oh nein, er würde sich jetzt nicht wieder in Arbeit verkriechen. Sie folgte ihm, aber bevor sie ihn einholen konnte, hatte er den Tisch erreicht. Aber er stützte sich nur darauf, räusperte sich leise. “Und wenn… wenn der Krieg vorbei ist, würde ich gerne hier bleiben. Nicht hier, aber bei dir.” Noch immer stand er mit dem Rücken zu ihr, aber sie konnte sehen, wie er die Schultern straffte, nur, um im nächsten Moment den Kopf ein wenig hängen zu lassen, so, wie er es immer tat, wenn er unsicher war. “Natürlich nur, wenn- ich… ich meine, ich weiß nicht, was Du- ich will nicht-” “Cullen.” Ihre Stimme war leise, und sie legte eine Hand auf seinen Arm. Das Metall der Armschiene war kalt an ihrer Haut. Sanft schob sie sich zwischen ihn und den Tisch, zwang ihn, sie anzusehen. “Musst Du noch fragen?” “Ich… schätze nicht.” Cullens Blick brachte sie beinahe zum Schmelzen. Seine Finger strichen über ihre Wange, und unwillkürlich schmiegte sie sich an seine Hand. “Cullen, für mich gibt es nur ein wir nach diesem Krieg.” Sie stieß gegen die Tischkante, und im nächsten Moment klirrte es. Irgendetwas war vom Tisch gefallen und sie hielt inne um nachzusehen, sich zu entschuldigen, aber dann begegnete sie Cullens Blick und auf einmal war ihr Mund trocken. In seinen Augen glühte ein Feuer, dass ihr die Hitze in die Wangen trieb. Wieder stieg ihr der Geruch nach Leder in die Nase, und Metall klirrte leise, als er ihre Hüfte packte und sie auf den Tisch setzte. Pergament knisterte, nur, damit Cullen es im nächsten Moment ungeduldig vom Tisch fegte. Sie musste schlucken. Der ganze Raum schien mit einem mal wärmer zu sein.  Unwillkürlich keuchte sie leise auf, als Cullen sich zwischen ihre Beine schob.  “Ich liebe dich.” Cullens Stimme war heiser und rau, sein Atem strich heiß über ihre Haut. Seine Lippen folgten ihr, als sie den Kopf in den Nacken legte, wanderten über ihr Ohr, ihren Hals. “Ich-” der Rest ihres Satzes ging in einem überraschten Stöhnen unter, als Cullens Zähne leicht die dünne Haut über ihren Schlüsselbeinen streiften. Er hielt inne, aber sie grub eine Hand in seine Haare, hielt ihn fest. “Ich dich auch.”

[scribeofmorpheus]

Harellan: Dragon Hunting

"She’d heard Solas scream an earth-shattering “No!” as his attentions were immediately pulled away from Mistral; the Frost Dragon they’d been engaged in battle with. Dorian had shouted something from the sidelines, balls of fire raining down across the land, prompting Cassandra to yell for everyone to stay in formation, but her orders were ignored. Too quick to catch with the naked eye, Solas had Fade stepped to her side, staff striking the ground as he warded their position from physical attacks. “You won’t leave me yet, vhen’an! I won’t allow it!” he’d screamed the words as he raised his hands to cast a spell of urgency."

--new chapter slammed between the story [mostly banter; some battle Panic!Solas]!

[sageadvice]

A Marriage of Inconvenience

by TheBetterAngelsOfOurNature on Ao3

Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall, has a pretty good handle on the whole running-a-city-state thing until Cassandra shows up. He'd be exasperated as hell except that she keeps dragging him along. Hey, it gets him out of the office. Things are tense up North, especially with Starkhaven slobbering over Kirkwall like a gurgut over a wounded bogfisher. Then, Nevarra needs an ally in the Free Marches and Cassandra is her country's best hope. Now, the holier-than-thou, self-important, Choir Boy who invaded Kirkwall is out to marry Cassandra. He's tall and human and Chantry-loving and recites poetry and Varric's got a nug's chance at supper, but who gives a shit?

If Sebastian wants his city or his Seeker, he'll have to step over Varric's grave.

…

Hi! In case anyone (like me) is still in mourning, please read this fic by my best friend, TheBetterAngelsOfOurNature about happier post-inquisition times for our beloved heroes. It is, specifically, about Varric and Cassandra, but all the characters are included in some way and it’s so insanely, stupidly well-written and amazing that my brain melts when I read it and I’ve got it memorized by now. Also: I don’t care what BioWare says, this is canon forever and I will live with my fingers in my ears if anyone tries to tell me otherwise.

If you don’t read it, do you not like joy? Do you not like romance? Do you not like hope and levity? Do yourself favor. No! Do Varric a favor—read this and let him live on in your mind as this version of himself, the way the Maker intended.

A new chapter just dropped 😊

[ciellafanfic]

La Pomme Vie et Morte

Solas/Female Lavellan

Summary:

It is said that the apples that grow near the gallows will be bitter on the tongue of a lover who will betray. It is also said, although by different people entirely, that unripened fruit should not be the only consideration when investigating matters of fidelity. The latter are lonely most evenings among the arbors of the Summer Bazaar.

—From Our Orlesian Heart by (formerly) Sister Laudine

Just a small, hopefully bittersweet, scene from Inquisitor Lavellan's first trip to Val Royeaux.

"Thank the creators that we’re finally leaving," said the Herald. Solas looked at the elven woman. Her whole body slumped with the metaphorical weight that had been thrust onto her shoulders as she walked beside him through the streets of Val Royeaux. The Seeker and Varric walked not far ahead, the latter needling the former about something, attempting to get a rise out of her. He’d done this for the majority of the trip here and looked as if he would continue on their way home. Their strange company had traveled here to ally themselves with the Chantry leaders, to secure their assistance in closing the Breach. Instead, they had been rebuffed, not only by the Chantry, but by the Templars as well. 

“You were quite excited to travel here. I assume the recent events have dampened the city’s appeal?” he replied. The eagerness she’d shown on their approach to the Orlesian capital, while naive, had been pleasant to witness. It had been far too long since he’d looked at a place with such fresh eyes. To see only the beauty, the glamor, and the novelty, without knowing the rot that it held beneath it. There was actually a twinge of sadness in him that she was no longer ignorant to it.

“It’s an amazing place,” she replied, her voice somewhat wistful as she glanced around the colorful buildings. “But it’s a lot like that lake they have back there: incredibly beautiful and horribly useless.”

Solas chuckled slightly at the comparison. The Herald had been aghast at the idea of creating a lake from which no water could be drunk nor fish be caught. And while everyone agreed that the emperor who had created it was mad, that hadn’t been much in the way of a balm. 

“Thank you, though,” she continued, giving him a pleasant smile. “For coming with me. It was nice not to be the only ‘knife-eared savage’ about.” 

She said it as they passed a group of mask-wearing nobles who whispered and pointed in their direction. He’d heard those insults hurled at her multiple times since their arrival here. Some even to her face. He was surprised at how well she'd handled it. On occasion, he had even felt ready to lash out on her behalf. But the insults didn’t seem to bother her. At least, not half as much as the fact that there was a hole in the sky and no one she spoke to wanted to do anything about it. 

Solas schooled his features into mock seriousness.

“Ah, but see, only you are the ‘savage’, I am merely a humble ‘knife-ear’,” he replied, with just the smallest of bows, to show his humility.

She laughed at that, throwing her head back slightly before looking back at him. The weight had shifted off her shoulders for the moment, and there was only her light-hearted smile. She did have a charming smile, he had to admit. Exuberant, he could call it. And contagious as well, as he found himself smiling back.

“How could I forget?” she said. “I’ll need to wear one of those fashionable masks if I ever visit again.”

“That would be a true shame,” Solas said. He said the compliment, without thinking and she raised an eyebrow at him. Her smile turned sly, but surprisingly, not uninterested. Solas even noticed Varric looked back to give him a glance.

“It’s incredibly difficult to eat one of those little cakes while wearing a mask,” he said, hopefully not missing a beat, and she laughed again in response. 

“That’s true. You were right about them, they were delicious. A half-mask then.” 

Solas gave her a smile in response, but inwardly he scolded himself. He was here on a mission: seal the Breach & retrieve the foci. He was most certainly not here to flirt like the courtier he’d once been. 

But when he looked over at the elven woman, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been right; covering her face with one of the humans’ silly little masks would be a shame indeed. 

She glanced at him and he shifted his eyes so he would seem as if he was looking just beyond her. Judging by the self-satisfied smirk that graced her face, his ruse wasn’t as successful as he hoped. 

He looked forward again, taking in the bright colors of the banners that hung along the city streets. There was music being played at some café down the road, and it wove its way through the chatter of the busy thoroughfare. As he felt the sun warm his skin, he let himself drift away. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that was everything what he presented himself to be. A simple apostate who had wandered into a larger world, by forces beyond his control. And by his side walked a pretty Dalish woman, who smiled warmly in his direction. 

He could flirt with her, and perhaps she would return it. She didn’t seem disinterested. They could talk. He could make her laugh. Glances could linger. Skin could brush against skin.

“Are you hungry at all?” she asked. He was pulled out of his daydream by the question, leaving the fantasy behind. It shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was. Fantasy was all it could ever be.  

“I thought you were eager to leave. Did one of the cafés catch your eye?” he asked. 

“Oh, we can definitely leave, but I just spotted a snack.”

She pointed to some decorative apple trees that were rather garishly adorning the gallows in the bazaar. 

“I’m not so sure those are for eating,” replied Solas. A small fence surrounded the trees, and it would be very Orlesian to use fruit-bearing trees for decoration only. 

The Herald rolled her eyes at the idea of food not meant for eating, and he could hardly blame her. 

He watched as she gracefully vaulted over the small fence and began to pluck a handful of apples from the lower branches. Behind her, there were indeed several Bazaar patrons who seemed scandalized by her ‘savage’ behavior. If anything that seemed to increase the gleam in her eyes. 

“What are you doing?” the Seeker asked, annoyed. Solas presumed she was more perturbed by the delay in their exit than by the Herald’s brazen transgression of Orlesian niceties. In answer to her question, the elven woman tossed the Seeker a shiny red apple. Cassandra caught it one-handed, before even registering what it was.

The Herald tossed another to Varric and a third to Solas, before leaping over the fence once more, her own apple in hand. She lifted the fruit to her companions in a toast.

“Thanks, Lucky,” Varric said, returning the gesture with a smile. 

Cassandra simply made a half-hearted attempt at a grunt and began walking again.

“I believe you may have shocked the locals,” Solas said as she began walking next to him again. 

“I hope so,” she said, unabashed. “They could use a bit of a shock.”

She took a large bite of her apple for emphasis. He could hear the crisp snap as she broke away the apple’s flesh and a small trickle of juice ran down her chin. Solas had the sudden urge to wipe the juice away with his thumb, brushing it just slightly against her lips as he did. He quashed the impulse as soon as it appeared. It seemed that he'd let his small fantasy get away from him. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d worked in close quarters with others. He would need to make a better effort at controlling himself.

Solas took a bite of his and spit it out on instinct as his mouth was flooded with a strong bitter taste. He looked down at the offending apple and saw nothing wrong with the thing. It didn’t look mealy or rotten. In fact, it looked delicious. He brought it to his nose with a sniff. Nothing smelled off either. He quickly darted out his tongue to taste it once more and the apple’s flesh produced that same bitter taste. 

“What’s wrong?” the Herald asked.

“It seems I’ve gotten a rotten one,” he replied.

“Oh no,” she said, more concern on her face than a rotten apple merited. “Want some of mine?” 

Solas shook his head.

“It’s no matter. We’ll be at the camp and resupplied before long.”

She gave him an empathetic frown and returned to her own apple, though with far less enthusiasm this time.

“Thank you though,” he said. “For the thought.” 

“I guess Val Royeaux just wants us to leave on a sour note,” she said with a sigh. They were approaching the exit to the Bazaar and Solas felt a strange pang of regret that her first, and possibly only, visit to the city would end so poorly. 

“I don’t know about that,” he said, hoping to give her one more smile before they left. “It is rather a beautiful view.” 

From ahead of them, Cassandra and Varric could easily assume he spoke of the city. But, next to him, the Herald returned the gaze he had leveled directly at her. He watched her face begin to flush red and she turned to the side to try and hide the blush. Solas could see the small smile at the corner of her lips, one that seemingly matched his own. 

They passed into the Avenue of Reflective thought, leaving the Summer Bazaar and Val Royeaux behind. He supposed he could allow himself the fantasy for just a brief moment longer.

Codex entry: La Pomme Vie et Morte

It is said that the apples that grow near the gallows will be bitter on the tongue of a lover who will betray. It is also said, although by different people entirely, that unripened fruit should not be the only consideration when investigating matters of fidelity. The latter are lonely most evenings among the arbors of the Summer Bazaar.

—From Our Orlesian Heart by (formerly) Sister Laudine

[nadas-dirthalen]

she, the mender; he, the break. (2)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

previous entries: (1)

synopsis: The Dalish elf that closed the Breach has woken. Immediately faced with a world that no longer looks at her the way she expects, Ithalia must piece together what transpired.

How did she survive at all? And who, if anyone, has an interest in her life?

content warnings: canon-typical violence mention, canon-typical depiction of racism, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

Two Ithalia

Something is wrong, deep in her bones, when Ithalia wakes.

Some things, plural. A gap in her memory where, apparently, a trip to the Fade should be. A mark in her palm whose cold burn she cannot pinpoint as coming from… anywhere.

A hole in the sky that she can feel, somehow, from her place on a too-warm bed in a too-comfortable room, is… gone. The quiet left behind is jarring.

Before—there’s no way to know if it’s been days, weeks, a decade—the quiet would’ve been a boon. She’d wanted it, before, a Dalish spy in the Conclave, a watcher sent from home. She’d been meant to watch. That was it. The quieter, the less imposing, the better.

She’s an explosion or two past less imposing, probably.

But what could take a Dalish elf from a prison cell to the plush of a clean bed?

One thing at a time. She cracks her eyes open—those still see the same, even after the last flash of blinding green she remembers. To her right stands a wall, simple wood planks. To her left, everything else: a bedside table, a desk, a flaming sconce, several pelts hung around a small window, a bookshelf—

A tray that clatters on the floor, dropped by an elf standing frozen in her wake. 

“O—oh,” they stammer, sweat beading on their brow. Young, no valasslin—probably not Dalish. At the sight of her, their head starts shaking. They backpedal, one step and then another. “I—I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

An elf, of all people, ready to run as soon as she props herself up on an elbow.

“Don’t…” Mythal’enaste, her temple throbs. Her hand, moreso. “... Don’t worry about it. I only—”

The elf falls, and Ithalia jolts upright.

They collapse to the floor—not to faint, but to kneel.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” they plead, palms to the floor, even their brow touching the stone. “I am but a humble servant.”

A servant. A city elf, bending to kneel before one of the Dalish, as if Ithalia is something… more. Something else.

Some things wrong, indeed.

“I…” Ithalia lets her voice fade to nothing. She what, exactly? What does this elf, or anyone, think of her? Why is she here? And where is—

“You are in Haven, my lady,” the younger elf says, lifting their head to meet her eyes. They swallow when they spot Ithalia still watching them. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

She turns her attention there, to the mark, if only to… spare… the younger elf from it. It lights with the twitch of a finger, the same way a person might look up at the sound of their name. It thrums, warm yet impossibly cold, in an arc from the heel of her palm to the curve between her thumb and forefinger.

It looks like an open wound, the color of the Veil.

What she thinks is the Veil.

Probably.

“It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

Three days. The Breach, gone. Three days.

“So you’re saying…” She tries another look at the elf, who winces. She doesn’t hide her own stammer, as she’d learned to do under Keeper Ishmaetoriel’s guidance. Let this elf hear her disbelief. “They’re… happy with me?”

“I’m only saying what I heard. I didn’t mean anything by it!” The elf rises, standing on shaking knees. Again, they step backward, hands raised like at any moment, Ithalia might lunge. “I—I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She… she said, ‘At once.’”

Lady Cassandra. Ithalia grits her teeth before she remembers the younger elf would flee for less. She pauses, finds a smile, rubs a temple. Lady Cassandra…

Seeker Cassandra.

She fights to rise, stifling a groan. “And… where is she…?”

“In the Chantry,” the younger elf answers, their full-body tremor in their voice, now, too. “With the lord chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!”

They all but fall into the door as they push through it, and then they are gone.

Quiet blankets the room again—but just outside, a wave of murmurs rises, rippling out from this lodge. This Haven lodge, now that the Breach has been closed for three days.

Haven. Breach closed. Three days. She can cling to those, even when…

She will have to face the outside. Soon, probably.

In the meantime, maybe someone has left something behind more informative than the elf who somehow dropped down before her in worship. With precious little time and through the haze of a headache, though, little stands out save for a pile of loose papers left on the room’s only desk.

She chews a lip, looks down at her fingertips. Hands this clean—washed? By whom?—won’t leave any obvious prints that she’d need to make excuses for. If she did, would she have to make them? Or would anyone besides that lone elf drop down and do…. That?

No time to ponder long either way. She tests her steps, finding her own knees shaking, and ambles over to the desk. Elbow on the wood, she bends down and lifts the paper close to her eyes, cursing her headache for at least the third time in as many minutes.

Day One: Clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse over-fast. Not responsive. Pupils dilated. Mage says her scarring "mark" is thrumming with unknown magic. Wish we could station a templar in here, just in case.

Ithalia sucks in a breath, releasing it only at the end of the passage. Mark must mean her—and unknown magic, while it ties her stomach in knots, matches her assumption.

Mage—she does remember, tangled insides tightening. A flash of green: once, twice, again, then for good before all went dark. A hand clamped over her wrist—no. Loosely. It’d been the Seeker’s grasp that was rough. Cassandra’s, not—

Solas’.

Where is he, now? Where are any of the others, aside from Cassandra and…

Lord chancellor. Haven. Breach closed. Three days.

She sighs, closing her eyes to keep the words from blurring on the page. It takes a moment for the room to return to stillness, for her stomach to stop threatening a heave.

Under the page of notes, there’s nothing discernible. Only a collection of pages with a series of numbers in two columns, marked with what looks like the time over the course of several days and nights. The measurements have no labels. The notes in the margins are packed too tightly, in too intricate of a shorthand to attempt deciphering.

Even one in elvish, which is all she really gleans from the pages. Multiple pages, packed with writing on both sides.

He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’

The dwarf’s voice—one of precious few things Ithalia remembers. Varric Tethras: rogue, author… something. He didn’t look ready to cut her down, for either her heritage or mark. He didn’t look ready to collapse in reverence, either.

“My lady?” a voice—soft, high—asks outside the door, scarcely audible over the rest.

Something brushes against the opposite side of the wood, then stops.

“Shhh! Are you mad? Leave the Herald be!” another hisses.

The Herald. Haven. The lord chancellor, with Lady Cassandra. 

Scarring “mark” thrumming with unknown magic.

The Breach, closed, three days.

She’ll have to face them all, now, with nothing else to go on. No blade to ready herself for anything that might not be instantaneous adolation.

How many, in Haven? To what end?

She can’t know, until…

Ithalia opens the door with a tremoring hand and finds a parted sea. Rows of onlookers, standing politely to each side of a cobbled path, some with heads bowed, some with eyes shining. None of them notice the icy wind that shudders down her spine. None of them care for anything but what is in front of them.

A Dalish elf, Dirthhamen’s valasslin upon her brow, down the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones, under her lip. Unmistakable from every angle as not them, a probably-Veil-green gash pulsing visibly on her palm. Washed by hands that were not hers, dressed in clothes she’s never laid eyes upon, emerging from a lodge she never chose.

Stepping out under a sky scarred the same as she: a waving line of green to split the blue, like a scar over pale skin.

I am not this, she fights not to say, for they should already know.

Have they forgotten?

She has learned, all her life, to run from human worship. To see the sight of red and learn from the bull’s mistake, fleeing opposite, never giving in to anger when survival is never not at stake.

Her Keeper has told her stories, since she was old enough to catch their meaning, of forests made of graves, canopies thick enough to blot out the sun.

Yet this tableau—this human tableau, scarcely an elf and not one Dalish in sight—stays perfectly still. They bow, not for the red of their Chantry, but for the green of her palm.

A magic that is not hers, a name—Herald—that is not hers, a mended sky that is not hers.

For if it were hers alone, she would be dead.

It is because of one that she is not.

[galadrieljones]

Happy SatFriday, or DADWC day :) I propose... Haunted Forest, folded letter, and exhausted

Thank you for the prompt!! This is another addition to my post-Trespasser/pre-Veilguard stories for Sene Lavellan. Solas is getting closer, every day. Finally, she encounters him in the Fade...

Solavellan ❤️ 1500 words ❤️ Mature

MASTERPOST

Incredulous

Sene tip-toed past the river bank, which was frozen into a crust. She wore winter furs. She had not hunted them herself. In fact, they had been gifts from Dorian. Tall, white arctic bears. He'd commissioned them himself and sent them as a gift via courier. To My Redheaded Friend, he'd written on a piece of heavy parchment. These furs were crafted by the finest trapper in all of Tevinter. I have a feeling they will go splendidly with your magnificent hair. May they keep you warm until next I see you. Which had better be soon. I'm very bored. Yours, Dorian.

It was cold, a dead season in the Frostbacks, and she was just outside of Haven, had hiked up the mountain over the past two days. Why had she come here? She didn't know. She just felt like it. She set up camp near the old gates, in the barracks where Thom Rainier had used to sleep. She lit a fire in the hearth, and it was enough to warm her. There were woods nearby, which had overgrown in the Inquisition's absence with coniferous trees, monsters that could blot out the sky. It was where she later planned to hunt her supper, but not now. For now, she was exhausted.

She had come back to Haven twice before, once with Abelas, right at the beginning of their love, when he was curious, and he wanted relics of her old life without him, and once with Ameridan, who had been simply bored, and who she hadn't seen now in more than four months. Their last dalliance had been at the Winter Palace. Along with the Commander and Josephine with Thom, hey had attended a ball there at the behest of Empress Celene who found their coupling curious. They boarded together in a great room at the corner of the castle on a high floor, and they enjoyed the view as well as the wine, one another's company, and they fucked merrily as they had many times over the years prior. On again, off again. When they said goodbye, something about it felt definitive this time. He was headed to the Anderfels. What's there? she had asked him. He had kissed her, charming and silver, and he said, I don't know, lethal'lan. Much hardship, I'm sure. And they smiled.

She could have asked to go with him. He would have taken her, but he hadn't asked, and it wasn't what she wanted to do anyway. So instead, she went home to her clan's farm in the Free Marches. She stayed there for two months, helping her father organize the archives and helping her her mother bottle the wine, and then she went back to Skyhold to visit with Sera and Dagna, and to take care of some business with the Inquisition. Now she was alone, here in Haven, thinking about the past. She still loved this place. She warmed her hands to the fire and drank some brandy from a leather flask. She thought quite a bit about Ameridan, and how she could have loved him. It was a nice fantasy, and she missed him a little, but Ameridan was very far gone in some ways. Even beyond the Anderfels. No matter how they carried on, he seemed to have no intention of falling in love with her or anyone else. His heart was still stitched to Telana's, across centuries. Sene didn't blame him. She understood him. In this way, she knew it would never work.

A little while later after the sun went down over the mountain, Sene went outside to go hunting in the woods. The snow was crunchy. She made a habit of stepping into animal tracks and depressions left by logs and other things. It dampened her footsteps. She made quick work of a wild turkey, which took her no more than twenty minutes to track and to shoot. She'd eat what she could and cure the rest. With the bird tied off at the feet, hanging over her shoulder, she began to head homeward. She could hear the call of the owl and as the moon rose, the howling of one solemn wolf, very nearby. She stopped, standing perfectly still on the trail. She set down the turkey and took her bow off her back and then she nocked a single arrow. There was a cold wind, and with it the sounds of haunted whispers, which raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and suddenly, she knew she wasn't alone. She spun around with her arrow aimed high, right at the throat.

It was Solas.

She dropped the bow immediately. He was just standing there, wearing simple garments. A dark jacket with a high collar, and he had his hands in his pockets. He watched her, pensive and very concerned. He looked so good. She nearly dropped to her knees. But she didn't. She looked around instead, at the pines and the snow, hearing the animal sounds.

"Are you real?" she said to him. "Or is this a dream?"

"It is a dream," said Solas.

"It feels so real."

"I am near," he said. "That is why."

"You're near?" she said. "Where are you?"

"Don't worry about it, Sene."

"Why not?"

"Soon, it will be time. But not yet."

"Thom gave me your letter," she said. She pulled the folded piece of parchment from the satchel at her hip. She showed it to him. "In the Hinterlands, one month ago. You sent it from Tevinter?"

"I am grateful to Thom," said Solas. "I felt you here, at Haven. I wanted to see you. I don't know what you've heard, about the ritual, and Tevinter."

"In the letter, you said you still love me. Is that true?"

Solas hardened his jaw. He still did not remove his hands from his pockets. "It is always true."

She took a step closer to him. "It feels different now. I can sense it, too. How close."

"If this could be over," he said, "and if I came back—"

"I am not who I used to be," she interrupted. The snow began to fall. Little snowflakes clinging to his jacket, his broad shoulders. She was close enough to touch him, but she didn't.

"I know that," he said. "I know everything, vhenan."

"Everything?" she said. This made her nervous. She didn't know why. It wasn't like her. They'd met in the Fade before, many times since he'd gone. At first, she wanted to kill him, but over time, that changed. As she changed. She should have known. "What do you know."

He took a deep breath and looked down at his boots. He just looked like a man there. He didn't look like a god. "I know about Abelas," he said. "And Ameridan. When I learned Ameridan was alive, I was shocked, naturally. I had heard of your valor in the Frostback Basin. You and Abelas. I had to see the man for myself, so I went in the Fade. I saw him at a tavern. And with him, I saw you. Laughing, with your great big hair. Imagine my surprise." He smiled, in earnest.

She didn't feel embarrassed, but she did feel guilty. She knew this was irrational. "Why didn't you say anything? I had seen you in Fade."

"It didn't matter. It's your life, not mine. I couldn't give you what you needed."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," she said. "It was never about you, with either of them. I just wanted to feel like a person."

"It's been ten years, vhenan," he said, as if hanging on for his dear life. "I have no claim over you anymore."

"I hated you for so long," said Sene.

"I remember."

"Abelas felt the brunt of that. Ameridan, in some ways, he is so much like me. He's helped me figure out the truth."

"What is the truth?"

"That I still love you," she said, holding out the letter to him. He took it, like he was compelled to. Their hands did not touch.

"You do?"

"I can't stop. It is my destiny. For this, Ameridan and I can never be together, at least not seriously. He loves a dead dreamer, same as me."

"I am not dead, vhenan."

"You might as well be," she said, shaking her head. She felt cold and filled with her regular and ongoing winter exhaustion without him. "You are not here. We meet only in dreams. You might as well be a ghost."

Now, he took his hands out of his pockets. He was wearing dark gloves, which he removed and dropped to the earth. Then he took one step closer, and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I have not come back, because I live in fear that you will not see me. I left you. I left us both behind that day. When I saw you again, years later, and you learned the truth, it was so...fraught. We have never discussed it."

"That is the past," she said. "I know who you are."

"I used to have a reason, Sene, but now that reason is...just gone. There is still much to be done, but I no longer need to be alone. It has been so long. I thought perhaps you had moved on. I know it sounds cliche, but I just wanted you to be happy."

"I am," she said. "I'm fine. I am not like other people, Solas, but I am not alone. I have friends, and it's taken me many years, but I'm fine. I don't know what else to say."

"You are not in love with Ameridan?"

"No," said Sene. "Though I thought about it."

He smirked, perhaps stunned. "You thought about it?"

"What it might be like, yes. I even wanted it, at one point. I believe it's over now, but we were on and off for many years."

She felt a shaking in her heart. He was still touching her neck, right where it met her jaw. He seemed to be studying the exact same spot of her skin. She wanted badly to defy him, but what was the point?

"It feels like you're here," she said. They could see their breath. "Are you sure you're not here?"

He kissed her, calmly. It seemed to last forever, like the first time. The same place. But it was much less cold then, and now, they were older. When they parted, she became a puddle in the frozen earth.

"Solas—"

"When you awaken," said Solas, "it will not be long. Vhenan." He smiled wearily and snapped his fingers once.

She woke up in the barracks, which she had never left. She had curled into her furs beside the lit hearth and fallen asleep. Now, she looked down at her freckled right arm and her strange left arm, which still itched from time to time, and still glowed with the old restorative magics wrought by Dorian and Dagna. She touched the place on her neck that Solas had touched and she touched her fingers to her lips. She got to her feet. She went outside where it was freezing, not wearing her furs, wearing only her cotton under things, and she gazed up at the moon, which was full as an eye, and then into the mouth of the haunted woods. She was incredulous.

"What the fuck," she whispered.

@dadrunkwriting

[vhenan-ma-ghilana]

Of Honey and Halla: A Solavellan Anthology

Chapter 1: All New, Faded With Her: Their first moments in the Fade. [Spoilers.] Of Honey and Halla is an ongoing non-chronological Solavellan anthology. It will be a multi-chapter read focusing primarily on "slice of life" events, as well as explorations of canon in both Inquisition and Veilguard. Read on Ao3. ❗Writing style: literary, poetic, ornate, introspective. 📝 Chapter word count: 3,396 ☁️ Proofread: I've looked and edited this too much, pls.

[my wee art]

excerpt: “Tell me of this place,” Lavellan suggested. 

“I should not have allowed you to come here.” Solas said, grip on her fingers tightening. “This punishment is mine to bear.”

“No,” she insisted. “I will not see you alone any longer. This was my choice. I wish to be here, with you.”

“You have lost much because of me.” Solas frowned. His face soured with remorse, and he dropped his head. 

“You silly, stubborn man,” Lavellan chuckled, lifting his face in her palm to meet her gaze. “‘In another world.’ Is that not what you told me?”

“I…did.”

“Come,” she commanded. She pulled him closer to her, grabbing both of his hands and tugged at him to sit on the cold ground. 

He obeyed wordlessly, following to kneel alongside her. She unfastened the red binding at her waist, the colour as vibrant and defiant as the faction to which the uniform belonged. Wrapping the linen dressing around her fingers, she began patting at the grime on his face gingerly. 

“Does it hurt?”

Solas shook his head and she smiled in response. 

“Tell me,” she spoke softly, dabbing at the dirt on his chin, “Of you.”

“I…am not certain where to begin,” he replied. 

“Tell me of Varric, then.” 

Solas studied her as she worked, soaking in her image, guiltily satiating in the experience of her touch, delicate and tender. Her eyes focused on all but his, expectant, full of faith and wistfulness. Lavellan awaited his admission, the niggling desire for him to validate what she wished him to say – that it was not as reported to her. 

“Varric,” he repeated. “It was not intentional.”

A relentless hope beat with the thundering of her heart, listening for the confessions he only ever shared with her. There was no opportunity for omission in this dreadful place. For his atonement, he could not lie. 

Stripped and exposed, Solas was at his most vulnerable before her and she would not recoil. Lavellan did not flinch nor turn away – she was not disgusted nor repulsed by the sins that so defined him. 

He was in his entirety before her: vile and craven, lettered and proud, humble and sentimental. She did not yet know the extent to which he transgressed, the grievous wrongdoings that sundered the world and slew the dreams of the earth. 

And still she faced him, eagerly, readily. There was little that frightened her, he knew. She wiped at the stains of his past and asked only for the truth. He would give it to her.

[weaveandwood]

…would anyone be interested in Dragon Age Inquisition fic? I just started playing last week and I have the brainrot.

[shouldaspunastory]

Thank you @saladruiner, for @dadrunkwriting

Cullen Rutherford x Dorian Pavus (SFW, Post-Trespasser, Established Relationship) 731 words.

--------------------------------

"Cullen," Dorian begins softly, but Cullen shakes his head.

"No, I heard what you told the Inquisitor," Cullen interrupts, crossing his arms. "You have unfinished business in your homeland, I understand. I've always understood that. And someone like Lavellan, they've too much notoriety. The attention they'll bring will cause more harm than good, however great their desire to help and well-meaning their intentions might be. But I'm not the Inquisitor," Cullen protests. "And I'm not letting you go back there alone. No one in Tevinter knows who I am or would give a damn about me. If I can't help you make your homeland better, at least let me watch over you while you're doing it."

Dorian's throat feels dry, his heart hammering in his chest as Cullen swallows, not waiting for a response before he continues.

"You don't have to tell anyone about us. I know you said things between two men... that's- not how things are done there. You could say I'm your bodyguard," the Commander offers with a shrug, though there's a hint of pleading, perhaps even desperation in his voice that betrays the suggestion is not as nonchalant as he might wish to make it seem. Dorian shakes his head and Cullen's face falls.

"Dorian, please," Cullen whispers, and he's definitely begging now. Maker's breath, the man actually drops to his knees in front of him, clasping Dorian's hands in his.

"Amatus," Dorian says gently, waiting until those gorgeous amber eyes lift back up to meet his own. "I'm not telling my friends and countrymen that you are my bodyguard."

"But I-" Cullen begins, but Dorian shakes his head, and the former soldier bites his lip and tongue obediently.

"You can watch my back," Dorian continues. "I doubt I could stop you doing that if I tried," the mage smiles fondly. "But I'm not going to pretend you're just someone I employ," Cullen's eyes are wide, full of hope and disbelief, as he continues to stare up at Dorian.

"Then you'll- you'll let me come with you," Cullen whispers.

"Vishante kaffas," Dorian mutters with a chuckle, shaking his head, tugging at their joined hands and urging Cullen back to his feet, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to loop his arms around the taller man and crush his lips to his. "Of course, I want you with me, Amatus," Dorian whispers fondly, a hand gently reaching up and caressing his lover's cheek. "But your friends, your family, they're all here."

"You're my family now too," Cullen replies, as if this is the most obvious and simplest thing in the world. As if these simple words don't shake Dorian's own world to its very core. "And I can still write them, and visit," Cullen replies undeterred.

"And if you hate Tevinter," Dorian asks softly with a small frown.

"It can't be all bad. You'll be there." It's an oversimplification and both of them know it, but Dorian can't find it in his heart to protest any further, and Maker knows what positively mortifying public display of affection and devotion Cullen will try next if he does. Dorian sighs, and Cullen's answering smile says that he knows he's won. As Cullen wraps his arms around the mage and pulls him in close, Dorian allows himself to melt into the embrace and nuzzle into his lover's broad chest.

"Festis bei umo canavarum," Dorian curses under his breath, there's affection in his tone, though, as Cullen's answering chuckle vibrates through him. "You'd best hold yourself to writing those letters," Dorian says finally, lifting his chin to meet Cullen's gaze, but remaining flush against him, happy to hold and be held by his lover. "I wouldn't put it passed Mia to storm Minrathous to come find you if you don't."

"You're probably right," Cullen laughs shaking his head. "Perhaps we should stop by South Reach before we head back."

"Might be safer," Dorian nods with a wry smile, before his bravado slips ever so slightly, hugging Cullen for the briefest of moments just a little bit tighter. "You don't think they'll resent me? A man? A mage? A Vint stealing their brother from them?" Cullen shakes his head, before gently tucking Dorian's beneath his chin, and offering him a reassuring squeeze.

"They're going to love you, almost as much as I do," Cullen promises, kissing the top of his head.

[schreibschuppen]

Joel-Lee | DeviantArt

Manchmal fragte er sich, warum es sich überhaupt lohnte, weiterzumachen. Meistens nachts, meistens, wenn die Dunkelheit sich um ihn zusammenzog, wenn sich ein stickiges Tuch über sein Gesicht legte, ihm den Atem abschnürte, trotz der frischen Luft, die durch die weit offenen Fenster in sein Schlafzimmer strömte. Wenn sich in seinem Magen ein schwarzes Loch öffnete, das sich weigerte, ihn endlich zu verschlingen.

Und heute war so eine Nacht.

Heute morgen war da noch das Gefühl von Aufbruch gewesen, von Freiheit. Das Gefühl, das erste mal seit langem wieder durchatmen zu können.  Und jetzt konnte er sich nicht einmal daran erinnern, wie es gewesen war. Es war nur noch ein Bild, das hinter einer dicken Milchglasscheibe verschwand. Alles, was sich außerhalb seines Nestes aus Dunkelheit befand, war surreal, eine Parodie von etwas, dass er nicht kannte, voller Anspielungen, die er nicht verstand, weil das hier nicht seine Welt war.

Um ihn herum schwirrten die Gedanken und Gefühle der Menschen, die sich nur ein Stockwerk weiter unten in der Taverne aufhielten, keinen Meter und nur einen morschen Holzfußboden entfernt. Und doch so unendlich weit weg. Oh, er sah ihre Blicke, wie sie ihn beäugten, wenn sie glaubten, er sähe es nicht. Wie sie sich an seiner Fremdartigkeit störten, sich fragten, warum der Inquisitor ihm erlaubte, hier zu bleiben. Sie zu belästigen. Ihren hart erkämpften Frieden durch seine Andersartigkeit zu stören. Er konnte es ihnen nicht verdenken. Die Welt brannte rings um ihre kleine Bergfestung, und jeden Tag kehrten Soldaten heim, um von einem neuen Verlust zu erzählen. Einem weiteren Stück Heimat, dass der Krieg gefressen hatte. Der Himmel blutete einen unablässigen Strom von Dämonen auf die Welt, und ein größenwahnsinniger Magier versuchte, die Realität selbst zu zerstören. Und hier war er, steckte wie ein rostiger Nagel in dem Sanktuarium, dass sie sich selbst geschaffen hatten. Er hatte kein Recht dazu, ihr Leben noch schwerer zu machen, als es bereits war.

Manchmal wünschte er sich, ihre Stimmen würden verstummen. Ihn endlich alleine lassen. Aber woher würde er dann noch wissen, dass er echt war? Das er real war?

Er hatte versucht, mit Solas darüber zu sprechen. Der Elfenmagier, der selbst das Nichts kannte, vielleicht würde er ihn verstehen, hatte er gehofft. Nein. Er war ein Geist, und er durfte nichts an sich reißen, dass ihm nicht gehörte. Nicht das Gefüge der Dinge durcheinander bringen. Durfte nicht körperlich werden. Aber er war schon zu viel, um sich wieder aufzulösen. Varric hatte mit ihm darüber gesprochen. Von dem Zwerg ging die Wärme einer Umarmung aus, das beständige Knistern eines Kaminfeuers, willkommen sein. Er solle den Weg weiter gehen, das Land mit seinen Schritten brandmarken, unwiderbringlich sein Leben ändern. Aber Varric verstand nicht, verstand nicht was passierte, wenn er scheiterte, verstand nicht, dass ihn dann alle entlarven würden, dass aus misstrauischen Blicken Fackeln und Mistgabeln werden würden, verstand nicht, dass er seine Fehler nicht korrigieren konnte, die Leute nicht mehr vergessen lassen konnte. Verstand nicht, dass jeder Fehler einen dunklen Fleck hinterlassen würde, bis er selbst zu einer Kreatur der Finsternis werden würde statt zu einem Menschen.

Er konnte nichts loslassen von dem bisschen, was er hatte. Aber das würde bedeuten, weiterhin im Zwielicht zu verharren. Weiterhin diese Nächte zu erleben, zurück zu sein dort, wo er angefangen hatte. Ein blutiger, zerschlagener Körper, allein gelassen in einem dunklen Loch. Feuchte Steinwände, Schmerzen, und Hunger, alles verschlingener Hunger. Sehnsucht nach etwas, an das er sich nicht erinnern konnte. Aber das war alles, was er noch hatte. Etwas davon loszulassen würde bedeuten, weniger zu werden. Sich zu verlieren. Zu verschwinden in der Dunkelheit. Zerrieben zu werden zwischen Steinen.