#dorian your face how dare you it is beautiful and impossible

[lethalhoopla]

oops! all Dorian ride or die friendship ✨

[the-devil-has-you-now]

Hello, darling angels. How about, I'm the one who is completely and utterly obsessed with you, and you don't know it? I'm fronting an act just to catch you off guard and continue taking immense pleasure in your intense love for me, but secretly, my feelings are most definitely the strongest here, and in reality, you both are my lost little puppies, whining about, internally begging for their owner to return home? How adorable! I find it very, VERY cute, how you both are so dearly attached to me. Ignorant and foolish indeed. I feed off of how blind you are to reality, to everything, really. Let me remind you of reality, cupcake. You both are helpless little pets in need to be rescued by the one and only person you love, because you're so loyal to me. Not only are you loyal, I'd probably have you both on your hands and knees, kissing my toes while begging me to brand you, make sure everyone who even dares to lay their eyes know, that you are a slave to me. They will see just how willing you are to submit yourselves to me. Trust and believe, I will be putting you both in front of a mirror, and I will show you just how desperate you are for me. Just how needy you are for even the slightest bit of attention, how helpless you are without my existence..

I apologize you had it twisted for so long. Now, you know. Don't forget it, or else there will be repercussions. Hopefully, you'll now be portraying actions that shows how subservient and enamored you are for me.

So pathetic, you both thought you were in control, tsk... Shame.

-- ♡

Oh, our dear, you must surely jest. You’re so adorable and cute! You want to pretend you have all the power here? In a way you do. You have us on a leash of constant worry and tug at us with every clumsy fall. But that’s all you are. And that’s all the power you hold. A clutz.

We thought it’d be difficult to get you to behave, but not like this. We thought you’d cry the most beautiful and soft tears as we took you away and kept you for ourselves. You did just that, don’t you remember? You turned all red and your face all puffy as you begged us please no! and leave me alone!

But we knew know better for you, don’t we? Look at you, regaining all your confidence and turning to making it seems as if this is what you planned all along. It’s cute; you’re so unbearably cute. If we could, we’d wrap our hands around that pretty neck and squeeze! squeeze so much and then... kiss you!

You’re getting us riled up, pretty.

...

Aah, at the end of the day, the things you just said are impossible. You’re our stupid, brainless little sweetheart and this outburst is just nothing more than you settling. We do believe that you love us though, after all, you said so yourself.

If you were hoping that we’d oppose you, yell how we’re not your puppies! or how dare you make such foolish accusations! then sorry to disappoint. Think what you must, for if indulging in your little fantasies about us is what keeps you loving us, then we don’t care. Just... don’t try anything now. The consequences of your misbehavior are much more dire than having you on your knees, and in front of a mirror.

                                                                     - Dorian & Romeo

[barbex]

@midnightprelude this is all your fault, a dorianders fic. This is for @30daysofdorian

Dorian x Anders, in Skyhold.

Tempted Tevinter

“Have you heard?”

Dorian changes the angle of his head slightly to listen to a former chantry sister and a former circle mage talking behind a column in the garden. They have many “formers” here now, and quite a few unusual friendships have sprouted in this strange hotbed of Skyhold. Dorian has found himself in a disturbingly nice friendship with a dalish mage, a qunari mercenary, and a former knight of the templar order, of all things. A chantry sister and a circle mage sticking their heads together in gentle familiarity is not even that unusual.

“What have I heard?”

“They got him, the rebel.”

“Which one? They’re all apostates now if you listen to the Chantry.” There is a beat of intense silence, for which Dorian can vividly imagine the scrutinizing look the mage gives his friend. “I don’t mean that I listen to the Chantry, you know that.”

The mage clears his throat and holds a dramatic pause before he reveals his knowledge. “It’s Anders, the rebel-mage who blew up the Chantry of Kirkwall.”

“Maker! I thought he was dead. How did they find him?”

“He found us, he came to the Inquisition on his own. Walked up to the gate, said who he is and asked to be let in. They didn’t believe him at first, but they called the Commander over and he recognized him.”

“By Andraste’s heart, he didn’t kill him outright?”

“Welling said the Commander went totally still. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he ordered him to be arrested.”

“When the Commander gets quiet like that —”

“— you know that he’s really angry.”

Dorian closes his book and quietly leaves his secluded corner of the garden. News like these are too interesting to keep working on old tevinter tomes. His steps take him back into the main hall, guided by the cacophony of angry voices yelling over each other. He keeps himself to the shadows, casting a light illusion spell over himself to stay hidden and studies the scene before him.

Inquisitor Lavellan sits on the floor in front of her throne, Varric stands on the step leading up to the throne and Cullen paces around them, stomping up and down the stairs. Josephine leans against the backrest of the throne, frowning at the Commander but keeping quiet. The Commander and Varric are not quite yelling, both of them aware how much Lavellan and Josephine hate yelling, but their tempers are too high to speak reasonably.

Cullen points his finger at Varric, even though he obviously speaks for Lavellan’s benefit. “He doesn’t even deny that he’s guilty, he should be put on trial.”

“And then what?” Varric yells back. “Do you know what kind of figure he is for the mages here? He’s a spirit of guidance by now, they worship him.”

“He still should be punished!” Cullen turns to Lavellan, lowering his voice a little when he catches her frown. “People died, not only in the explosion but also in the aftermath's chaos.” He turns back to Varric. “You should know that.”

Varric pinches the bridge of his nose and then looks up as if he wants to ask for help from the Maker himself. “You know, if you’d asked me maybe six or seven weeks ago, I would have agreed with you. But now, after seeing those templars...”

Tingling under his skin tells Dorian that his illusion spell is running out, and he uses the last bit of stealth to slip past the guard through the door that leads to the dungeon. The air is wet and strangely warm down here from the many hot springs that warm the castle through ingenious plumbing. He steps carefully on the wet stairs; he wouldn’t be the first one to slip here and tumble down.

The guard at the prison cells raises his eyebrow but only nods. Dorian is well known by now as belonging to the so-called inner circle and the days of him being questioned at every step as the evil magister from Tevinter are finally gone. Mostly.

He walks toward the cell with a glowing lock in front. Of course they would use a magic lock for a mage. Looking into the cell through the bars, he sees a slim figure in filthy clothes, leaning back on a stool so that his long, greasy hair sticks to the stones of the cell. Dorian wonders if the man is asleep when he suddenly speaks.

“Well, your’re not a templar.” Dark eyes turn to Dorian, studying him. “Tevinter mage, if I can guess.”

“Guessed correctly, I’m impressed. People usually go for evil magister first.”

Anders grins and Dorian is struck with the impression that all that dirt and greasy hair hides a beautiful man.

Anders touches the metal ring around his throat, a magic suppressing collar. “Can I have another guess? I owe this thing to your expertise.”

Dorian laughs out. “Correct again. I wasn’t convinced that the southern way of lacing food and water with magebane was the best way of going about suppressing magic. Magebane is nasty stuff and poisonous in the long run.”

“And we wouldn’t want to do unhealthy things to mages,” Anders growls bitterly. “I’m sure your fellow mages love you for this.”

Dorian shrugs. “I’m from Tevinter, I’m the first one to tell you of the marvelous and terrible things an angry mage can do. Ask me about time magic sometimes.”

Anders gets up from the stool and walks towards the bars. He is taller than Dorian and despite looking like he hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks, there’s an air of strength and confidence about him that has Dorian take a step back. “Why did you come here? You knew they would arrest you. The Commander seems to know you personally.”

“Curly? Oh, yes.”

Dorian snorts in surprise. “Curly? You call Cullen Curly?”

“Well, Hawke did, and Varric.”

“I must ask Varric why he never told me that.”

“Varric is here too? He just can’t stay out of shit, can he?” Anders wipes the hair from his face, leaving dark streaks on his face. “Cullen, Varric, anybody else here from Kirkwall? Merrill maybe? Dalish elf who knows too much about ancient magic she shouldn’t touch?”

Dorian pulls a handkerchief from his belt and wets it in water that springs from the wall. He hands the cloth to Anders, indicating that he should clean his face. “Never heard of a Merrill, we have Solas for that kind of job.”

Anders cleans his face, revealing a kind face with warm eyes and a cheeky grin in red stubble. “There, pretty enough for you now?”

Dorian lays his head to the side and puts his hand under his chin. “I’m afraid the unwashed hair and coat takes away from the overall effect.”

A smile spreads on Anders’ face and he uses the wet cloth to wipe over his hair, brushing it to the back of his head. The grease keeps it slicked back, and he looks surprisingly serious now, were it not for his smile. The smile makes him look young, daring even, with a livelihood about him that someone in his situation should not even have.

“You are quite beautiful,” Dorian blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Thanks.” Anders turns a bit, draping himself over the bars of his cell as if he’s on display, stretching his arm up and behind him and arching his back.

The whole pose reminds Dorian of body-slaves displaying themselves at one of the many parties he attended. Parties he loved to attend with all their pleasures. Nausea rises in him at the memories. “I would prefer if you didn’t do that,” he presses out between clenched teeth.

Anders looks at him and drops the pose, simply leaning against a bar of the gate. “Can you blame me?”

Dorian steps closer, watching Anders’ brown eyes widen. “Blame you for what?”

“I’ll tell you if you come closer.” Anders looks through the bars, his hands on either side of his face.

Dorian hesitates only a little. He’s one of the best trained mages here and the collar suppresses Anders’ magic, he isn’t a threat. Dorian takes another step closer until he stands right in front of the bars, his nose almost touching Anders’. He studies Anders’ face, the harsh lines carved into it from an equally harsh life, the warm eyes glittering with mischief.

“Closer,” Anders whispers, and when Dorian leans forward, he catches his mouth with his lips, brushing a kiss over it. He suckles on Dorian’s lower lip and then leans back. “Well.” He takes a long breath. “Can you blame me for trying to influence my jailor in my favor?”

Dorian jerks back. “I’m not your jailor.”

Anders laughs out and grabs the collar with both hands. “Certainly looks like it.”

Dorian opens his mouth for a retort when Anders’ hands begin to glow in blue, light traveling up his arms like lightning, and with high pitched noise, the collar snaps in two. Anders throws the pieces through the bars at Dorian’s feet and sits back down on the stool.

“I came here by my own will, I won’t be using magic to fight.” He leans his head back against the wet stone wall and closes his eyes. “I’ve accepted my fate and I’ll accept the judgement.”

“Fasta vass. How did you do that? It should have been impossible.” Dorian steps closer again, regardless of the danger of the unshackled mage in the cell. “Is it that spirit you merged with?”

“Justice is gone.” For the blink of an eye he looks like he is about to cry but he schools his face again. “But he left me with some kind of residue. And I was never...” He trails off, looking into the distance far beyond of his cell’s walls.

Dorian steps right up to the bars. “That’s remarkable. I need to study this, your magic.”

Turning his head, Anders grins at him. “Maybe you should talk to your inquisitor that you need me as a test subject to experiment on.”

“No!” Dorian shouts, his own reaction surprising him, the visceral recoil at this suggestion. “That’s not what I want.” In his imagination, Anders stands by his side as they study the text of an ancient book, flinging spells at each other, laughing, kissing, holding each other. The intense longing in his chest for this idea to become reality has him holding his breath in shock.

Something must have shown on his face because Anders looks at him confused. He shakes his head and leans back again. “Well, pretty jailor, please let me know soon how they’re going to kill me.”

Dorian turns around and storms out of the dungeon. Nobody will kill this man, he'll make sure of that.

[feysandfeels]

Bless that T Swift/SJM crossover anon!! Can I add some other ones?!

The 1 - Chaol & Celaena after she’s Aelin again (or Chaol & Nesryn.....poor Chaol)

The Last Great American Dynasty - more like the Last Great Terrasen Dynasty lol

My Tears Ricochet - Aelin @ Arobyn

Mirrorball - Lysandra

Mad Woman = AELIN

The Lakes - Aelin talking about Rowan when she’s tired of it all

Not my (Chloe Ting sponsored) ass realizing just now that the original anon meant all the sjm pairings, but since I’m deep in the acotar trash atm I only made those. 

ACOTAR I & II

Apologies jeje. 

Manorian: generally speaking they have such reputation vibes. Immaculate record for immaculate couple.

... Ready for it? - “But if he's a ghost, then I can be a phantom Holdin' him for ransom” // “Younger than my exes but he act like such a man, so I see nothing better, I keep him forever Like a vendetta-ta” // “You should see the things we do, baby In the middle of the night, in my dreams I know I'm gonna be with you So I take my time Are you ready for it?”. Listen do I really need to explain this or do we all just see it?. This song has the electricity, the sexyness, the roughness, the daring aspect that makes manorian be the GOD tier couple that they are. 

I’d Lie - Right, bare with me  but I will lol at this forever because Manon is basically “And I could tell you his favorite color's green He loves to argue, born on the seventeenth His sister's beautiful, he has his father's eyes And if you asked me if I love him, I'd lie”. It’s such a weird song to associate with them but it fits her so well hahahahaha because my girl lives in such denial that I just can’t hahahahahahaaha and like “I don't let nobody see me wishing he was mine” this is MANON FOR DORIAN ALL THE TIME, and everyone is like but we see you wanting him so just do something about it!!!

Rowaelin

Willow - this screams Rowan looking at Aelin: “Wherever you stray I follow I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans That's my man”. He straight up left Maeve and the blood pact thingy they had for the blond girl he met three months prior. Also “Wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark Show me the places where the others gave you scars Now this is an open-shut case Guess I should've known from the look on your face Every bait and switch was a work of art”, this speaks of the vulnerability shared through HoF about their scars and of Rowan realizng that every step he took was so he would met her. Willow is Rowan’s song for Aelin. 

The Lakes- LET HER GO TO TERRASEN WHERE ALL THE POETS WENT TO DIE, LET HER STAY SO THAT WISTERIA GROWS AROUND HER FEET BECAUSE SHE HASN’T MOVED IN YEARS. 

Elorcan

Hoax - the balance of the deep betrayal and the love, the hurt and the I would choose you again all of the nuances of Lorcan’s betrayal and the shattered illusions that speak of them even in their absences, are in Hoax: “Stood on the cliffside Screaming, "Give me a reason" Your faithless love's the only hoax I believe in Don't want no other shade of blue But you No other sadness in the world would dI believe in Don't want no other shade of blue But you No other sadness in the world would do”.

Lysandeon

Paper rings- “The wine is cold Like the shoulder that I gave you in the street Cat and mouse for a month or two or three Now I wake up in the night and watch you breathe”. This song matches their energy so well even if the lyrics don’t all offer exact parallels. They did however play cat and mouse for a month or two or three. “I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings Uh huh, that's right Darling, you're the one I want” Lysandra being accustomed to the finer things in life but she would slum it for Aedion; she is here for thick and thin.

Nesraq: 

Gorgeous - “Of your magnetic field being a little too strong And I got a boyfriend (Chaol), he's older than us He's in the club (palace) doing, I don't know what (Yrene....) You're so cool (Sartaq really is the coolest), it makes me hate you so much (I hate you so much)” // You make me so happy (dude Nesryn loves spending time with him and he feels valued), it turns back to sad (fuck what about Chaol.. we promised each other it give it ago), yeah There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have (because he’s the prince and I’m not royal) You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad”.

Chaorene: 

Dancing with our hands tied - even if the lyrics don’t create perfect parallels, I think the main theme of the song being two people that want to be together, but feel their relationship has a lot of baggage would fit them well. Yrene has to get over her hate for Adarlan (even though she has every every every right to hate Adarlan) and Chaol has to get over *himself*. “I, I loved you in spite of Deep fears that the world would divide us So, baby, can we dance Oh, through an avalanche? And say, say that we got it I'm a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted”.

 Sam x Celaena:

I know places - them trying to run away so they could find a safe place to be in love? indeed. Me crying right now because they never got to? you bet: “'Cause they got the cages, they got the boxes And guns They are the hunters, we are the foxes And we runBaby, I know places we won't be found and They'll be chasing their tails trying to track us down Cause I, I, I, I know places we can hide, I, I (...)”.

Dorian x Celaena: 

The Way I loved you - To Dorian from Aelin... with love, friendship love that is. Because she recognizes the potential in him, in them, she knows he would be good to her and she knows that she indeed fell for him hard enough to want him for herself, but it just doesn’t feel like *that* anymore.

Red - From Dorian’s perspective: “Loving him is like driving a new Maserati down a dead end street Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly”// “Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted Was right there in front of you Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words To your old favorite song Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword And realizing there's no right answer”. They were literally a crash and burn. But neither of them can actually bring themselves to regret it. It was fun while it lasted and in its way it brought them closer. 

Chaol x Celaena: 

We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together - self explanatory, this is them through QoS. My Celorian ass is here for this pettiness I will take no criticism.  

Forever and Always - “Was I out of line? Did I say something way too honest, made you run and hide Like a scared little boy I looked into your eyes Thought I knew you for a minute, now I'm not so sure So here's to everything coming down to nothing Here's to silence, that cuts me to the core Where is this going? Thought I knew for a minute, but I don't anymore” This was essentially Chaol’s thought process wondering why him an Celaena don’t work anymore and feeling like... a “we were supposed to be together 5ever what happened.... besides me not doing much to prevent her bff’s death and working for the dude that orchestrated the murder of her nation ?”

August - if I’m being honest this song fits them too not my fave song from folklore being for my least favorite couple in this story but if I gave Feylin some of my all time favorites I can give this one to them, but like “But I can see us lost in the memory August slipped away into a moment in time 'Cause it was never mine And I can see us twisted in bedsheets August sipped away like a bottle of wine 'Cause you were never mine Your back beneath the sun Wishin' I could write my name on it” Even though Chaol was ready to leave it all for her (he would literally cancel plans.. his life plans in case she’d call) she knew that this was an impossibility, their time was brief and it slipped away like a bottle of wine. She could never be his, because she was not entirely herself with him being Aelin meant opening up a lot of things and if Chaol had a hard time getting past a lot of Celaena’s traits then we can imagine the work, literally work he would have to do to accept Aelin... you know what, we don’t have to imagine it... it’s right there in QoS and ToD, anywho, he could never write his name on her back because she was never his, because he did not accept her for all that she was. 

Aelin x Dorian x Chaol: 

Long live - “I  said, remember this moment, in the back of my mind The time we stood with our shaking hands The crowds in stands went wild We were the kings and the queens” // “Will you take a moment? Promise me this That you'll stand by me forever But if, God forbid, fate should step in And force us into a goodbye If you have children some day When they point to the pictures Please tell them my name Tell them how the crowds went wild Tell them how I hope they shine Long live the walls we crashed through I had the time of my life, with you” // I’m emotional right now and I need to cry it out.

I’m not 100% sure on the Chaoyrene one... but I think it’s good enough for me to post this hahaha

Anywho, I hope whoever asked for this enjoyed it 💛💛

[thewayshedreamed]

Operation Ghost Leopard Masterlist

Lysaedion Spy AU

Summary: Lysandra is a secret agent employed by Arobynn Hamel. Her latest mission requires that she engage with Aedion Ashryver at a political gala to distract him away from his cousin's protection. Lysandra isn't sure what Arobynn's motives are regarding Aelin, only that her role requires that she pull Aedion away by any means necessary. 

Much to her surprise, the Prince of Terrasen is charming and friendly, eager to dance and spend time by her side. That is, until Aedion reveals that he's on a mission of his own, and Lysandra finds herself confronted by Aelin's court with a lucrative job offer. The problem is that it requires that she provide intel on Arobynn, putting herself and her family at risk and challenging everything she thought she knew of her life.

This fic contains: strong language, shameless flirtation, pining, jealousy, sexual tension, sexual content, and some violence. 

Chapters:

Part 1 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, miss.”

Lysandra turned her head sharply and had to look up to peer into the face of her greeter. Her green eyes fell on ones of bright turquoise with a ring of gold; Ashryver eyes through and through. She scanned his face, observing how he had his golden hair swept into a low bun at the back of his head. If she truly had to complete this mission by any means necessary, she decided she could be much worse off than the beautiful man next to her.

Part 2

Silence, albeit tense, settled over the vehicle for the remaining minutes of the drive. Lysandra’s eyes drifted over slightly to Aedion, taking in the determined set of his jaw and the elegant strength of his upper body. It baffled her to think they’d been so comfortable with one another just a short time ago; laughing together, spinning across the dance floor, and genuinely enjoying each other’s company. In that moment, he was only a middle seat away from her, but it might as well have been miles.

Part 3

Aedion bit his lip as he considered; battling some internal etiquette war, no doubt. She dared to lean over and pat the other side of the bed, her final invitation. She wasn’t going to beg, for the gods’ sake.

Part 4

She had been his closer more times than she could count, and it was about time he admitted it to her and the others. The idea of continuing to pad the fragile egos of these men and allowing them to credit themselves with her contributions was absolutely nauseating to her now.

Part 5

Lysandra learned more everyday about what made Aedion so successful in winning the charms of others. His voice rolled over her skin with painful gentleness, and she was grateful that her body managed to avoid flushing at the sound of it. 

Part 6

“Mhm. You looked just as enamored with him as he did with you. To a certain degree, that’s to be expected considering the nature of your assignment. But you see, you and I, we watch people for a living, and I couldn’t help having some trouble discerning what was genuine from the role you’re to be playing.”

Part 7 

His words were cut off by a firm click of the space bar to pause the audio. Lorcan's eyes scanned the table, gauging the reactions of the court, but with particular interest on the princess. Lysandra dared to look her way again to see her face was white, almost green, with panic starting to brew a tempest in those turquoise eyes. In this state, Lysandra would swear the gold rings of her eyes were living flames. 

Part 8

He asked the the Guards who followed him to hang back and slid his hands into the pockets of his deep navy blue suit. Eyes the color of bright sapphires gleamed as he smiled toward them and slowed to a stop.

“Welcome to Rifthold,” he announced, his tone smooth and casual.

Part 9 

Dorian brought the queen forward, in greeting to some and introduction to others. She was polite, diplomatic, yet she did not emanate the warmth that Lysandra so often encountered when meeting royalty. It appeared that her Majesty had no interest in pretense, no matter her rank. Something about Manon made her feel exposed, vulnerable even, as if she saw through every cell of Lysandra’s body.

Part 10

Nothing about introducing him to the single most important person in her life was the behavior of someone prepared to walk away from it all. She cursed her lack of forethought in presenting it to him, but her brain subconsciously refused to entertain anything about the possibility of Aedion being a temporary fixture in her life. How had she let herself get here?

Part 11 

Lysandra couldn’t find the words, but it didn’t matter because Lorcan had already stepped forward to pull her roughly to his chest. He tucked her head beneath his chin, his hand gripping his other wrist to hold her against him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, blubbering excuses for her behavior into his now soaked shirt. 

Part 12

Lysandra reached toward his face, brushing his hair behind his ear as she scanned his expression. He gave nothing away. She sat up slightly to press a lingering kiss to his mouth, one he returned in kind. Aedion chased her lips as she lay back down, causing her to giggle softly as she pressed her index and middle fingers to his mouth to interrupt his pursuit.

“I don’t know,” she murmured around her smile. “I find it pretty easy to like you. I think I’d find myself pretty lucky to have you like me long-term.”

Part 13

Fresh tears, although it was nearly impossible to tell where one set stopped and another began, started to roll down her cheeks. Lysandra hated how much having her own words thrown at her stung. This must have been the Aedion that Lorcan had alluded to; the one Aedion warned her about when he said he didn’t like who he was. Her heart clenched at the difference in the man before her, especially upon realizing her words were the ones that brought this side of him out.

Part 14

On heavy feet, she forced herself to maintain a casual pace as she walked toward the conference room. Her heart thundered within her chest at twice the pace of her footfalls, leaving her feeling chaotic and unnerved. She paused with her hand on the conference room door and took a long, deep breath. It was best to prepare herself for anything she may see, but even in the event that she couldn’t, she told herself she only had to manage her external reaction. Her internal reaction was her own and an entirely different story.

Part 15

The prince grunted loudly at the pain on impact, but his grip on her remained as tight as he could manage. She wondered what the severities of all his injuries were, but she supposed she would find out in due time. In that moment she was content to hug him, to feel his warmth pressed along the lines of her body, to have his large hands fisted in the back of her shirt. She clutched his back as if he was the only thing keeping her from toppling off the face of the earth, her face buried against his chest as various emotions flooded her.

“I’m so fucking mad at you.”

Part 16

Heavy, malignant silence settled over the entire room. Aedion glanced at Lysandra then, mirroring her look of concern. Perhaps no one had briefed Dorian on the growing, rampant whispers of he and Aelin’s intentions over the last couple of days. Had he known, surely he would have understood the implied weight of his words. Darrow seemed happy enough to have Dorian back himself into his own trap, indicated by the slow, serpentine smile that stretched across his face.

Epilogue

Aedion waved her out to the balcony where he had a large glass of wine waiting on the small table between the ample lounge chairs. They were comfortable and one of Lysandra favorite places to relax. She dropped unceremoniously into the closest one, letting out a whoosh of air on impact. Aedion chuckled at her display, and although she knew he meant no harm, she scowled at him anyway.

Vignettes/Alternate POVs:

Parts 1-3 • Lorcan POV

Warning: contains spoilers if you haven’t read through Part 13!

Part 7+ • Rowan POV

Occurs during the court meeting in Part 7 and carries on after the meeting.

Parts 12-15 • Aedion POV

Should Have Known Better • Part 1 • Part 2

Part 1 covers OGL 12-13

Part 2 covers OGL 13-15

[thoughtsaboutshows]

80. “Stop stealing my clothes.”

Part two to the Roommate Prompt which is here.

Telling Roz she was moving in with Nick had been fun.  And by fun, Sabrina meant that it was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do.  In fact, Sabrina nearly killed her former roommate, just like she had threatened when she announced to Nick her predicament.

“You’re moving in with Nick.”  Roz had asked her with wide eyes, already seeing the mess her friend was getting into.  “Nick Scratch?”

“Yes.”  Was all Sabrina had said.  She knew what was coming next, but that didn’t stop the gasp that left her lungs and the immediate blush on her cheeks.

“The two of you alone in an apartment swimming in your sexual tension.  That’s a good idea.”  Roz had teased her. 

“I’m not gonna have sex with him.”  Sabrina defended.

“Sure.”  Roz shrugged as she flipped her magazine, eyeing her friend as she packed.

Sabrina had all but promised her best friend she wouldn’t fall into Nick’s bed.  And she had always kept her promises.  Until now.  

Sabrina hadn’t spent that much time with Nick before she moved in.  But now that he was a near constant it was getting more difficult to ignore the flutters in her stomach she felt around him or the way he made her blood boil one way or another.

Living with your cousin’s best friend is hard.  Living with your cousin’s best friend who just happens to be Nicholas Scratch, attractive and charming and mercilessly flirting, is harder.  Sabrina figured it was easier to move in with him when her housing options changed than it would be to find someone completely new, but after a week with him she thought she might have been better off with a random. 

It was a weird balance the two of them had, the air riddled with tension most of the time.  She’d yelled at him for putting an empty orange juice carton back and he’d complained about there being no real milk.  She didn’t like how he’d wait until the end of the day to do dishes when she’d rather him just do them right away.  They fought, often.  And when they weren’t fighting he was saying something suggestive or she was biting her lip at him in a way that made his heart speed up. 

But some days were good.  She’d share her dinner with him because she made a little too much and he’d join her on the couch for whatever late night horror movie happened to be on.  The little digs became more frequent though, the conscious choices to drive each other crazy.  They both felt the attraction, noticed the other’s wide pupils when talking to each other or dancing at Dorian’s.  They’d definitely both shuddered when Nick pressed his lips to her neck or nibbled her ear when they moved.  It was near impossible to come home to the same place after that, to separate bedrooms to deal with their separate thoughts that screamed in want for the same thing.

Nick was torn.  There was a clear line from Ambrose he wasn’t supposed to cross.  Yet Sabrina’s smile was wicked and her eyes were inviting and the little sigh that fell from her lips when he bit her neck sounded more like a plea to come to the other side.  But he could brush that off as just dancing.  Her gazes that linger too long could be explained by harmless flirting.

Sabrina was a wreck.  She knew what her cousin had said and she knew what she had said to Roz, but she couldn’t get him out of her head now that he was everywhere.  He was still an ass sometimes but she would often catch him looking at her with soft eyes, like she was precious to him.  When his eyes weren’t tender they were hungry, often mirroring her own.  And when she pressed her back up against them as they danced she could feel his desire for her.  She could feel it in the growl as he kissed her neck to the hardness of his jeans.  She wanted it too, but neither would ever admit it nor would they follow through.  

So instead, they made each other miserable.  

One particularly close night of dancing when Nick had slipped his hand under her shirt and touched her lower back, they came home and...nothing happened.  Sabrina was through and fed up and decided she wasn’t going to make it easy for Nicholas Scratch.

She started taking her virtual yoga classes in the living room instead of her bedroom.  She put on her best leggings and sports bras and made sure Nick was home when she did it.  He left his room for a moment and stopped in his tracks, mesmerized by Sabrina Spellman doing the downward dog, yoga doing wonders for her body. 

Nick retaliated by walking around almost constantly without a shirt.  He worked hard at the gym, and had a body to prove it.  He’d seen Sabrina staring a few times when she’d caught him without a shirt.  So he’d make them scarce.  Whether he was cooking, or watching TV, or doing his own homework, Sabrina noticed.  It made her blood boil again, frustration of multiple kinds.

Sabrina took it a step further, coming to the conclusion that if Nick weren’t going to wear his shirts, she should.  So when he was in class one day, she snuck in his room and stole a couple.  They smelled like him and were incredibly soft and for a moment almost put them back.  Perhaps wearing his clothes was too intimate, but then she remembered how he’d winked at her as he massaged her feet the previous night and she was annoyed again.  

When Nick came home later he was struck by what was waiting for him in the kitchen.  Sabrina Spellman had her hair in baby buns, dancing to some pop song as she cooked, wearing one of his dark grey shirts.  And nothing else.  He’d thought about this moment more times than he’d care to admit, Sabrina wearing his clothes and smelling like him.  Nick imagined she’d slip it on after he worshipped her body, her wanting to be closer to him by wearing his shirt, despite what they’d just done.  

“Hey, Nick.”  Sabrina said in between singing lines of the song when she noticed he was there.  His stunned expression was obvious, and his gaze trailing down her bare leg made her shiver.  Though she covered it up well with a smile.  “I’m making Alfredo, do you want some?”  

Nick could feel his heart ringing in his ears.  She looked so damn beautiful in his clothes and all he knew is he had to get out of there.  So he mumbled a no thank you and sequestered himself in his room for the night.  Sabrina smirked to herself, knowing her devious plan had worked. 

She waited for Nick to stage his revenge but he didn’t, so she just kept wearing his shirts around the apartment.  They were actually comfortable and found that their softness and scent felt like a warm hug, and she didn’t want to give that up.  

Sabrina was sitting on the counter with a glass of wine, waiting for her popcorn to finish up in the microwave, when Nick came in the door from his night class.  She smiled at him when he made it to the kitchen, a real smile because she was genuinely happy to see him, but he frowned.  She was wearing his old high school football t-shirt, the one with his name on the back and worn collar.  It hung off her shoulder and rode up her leg, exposing even more than normal as she sat, and he stared at her. 

“For the love of God, Sabrina.”  His voice was deep and husky and he sounded almost pained as he spoke.  He wouldn’t meet her eyes, as if pushing these words out were near impossible.  “Stop stealing my clothes.” 

Sabrina cocked her head to the side and smirked at him.  She’d picked that up from him with the increasing amount of time they spent together and he was grateful he was looking away, likely unable to handle it if he’d seen it.  

“I figured you didn’t need them, with all the days you’ve been going shirtless.”  Sabrina said to him. He looked at her then, and Sabrina saw want in his eyes.  The pause he made before he responded to her, just staring at her, made her lose some of her nerve.  It wasn’t so easy to be the one in charge when Nick was staring at her like that. 

“That doesn’t mean you can just wear them,”  He gestured to her and swallowed hard.  “Like that.”   It wasn’t that he didn’t want her in his clothes.  He did.  It was the fact he wanted to see her in his t-shirts every day, so badly, that made him feel like he needed to get her to stop. 

“Like what?”  She asked him as she hopped down from the counter.  She leaned back against the stone and found her power again, enjoying the way Nick squirmed as the hem of the shirt rose at the crossing of her arms.

“You know like what.”  Nick warned.  This was as close as they had come to having an actual conversation about how they felt.  He’d called her hot and she’d told him he was sexy, but they were joke-flirting then.  Right now they were completely serious, and that was dangerous.  

“Tell me.”  She nearly demanded and he took another deep breath before walking over to her.  He moved quickly and leaned closely, things taking a turn but neither of them caring.  

The image of him, smelling like leather and pine, infiltrated her every sense.  All she could see and feel was him, as her heart pounded against the walls of her chest with such force, it was surprising her his shirt didn’t burst.  Her hands gripped the stone counter behind her as it pressed into her lower back.  She didn’t feel it though, all she noticed was him. 

He was over her, leaning against the counter and trapping her between him and it, arms on either side.  The intensity in his gaze is what kept rooted her there and not slinking away.  His face both nervous and in awe, as if he was towing the line.  He was deciding in that very moment if he should do more than the brushing of her nose with his, should he capture her lips, or should he just breathe her in and admire from up close.  

“Nick.” She breathed out and he could practically taste the wine on her tongue.  The power behind her eyes matched his like she was begging and daring him at the same time to break the stalemate.  He brushed the fly away hairs out of her face and she leaned into his touch, her heart pleading with her voice to tell him to touch her more.  He seemed to get the picture though, because he moved his hand again to cup her cheek.  With a final look and a nod from Sabrina, he leaned it.  He’d just brushed her lips, barely even kissed her, when the microwave dinged and he pulled away with a curse.

The small contact had been enough though, and they were both panting and breathing and craving more.  Sabrina’s body was on fire and he was completely intoxicated by her flushed face.  But they were in that place again, huffing and staring at each other, wondering what’s gonna happen next.  

Then like a bullet out of a gun, Nick was in front of her again. 

“Fuck it.”  He whispered and he felt her smile in response as he crashed his lips to hers with such force and fury it was a miracle they didn’t fall down.  Her hands buried themselves in his hair and he groaned against her lips as she tugged harder.  His hands were exploring everywhere, drifting underneath his own t-shirt and settling on her hips as he lifted her up onto the counter.  

They stayed there for a few moments with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, the kiss deepening every second until it was unclear whose breath was whose and it seemed they would never break apart.  The need to breathe outweighed their desire eventually, but it didn’t last long.  Sabrina had barely gotten out the word bedroom before Nick was kissing her again and carrying her to his bed.  

They were a mess of desperation and pent-up want and need, neither thinking about the consequences of what they were doing.  Nick was breaking a promise to his best friend. Sabrina, one to hers.  But all that mattered was getting the release from the build up that had existed ever since they’d met each other.  

It was more than just the thrill of the other being off-limits.  What was happening now wasn’t just because it was forbidden, or because they’d been teasing each other for weeks.  They had both always known it to be true that they had a connection.  But it became more abundantly clear as he reached places in her no one had and as she called out his name with such a tenderness and looked at him with affection, that they were so much more to each other. 

Later with her head on his chest and his kissing her hair over and over, they basked in their afterglow.  Neither of them regretted it.  And both couldn’t wait to explore what this more might be.

[blazingmovement]

Adoribull - Black tar

A fluff/angst with Dorian and Iron Bull from the Dragon age Inquisition game.

The festering feeling grew back, laid itself bare on the inside, took up all the space it could until it filled the entirety of him. Like black tar, it seeped itself into every knock and cranny of him, filled the dark areas of himself which he sought to hide, which he aimed to turn away. The black tar filled them to the brim, and all he could do was try to breathe, though it seemed harder by the minute, like drowning in fear.

“Regain control,” he thought to himself. 

“Breath in and out, same as always”. 

But the black tar had seeped into his lungs, making a single breath seem impossible. It placed a weight across his chest, making him involuntarily clench all the muscles in his body, including his jaw. He could feel himself losing the battle as the tar slowly seeped into his mind. His head slowly filled with the deafening thumping of his own heart, louder and louder until it drowned out the sound of the bar and everyone in it. Normally he would look for an exit, a way to flee the area, he would take flight to a place where the black tar could fester on him without anyone else noticing. But this time, the black tar seemed to have gained the advantage quickly, making him unable to move or break its terrifying trans. All that was left was the intense fear building inside him, leaving him frozen as he could feel himself mentally being alone in a room filled with people. Just as he felt himself drowning in the darkness which surrounded him, Dorian felt a hand land on his shoulder. 

“You wanna go outside for a bit?” said the Iron Bull with his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian glanced up at the Bull, the weight of his hand seemed to anchor him, seemed to provide him with enough to be able to press out the word

“Okay”.

Bull nodded at Dorian and guided him out of the tavern out into the cool night air. 

Normally, Bull’s teasing would make Dorian’s spurn. “These big muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip. I'd pin you down, and as you gripped my horns; I. Would. Conquer. You”. Dorian was confused by these statements if he were completely honest with himself. And sometimes during the day, his mind would find itself wondering how Bull’s hands would feel on him… But he always quickly combat those thoughts, swiftly trying to chase away the idea of how Bull’s big hands on his body would press him down, would take him... But what Bull was doing right now, laying his arm on Dorian’s shoulder in this manner meant something else, it seemed like something else than teasing. It provided the possibility that Bull might see the cracks in Dorian’s well-constructed mask, perhaps see what hid in under, and this frightened Dorian. But as of now, no matter how much Dorian would rather provide a witty comment regarding Bull’s hand on his shoulder and then remove it, the only thing that seemed to stop the black tars advance was this Qunaries hand on his shoulder. 

Once they were outside, Bull continued guiding Dorian away from the loud noises coming from the bar, up towards the rampart where the stars gleamed and the night’s cold embrace gave his skin goosebumps. Up there, next to the Bull’s room, he stopped to face Dorian and laid his second hand on Dorian’s other shoulder. Bull looked him in the eyes and stepped the slightest bit closer towards him.

“Breathe. Focus on me. Focus on my voice. It’s just you and me here. Breathe.” Bull said with his low rumbling voice as he lightly caressed Dorian’s shoulders. Dorian gazed into his eye and found only calmness and concern where he thought he would find… something completely else. This surprised him. Bull’s soft-touch also surprised him. This was a side he hadn’t earlier seen in Bull, not up close at least. And even though Dorian was confused about the situation he found himself in, it was as if Bull’s voice had quieted the sound of Dorian’s pulsating heart, as if it had given his body permission to listen to something other than the deafening chaos within him. The pressure over Dorian’s chest slightly gave way under Bull’s touch and Dorian drew in a raspy breath of the chilly night air into his lungs and felt the black tar haltering its advance.    

“That’s it Dorian, breathe. I got you”. Bull said calmly. In Bull’s hand, he slowly started to breathe calmer, deeper breaths than before. Slowly he could feel the black tar pulling away, removing its grip over him as the cold night air seeped its way into his lungs, almost making his eyes water. He shouldn’t let Bull see him like this he thought, but at this moment, Bull seemed to anchor him, to pull him to a safe harbour. Dorian couldn’t bring himself to deny Bull’s warm touch and soothing voice even though he should according to himself. But as of now, Bull was a light in the dark, guiding Dorian away from the darkness which festered within him. 

“I got you Dorian”.

Dorian looked up into Bull’s calm warm gaze and felt the world slow down to its normal pace once again. Slowly the black tar dissolved and the panic which had taken its grip over Dorian slowly gave away. Under Bull’s hands, Dorian’s muscles slowly started to unclench.

Dorian had had “incidents” like this in the past several times actually. But he had learned to hide them well, and when the moments came when he could not overcome the black tar he would lock himself away in his room. In there, the despair could eat away at him until he no longer could breathe and until tears had wet his face unrecognisable. After that, when the storm had stilled, he would fix himself up and continue as before. Never had anyone ever discovered him during one of these incidents, and never had he let anyone seen him in such a state. But here was Bull, helping Dorian doing something as trivial as breathing, guiding him away from the brink of the precipice which he normally would descend down by himself. Dorian’s turned away his face from Bull’s gaze as his thoughts starting to chase each other and embarrassment and shame pervaded his mind as he blamed himself for letting someone in a bit to close. Bull could see that Dorian’s thoughts were turning into something toxic and cupped his cheek to refocus Dorian’s faltering eyes on his face once more.

“It’s okay Dorian. You had a panic attack, they can be rough”.

Bull’s embrace made Dorian’s cheeks fluster and he had to fight the temptation to lean into his touch. Since he focused so hard to not give in to the soft touch of the Iron Bull’s rough hand, he could not hinder his cheeks from turning slightly pink. Bull let out a burst of warm laughter at the Vints reaction and smiled at him. His laugh awoke something in Dorian, and with his regained control over mind and body, he managed to wriggle himself free from the Iron Bulls warm and safe touch and took a step away from Bull, distancing himself.

“Well if you’re perfectly done with fondling the beautiful Vint I’m going to leave. I know it’s significantly difficult to avoid touching me, but I would prefer if you would at least try not to”. Dorian said as he tried sounding as nonchalant as possible, aiming to regain his mask. Bull let out another rumbling laughter and set his hand on his hips, looking at Dorian with amusement in his eye. 

“That so? Well, your cheeks tell me otherwise.”

Dorian simply huffed at his response, embarrassed over his reaction at Bull’s hand on his cheek. Bull swiftly inspected Dorian with his gaze, to see if he was alright after what took place earlier. Finding that Dorian seemed to be okay once again Bull said

“But if you would like some more touching some other time, no matter the reason, my door is always open”. Bull said as he momentarily locked eyes with Dorian. Dorian eyes faltered as he dared not look at Bull in case his cheeks once again might betray him. 

“If I someday would find myself longing for a visit to a bedroom with a hole in the roof, I’ll be certain to visit,” Dorian said sarcastically, attempting to cover up the emotions Bull’s offer actually awoken within him.  

The bull would have wanted to have stayed a bit longer with Dorian, to ensure that he truly was alright once again. But he saw that Dorian once again had put on the mask he wore daily, and Bull wasn’t sure that trying to get in under the mask was the best idea for tonight. He would have to save that for another time.

“Goodnight Dorian” Bull said with a glint in his eye as he retired to his room, leaving Dorian in the cold night air momentarily before Dorian retired to his own courters. 

[tarasylnin-lavellan]

Justice's Ally

so one of my mutuals characters will be in the next installment the wonderful @w-h-4-t s Harel and she is a HUGE part of this piece since this is very heavily based off of the dialog that she and I ran back and forth for this so thank you lethalan you are amazing

Okay my lovelies here is safe for work recap so that you will be up to speed.

Tara has a terrible dream in which she is chased through a twilight forest. This forest is filled with massive dark crystal formations and trees that seem to stretch up out of sight. She is hunted and attacked by something that resembles the Dread Wolf. After she wakes terrified and half awake she loses the iron control she always keeps. We find out why, she has a spirit bound to her, Cullen reacts badly to this news saying she is an abomination and runs from her.

Tara is left with no choice in order to ensure her own safety she flees Skyhold. She is fleeing for the arbor wilds knowing that she can evade capture there and figure out what in the world she is going to do now.

Now on to the regularly scheduled angst

Dorian had decided that he wanted to read "Draconica the study of Dragon kin." He picked this up rather than the two before it in the stack. "Knowing us we are going to have to fight some scaly monstrosity soon." A small note fell from the pages in the dawn light, and Dorian caught it. His eyes scanned it quickly it was in Tara's precise script. He felt his heart tear at the terse words, "oh no, isa'ma'lan." He felt the outrage rising in him a bitter flame, that bastard ran her off! Dorian stormed toward the tower, people clearing out of his way quickly.

Dorian slammed the door open, and Cullen started violently halfway pulling his blade free. Dorian flicked his hand and all of the doors to the tower locked. "You, bastard if you hurt her so help me," Cullen stood rigid his eyes locked on the younger man. Dorians temper flared " SHE WAS YOUR LOVER, AND MY SISTER!!! THE ONLY FAMILY TO EVER LOVE!" Cullen cut him off his voice harsh and hurt "she is an ABOMINATION!" Dorians face grew dangerous as he looked at the ex templar "HOW DARE YOU!" his hands began to smoke faintly as he clenched them.

Cullen's face contorted in apprehension "You cant even control yourself." He let out a pained breath "maybe Meredith was right, maybe you are all abominations waiting to happen. Cullen looked tired and sad as if he didn't want to believe what he said. Dorians keen eyes caught the doubt in Cullen, he worked to calm the fury and outrage in his heart.

"She has always been like that, you ignorant bastard! She is a miracle not a MONSTER!" Cullen slammed his hands on the desk making things jump crazily. "MAGES its always MAGES WHY you blasted mages keep using me." Cullen's eyes welled with tears of grief, and he gritted his teeth hands shaking on his desk. "USE YOU?! she left to save you!" Dorian waved his hand "ah you are impossible, she was born like that she didn't change your eyes did." Cullen looked up frustration and hurt flashing in his amber eyes, "your glib tongue do you no favors mage!" Dorians hands rested on his hips, "shut up, just shut up and listen to yourself. This is Tara, our Tara, you're calling an abomination you washed up chantry fanatic! You want to call her monster, mage killer? We all have things that we would rather others not know. But Tara is.... SHES DONE EVERYTHING TO MAKE SURE SHE NEVER FALLS INTO A HOLE LIKE THAT BUT YOU you have..."

Cullen scoffed at the mage "you didn't see her, you cannot tell me my eyes have changed." Dorian scoffed right back "let me guess... she woke up screaming and fell out of the bed. And then hmm let me guess a blue light formed from her skin and her eyes glowed blue white." Cullen's eyes widened in surprise "who do you think holds her after those awful nightmares when you aren't around golden boy? My greatest regret is that she'd sacrifice her stupid selfless beautiful soul for an ignorant bastard like you. My beloved sister ran because she knew you would be forced to kill her, TO KILL HER FOR YOUR DAMNED HONOR. She didn't want to put YOU through that not for the sake of her own life! Knowing her she'd let you kill her," at this Cullen's face paled visibly "I see that I am right the damned fool, offered her life in payment, typical." Cullen growled "Enough!" slamming his hand on the desk again in pure emotion. "How HOW am I to look at her.... when all I see is that THING, HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL!"

Dorian looked at the torn man, "you feel as though she lied to you and used you. We cannot change the fact that Tara didn't tell you of her nature. However we must look at the intent, Commander. Not everything is this rigid black and white you blasted Andrastian's love so much. I will never know the pain you feel right this minute, but I do know that we are missing someone integral in our lives. Someone who has just run to maker knows where to save us." He sniffed in distress " its just like her, isn't it? She loves us so much.... that she would do anything for us....even... at the expense of herself." She would run to her death but she knows, she knows that it would break you to put her down. So she shattered everything she has instead for you. I know the courts Cullen, I know peoples faces from years of living in that snake pit and yours is all too easy to read. You think her cruel for hiding, and terrifying for the albatross. You cannot simply pull all of that love out, you idiot. All those restless nights, up at all hours researching Lyrium addiction and treatments. Her every waking moment, spent looking after your shattering body and mind." Dorian sighed heavily "do you have any idea how many times I had to peel her off her desk because she had passed out there? She is painfully selfless, and in your ignorance and fear you close your heart to her.

In Tevinter she would be accepted she would even be admired for what she is. She is a rare person, a true spirit born, a person who dies but a spirit breathes there own life into to bring back. But here? here she would be killed without question, simply for existing."

"She tried not to love you, the fool, but she simply couldn't help herself. Every day that woman puts up a Fucking WALL, EVERY DAY. And the moment she lets it down you prove her right and tear out her heart. And yet she left for YOU to save you the pain of her death. She would rather you despise her than grieve her. She probably wishes she were truly dead right now."

Cullen's voice was weak and pained "....magic.. exists to..."

"If you finish that sentence, Templar I will have no mercy for you" Dorian snarled. "Don't you dare quote scripture at me, I know spirits, I know those things you call demons. And Tarasyl'nin is not one. Don't. You. Dare. All that wonderful woman has done has been to SERVE others, she asks for nothing in return EVER. You are not out there by her side in battle, she will throw herself in front of anything to protect the innocent. Now tell me Templar is that the actions of an Abomination?"

"STOP IT she lied to me," Cullen barked in response but his heart was wavering desperate to believe. "She lied to protect you, because she adores you. You know our Tara can be a bit abrasive but when she loves, she loves hard. She would do anything for the people she cares for. Why cant you see that? just put the armor and the scripture away for a moment. Take a step back, its Tara, she never truly hid from you, Cullen she only wanted to be loved" Dorians voice hitched on the word loved. "She just wants what all of us want to be loved, for who we are. She tried so hard not to love you, to stay away from you but she couldn't help it. So she tried to protect you to let you think she was...normal. She wanted to protect you from her, HER of all people. The person who would throw herself to her knees and, let you kill her if you thought that was right." Dorians eyes filled with tears and he wiped them away viscously "she knew... the moment that you found out that you would kill her or she would have to run. She made plans to make sure you could never find her." Dorians chest hitched painfully " and now I have lost the only family that loves me." He looked at Cullen sullenly "I wish she had never met you, I tried to warn her damn you."

A heavy silence fell over the pair each lingering in the grief that filled the room like choking smoke. At last Cullen let out a sigh and massaged his forehead, "what is the dem-...the spirit like?"

Dorians eyes widened in astonishment "Pardon?" Cullen let out a slow breath " the spirit, what does it do? or think...or what?" Dorian eyed him warily "you...you actually wish to know?" Cullen looked up at the ceiling "I... rifts are tearing apart the world, A magister god has appeared and I have just learned the woman I love is part spirit. The world cannot get any more mad, perhaps instead of resisting like I have always done.... I... suppose its time to... learn. to get accustomed to this. Besides " Cullen looked down with reddened eyes "I cannot bear to lose the only good thing in my life after so much horror."

Dorian watches Cullen, his eyes discerning and shrewd, "as you wish Commander. Tara told me that she was still born this can happen with twins. Her mother begged the gods for help to save her daughter. Apparently a spirit heard her instead, and a blue white shape wrapped itself around the still child. In that moment she cried out but her eyes glowed faintly blue. The spirit is tethered to her it is all that keeps her alive, it is not so much a voice in her mind as hmm her subconscious. It influences her but cannot control her actions. However it is protective of her much as you beloved hounds are. It will appear in times of great stress and danger, it is the spirits power that she uses in battle. Her power is limited and focused because it is the spirits strength. It inspires her and at the same time, it grates on her taxing her. Think of it as ice melting in water except the ice is melting very very slowly. Its a part of her that is slowly blending into her. She is a living bridge to the fade and all that lies beyond.

Cullen let out an apprehensive breath "what spirit is it?" his hands clenched painfully on the wood. Dorian watched this impassively "It is a strong willed but impartial spirit... Justice... you templars know its darker form I know vengeance. As I recall that fool of a man Anders was possessed by one like it. However the difference is, Tara made no deal she has always been like this. She has grown in the shadow of this burden, she is not some foolhardy apprentice looking for power. She would rather destroy herself, than let the spirit corrupt her, as I fear she may now."

Cullen's eyes fly wide and he pales visibly "makers breath....we have to find her! The inquisition! the.. the... Tara.. she is out there!! Alone!" Cullen franticly tried to gather things, seemingly without direction. Dorian chuckled faintly at the man, "you are proposing that we attempt to find a Dalish woman, in the forest, with a head start no less?" Cullen whirled looking frantic " what other choice do we have? If we send a raven, it will not know where to find her! We... there has to be some way, makers breath if only she had a phylactery." Dorian cut him off "you honestly want to talk about that horrid practice after every thing we just discussed?" "The Inquisition needs her! Cullen interjected and Dorian scowled " never suggest a phylactery again.”

Now thankfully I have already sent out two expert trackers." "Some of Leliana's people?" Dorian waved a manicured hand at the question "Oh void no, people that can sense spirits much better than your Templars or soldiers ever could." "Cullen swallowed heavily "we have to get her back post haste." Dorians eyes glimmered in response "ha, look at you just a moment ago you were screaming bloody murder and now, he has become a knight again, Good show!" His eyes became level in a moment "I need to know that she will be safe, before I even consider letting them TRY to bring her back."

Cullen hung his head and responded "I will not harm her, of that you have my word....I....I just want her to return for the inquisitions sake. Dorian cleared his throat pointedly "....and for mine." "Lets hope Harel and Cole can find her then, I do not wish to live without my sister. Cullen's emotions crowded his mind "and.... I don't want to..." Dorian sighed dramatically "by the black Devine's breeches, you Ferelden men cant take even a little emotion."

[raleighcarrera]

understanding

platinum | raleigh carrera x mc (cadence dorian)

~2k words | M

raleigh and cadence have an understanding. for the @choicesmaychallenge day 27 prompt of the same name.

they have an understanding. if he enters through the front door, she’s supposed to come in through the back. cadence isn’t allowed to text or call late at night, anymore, and when they do get together, after they’re done, under no circumstances can she ask him to stay.

because he’s weak, and he will.

at this point in his career, he should be better at saying ‘no’ to his pr team and his manager and everyone who pretends to know what’s best for him. it’s not like he gives a shit what anyone else wants -- and the advice of a few old stuffy suits has hardly held him back before. 

but being with him has only ever hurt her, and that’s difficult to stomach, even though he knows it’s true. so maybe they have a point, when they say that he should give cadence her space -- at least where the public is concerned. that’s probably what fiona and the rest of her team wants for her, too. even if cadence is too nice to say it, tying herself to walking disaster, raleigh carrera -- r&b’s time bomb -- is something that’s certainly left her in more bad conversations than good ones.

he knows because he’s seen the things they all say about her, online. she’s never brought it up to him before, but he’s not blind. it isn’t just her -- it’s any girl he’d be with, any woman the fans could pick apart and the media could judge. though cadence has seemed to attract more negative attention than other models or actresses he’s been out with in the past, for whatever reason. that’s probably his fault, somehow, too.

so -- he found himself a new girlfriend, who’s so desperate for fame she’ll take any press she can get, and now he and cadence have an understanding, instead of a relationship. 

it’s... something. it isn’t ideal, especially because it obviously wears on her. it certainly isn’t what he wants, but her public image is positive, now, so maybe that makes his suffering worth it. 

he pegged her as a goody-two-shoes from the moment they met, and she’s never grown out of that, even with all the fame and fortune in the world at her fingertips. like someone who’s never been to the principal’s office before, cadence follows his terms to a t, and doesn’t ask him to stay even though he wants her to. 

she doesn’t ever slip up -- she never calls at the wrong time, never accidentally gets caught by paparazzi sneaking in somewhere she isn’t supposed to be, and part of him wants her to do that, too, so that ending this ridiculous charade can be out of his hands. 

cadence doesn’t, though. she won’t. 

put simply... that sucks. 

for someone whose livelihood revolves around being able to put words together poetically, he can’t quite find a way to express how he feels about this shitty, stupid situation -- to her or anyone else. most of the time, it makes him unfairly angry at her, that she doesn’t mess up, that she doesn’t force him to call it all off, that she doesn’t ask for more. the rest of the time, raleigh finds that he’s annoyed with himself for being such a martyr -- for being a fucking coward.

she really does deserve better. 

a good guy would cut her off completely. he should do the right thing and give cadence a clean break -- set her free. say or do something so hurtful she’ll have no choice but to never think of him again.

he isn’t a good guy, though. he isn’t a martyr. he’s selfish, and if she’s going to keep sneaking around with him so willingly, he’s going to keep taking advantage.

at the crux of it, that’s what he’s best at: taking. 

though he wonders, as she falls apart beneath his hands, whispering the most beautiful exhales of his name, how anyone could be expected to give this up. even in his heyday, when he’d made a point of never ever seeing the same girl twice, raleigh doesn’t think he could have turned his back on this -- on the way cadence always shakes under his lips, on the rosy tint that covers the full apples of her cheeks when he twists his hips just right, on the shape of her beautiful mouth when she wails the walls down. 

silence surrounds them afterwards, when she finally comes back to herself. there used to be a time when this moment was his favorite part of the evening, when she’d let raleigh keep kissing her until she started hiccuping because he wouldn’t let up enough for her to catch her breath. back when they were together for real, he used to rely on the comfort of the companionably hushed moments they shared, especially after she made him come so hard he saw stars. 

now the quiet that fills the room is stifling. cadence pulls the bed sheet all the way up to her neck.

this should be the ideal situation -- they can be together, mostly, and it doesn’t have to hurt her. so why does it feel like such a disaster?

raleigh turns his head and catches a glimpse of her face, pained where she’s already watching him from her side of the bed, and realization washes over him. right. because it is hurting her.

he doesn’t know what to say to her, but she finally has mercy on him and takes it out of his hands. “i can’t do this anymore.”

raleigh pushes up onto his side, staring at her. “what?”

cadence purses her lips, and he watches with a dawning horror as her wide, expressive eyes turn glassy. she shakes her head. “i don’t want to do this anymore, raleigh. not like this.”

he studies the expression on her face, looking for weak points he can exploit. god, you are such a shitty, shitty person, his mind scolds. “why?”

“because --” a rough exhale cuts her off. he keeps staring at her even as she flops on her back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. then whatever dam’s been holding the words back within her breaks, and she unloads on him, all at once, the words tripping out in one breathless rush. “i don’t want to sneak around anymore. i don’t like keeping this a secret. i hate -- that we never get to spend any real time together anymore, i hate having to see you with her everywhere i turn, i hate -- i hate the way i feel when i leave here, i hate that it doesn’t bother you more.” her head turns on the pillow to look at him pleadingly. “why doesn’t it bother you more?”

raleigh clenches his jaw, trying to remember to think before he speaks for once. “cadence... of course it bothers me.”

she shakes her head. “but why doesn’t it bother you more? why doesn’t it bother you enough?”

he lifts a hand to rub roughly at his eyes, pressing his fingers into them until he sees spots. the last time they had a conversation this self-reflective, he was high out of his mind. what he wouldn’t give to go back in time, just this once. 

“i guess i’ve had longer to get used to this than you have,” he answers, though even he can hear how the words ring hollow. she deserves a better explanation, he’s not so out of touch that he can’t see that. the expression on his face twists into a grimace. “you know what it’s like to date me. you don’t want that.”

“maybe i do.” 

he huffs, rolling to the edge of the bed. he sits on the edge of the mattress, staring out the window. his back is to her, and they’re up on the fifty-second floor, but there’s nothing he wouldn’t give for some idiot with a camera and a telescopic lens to get a peek in here, now, and put him out of his misery. “well, i don’t want that for you.” there. that’s the honesty she deserves.

raleigh can hear her shifting in the sheets behind him. the mattress dips as she gets up. “you don’t get to just decide that for me.”

he keeps his eyes resolutely trained on the window, even though he can see her in his peripheral vision, tip-toeing around the bedroom, picking up the pieces of her outfit. “i do if i’m the one that has to watch it ruin your life.” 

“being with you didn’t ruin my life. i never said --”

“you didn’t have to.” he hasn’t smoked in years, but the sight of her, there, half-dressed in his bedroom when he turns his head around to finally look at her, makes him crave nicotine desperately. “because i saw it on my own. and i’m not going to be responsible for that.”

“so -- fuck what i want, right?” it’s probably good that he’s made her angry. it’ll make it easier for her to leave him behind, and he won’t have to listen to that rasp in her voice, the thick sadness that won’t leave. “god forbid any of us dare to go against the whims of raleigh carrera.”

“look, what do you want me to say?” he bites out, annoyed. “that i’m no fucking good for you? that you should stop wasting your time here and move on with your life, already? i’ve said it a hundred times. you never listen.”

he gets a good look at her, then. cadence is half-dressed and pissed, in her skirt and bra, holding her shirt in one hand. her hair is a mess, and she’s glaring at him -- beautifully, like she does everything else. she is so fucking pretty. it makes him sick.

“i want you to be honest with yourself! i want you to admit that you feel something. i want things to go back to the way they were, when we were together and happy, raleigh.” her eyes narrow in that rare way he’s seen them do, sometimes -- that once in a blue moon moment when she’s about to say something mean. “i don’t want you like this anymore. i want all of you, or nothing. no more halves.”

so that’s it, then. he swallows, wordlessly slipping out of bed to reach for his own clothes, dressing silently beside her. they don’t touch at all -- not like when they’d undressed, earlier, frantically kissing and tripping over each other’s feet on their way to the bed. she’s obviously waiting for him to say something.

“i’ll walk you out.”

“raleigh.”

he’d been hoping to avoid looking at her. it was going to make getting her out of here a lot easier, but the sound of her voice, cutting through his thoughts like that, makes it impossible. god, is he weak. 

he steps into her space, grabbing her face in his hands. immediately, cadence sighs like this is what she’s been waiting for; she sinks against him, letting him push her mouth open with his tongue, letting him pull at her hair, letting him take, take, take.

she hiccups when he finally lets her up for air. the sound makes him weirdly emotional -- nostalgic in a painful way -- and he shuts his eyes as fast as he can, in the hopes that it’ll be before she notices. 

cadence touches him so gently -- more than he deserves -- and that lets him know that he wasn’t as subtle as he was hoping for. raleigh blinks his wet eyes open, and she hiccups again, drawing a laugh from him against his will. 

she laughs, too. then she lets him gently brush her hair back off her face -- lets him finish helping her get dressed. she lets him walk her all the way downstairs, and lets him kiss her goodbye in the lobby, and lets him watch her leave out the front door to the sound of shouting questions and the sight of camera flashes. 

they do understand each other. 

he just hopes she's right.

[johaerys-writes]

Witcher AU: Viper In Tall Grass

Chapter (2/3): Silver Is For Monsters

Summary: Tristan of Toussaint is a witcher, his life dedicated to following the Path of the Viper. It is curiosity more than anything that leads him to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis's court. That is where he meets Dorian Pavus, lead sorcerer and advisor to the crown of Nilfgaard, and his life as he knows it changes for good.

They say that destiny is inexorable. Tristan is starting to see the wisdom in that saying.

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This is the second part of the prequel fic I’ve written for the as-yet-untitled Witcher AU my beloved friendo @solas-disapproves​ and I have been working on! I hope you enjoy :)

Read here or on AO3! 

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The acrid smell of drowner blood and the stale, murky waters of Crookback bog reached Tristan’s nostrils several hours before the low reaching branches of the marsh trees rolled into view. The ground had already started becoming slippery a good way back, after they had left Downwarren, the only village in that area whose occupants still dared to live that close to the bog. Brave bastards. Or foolish. Perhaps both.

Tristan steered Almond around a wide dip along the half-abandoned dirt road that led to the swamps, his senses perked up for any possible threat. Animal sounds had started to become scarcer the deeper the rode in, settlements and signs of human activity even more so. Tristan couldn’t blame them - the bog was said to be haunted, cursed, home only to witches, ghosts and monsters. He himself had killed a fair amount of them, but even he was always reluctant to stray too far, lest he never made it out again. Crookbag bog was treacherous, and its inhabitants even more so.

Even Pavus had stopped his merry chatting a while before, keeping to himself most of the time. It felt odd to Tristan that he was so quiet. The hours rolled on far more slowly than before, his nerves stretching thinner and thinner the more the light was obscured by the dense foliage and the shadows grew longer with the setting sun. It was with more than a hint of reluctance that he admitted to himself that perhaps he did, in fact, appreciate the mage’s teasing jokes, even though he rarely, if ever, responded to them.

Perhaps he had grown sentimental, after all.

It took half a day of riding before Tristan started noticing deep and heavy hoofprints that looked nothing like deer or fox or wolf prints. Few foxes or wolves would linger in these parts, and certainly no deer. When they passed through a small clearing and Tristan saw a tree deeply scratched by something that looked like stag antlers, only twice as tall and perhaps three times as thick, he pulled Almond’s reins and dismounted.

“The Fiend’s lair must be close,” he grunted, more so to himself than to the mage.

Pavus shifted on his saddle, his eyes following him intently. “How do you know?”

Tristan’s fingers skimmed the deep, ragged scars on the tree trunk. “It’s a young male, probably, judging by the smell,” he said. Relatively young, at least. Fiends could live for hundreds of years. “Its antlers are sharp. Fiends only scratch their antlers when they feel safe, and nothing speaks safety more clearly than a lair.” He looked around him, lifting his head to sniff the air. An intense smell of pheromones and relict glands reached him. He scrunched his nose, frowning. “That way,” he said pointing to the east. He returned to his horse, pulling her reins towards the west.

“Aren’t we going that way?” Pavus asked, lifting his brows, nodding towards the east.

Tristan scoffed. “We would be, if we were suicidal. Have you never heard that a witcher’s preparation takes time?”

“Ah, yes. I was wondering when you would start sacrificing roosters and praying to… which god do you witchers pray to, again?”

“None,” Tristan replied gruffly. “But if you do believe in one, you should pray to them tonight. Tomorrow we attack, and we’ll need all the help we can get.”

**

Wind and Fire, Water and Earth. Four elements, bound as one. Order and Chaos, Life and Death, each one a side of the viper’s forked tongue. When the winds are low, when the night is dark, beware the venom of the viper’s fang.

Tristan ran the chant over and over in his mind, going through each step as he sank into a deeper and deeper meditation. It was among the first things he had been trained to do, even before taking up a sword. He was barely ten years old, fresh from the ritual, when he’d been left in a cell at the top of the highest tower in Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper School’s donjon in the deep chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. He had stayed there for days, weeks, until his mind was empty of all thoughts and all that was left was focus. Pure focus. The strength of the witcher, and the source of his power.

Skill at arms makes you a fighter, Heir would always say. Focus is what makes you a witcher. Sometimes it was like he could still see her from the corner of his eye, leaning against a wall and twirling a dagger between her fingers as she watched him train. He hadn’t seen her in years. He idly wondered how she was.

Tristan opened his eyes slowly, the faint light around him shining just that tiny bit more brightly than before he entered his meditation. Pavus hadn’t woken up yet, even though it was almost dawn, a stark line of grey peeking over the eastern mountains in the distance. Tristan approached their camp slowly, careful not to wake him. His features were soft, lids moving gently as he dreamt, his blanket rising and falling with his breaths. He looked so peaceful, so serene in his sleep. Without his clever quips and witty comebacks, or the wide teasing smile he usually wore like a suit of armour, he seemed… delicate. Tangible. Beautiful and vulnerable, and so very achingly real. Tristan watched him in silence, transfixed, listening to the beating of his heart as the seconds languidly rolled on.

A breeze blew past them, ruffling Pavus’ dark hair, stirring Tristan out of his reverie. He knelt beside him, carefully lifting the thick woollen blanket until its hem rested under Pavus’ chin. The sun was steadily rising, its golden rays slithering through the gaps in the thick foliage overhead, yet the night chill still lingered in the air. It would be a good time to start their journey to the Fiend’s lair, he knew, yet Tristan couldn’t bear the thought of waking him. Time of day did not make much difference to Fiends, yet it did to humans. No one knew exactly what they would be facing, or whether they would be getting out whole. Better let the man get some rest, now that he could.

Tristan took a step back, his gaze lingering on Pavus’s sleeping form for a breath before turning away. He sat by the fire, stirring the glowing embers. The fire crackled, flames licking up at a half-burned log, hungrily seeking the fresh wood underneath the charred edges. Tristan watched quietly for a moment before fishing a small pot out of his bag, along with a bag of tough rolled oats. The least he could do while he waited for Pavus to wake up was to prepare a decent breakfast. They both needed the strength. Besides, a warm meal could do wonders for one’s mood before a battle. Tristan was never one to care too much about food, but Pavus had evidently grown up in luxury. Perhaps it would do him some good to eat something wholesome after all the hard travel bread and cheese they’d been having for days.

He was absently stirring the porridge in the pot when Pavus rose from his slumber. He pushed himself up with a groan, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Good morning, my delightful travelling companion.”

“Morning.”

“It’s so early,” he moaned, stretching his limbs. “Practically still night.”

“It’s late,” Tristan said flatly, banging his small ladle against the rim of the pot. He kept his eyes on the porridge, avoiding the mage’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Figured you needed the sleep.”

“Ah, yes,” Pavus said, tossing the covers off him. “Beauty sleep is just the thing one needs before taking on a legendary beast.”

The laces at the top of his shirt had come undone, a swath of bronze skin peeking through the fabric. Tristan swallowed thickly, tearing his gaze away to rummage through his bag for a bowl and a spoon. He gave a small start when he realised Pavus had come close, peering over his shoulder at the porridge simmering in the pot. His scent, that heady, spicy, intoxicating scent, flooded his senses, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Now that he was so close he could make out the distinct undertones of his cologne, lingering on his skin from the previous day, but there was something else, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Was it aniseed? Or caraway? Or maybe...

Tristan clenched his jaw, fighting the sudden, unbearable urge to lean closer and bury his nose in his neck, let that scent fill his lungs. He dropped a generous helping of the porridge into the bowl, unceremoniously handing it over to Pavus. The mage glanced quizzically at it, then at him, hesitating for a moment before accepting.

“You cooked for me?”

“For both of us,” Tristan corrected. “Thought we could have something heartier than stale bread and cheese for a change.” He stood up to remove the pot from the fire, sitting back down a good distance away. He idly stirred the porridge with the small ladle, letting it cool down for a bit before bringing a spoonful to his mouth.

“Do you not have a bowl?” Pavus asked him.

“I travel alone. Why would I need a second bowl?”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you for giving me your solitary bowl, then.” Pavus smiled at him from across the fire, sniffing the porridge before trying it. Then his long, aquiline nose wrinkled in a disgusted frown. "My, is this bland."

A spark of irritation flared in Tristan's chest. "Next time, you cook the damned porridge. We're on the road, not in a bloody palace."

"Just because we aren't in a palace doesn't mean we need to suffer," Pavus replied before procuring a small pouch from one of the many pockets of his coat. He sprinkled some on his porridge, then handed it over to him.

"What is it?" Tristan asked, reluctantly accepting.

"It's a very rare spice. I bought it from a merchant who had just returned from Zerrikania."

"Zerrikania? I thought no merchants went there."

"Not the merchants you're familiar with, evidently," Pavus replied with a sniff, stirring his porridge.

Tristan carefully, almost reverentially opened the pouch, glancing inside it. Whatever it was, if it had come from Zerrikania, it must have cost a fortune. He had heard countless tales of odd items from that faraway eastern land making their way to the west, yet he had never seen anything up close. He caught some of the spice with his finger, then dabbed it on his tongue. And quirked an eyebrow at the mage. "That's just sugar and cinnamon."

Pavus's full lips widened in a grin. "I had you fooled there for a minute, didn't I?"

Tristan shot him a disgruntled frown as he sprinkled some of the concoction into his pot. He was loathe to admit it, yet the porridge did taste a lot better with Pavus's addition. He grunted silently as he chewed, gazing at the leaves stirring with the wind above them. The swamp air was rank and rancid, yet there was still wind coming from somewhere. He could sense the faint smell of sea water, drifting with the breeze. Perhaps they were closer to the sea than he had thought. Or perhaps there was a salt water lake nearby, that he had failed to notice the last time he had been there. Or perhaps…

Idle thoughts and musings were somewhat successful in distracting him from the mage’s gaze, that seemed to fall on him more often than not. He prayed his cheeks would remain their normal colour when he heard Pavus clearing his throat.

“I can’t help but wonder.” Tristan raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and the mage continued. “You let me sleep in. You made breakfast. Why is that?”

Tristan shrugged. “No particular reason.”

“You don’t strike me as a man that does anything for no reason.” Sterling grey eyes fixed themselves intently on him, the golden flecks in them sparkling with the light of the fire. “I’m starting to think that our quest is more perilous than I initially thought.”

“Possibly. If either you or Emhyr knew exactly how dangerous a Fiend can be, you wouldn’t have hired just one witcher to kill it.” Tristan’s lips tightened in a line. “Fiends are deadly. You should prepare yourself for that possibility.”

Pavus stayed silent for a long moment, peering at the crackling flames. Then, he glanced at the bowl in his hands and scoffed. “If you think that a simple bowl of porridge is a fit preparation for possible death, you are thoroughly mistaken.” He set the bowl down, fished his flask of brandy out of his bag and leaned back on his arm, a smirk playing on his lips. “I believe this is as good a time as any for a story. Don’t you?” Tristan gaped at him, confused. He opened his mouth to refuse, when Pavus held up a finger. “Before you say no again, remember that this might be your last chance. If what you say is true, that Fiend might well get the better of me. Or you. Wouldn’t you want to at least have imparted one of your precious stories to a -very- willing ear?”

Tristan frowned at him. He was ready to retort, then noticed the edges of Pavus’ mouth twitching just a hair. It was only for a moment, a blink of an eye, but it was enough for Tristan to see the unease hiding under his smooth, glossy surface. The expectancy. The hope. He snapped his mouth shut, his frown deepening. What was it that Pavus wanted of him? Why were Tristan’s stories so important to him? Why… why did he want to get to know him?

He looked stubbornly away, past the line of trees that surrounded their small camp, keeping them safe from view. He thought he heard Pavus sighing softly, then stilling as Tristan's voice broke the silence. “There was a contract I took up once. In Redania." Pavus' eyes snapped to him. Tristan stirred the porridge in his pot, that was now starting to get sticky and thick, letting the silence stretch between them before he continued. "It was for an alpor. Do you know what that is?"

"I've heard stories," Pavus said slowly, carefully. "They’re said to prey on the blood of sleeping people and creatures. There are tales of them using their charm to seduce handsome young men."

Tristan scoffed. “Have you ever seen an alpor up close?” He shook his head. “No. They’re not seducing anyone. Don’t need to. They move so soundlessly, sometimes not even witchers can hear them. They inject their victims with the venom of their fangs, putting them to sleep while they suck their blood dry.” Tristan paused, gazing into the distance as he recounted his story. "I'd heard the rumours while riding through Blaviken. That alpor had been terrorizing the countryside for months. Animals, travellers, some farmhands working late in the fields. Even children, straight from their beds. I stopped by a village and the townsfolk begged me to kill her. The reward they offered me was twice as high the normal pay. Alpors are vicious. Often, one person isn't enough to take them down. I agreed to take up the contract if some men from the village agreed to come with me, work up a distraction while I attacked her. Four of them did. Young ones, their blood boiling for a fight." He took a bite of his porridge, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch. "We set out that night. I'd fixed my armour, prepared my potions, my poisons, sharpened my blades. Alpors need patience to kill. They appear and disappear on their own terms. We camped out close to where I had found her lair to be to wait her out. The hours went on and on, yet still there was no sign of her. Some of the men got impatient."

"Impatient?" Pavus blinked as he took a draught of his brandy. "I can't picture anyone being impatient to meet such a being."

"As I said,” Tristan scraped the last of his porridge from the bottom of the pot as he spoke, "they were young. Not the best help for a contract like that, but I didn't have much of a choice. One of them had brought a couple bottles of whisky he had made himself. It was foul stuff. It burnt its way down your throat, made your eyes water. A couple swigs and you were done for. I urged them not to drink too much, but they wouldn't listen. A couple hours went by and they were all sloshed." He gave Pavus a small smirk. "Me included."

Pavus' eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Truly? You decided to get drunk with that creature lurking about?"

Tristan huffed a laugh, setting his empty pot aside. "It would have probably been fine if that was all we decided to do. Some of the lads got peckish. Decided to go to the nearest village to get some food. I told them that nothing would be open at that hour, but-”

“Let me guess. They wouldn’t listen.”

"Exactly. So, next thing you know, we are walking through the woods to the nearby town. We split, each one looking for an open tavern or inn. I scoured the place, yet the only tavern was closed. I went back to our meeting point, and..."

Pavus' eyes widened. "What happened then?"

"One of the lads had stolen a cart full of carrots from a nearby stable.”

“Carrots?” Pavus scoffed derisively. “Quite a feast that would have been.”

“I tried to get them to put it back where they'd found it, but they'd already started rolling it out. I guess I should have left them then, but…" he sighed. "I’d become quite fond of them, I suppose. And I was very, very drunk. So, I strapped the cart to my back and helped them get it out while they pushed from behind. We hadn't gone half a mile before a guard from the village stopped us. At this point I noticed that the cart was very heavy all of a sudden."

"The boys had disappeared, I take it?"

Tristan nodded, rubbing his mouth over the grin that threatened to slither to the surface. "They had all ran away to hide as soon as they saw the guard approaching. So there I am, in my full armour and all my daggers, strapped to a cart like a beast of burden, with a guard shoving a lamp in my face and asking me what business a witcher has rolling a cart full of carrots in the dead of night."

"And what did you tell him?"

Tristan cleared his throat, straightening up where he sat. "I have to remind you that I was very inebriated at this point. Redanians don't mess around when it comes to their moonshine." Pavus raised a brow and Tristan let out a soft sigh. "I told him I'd confiscated the cart because I needed the carrots to lure a mighty beast."

"A mighty beast?" Pavus asked, huffing an incredulous laugh. "What beast?"

"....a horse."

Pavus gaped at him for a long moment, blinking in confusion. His bewildered expression melted away to be replaced by a wide smile, his shoulders trembling as his laughter echoed through the small clearing. He really was beautiful when he laughed, Tristan noticed, joining him. His eyes that glinted and sparked with amusement, the tiny lines at their corners, soft and feathery as if they had been drawn by a painter's brush, the neat rows of teeth, white like peeled almonds. The sound of his laugh, bright and crystal clear like water from a babbling brook. Had he ever heard anything as pleasant? Tristan wondered.

“A horse? A dratted horse? Great Sun Almighty,” Pavus said after taking a deep breath, wiping mirth from his eyes. “You really couldn’t have thought of anything else?”

“It was the first animal that sprung to mind!” Tristan protested. “There’s no other beast I know that likes carrots as much as horses. Do you?”

“Rabbits do," Pavus shrugged. "Or groundhogs.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, yes. Because what other beast is more terrifying than horse, other than a rabbit or a groundhog?”

“Have you ever watched groundhogs fight over a pile of pears? I have, and I assure you it’s quite the sight. Blood chilling. Certainly more sensational than watching a drunk witcher try to bait a runaway horse with carrots, if there are to be comparisons.” Pavus leaned forward to offer him his flask, and Tristan took it gratefully. "If you tell me the guard believed you, I'm leaving you here and going back to Vizima on foot."

Tristan bit his lip, still chuckling. He tipped the mouth of the flask over his lips, savouring the rich taste of the brandy. He tried not to think of Pavus’ lips, that had closed over its rim only a moment before and were now quirked in a smile as he watched him. "No, he didn't," he replied, shaking his head. "Naturally. I guess I could have used Axii on him…" he noticed Pavus' brows furrowing, and he waved the thought away. "Nevermind. What the guard did was drag me to the sheriff's office in Blaviken and have me locked in a cell. Stayed there for two days until the alpor attacked again and they realised I was the only person within miles that could kill her. They agreed to forget about the whole incident if I took care of her. So I did. She was a tough one, though. Gave me a nasty scar." He pulled down the top of his shirt to show him a deep scar underneath his collarbone. It was ragged and pink, one of the many, many scars he had gotten along the way. "I've never set foot in that place since."

Pavus’ eyes slowly drifted from Tristan's collarbone up to his face when Tristan glanced at him. "That was quite the entertaining story, if I've ever heard any," he said. "It puts the palace bards to shame."

"I'm glad it was amusing,” Tristan said, rearranging his shirt. “That was the point, after all, wasn't it?"

"It was.” Pavus rested back on his arm and tilted his head to the side. "I'd love to hear more of your stories after we kill that Fiend. If you've a mind."

Tristan blinked at him, taken aback by the softness in his voice. The mage was watching him carefully, a dreamy expression on his features, a smile still painted at the edges of his lips.  Tristan's heart thumped steadily against his ribcage as he handed him back his flask. "Perhaps. If we return in one piece."

"I'll hold you to that." Pavus reached out to accept the flask, fingers brushing gently over Tristan's. A shiver ran up Tristan's arm at the contact, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

"Right," Tristan said, clearing his throat and standing up. He kicked some dirt over the burning logs, putting the fire out. "I think this is as good a time as any to get started."

Pavus nodded, standing up as well. His gaze lingered on Tristan’s face for a breath before he turned away. “I suppose we won’t be needing any carrots this time, yes?” he called to him over his shoulder as he walked towards his bags.

Tristan chuckled softly, running his fingers through his hair. “I should hope not.”

***

Leaving their horses behind, they walked through the bog on soundless feet. Tristan had expected Pavus to be a hindrance at first, making too much noise, attracting too much attention from the bog creatures, but he was surprised to find out how nimble and agile he actually was. His feet barely made a sound as they walked through the marsh, even lowering his breaths to a soft, steady rhythm. Tristan caught himself eyeing him sideways on multiple occasions. Making his way through the unfamiliar terrain, hardly missing a step, he looked every inch the battle mage Tristan had hoped he would be.

After what felt like hours, Tristan managed to find enough tracks to lead them to the Fiend’s lair. There was a thin trail, leading up to a small mount, at what looked like a small clearing hidden behind a large, flat rock. The smell of Fiend refuse drifted towards him with the wind as they moved closer. He scrunched his nose and coughed, gagging silently. Yes, the lair was definitely close by.

Sliding his silver shortswords out of their scabbards, Tristan coated them with the relict oil he had prepared. He patted his pockets, making sure his samum bombs were in place and easily accessible. Just before walking ahead, he paused, turning to Pavus. He reached out and caught his arm, holding his gaze firmly.

“I’ll go in first and attract its attention,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “You will attack it from a distance. Do not come close, and do not, under any circumstances, look straight into his third eye. If you do, it will hypnotise you. If you’re hypnotised, you’re dead. Get it?”

Pavus nodded slowly, his sterling silver eyes fixed on his. The morning sun washed over the contours of his face just so as he moved, illuminating his velvety bronze skin, catching in his dark, glossy waves. For a moment, Tristan pictured that beautiful face, mangled by the Fiend’s claws, and his heart clenched. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it.

His lips tightened in a line and he turned away, when Pavus’s hand closed over his own.

“Be careful,” the mage whispered.

Tristan gazed at him for a quick moment, startled by the concern in his eyes. His touch was soft and gentle, surprisingly so. He gave Pavus’ arm a tiny squeeze before letting go, blending into the shadows.

A deep humming noise rumbled through the clearing as Tristan moved closer. Concealed in the dense shadows, he could examine the Fiend without it noticing him. It was large, perhaps not quite as large as a fully grown one, but that didn’t make its limbs any less thick than tree trunks. Its large, ugly snout was pressed against its folded legs as it slept, its curved back moving steadily with breaths.

Tristan moved closer, holding his breath, daggers at the ready, his senses fixed to pick up the slightest change in the creature’s heartbeat. He edged closer, ever closer, gliding through the shifting shadows of the leaves stirring with the wind. Just another step, enough to be able to plunge his shortsword straight into the base of its thick skull-

The Fiend’s eyes, dark and round like smooth, polished pebbles, fluttered open, its menacing gaze piercing him where he stood.

Tristan ducked back as the Fiend rose to his feet, a rumble coming from deep within its large body. Its enormous paws, the claws on them thicker than tree branches and sharper than fleshly whetted blades, scratched at the ground, leaving thick welts on the grass in their wake. Its third eye was still closed, but Tristan knew well that it wouldn’t be for long.

He rolled to the side, just in time to get out of the Fiend’s way before it charged straight ahead. He landed agilely on his feet - the ground was even there, thankfully,- and brandished his blades. A Fiend’s most vulnerable spot was its rear, all witchers knew this well, and that was where he would focus his attack. He dashed forward, slashing and hacking as quickly and deeply as he could before the beast turned on him again. It roared furiously as Tristan’s daggers tore through its skin, the poisonous relict oil burning deep into its flesh. It turned around in a flurry of moving antlers and sharp claws, ready to pounce, when the viper amulet by Tristan’s neck vibrated, as it always did when magic was being cast. A fireball crackled right past Tristan’s ear to land on the beast’s face with a loud whoosh.

“Take that, you filth!” Pavus exclaimed.

Tristan glanced at him from the corner of his eye before dodging out of the way of the Fiend’s whirling antlers. It shook its head furiously, trying to get the flames off it, before another fireball caught it in the rear.

The mage laughed from his spot atop an upturned tree. “I could do this all day!”

“Careful what you wish for,” Tristan grunted, taking several careful steps away from the roaring monster. Reapplying the relict oil would take no time at all, but it would mean taking his eyes off the Fiend, and taking your eyes from the target during a fight, even for a moment, even for a breath, could mean death - or worse. Witchers were trained not to fear death. Death during a fight with a monster was a natural consequence to their way of life. In fact, not many witchers expected to die in a different manner. Yet, no one was fool enough to seek it.

“Cover for me!” he growled to the mage, rolling away behind a tree. The relict oil was in its own little compartment in his specially designed belt, made for easy access during battle. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, messily splashing the oil onto his blades. No time to be careful and thorough about it. Pressing himself against the tree trunk, giving as little target as he could, he peered behind him. Pavus was doing a good job distracting the beast, drawing its attention away from where Tristan was. Strong gusts of air and fire were keeping it at bay, but Tristan could see how close the Fiend was getting to reaching him.

“Get back!” he called to the mage as he threw the empty relict oil bottle away.

“Not a chance.” Pavus’ voice was a tad breathless when he spoke, cutting through the beast’s roar. “Someone has to keep that thing off you, yes?”

Gritting his teeth, Tristan stepped out of his hiding place, rolling soundlessly behind it. The Fiend’s ear pricked up, following the sound of the grass shifting under Tristan’s feet. It turned abruptly to him, brandishing its large incisors.

“Get over here, you ugly bastard,” Tristan grunted, reaching for the samum bomb hanging by his belt. The Fiend viciously pawed the ground, as if responding to his challenge. A deep rumble echoed through the clearing, making the stone behind Tristan tremble as the beast charged forward. With a smirk, Tristan pulled the bomb’s safety cap off before throwing it straight to the Fiend’s face.

An explosion of heat and sound. Bright white light, smoke and sizzling fire breaking free from the small, stealthy container. The Fiend reared, howling, bolting away from the bomb that was still crackling on the ground. Fiends disliked loud noises, intense heat, too bright lights- and this one was no exception. The edges of Tristan’s daggers glinted in the sun before he leapt towards the beast once more.

Blood, thick and bright red, sticky like glue poured forth from the Fiend’s wounds as Tristan slashed mercilessly at it, barely stopping to take a breath. He plunged his daggers into its rear and its sides, the fine silver of his blades and his own hands painted crimson. He cut through vital arteries, pierced thick hide and flesh to injure the sensitive organs underneath, slashed and hacked at tendons that were thicker than ship rope. It wouldn’t last for long, not with the multitude of lacerations Tristan had managed on it, and the relict oil working deep inside the creature’s flesh to undo it from the inside. He attacked in a whirlwind of slashes, taking advantage of the beast’s confusion, hacking deeper, deeper-

With a furious howl, the Fiend turned around, fixing him with a heated glare. A heated glare from the solitary eye in the center of its forehead.

Fuck.

Tristan backed away, almost falling flat on his back with his haste. He had been too careless, too greedy, attacking without taking care to cover himself from the Fiend’s biggest threat. The world started spinning, spinning, darkening, plunging into blackness-

And then there was nothing.

The sounds died away. The shifting of the leaves overhead, the wind, the sound of Pavus’ fireballs as they sizzled and crackled through the air, his voice, calling to him, the Fiend’s angry howls, all fading into a dull, hollow murmur. Tristan blinked, again and again, struggling to see something, anything in the expansive abyss that suddenly surrounded him. His pulse pounded in his ears while his stomach was gripped in a tight vice. He shifted and turned, fingers wrapped around the hilts of his shortswords like they were his lifeline. He spun around, hoping for something in the darkness - when he finally saw it.

A light, small and flickering at first, that slowly grew larger, steadier. The light at the end of an endless tunnel. Tristan’s first instinct was to move towards it, when his feet planted themselves firmly on the ground.

The Fiend’s burning eye, disguised as the only hope of escape in that never-ending darkness, flickered before him, drawing him in. Tristan gritted his teeth, holding on to his daggers for dear life, focusing on the weight of the viper amulet hanging by his neck, vibrating softly each time Pavus cast a spell. Watch the eye, Heir would have said. Watch its movements. Wherever the eye is, that’s where the Fiend is. You’re the hunter and it is the prey, not the other way round.

The light moved closer to him, slowly and steadily, but Tristan knew that this was only one of the Fiend’s tricks. Lulling its victims into this state of hypnosis, dulling their senses so they thought the light was moving at a snail’s pace, when in reality the Fiend ran towards them at full speed. He would not fall into yet another trap. He would not.

Drawing on his focus, Tristan let the power of Chaos suffuse him. It tingled as it spread through his limbs, pooling at his fingertips. He raised his hand and drew an upside triangle, calling forth a protective barrier around him. The Wind Blowing Through the Oak Trees, Heir used to call it, to help him visualise it when he was a child. The shimmering barrier settled on him like a second skin, and he rolled away, just as the burning eye dove towards him. Recreating the image of the clearing as accurately as he could from memory, he spun around, dashing forth to plunge his daggers in the Fiend’s flesh.

First try and he slashed at air, miscalculating. The Fiend was far more nimble that Tristan had expected, moving quickly and efficiently, using his disorientation to its advantage. His breath was almost knocked out of him when a large paw crashed against him, making his barrier explode, sending him reeling backwards.

“Fuck,” Tristan muttered, drawing himself upright on unsteady feet. The eye was moving again, a burning, menacing light in the darkness, the surety of death lurking underneath what looked like the last lingering hope for life. It sped towards him and Tristan dodged away again, this time plunging his shortswords deep in the Fiend’s flank as it rushed by him.

A hollow, distant howl split the nothingness that surrounded him. The dark lifted only slightly, enough for Tristan to make out the outline of his surroundings. The Fiend was a little way away from him, its coat glistening with fresh blood. The ground was riddled with long, ragged scars where the Fiend had raked it with its enormous claws, and a few of the trees that surrounded the clearing had been knocked down. Tristan blinked hard, forcing his mind to focus through the hazy mist, frantically searching for Pavus. How long had he been under the Fiend’s influence? Time got warped when in a state of hypnosis, that he knew. Even so, Tristan could swear that it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes that he was under the beast’s control, but one could never tell for sure. If it had managed to get to him while Tristan was out...

Beads of sweat ran cold down his back as he spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of the mage. The Fiend was already shifting, making the ground tremble with its angry rumbles. Tristan edged backwards, away from the beast. He was about to reach for another of his samum bombs and retreat while the Fiend was still confused, when he saw Pavus emerging from behind a tall rock. He looked pale and drawn, his brow glistening with the effort of calling forth another spell. Tristan didn’t know much about how sorcerers used magic, but he knew well that, no matter how strong they were, they could only use so much magic in one go without reaching their limits. And Pavus seemed like he was rapidly approaching his.

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat, icy tentacles of fear making their way up his spine as he turned to the Fiend, that had now forgotten all about him to focus its glare on the mage, drawn by the iridescent light that was gathering in the air between Pavus’s fingertips. It growled and pawed at the earth, sending big clumps of earth flying behind it. Tristan watched as if in slow motion as it braced on its hind legs and shot forth, charging straight for Pavus.

Tristan forgot his own exhaustion, forcing his trembling legs to carry him forward, towards the rapidly advancing beast. “Get back!” he growled at the mage, reaching for one of his bombs at the same time. The bomb exploded just as Pavus ducked behind the rock, making the Fiend stop dead in its tracks. It screamed and moved back, away from the sudden flash of light and the smoke that erupted from the bomb’s small pouch.

Taking advantage of the Fiend’s momentary confusion, Tristan leapt onto its back, grabbing its antlers. “Go away!” he yelled at Pavus, who blinked blearily at him, eyes red from the samum bomb’s smoke.

“Are you mad?!” the mage yelled back, emerging from behind the rock. “That thing’s going to-”

“Leave!” Tristan growled, gripping the antlers more tightly. “Just go!”

The Fiend screamed painfully, tossing its head left and right, furiously trying to get him off its back. Tristan held on for dear life, shifting his weight to the side to make the beast turn away from Pavus to the opposite direction. The beast staggered to the left, head drooping under Tristan’s weight, yet it still didn’t stop its frantic attempts to shake him off. He clenched his jaw, the sharp edges of the antlers digging into his sides, his palms raw and bloody from trying to hold on to both the beast and his daggers. His breath was now coming in short bursts from the effort of staying upright, sweat running down his forehead in small streams. He just needed to hold it together, just long enough for the beast to exhaust itself, and then-

With a sudden howl, the Fiend charged towards the tall rock at the edge of the clearing. Tristan watched, wide eyed, as the rock got closer and closer, bracing himself for the impact. Before he could realise what had happened, the beast planted its paws on the ground, sending him flying forward. The air was knocked from his lungs when he crashed against the rock and landed on the ground in a tangled heap. His head spun as he tried to push himself up, wheezing. A warm trickle of blood ran down his brow, mingling with his sweat, blurring his vision. His limbs were barely obeying him anymore, legs wobbling, arms trembling, lungs burning. He blinked furiously, scrambling to regain his focus, when the ground shivered beneath his feet.

He pushed himself up just in time to see the Fiend lunging towards him. The world moved at an unbearably slow pace as he was pinned against the rock, trapped between dense stone and thick, branch-like antlers. Pain such that he had never known burst through his focus, blocking out everything else. He peered down to see one of the antler edges piercing his armour, straight through his abdomen. Everything was red and unbearably sharp, the sunlight scorching his eyes, the Fiend’s vile breath overpowering his senses. The world around him flickered and tilted, spinning, whirling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not even to ease the antler out of him. Perhaps his time to die a witcher’s death had finally come.

He lifted his head, glancing at Pavus through his haze. He was standing perfectly still, watching him wide-eyed from a distance. All colour was sapped from his face, his features suddenly looking as if carved from pale stone. His beautiful face.

Tristan gritted his teeth, breathing through the agony. He turned his gaze to the Fiend that was still holding him fast, and tightened his hold on his daggers. He would be damned if he didn’t take the bastard down with him.

With the last dregs of his strength, he lifted his long daggers, plunging them straight into the Fiend’s eyes, piercing its brain. The Fiend howled one last time before it collapsed on the ground, taking Tristan with it. The feel of grass and dirt on his face, the warmth of fresh blood on his skin, and everything faded to black.

[sinkat-arts]

Undone - Cullrian Fragment/Perma-WIP

A dream remembered as the world comes to an end.... 

Note: This evening has found me poking around my unfinished fic folder, and I stumbled across this fragment from December of 2016 (god, that feels like a century ago). I abandoned it because I honestly didn’t know how to get it where I wanted it to go... I only had a feeling of what the story should be. It was more emotion than plot. Anyway, there are bits that I like about this fragment, so here you go. If you’re of a mind to read something that leaves our heroes’ fates looking very gloomy, of course... 

---

The Inquisitor had fallen - broken, bloody, barely drawing breath. 

Cole was locked inside himself, silent but with eyes wide and screaming. 

Sera’s mind was blasted, her twisted mouth howling outrage at the thing in the sky. When she’d been hit and her sense obliterated, Thom had charged forward in blind fury to end the creature responsible, but what could one man do against a god?

Varric and Cassandra were missing, long since separated from the group. Maker only knew how well they fared wherever they ended up. They weren't there, though... and that was for the best. Maybe they’d survive a little longer than the rest of them. 

Bull’s hulking form was slumped. Silent and unmoving, hunched protectively over Vivienne. For her part, the First Enchanter was racing against time, words muttered in rapid succession, fingers weaving signs most mages never even knew existed as she desperately drew out the oldest magicks to keep her unlikely friend alive. She worked feverishly, even as her own life hung in the balance. 

And that left two. Two standing against someone they'd once called friend. Two standing against someone they'd broken bread with and asked counsel of. Someone who'd once fought to save them just as hard as they now fought against him. But that time had passed. He was no friend. He was no advisor. 

He was enemy. He was destruction. He was despair. 

And so they stood, weak, wounded, weary, each holding on for the others’ sake. A former Knight-Captain of the Southern Chantry and a Magister of the Imperium stood shoulder to shoulder and, for a fleeting moment, hand in hand. They squared off - pitifully, but trying - against the impossible thing tearing the sky to shreds, just as he commanded it to. The Dread Wolf, terrible and large with its face full of eyes, menaced the darkened sky. A looming spectral avatar of the man himself, it snarled as remnants of the veil hung between its teeth in bleeding green clumps and strands. And Solas… no… Fen’Harel watched it unfold - all to his design - a serenity on his face that was in violent opposition to the brutality he demanded. They were, all of them, shattered against his will. 

“Well, it's certainly not looking good, Commander,” Dorian quipped through labored breaths as he pushed bloody strands of hair out of his eyes, his other hand wrapped around his staff in a white-knuckled grip. It was all he could do to support himself. “At this rate, I'll have to cancel every one of my appointments next week. Mae’ll have my head.”

“I rather think she'll forgive you,” Cullen chuckled weakly. “I must admit... this isn't my idea of quality time. Maybe next time, we should…” His words cut off as he staggered in place, dizzy from the blood running freely and far, far too quickly from his shield arm. The extent of the damage... that was unknown, hidden by layers of cloth, leather, and armor. However bad it was, he couldn’t feel it any more, and that was a kindness. 

“Whoa there,” Dorian breathed, voice a soft rasp as he used what precious energy he had left to keep the other man from falling, careful to avoid the arm that hung uselessly at Cullen’s side. “We're quite the sorry sight, aren't we?” he asked with a smile, though his voice trembled. 

Cullen didn't even try to fight it and fell solidly against Dorian’s chest. These would surely be their last few moments together, so he'd take full advantage of the temporary calm over the battlefield. He dropped his sword to wrap his good arm around Dorian's waist, holding him as tightly as Cullen dared. The force of Cullen's weight brought them both to their knees on that bloody field, and they went down holding one another, clinging to each other like they clung to all those years between then and now. The stolen moments and all-too-short reprieves. All the promises of after. After Tevinter was stable. After Solas was taken care of. We'll be together for real after. 

A memory, unbidden and from a sweeter time, came to Cullen's mind. A gossamer image of a sunlit morning where there was just the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the sounds of their hearts beating and the fluttering of soft kisses across expanses of bare skin in the afterglow. 

‘“Do you ever think about... marriage?”

“So, you want to make an honest man of me, do you?”

“I'm serious, Dorian.”

“I know you are. You're always serious. And that's why I love you.”

“But?”

“But marriage... for a long, long time, that word only meant a life that was... impossible for me to survive. It’s hard to... divorce myself, so to speak, of that association.”

“Yes... Your father, your family... I can see why... I’m so sorry. It was unkind of me to ask...”

“Hush now, I’ll not have mournful sorries here! Not in my bed. We’re going to enjoy this glorious sun and pretend we haven’t a care in the world, or so help me...”

“Yield! I yield!”

“Good, I’m glad you can see reason.”

“Yes, but... we do have a care. We have too many cares, in fact. Until they’re put to bed...”

“Yes, until we can breathe without fear of assassins or the end of the damned world…”

“After, then. We can be together after.”

“We're together now, amatus.”

“You know what I mean. I love you... married or no, I want a real life with you. No more cross country journeys to steal just a day or two. A home. For us. For always.”

“Home? How... dreadfully domestic. It sounds wonderful.”

“Then you would? You would choose to build that life... with me?”

“Only in a heartbeat.”

“I'll hold you to that, Magister Pavus.”

“I expect you will, Commander.”

Home. A life. After. 

But what did they do now? Now that there would be no after. It was bitter, wasn’t it? They were so damn close. They'd fought tooth and nail to this point, clawing their way to face him in battle, only to be crushed so completely by the full strength of a jaded god. 

It wasn't fair.

And so they held each other, there at the end of all things, under that torn and angry sky. The foundation of their world shifted; everything headed towards a calamity that no one could stop. Powerless. They were powerless to stop this. 

“A dog,” Dorian said, voice muffled from where he'd nuzzled into Cullen's neck. 

“What's that, love?” Cullen asked softly as he buried his face into dark hair wet with blood and sweat but still beautiful. Still full of Dorian's scent. Still a comfort to his soul. 

“I would have gotten you a dog. Once we had our... home. One of those awful mabaris. I’d have acted the longsuffering martyr, of course, but just seeing you happy... That would have been my reward.”

Cullen's throat was suddenly thick. He was choking, heart breaking even as he smiled and rasped out his response. “And we’d have had a nice house - with land - away from it all. I'd make you a study and you’d fill it with whatever books your heart desired.”

“I'd have dragged you to all number of Tevinter social events. You'd have hated it, of course, but you'd be the most handsome, most bright… the best thing there.”

“You'd have met my family. They'd have loved you like their own and made sure you got seconds and thirds at dinner.”

“There'd have been nights in front of the fire with tea. The dog at our feet, me reading, you lying with your head in my lap, dozing off.”

“How dreadfully domestic,” Cullen mused.

“How positively wonderful,” Dorian returned.

It was a lovely fiction, it really was. Enough to bring a real smile, however weak and small, to Cullen’s ashen face. In another world, maybe, they could have had this dream of a dream. This world, however… this world was not made for beauty or kindness or the comfort of a home and heart and warmth. This world was made for gnashing cruelty and ripping loss. This world was made for stone and ice. This world was... undone. 

[slytherin-puffskein]

Cinderella

« Au douzième coup de minuit, le charme sera rompu, et tout redeviendra comme avant. »

[ At the stroke of midnight, the spell will be broken, and everything will be as before. ]

In this twisted version of the popular fairy tale, a very special mission is given to young peasant Laurent King, by an even more special individual. A smile on her blood coloured lips, the Fairy Godmother orders him to go and kill the Prince.

Inspired from this song

-

Though I’m dancing in a dream, nothing is quite as it seems Everything will disappear at midnight’s chime Fingers calling me away, there’s no room to be afraid Down the winding staircase I take three steps at a time...

-

Everything feels hazy and blurry around Laurent, and he can barely make out his surroundings. The dagger stuffed deep inside his inner pocket, he bites on his lip, unsure of what to do once he arrives

( easy mission ? Yeah, didn’t think so. That Fairy surely sugarcoated a lot of things )

But no matter how crude she could have made it sound instead, he would have accepted anyway. Royalty is society’s flea, and if he had the opportunity to get rid of it, then so be it.

As he nears the castle in his beautiful, silvery carriage, he can’t help but shiver, and when the guards gesture him to follow them, he does, doing his best to ignore his heart slamming against his chest.

( why would I feel conflicted about this ? )

-

Beyond the carriage door, I saw you trembling Won’t you please set aside the burdens of life and come with me to the dance ?

-

Barnaby Lee is observing as guests make their way inside, and he easily spots the silver carriage pulled by beautiful white horses.

( so beautiful, they almost feel like straight out of the most creative child’s dreams )

Inside, he spots a shaky figure, and doesn’t think much of it. After all, this is a ball. Obviously a lot of people feel anxious.

-

“Search and find the one who has wronged us.” Your whispered words are still echoing I grip even tighter the weapon held in my hands as I plot to bring your ending Slowly all the orphans are gathering under my watch behind my smiling mask And I, as the seraph, welcome them in my wings, as I play the role of saviour

-

Laurent King can still think of the ( w i t c h ) Godmother’s words. ‘Look for him, think of all the things his family did, and finish him at last’

The Lee Royal family couldn’t be considered as the best. Not with the current King, who could only be described as a bloodthirsty tyrant who would do everything in his power to reach his goals.

Rumour is, he got people executed for not sharing his ideologies.

Luckily, Laurent had learned how to lay low, and how to go unnoticed. Like that, no way he would get hanged for hating the monarchy.

Nervously, he feels through his pocket the weapon sheathed inside, and finds himself letting out a sigh of relief. With that, he almost considers himself as invincible. He just needs to get the prince away from everyone, and quietly do his business. Quietly, Laurent steps into the ballroom at last, and stares at all of the guests and their false expressions of happiness. In all honesty, they probably all hate the King as much as Lau, but simply want to enjoy a good time as well as some dancing, so they pretend to like him.

And in the middle of all these guests, stands the Prince, bowing gently at people and seemingly complimenting them, a charming smile on his face.

( Pft. You probably only see them as rats that need to disappear. How hypocritical )

-

Melting down to flakes of ash, Within a crimson glow Your slipper made of glass

-

Shoes with bits of glass. The Fairy said it was charming. Lau would rather say they looked terrible... but if it was going to please the Prince and ultimately make him trust him, then he can endure wearing an ugly pair of shoes.

Like a snake, he circles around his prey, thinking of the best way to speak to him, to lure him. An elaborate red mask on his face, it will be quite easy for the Prince to notice him. A few guests decided to wear masks as well for show, but none of them stand out as much as Laurent’s.

Eventually, it works. He is noticed. Barnaby sees the weak glint of his shoes, and smiles at him before bowing and taking his hand to kiss it.

( Ew )

“You look good, sir !”

“You said that to everyone”

He couldn’t help that snarky reply. Barnaby blushes briefly, and attempts to gather himself.

“Yeah, but... you deserve that compliment. I’ve never seen such a beautiful outfit, wow !”

A blood red vest, an ivory white shirt, he almost looks like a white rose. A white rose, somehow covered in blood.

( Prelude to what might soon happen, perhaps ? )

“Well, thank you, I supp-”

“May I have this dance ?”

Barnaby himself hadn’t planned to ask this, and once he says those words, he immediately turns paper white as he thinks of what his father might think of this.

( ‘You ? Dancing with a mere commoner ? Ri-di-cu-lous !’ )

However, Lau sees in this the perfect opportunity to carry out his plan, and nods while forcing a smile.

“Gladly, your Royal Highness”

A blush creeps across Barnaby’s face as he nervously wraps an arm around Lau’s waist, dragging him into a waltz.

“Oh p-please, just call me Barnaby. All those titles give me a headache...”

“Shouldn’t you be used to them by now ?”

Despite the mission he has, he can’t help but feel curious, and Barnaby only shrugs.

“I suppose... but... I never really asked to be a Prince, you know ?”

Sometimes, the Castle just doesn’t feels right for him... and Lau raises an eyebrow as Barnaby makes him twirl.

( Whoever taught him how to dance is an extremely good teacher )

“Still, with the privileges you have, I wouldn’t be whining if I were at your place”

The fortune Barnaby owns must be unimaginable, and Lau couldn’t even dare consider owning that much money. Swiftly, he finds himself against Barnaby’s chest once again.

“Yeah, but... it’s like there’s a wall between me and the rest of the kingdom, you know ?”

( Why am I confiding to a stranger !? Why am I telling all of this ? Father will sooo kill me )

And yet... talking to his guy with fiery hair is so thrilling, it feels as if magnets were embedded into their chests, and they had to be near each other at this moment.

( Destiny, perhaps ? )

“Hm... I’ve never considered it that way” Laurent admits.

“Yeah ! And the kingdom hates me for things my father did... I swear, I’m going to reform the government as soon as I take the throne ! You have my word - !”

He suddenly stops, and Lau can’t help but stare at the prince with wide eyes.

( Maybe my judgement was false ? )

“Forgive me, I’m not sure I got your name... ?” Barnaby asks at last.

Laurent bites on his lip, softly...

“Call me Dorian”

-

I must take my leave right now. I am shaking up and down Though I catch you glancing over at the clock... Shoes no longer on my feet - the slope is much too slippery But my fingers reach around your neck ‘fore I can stop

-

( I can’t do this )

( I cannot )

( It’s impossible )

( STOP IT ! )

After dancing, and talking, and dancing again, and talking again, they manage to sneak out of the ballroom, and eventually successfully arrive in Barnaby’s chambers. As they stand on the balcony, chatting and stargazing, Lau’s conflicted heart slams against his chest as he tries to figure out what to do.

He can feel the dagger press against his sides.

His mouth feels parched, his throat seems to be lined with blood.

By talking to the Prince, he discovered a whole different person from the one he had pictured himself. He wasn’t an exact copy of his ruthless father, not at all. He found a kind, understanding young man who only wanted the best for his people.

( And I have to kill him )

Why ? Why would the 

w i t c h  

Fairy Godmother want this ? What happened between her and the Royal Family ? Lau clears his throat before speaking.

“I should leave, Barnaby. It’s getting late...”

Close to midnight, in fact.

( ‘By midnight, my boy, the spell will no longer be under effect. Be home by midnight, and wash the blood off your clothes ! )

Barnaby reaches for Laurent, but the latter slides away, hugging himself for warmth... and comfort.

“I really have to go, Barnaby...”

But before he can order himself to leave at once, he throws his arms around Barnaby’s neck, pulling him into a deep embrace as tears trickle down his reddened face.

-

I kiss the falling tears that slip from your eyes And at that very moment I felt a shiver running through deep inside

-

Gently, Barnaby hugs him back, and musters up enough courage to kiss his tears away.

Immediately, a shiver runs down his spine, as a small voice whispers into his mind:

Run.

He doesn’t follow that piece of advice. Instead, he looks at the man pressed against him, and reaches for the mask’s strings.

Slowly unties them.

And lets the mask fall to the floor, revealing the most beautiful man Barnaby had ever seen, with freckles easily comparable to stars during a night’s sky.

“Beautiful...” he whispers faintly.

Neither of them knows who kisses the other first.

-

Please don’t let the bells sound for midnight, I find myself bowing down to you Although I am screaming “Don’t do it !” my right hand slips, bidding you goodbye forever You, who bears the air of such a princess, wearing the smoke of gunshots on your eyes My frozen facade was no match against your fire, and I felt it piercing through the ice

-

Soon midnight.

Please don’t let it be midnight.

( please )

Lau slowly pulls away from the kiss, no matter how bad he wants to keep going, and gently bows down to the prince, grabbing his mask and sliding it back on his face, tying the strings.

“I really have to go, Barnaby”

( Maybe if I just don’t do it, everything will be alright. The Fairy will find someone else to do her dirty work... or she’ll do it herself. Either way, I wouldn’t be dragged back into this story. Not anymore )

The Prince pouts, but nods anyway, as understanding as usual.

“Alright... but I’ll see you again, right ? Right ? We can meet up somewhere, I’ll try to not get recognized by other people, maybe wear a cloak or something, and we’ll spend some time together !”

And a smile curls up Lau’s lips as he nods.

“That... sounds very nice, actually”

( No it’s NOT. GO. GO, RIGHT NOW )

Barnaby smiles. The most loveliest smile, from the most handsome guy Laurent had seen.

“Alright then... but at least let me walk you back to your ca-”

( DO NOT DISOBEY ME )

The witch’s words suddenly ring inside of Lau’s ears, almost piercing his brain. Before he can realize what is happening, his right hand suddenly reaches for the dagger inside of his pocket, clutching it and

( NO !!!! )

plunging the blade through Barnaby Lee’s chest.

And at last, realization of what he just did dawns on him.

-

Even right now I can hear your breathing ring in my ears Pulling my heartstrings like a distant dream Down through the stained glass windows panes, the light from the moon Drapes on your shoulders like a veil

-

Everything in Barnaby’s mind stops.

His sole focus is the man standing in front of him.

He can barely care about the dagger digging through his chest.

He can only see Dorian Lau’s eyes. Beautiful brown.

Brown, a colour which can look like dried off blood.

Blood, trickling down Barnaby’s chest and darkening his clothes. Heavily, he falls on his knees, and Lau is quick to do the same, his fingers still wrapped around the golden hilt.

And despite what he just did, with the moonlight shedding on him, he looks as beautiful as ever.

-

Tear away the dress that I’m wearing - this tiara was not meant for me All that I can feel now as your eyes stare into mine is the fire in me burning Our two souls, alike in seclusion, and now they’ve found each other’s company But if I am not the one who will stop your tears, then it’s all a one-sided story

-

Barnaby’s lidded eyes stare at Lau’s. He’s still breathing. Not for long, however. Soon enough, he will release his last breath, and leave this oh so cruel world.

Lau finally manages to let go of the dagger, letting it stick out of Barnaby’s chest.

Silence reigns between the two. But strangely enough, Barnaby has enough strength to reach for Lau’s mask... and the redhead immediately understands. He unties it, and discards it before cupping Barnaby’s face, making him look at him.

Green eyes.

Like the leaves of a flower that will soon wilt.

“I’m sorry...” he whispers.

A heavy lump forms itself in his throat, and he is dangerously close to sob.

“I-I had to... I had to...”

“I understand”

And the Prince smiles faintly at him, before letting himself fall to the floor.

-

Stop the time at this very instant, I am completely drawn into you If God will have mercy then let me please stay right there, as I count your every heartbeat Overwhelmed by rushing emotions, I’m left to drown within this spreading warmth From this moment on my body will move no more... it is all just like a fairytale

[chaotic-good-hawke]

Skyhold Interludes: Book Club - part 2

Fenrir attends a meeting of the Skyhold Book Club and various shenanigans ensue! 

Link to fic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162463/chapters/37811687

Fenrir had just returned from the Exalted Plains with Dorian, Bull, and Sera. They had managed to clear out most of the ramparts, they just needed Cullen’s men to rebuild the bridge and they could find the missing troops. They had come across a clan of Dalish elves, as well, and helped them with a few things. If Fenrir never has to chase a halla again, that would be great by him.  

As he was finishing up his report at the War Table, Josephine slipped him a note. In beautiful calligraphy was written,

                       Please join me for an evening of Literary Discussion

                                                  20 Bells

                  The Office of Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, Skyhold

                               Refreshments will be provided

Fenrir had to stifle a snort, but quickly recovered.

“Literary Discussion” HA!

Cullen didn’t seem to catch it, but Leliana was giving him a knowing look.

Of course she would know about it. Can’t hide anything from the Spymaster.

Fenrir slipped the invitation into his pocket and listened as the advisors explained (in great detail) the status of the Inquisition and asked for his input on several matters. When they had all they needed from him, he went to find Dorian. Dorian was always his favorite one to visit after a long meeting. Perhaps they could have dinner in his room before the book club. Yes, that would be perfect.

It promised to be an enjoyable evening all around.

**

In between the travels and questing, Fenrir had managed to finish the first 4 installments of Swords and Shields. He had to agree with Dorian that they were rather awful, but there was just something about them…

Dorian had agreed to dinner and they had a rather enjoyable time. It would have been even more enjoyable, but a messenger interrupted them with a reminder of their appointment.

Dorian was slightly miffed and was straightening his buckles. Fenrir whispered a few things to Dorian that brightened his mood, mainly the fact that Josephine was providing wine, but also the fact that they could always retire back to the inquisitor’s quarters after the Book Club to continue where they left off.

Fenrir and Dorian made their way down to Josie’s office, only stopping once in the stairway for a kiss. They made it to Josie’s Office without incident and found Josie and Cassandra already in attendance. There were little cakes and sandwiches, as well as three bottles of wine. Dorian set about inspecting the labels.

“My dear ambassador! You have impeccable taste!” He declared, pouring a glass for himself and Fenrir. “It must have cost a fortune to get this vintage this far south!”

“Really, it was nothing. The Royal Court of Antiva sent us several bottles and I had been waiting for a special occasion.”

“And out book club is a special occasion?” Fenrir asked, taking his glass from Dorian.

“Amatus! Do not question the lady! This is a very special occasion.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise.

“If you are quite finished, we have much to discuss.” Cassandra had a modest glass of wine, but she did have several of the small frilly cakes.

“Of course! I have many thoughts on the matter!” Fenrir said, settling on the couch next to Dorian. “Now, about the Viscount…”

**

“It is terribly unfair for the Viscount to berate her so! The Knight-Captain was given an impossible task and she almost succeeded!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“But it did set up that saucy scene with Guardsman Avery.” Dorian pointed out.

“It was rather-” Fenrir started, but was quickly interrupted.

“What’s on then? This where all the cakes went?” Sera dropped from the rafters. How she got there, no one but Sera knows. She grabbed one of the cakes. “What you all doing anyways, all secret like?” She plopped herself down beside Cassandra.

Fenrir smiled wickedly. “Book club, Sera. Want to join?”

“Lovely.” Dorian said, taking a large drink of wine and rolling his eyes.

“Book Club? Why’d I want to do some posh thing like that? You daft? And these books, tried reading these, not great them.” Sera said, grabbing another cake.

“Just because you do not appreciate them does not mean they are not great, Sera!” Cassandra said, indignantly.

“Whatever, I thought you might be doing something interesting. With Quizzy here, I thought it would be good, But this is boring.” Sera stood up, stretched and grabbing a bunch of frilly cakes, ran out the door. “BYE!!!!”

“And you like her, Amatus.” Dorian said.

“She’s fun, Dorian. Different, but fun.” Fenrir said.

Josie sighed, looking at the tray. “She took all the red velvet cakes.”

**

“But do you think the Knight-Captain will accept his proposal?” Josephine asked.

“She can’t! Guardsman Avery would be heartbroken!” Cassandra exclaimed. Fenrir had to admit that he loves seeing this side of his friend.

“But think of the-” Dorian started as the door banged open. The four of them turned to see Commander Cullen walking through the door, rubbing his neck and holding a stack of papers. He froze when he looked up at the group.

“Ah, good evening. I don’t mean to interrupt, I was just heading to the war table.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Commander! Just what we need, an outside opinion. Please join us!” Dorian exclaimed, rising from his seat and gesturing to Cullen.

“Yes, Commander, please join us.” Josephine said, graciously. Moving over on her couch to make room for him. Dorian guided a shocked Cullen to the couch and then took his own seat beside Fenrir again.

“Of course, if you need assistance, I will do what I can.” Cullen said as he tried to get comfortable beside the ambassador, shifting his papers.

“We desperately need your opinion, Commander.” Fenrir said, furiously flipping through his copy of the book. Once he found the page, he handed it to Cullen. “Please, if you could read this aloud, I think it would help us get a better picture of the situation.”

Cullen looked skeptical.

“We shouldn’t bother the Commander with this.” Cassandra said.

“Nonsense! He is just the one we need. Please read for us.” Dorian said.

“If you think it will help.” He cleared his throat.

“The Knight-Captain marched in front of the Comte, not daring to look back at him. They made it to her office and she threw open the door.

“How dare you talk to me in such a way in front of my men!” She exclaimed, turning to glare at Comte Delancey. She found that he was closing the door behind him.

“My dear knight-captain, I did not mean to cause a problem.” He approached her, like a cat. “I merely wanted to convey my feelings.” His hand rose to cup her cheek.

Cullen’s brow started to crinkle, but he didn’t stop reading. Fenrir was fighting to contain his glee.

She knew she should push him away, but his blue eyes were holding her in place, tempting her, seducing her.

The comte drew closer, his other hand wrapping around her waist. He raised her chin and without another word, ravished her lips with passionate kisses-

Cullen paused now and scanned the rest of the page, his cheeks reddening as he realized what he was reading.

“Please continue, Commander, you read beautifully.” Josie said with a sigh.

“No! I mean…this is ridiculous.” He all but threw the book back at Fenrir and stood. “Excuse me, I should return to my office. Good night.” He fled.

As he left, Fenrir and Dorian laughed.

“You should not taunt the Commander so.” Cassandra chastised.

“I wish he would have read more…” Josephine said longingly.

“Our ambassador is right. Perhaps we can entice him back. I think the book is greatly improved with our dear Commander reading it.” Dorian said.

“Should I be jealous?” Fenrir asked, arching a brow at his lover.

“While the Commander is magnificent, I am quite content with my current situation.” Dorian said. “Though we both know if he were interested, I would be the one jealous of him. I remember how you flirted with him at Haven, Amatus.”

“Don’t remind me.” Fenrir said, taking another drink of his wine. “Though really, he was polite about it all. And Dorian, I too am quite happy with our current situation.” Fenrir leaned over and kissed Dorian’s cheek, starting to feel the wine. When he looked up, both Cassandra and Josie were looking away politely, but they each bearing a smile.

“Maybe we should set Cullen up with someone, it could loosen him up a bit.” Fenrir suggested.  

“Play matchmaker? Oh I love it! There have been several letters from Orlais inquiring about him.” Josie said, a bit louder than usual for her, the wine obviously affecting her.

“The Commander would not like an Orlesian, Josephine. He is too Ferelden.” Cassandra countered, but she wasn’t dismissing the idea entirely.

“The question is who, though. Has he shown any interest in anyone? There are several interested parties for our Commander to choose from.” Dorian said.

“Well, there is that new healer from Redcliffe…”

**

Same time past and the group had come up with 3 viable options to set up the commander with. They had moved on to discussing possible matches for Blackwall when someone knocked.

They turned again and saw Solas enter.

“Ah, Lethallin, here you are. Sera mentioned you were here.”

“You were talking with Sera?” Fenrir asked, surprised.

“Not as such. I found her setting up some kind of trap in the rotunda. When I asked her what she was doing, she said she was bored because the Inquisitor was doing boring things in the Ambassador’s office. She ran off afterwards. Apparently I had ‘ruined the surprise.’” Solas clarified. “I was going to ask you about something, but I don’t wish to intrude.”

“No intrusion! We were just discussing who would be a good match for our Commander and resident warden! Do you have any opinions?” Fenrir asked, gesturing wildly.

Josie let out a giggle, her face flushed. Solas took in the scene and the various states of inebriation of the group.

“No, I think I will pass. It can wait until tomorrow, Lavellan.” Solas said, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“Maybe we should find someone for our grumpy hobo mage.” Dorian whispered to Fenrir, but not so quietly.

Solas just let out a long defeated sigh and bid the group good night, but did take a few frilly cakes at Fenrir’s insistence. As the door closed behind him, Cole was suddenly there, sitting on the edge Josie’s couch.

“Friends, carefree, everything I needed, warmth, his body next to mine. Why can’t it be like this more?” Cole said cryptically, his eyes hidden beneath his hat. “Love, closeness, I never thought to find this. Comrades and passion.”

“Hello, Cole. Did you want to join our discussion?” Fenrir asked, not able to fully process Cole’s words.

“No. I don’t think so. Lonely, secrets, pains in the past. You want to help. I think you can. He likes red hair and soft hands.” With that, Cole was gone.

The group sat confused for a moment.

“Wait, which one? Cullen, Blackwall, or Solas?” Fenrir asked too late.

“I do not understand Cole. He always speaks in riddles, somehow clear and obtuse at the same time.” Cassandra commented.

“Who?” Josie asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it, my dear.” Dorian said comfortingly. “Now, we were talking about our burly Warden…”

**

Two bottles of wine later, they had discussed most of the people in Skyhold, gossiping about who should be together and who was together.

“I swear it! It’s true! I overhead the Orlesians in the hall say so and they are always the first to know. Somehow!” Fenrir said.

Cassandra shook her head, the wine finally affecting her. “I never would have thought they would. Did you, Josephine?”

There was no answer and the other three turned to see Josie asleep on her couch, her empty wine glass cradled in her hands.

“I’m sure she knew before us. Leliana keeps her informed about all the best gossip.” Dorian said.  

Two blusterous voices were heard from the hall, followed by a loud, gruff laugh.

“You’re shitting me!” Bull said, entering the office behind Varric.

“I tell you, it happened.” Varric said. He surveyed the scene before them. “Well, look here, Buttercup wasn’t lying.”

“Told you, Varric.” Bull said smugly. Varric passed him some coin.

“The tavern cleared out already?” Fenrir asked, only slightly slurred.

“Boss, first bell just passed. Cabot kicked us out.” Bull said.

“What is all this? Sera said something about a boring posh club before she passed out.” Varric asked.

“We are discussing your books, Varric! And other things…” Fenrir exclaimed.

“Wait, which books?” He noticed Cassandra blushing and put two and two together. “While I am flattered, couldn’t you at least read one of my good ones?”

“I tried to convince them, but I was overruled. There is something about them, especially when our Commander reads them aloud.” Dorian said.

“Curly is part of this group, too?”

“He was briefly part of it, reluctantly.” Fenrir explained. “I don’t think he’s a fan.”

At that moment, Josie let out a snort and shifted on her couch. The noise shocked the group, such an unladylike sound coming from the ambassador.

“Gentleman, I believe it is time for us to retire.” Cassandra said. She rose, only slightly swaying in place. She nodded to Dorian and Fenrir. “Until next time. Thank you for the enjoyable evening.” With an iron will, she walked straight out of the office.

“I think we scared the Seeker away.” Varric said.

“I don’t think anything scares her, Varric. Least of all us. She could take us both down easily, I have no doubt.” Bull said sagely.

“True.” Varric conceded.

“Perhaps it would be well for us to retire and let the ambassador sleep.” Dorian suggested. He and Fenrir stood, Fenrir putting a hand out to steady himself. He walked over a draped a throw over Josie. With that, they exited to the hall. Bull and Varric head back down the hall towards their rooms, while Dorian and Fenrir stumbled toward the Inquisitor’s quarters.

“Wait, should we have a guard watch out for Josie?” Fenrir asked as they neared the door.

Dorian sighed, but nodded. They turned to head back, but they saw a purple cloak slipping into Josephine’s office. With the knowledge that Leliana would look out for Josie, they slowly made their way up the stairs.

Halfway up, Dorian pulled Fenrir into a corner and reminded him of his affection. After a few minutes, Fenrir recovered his senses enough to pull Dorian with him up the rest of the way to his room. They both managed to get undressed, even in their drunken states.

Fenrir snuggled close to Dorian in his bed, running his hand over his chest.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Dorian.” He whispered to Dorian. Dorian responded by pulling him closer. “I did as well, Fenrir.”

“We should do this again.”

With a few more whispered words and kisses, they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

[rabbitwritesfanfic]

Title: Once Upon a December

Words: 3461

Fandom: The Picture of Dorian Gray

Characters: Dorian Gray, Basil Hallward

Pairing: Dorian/Basil

Comments: I’m back! Complete with a cover and some pseudo-Victorian flair! (I like making quick covers like this too... Maybe I should do that for all my new stuff?) I’ve had this one kicking around in my head for a while now and in the end I liked it enough to share. #BasilDidNothingWrong 

The weather had surely taken a turn for the worst over the last several days. A light dusting of snow was a pleasant departure from the heat of summer, even giving Basil's paintings of the fall a sense of urgency which translated well into more metaphorical readings of his work, but there was quite a difference between knowing that all the vibrant color of the world would soon be lost until the spring and actually seeing the world buried inch by inch in ice.

The artist was working by candlelight when the knocking began. The sound was nearly lost under the howl of the wind and it was several moments before Hallward could be sure he was hearing it at all. Before long, however, the noise grew more persistent. He set his brushes down, and, having long since sent Parker away for the evening, moved to answer the door.

“Who in the world - ” he began but cut himself short upon spying the familiar tangle of blonde curls belonging to his friend. “Dorian!” he cried. “Good heavens, boy, do come in before you freeze! What on earth are you doing out at this hour, in this weather?”

Dorian leaned heavily against the wall just to the side of the door, shaking the snow from his curls. “Oh, it's nothing so terribly serious, Basil,” he said as he got his shaking fingers tangled in his scarf during his attempt to remove it. “The weather must have turned faster than I was expecting.”

“Dorian, I know you do not consider me a fool.”

“Not at all,” the lad replied, seeming faintly shocked.

“Then,” said the artist, draping the boy's scarf over a coat hook to dry after removing it from him, “you must realize how impossible it is to believe you in this state.”

Dorian grew quiet and cast his eyes to the floor. The flecks of snow had melted into dew drops now, sitting precariously in the whirled brushstrokes of his hair, the occasional rogue falling to stain his collar or touch his cheek. Basil wished for his paints nearly as much as he wished to turn himself to water.

“It's really nothing, Basil,” Dorian said, canting his head to the side. “Just another of my moods. I was out walking and lost in my head again, I believe, when the storm began. Thank God I was able to find your door.”

Hallward did not quite believe him. There was something in his dear friend's tone that prevented it, the cadence slightly off, the words a bit strained. He had no desire to fight with him, however, so he instead ushered him back through the house, farther from the chill seeping in around the doors.

It was barely a moment before Dorian flung himself upon the divan, seeming utterly exhausted. He'd left his coat in the hallway and thankfully his clothes seemed relatively untouched by the snow. He rested his head on his arms and spoke with his eyes closed, seeming dreamlike in the light thrown from the fireplace.

“What is it about the cold that drains you so, Basil?”

Rather than respond, the artist, in a strange fit of boldness, moved to sit near the boy, wincing at the chill that clung so stubbornly to Dorian's skin. A few moments drained away before Hallward thought to fetch a heavy blanket from the cabinet. He returned and rather unceremoniously tossed it across the back of the divan before returning to his perch beside Dorian.

“I feel as though you would refuse if I offered you my room for the night and I have neither the strength nor the desire to remove you bodily,” said Basil. Then, “You'll catch your death like this, Dorian – look, you're still shivering!”

To his credit, the boy only huffed a small laugh before curling himself into an even smaller ball. It was around this time that Hallward made a rather inexplicable decision: He crawled onto the divan and pressed himself between Dorian and the back cushions, giving the boy room to stand if he wished. Whatever had taken up residence in Dorian's head was clearly troubling him quite severely, and Basil wasn't keen on making him feel trapped.

Dorian seemed to pay him little mind, turning to rest his head against his friend's shoulder as though there were nothing strange about it in the slightest. Occasionally a small shudder would trace its way down his limbs and the most pathetic whine would clatter against his teeth. Several minutes passed in much the same way as the first one had before either of them spoke.

“There you go again, Basil,” said Dorian.

“What?”

“Staring at me. You do it often, even though that portrait is well and truly finished.” Dorian stretched in what little space remained for him. The worst of the chill looked to have worn off, leaving a faint dusting of pink across his cheekbones. “I should think that you would be quite sick of looking at me by now.”

Basil pressed himself upward, surprised. “Why ever would you think that?” he asked, catching the lad's gaze in the low light thrown from the fire. “Who in his right mind could tire of looking at you?”

Dorian scoffed gently, the sound pushing a few loose strands of gold from his eyes. “Artists,” he said with a fondness that nearly stopped Basil's heart. “I'd think you would have me memorized by now.”

“You are impossible to memorize, Dorian,” said the artist. Had they been chatting under anything approaching normal circumstances, Basil would never have allowed his thoughts to wander like they were, and certainly not where the lad would ever hear them. Some devilish combination of the late hour and the firelight making Dorian even more unearthly than he was before loosened his tongue and Basil found himself speaking. “I may be able to recreate your curls and your eyes and the lines of your face, but the more I look, the more I see. There are things I simply cannot capture: the sound of your voice, your laugh... the way it feels to lie here with you.”

He'd expected Dorian to laugh, light and airy, and brush the small confession away as further evidence of Basil's artistic temperament making him strange. As such, it was no small shock when the man placed a hand over Basil's and simply rested there for several moments, apparently content in the relative warmth of his friend's presence.

Seconds bled into minutes and, seized by a strange rush of bravery, Hallward gently moved to slide his hand from under Dorian's and press his fingers into the man's hair, digits snagging in the curls. The gold wound around his pale skin, glistening in the unsteady light. Basil, in something akin to a trance, trailed the tips of his fingers across the lad's cheek and down his throat to the hollow space between his collarbones.

Dorian stirred at the touch, his eyes fluttering open as though he had been on the edge of sleep just seconds before. Even in this state, the confusion was clear enough in his gaze.

“My apologies, Dorian,” said the artist, withdrawing his hand. “I believe my mind was wandering.”

“It's not as though I mind,” Dorian told him, a softer expression stealing over his features. “I do trust you, you know. You've never been anything but kind to me, Basil. I've no reason to think ill of you.”

A chill curled up Hallward's spine before dripping down to sit in his stomach, heavy and distracting. Surely if Dorian had any sense of his feelings, he would seek to put as much distance between them as possible. The fact that the lad never seemed to realize the extent of his affections only concerned him further. Curious, Basil replaced his hand closer to Dorian's shoulder and, receiving no resistance, trailed it down the man's arm where it rested across his stomach. When Dorian didn't shift away from him, didn't react beyond a small flexing of his fingers and a quick glance at Hallward, the artist pressed his fingers against the slight taper of Dorian's waist.

Dorian shifted against the contact, making a small, startled sound in his throat.

Basil froze. “Now I've gone and upset you,” he said softly, speaking more to himself then to Dorian.

“No, no,” the man responded, just as soft. “Only... You confuse me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You claim my friendship then find any possible occasion to set your hands on me. You gaze at me from across the garden like a lover. Anyone may find that confusing.” Dorian parted his lips like he was about to speak again but another shiver knocked the words back down his throat and he closed his teeth with a snap.

Basil hesitated, indecision at war with desire, then carefully wound his arm around Dorian's waist, pulling him closer against the chill. “You perplex me,” he said, the words ringed at the edge with a soft pain. “You ensnare me. I forget your innocence at times, and for that I do apologize, Dorian. You deserve a better friend when I could ever be to you.”

“Innocence?” Dorian repeated before twisting a bit, looking at Hallward in the half-light. “You really must stop treating me like a child, Basil. I'm over twenty years old.”

At this, the painter raised his head a bit, meeting Dorian's gaze, though he didn't dare speak or move beyond that small gesture. Truly, he'd often regarded Dorian with far more romance of feeling than a proper man should give to his friends, but Hallward was nothing if not moral. And Dorian... Dorian was beautiful. It had been rather underhanded to hide him away from others as he worked, but Hallward had been concerned about the influence certain friends of his may have over the lad.

This was commonly where Hallward's thoughts landed, safely separate from Dorian Gray's and content to keep their distance, but that evening he found himself reaching across the rose-twined fence he'd placed between them.

The seconds stretched on and finally Hallward heard himself asking, against any moral impulse that may have remained in him, a question that had been turning in his mind for months now: “Tell me, Dorian,” he said, “have you ever allowed anyone to kiss you? Aside from family, I mean?”

Dorian faltered, casting a long glance at the pair of them as if he'd only just noticed how they must look, lying improperly close in the small space. “No,” said the lad. “Not once.”

Basil swallowed. “Then... would you mind terribly if I were to kiss you?”

The question lingered between them, spoken so softly that Dorian paused as if to be sure he'd heard correctly. Fear sank its claws into Basil's lungs as he waited for the man to laugh, to brush him off, to break the silence somehow. He didn't, however. Instead he simply shook his head, large eyes flicking across Basil's features as though seeing him in a rare moment of clarity.

The painter exhaled in a way that sounded vaguely like a laugh, cracking the still air. The idea of truly laughing, of turning the moment into a small lecture, proof of the innocence Basil had mentioned before, crossed his mind...  until Dorian smiled at the sound. It was a slow, reflexive smile, as though the man were completely unaware of it himself. Basil didn't allow himself the time to think the action through – he simply closed the negligible distance between them to press his lips to Dorian's.

The kiss was quick, utterly chaste, yet Basil's heart was pounding in his ears at a volume sufficient enough to drown out the howl of the wind pressing in on the walls around them. In truth, he didn't hear it at all. Neither the wind nor the dull crackle of the fire pierced those few precious seconds when Dorian – the incalculable, maddening, achingly beautiful creature called Dorian Gray – relaxed against him, warm breath holding the faintest tremor, his right hand pressed firmly against the painter's arm.

Hallward drew back just enough to break their contact, feeling dizzy and light and like it would have been terribly easy for him to cry when Dorian leaned up just a fraction of an inch after him. Even in the low light, it was easy to see how the lad's eyes had changed, going dark and slightly unfocused with the same poison that ran in Hallward's veins.

“Oh, I am sorry, Dorian.” Basil forced the words out in a whisper, the fog lifting from his senses as reality set in again. How could he do this? How could he dare to risk the miraculous friendship he'd inexplicably managed with Dorian up until then? How could he risk marking him like he had?

Dorian blinked up at him for a moment, confusion touching his features. “Whatever for?” he asked and the breathless color of his voice sent a new spike of heat twisting up Basil's spine before pooling in his stomach.

Hallward swallowed hard, hoping it would clear his mind a bit and return his speech to him. Unfortunately, he remained unable to order his thoughts and could only shake his head. Dorian seemed to take his refusal to speak as an invitation to continue his own train of thought.

“Basil, please,” he began, briefly tightening his grip on the man's arm. Something changed between them then and Dorian appeared to sense it because he tipped his head back just an inch or so, playfully defiant. “If you truly cared to apologise for your abysmal moods, you would kiss me again.”

The laugh spilled from Basil's lips before he could think to close his teeth on it. Of course it would seem that simple to Dorian.

“My dear,” he said, the endearment completely unnoticed at first, “you cannot know what the smallest gesture from you can mean to me. Were I truly a moral man, I would never have pressed for anything more than you have already offered me. You turn up on my doorstep in need of shelter and I act as though you were a toy delivered to me. The fact that you've raised no objection to my conduct only proves my point. This is what I mean when I say that I worry for you, Dorian! Just in the course of the last hour, you've allowed me to place my arms around you. You've allowed me to hold you, and now this! I've no right to -”

“- make me happy.”

The small interruption brought Basil up short, stealing any further fight, any building sparks of self-hatred, and effectively drowning them before they could catch. He looked back at Dorian, surprised.

“Yet you do,” the man continued before carefully, deliberately, taking the painter's left hand in his right and interlacing their fingers. “You do make me happy, Basil. Your flattery is excessive and your worldview confuses me at times, but I am rarely so happy as when I'm with you.”

In the silence that followed, something akin to determination clicked into place behind Dorian's eyes and the man leaned up just enough to press his lips to Basil's again, softly, as though sealing some accord between them. The faint contact sent the painter's heart into his ribs again and Basil, too shocked to do much else, fell into the kiss with a rush of desperation.

He felt Dorian scramble to follow his lead, winding his lean arms around Hallward's shoulders and holding on as though he were the only solid thing in the world. The chilled air around them seemed to crackle, charged to the point of breaking. Basil felt it in every nerve.

It was far too cold for this sort of thing, really, so Basil settled for nipping at the warm skin on Dorian's throat, daring to slide his hands under the man's shirt and pull him close, dipping his fingers into the hard arch of his spine. Dorian wound a leg around Basil's as the painter shifted against him, gasping at the friction. Basil kissed him hard then broke away, gently trapping his slim wrists against the divan.

“It would be in your best interest to stop me,” said Hallward, the words faint and trembling.

“That may be,” Dorian whispered, freeing his hands to claw them down the painter's back, nails snagging fabric, sending wicked little sparks across his skin. “But I wish you wouldn't.”

Basil laughed then, breathless, before nuzzling into Dorian's hair. His teeth and tongue found the pulse point in the boy's throat and he was rewarded with a quiet whimper, Dorian letting his head fall back.

“Slowly...” he breathed when the artist shifted to nip at the stripe of exposed skin where his neck and shoulder joined. Basil obeyed, drawing things out, wanting to memorize it all – the feeling of Dorian's heated skin under his hands, the glint of his golden hair in the half-light, the thin thread of tension undercutting his voice, the ragged moans and whines that broke his quiet panting, the way he arched and writhed under Basil's careful touch – and when the wave finally broke, he felt certain he'd never forget the feeling of Dorian's nails biting into his skin, the hitching cry that spilled from kiss-bruised lips, or the way the hard shudder that shook Dorian Gray to the bones seemed the shake his as well.

In the hazy moments that followed, catching their breath between soft kisses, Dorian suddenly wrapped his arms around Basil's shoulders, holding on as though the painter were the only solid thing in the world.

“I... haven't hurt you, have I?” Basil asked, barely cracking the silence, feeling a flicker of the old fear. Wrong and foolish, as always.

But Dorian calmed him quickly. Or rather, he attempted to. The effect was marred somewhat by the fact that Basil could plainly hear the tears in his voice. “No, no,” said the lad. “Never.”

“You're crying, my boy. Why?”

Dorian seemed to choke on the words for a moment before finally forcing them past his teeth. “I... wanted to run.”

“What?”

“Before. Through the storm. I wanted to run with just the clothes on my back. Have a grand adventure. Get away from it all.” Basil almost laughed. He might have if Dorian hadn't continued, “And then I just... wanted everything to stop. I haven't an idea what I might have done if I hadn't found myself back here.”

Basil raised himself just enough to look at his friend (or lover? Could he dare to use such a term?) and found Dorian crying softly against his shoulder. “Well, I'm certainly glad you've removed yourself from this horrid weather,” said the painter, as gently as he could. “But you've said you wanted things to stop.” Dorian nodded. “Whatever for, my dear?”

“I always want to run. Have I never told you? I always want to disappear. I'm distracting and people put little faith in my mind. I'm like a doll to them. If I must be this way, then there's little I would not give to charm my way through the world for a time, flitting from stranger to stranger as nothing more than a story from their travels – the boy on the train, perhaps, or someone glimpsed on the sidewalk of a large city. I may find a new home that way. A safe place to be less than insufferably perfect.”

“Hardly insufferable,” Basil said, noting how Dorian nearly spat the word. “Why have you never traveled, Dorian? You've more than enough for it.”

“That's just it,” said the lad, the strained ache of a particular melancholy lacing his words. “I plan these things, I imagine it all... and then I stop because in all of my daydreams, you're right there at my side.” Dorian paused then to shake his head. “Foolish, isn't it? That anyone but another flighty, naïve soul would run away with me.”

Basil, at a loss for words, settled for pressing a gentle kiss to Dorian's lips, tasting salt on the edges of them, like the sea air clinging to flower petals. “My Dorian,” he whispered. “I would run with you. Anywhere.”

“Don't tease me, Basil.”

“I would hardly dream of it. Where would we go?”

Dorian hesitated before finally beginning to smile. “I had thought of lying low in France for a time.”

Basil found himself grinning at the mere thought of it. “My boy,” said the painter, “I do believe that's a wonderful idea.”

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 62 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Trouble

The Guildhall of the Orlesian Guild of Healers and Apothecaries was certainly impressive.

Perhaps surprisingly, it held pride of place among the villas and manor houses of Val Royeaux, not so very far from the manor where the Inquisition was staying for the duration of their visit to the capital. Rory had visited more than a few castles and cathedrals in her time - England was a treasure trove when it came to places like that - but nothing could have prepared her for the grand scale on which everything in Orlais seemed to be built. Her former visit to the bazaar had not warned her just how ornate the noble quarter of this city was; how much the rich and powerful needed to flaunt their wealth and influence through architecture and grand design.

The Guildhall was no different. Strikingly white, it towered over the villas around it, a home for those who practiced within the city, as well as a school for those who wished to learn. Of course, those who wished to learn had to pay for the privilege, but since Orlais seemed to run on little but gold and influence, that was no real surprise. Inside was no better. Fluted columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling that any Earth Renaissance artist would have bitten through his brush to get a hand on; a grand, wide staircase dominated the foyer; every inch of the cornices and edgings dripped with offensively golden Rococo-esque ornamentation.

"A little ostentatious," Rory murmured to her escort.

Helene nearly managed to swallow her snort of amusement. "We are in Orlais," she pointed out to the healer.

Rory flicked a sly glance in her friend's direction. "I thought you were supposed to be proud of your homeland?" she teased softly.

Helene rolled her eyes. "The land and the people," she murmured quietly. "The lords and ladies can die in a hole for all I care."

"All hail the nobility and their frilly cakes," the redhead replied.

"We can keep the cakes," Helene muttered in answer. "Make them watch us eat them from their hole."

She caught Rory's eye, and both women dissolved into badly concealed giggles as they made their way further into the ridiculously overdone building. They stood out among the crowd of people gathered there. The foyer was filled with milling nobles, masked and expensively-dressed; even the healers among them wore fine clothing and half-masks, the better to fit in. Rory and Helene, with their sturdy Inquisition-issue clothing and bare faces, were an anomaly among the oddly faceless crowd.

"Ah, Madame Rutherford, what a pleasure to see you after the unpleasantness of last night."

Rory paused, taking a moment to work out which of the masked nobles had spoken to her. Thankfully, the man in question was also gesturing to make it clear. She offered a smile, studying him thoughtfully for a moment, and finally remembered who he was.

"Marquis du Chambois, good morning," she greeted him, deliberately speaking Common rather than Orlesian. It wouldn't do for them to realize the morning after the Wintersend Ball that she'd understood every petty word they'd spoken within her earshot the night before. "Unpleasantness is a rather clean word to describe a murder witnessed by hundreds, isn't it?"

She could almost see the man wince behind his full mask. "Assassination, madame," he corrected her painfully. "The terrors of political life, you understand. And how is your delightful husband this morning? I see he has not accompanied you here."

"Not in the best of moods," she told him quite honestly. Cullen had spent the first hours of the day complaining about having to spend the rest of the day back in the Winter Palace, holding Gaspard's hand. "The Inquisition is assisting your new Emperor to settle into his role."

"Ah, of course," the marquis declared, nodding as though he'd known that all along. "And you are not invited?"

"I have other duties, marquis," Rory pointed out with a wry smile. "Unless the Emperor has terrible heartburn, or an ulcer developed from his guilt complex, I am of little use in the Winter Palace today." She saw his gaze rake over her, no doubt trying to reconcile the beautiful gown and perfect manners from last night with the definitely blunter, far more common version of herself she was presenting for him today. His gaze paused at her midriff.

"Madame, I had no idea," he exclaimed, one gloved hand offering a rounded gesture in the direction of the pregnant bump that was impossible to conceal without wrapping herself in several layers of cloak and coat.

Rory felt Helene stifle a laugh as she looked down, feigning shock. "Terrible, isn't it?" she asked the marquis. "I can't think what caused it. Must have been something I ate."

If only she could have seen his face; she was certain his jaw dropped behind the mask, trying to reconcile the knowledge that she was a healer with the presented offering that suggested she didn't know she was pregnant. "Ah ... I think, madame, you are toying with me," he managed eventually.

Rory gave him her most sweetly innocent look. "Am I?" she asked, glancing past him to where a far more plainly-dressed individual was gesturing toward her. "Do excuse me, marquis."

Leaving the nobleman gaping behind his mask, in possession of gossip he dared not share in case the healer really wasn't pregnant, Rory caught Helene's eye as they moved toward the gesticulating fellow by the bottom of the stairs. The soldier was grinning, and making absolutely no attempt to hide the expression, more than happy to stand by as Rory confused the nobility of her homeland with a joke so transparent it might as well not even exist.

"Ah, Mistress Rutherford," the gesticulating fellow declared, a flicker of a vaguely reptilian smile on the visible lower portion of his face. "I am Gervain Montevarde, Secretary of the Guild. I understand you are to add your name to our roll today?"

"That was my understanding, yes," she agreed with a slow nod. "I had thought that the Guild Master was to be joining us, and Master Perivale."

"Oh, Master Ansel has been called to the Winter Palace," Gervain informed her, gesturing for her to follow as he lead the way from the main foyer and through a series of smaller - though still no less ornate - rooms. "He requested Master Perivale's presence as a matter of some urgency, I understand."

"Interesting." Rory felt herself frown, catching Helene's eye. Odd, that the two men who had arranged all this weren't going to be here to see it done. But then, getting in good with the new Emperor was probably more important than holding her hand today.

The room they were lead into was certainly more to her taste. Simple, slightly cluttered, smelling of elfroot and old potions. What she wasn't sure she approved of were the two large figures who turned to look at them as they entered. The door closed behind them, announcing the presence of a third. Gervain gave her another of his reptilian smiles.

"Dreadful business," he said conversationally. "We simply cannot allow the Master to invite Ferelden riff-raff into our guild. I cannot imagine what the Grand Master was thinking. You aren't the sort we're looking for. They, however, were very interested in you."

There was the suggestion of a scuffle behind her. Rory turned, flinching back as Helene's sword was dragged out of her friend's hand and tossed into a corner. This, as it turned out, was a bad move. It brought her within range of the other two, one of whom laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, a sharp gasp erupting from her lips, as the unmistakable press of a blade made itself known at the vulnerable swell of her gravid belly. Helene's gaze instantly snapped downward to the threatening blade, and all fight went out of her, her eyes meeting Rory's with the understanding that they had been defeated without a blow being shared.

"Very good, healer," a smooth voice by Rory's ear spoke, with the Tevene inflection she'd grown so used to from Dorian. But this was not a friend. "You are required outside the city. Any trouble, and I will cut the babe from your belly and leave you to die, is that understood?"

Cold terror trickling down her spine, Rory nodded hurriedly, trying to draw away from the blade pressed against her side. Her heart was hammering in her chest, the quickening rhythm of her unborn child intensifying in answer to the panic that had gripped her. The last time she had been in such immediate danger had been Haven, the adrenaline pumping too strongly for her to have noticed how cold true fear really was. Despite all her training, she couldn't bring herself to fight. She wouldn't just be putting herself in danger if she tried.

Helene's expression was tortured; she had failed for the second time, but no one could really hold it against her this time, could they? They both knew Cullen would. And quite suddenly, they both knew he really couldn't, as the thug at Helene's back slid a narrow poniard between the plates of armor at her side, stabbing deep once, twice, twisting the blade before pulling it free.

"No!"

The hand on her shoulder kept Rory from rushing to her friend as Helene staggered, one hand reaching to try and stem the gushing flow of blood from her side. Gervain looked horrified.

"Gentlemen, you clearly stated no blood would be spilled -"

"So fix her," the cultured Tevene voice at Rory's back told him coldly. "Fix her and send her back to the Inquisition. They should be told what's happened to their healer, after all." He laughed unpleasantly.

"If she dies, they won't, will they?" the secretary snapped, but to Rory's relief, he was already moving to compress the wound Helene had been given.

The Tevinter - Venatori, Rory realized with a start - seemed to consider this for a moment. He snatched at her left hand, dragging Cullen's ring from her finger. "Hold onto this for your delicate little healer, soldier girl," he said cruelly, tossing the ring to Helene. She scrabbled to snatch it up from where it had fallen. "Tell your commander that Samson sends his regards. Come along, healer."

The hand on Rory's shoulder tightened, pulling her away with firm, inexorable strength. She had no choice but to allow herself to be guided away from Helene, frightened more for her friend in that moment than for herself, though she knew neither of them had much of a chance at this point. Samson. Samson sends his regards. So this was intentional, aimed at Cullen through her. What was he going to do when she didn't come back, when Helene ... if Helene lived long enough to share that information? He'd already been tracking his former colleague, with Leliana's help, she knew that much. Perhaps the Inquisition would be able to catch up to them. Her heart sank at that thought. She was fairly sure her captors would feel no compunction about slitting her throat and her belly the moment they were in danger of being overtaken.

Numb with fear and shock, she barely noticed being guided from the Guildhall, bundled into a carriage waiting in the street. Had any of the nobles noticed that she'd left with people she had not arrived with? Would anyone raise the alarm before the Inquisition noticed her absence? Was Helene dying? She had no answers to any of these questions, and no means to leave a trail, kept in place in the rattling jostle of the carriage by the knife pressed to her belly.

"I must say, I am surprised," her captor said smoothly, lowering his hood. His face matched his voice; cultured, perfectly groomed, a sharp goatee meticulously maintained on a face that looked at her the way a fox watches a rabbit. "I had thought you would be foolish enough to at least scream for help."

"I'm pregnant, not stupid," she snapped back at him. "They'll find you. You won't get away with this for long."

He laughed. The sound might almost have been pleasing from anyone else's lips. "My dear girl, I rather think I will," he assured her. "You see, this is my only contribution to my master's general and his plans. By the time you are far to the north, I will be in the Hissing Wastes, pursuing a far more satisfactory goal."

She glared at him. "I hope a lurker chews your balls off."

His eyes narrowed. "Save your concern for your child, Mistress Rutherford," he suggested. "Or should I call you Lady Dupuis?" He smirked at the way her eyes widened. "Your history is fascinating. A lady of Orlais disappears from her father's house at marriageable age, and resurfaces two years later in the dregs of Ferelden society. A new name was all it took to hide from your dear parents, it seems. We have rather better spies at our disposal."

"Spies so good that your master's plans were completely derailed at the ball last night," Rory spat, trying not to look too shocked at this revelation. I'm Orlesian? This is nuts - how the hell can I be Orlesian? Or the me from Thedas is Orlesian ... I can't deal with this right now.

His smirk deepened. "Is that what you think? Oh, my dear lady, you are greatly mistaken. Who else has spies within both the Inquisition and the Imperial Palace?"

Her mouth pressed tightly closed. She knew someone who had spies everywhere, but Solas wasn't the antagonist for the present time. Solas was their ally. Hope sprang suddenly - perhaps his people would alert him to what had happened. Surely he had someone in the Guildhall? There was a possibility worth clinging to.

"The resentment of a small man is so easy to buy these days," her captor continued. "And that odious little merchant does despise you. You really shouldn't have made such a fool of him."

"Merchant?" Rory frowned in confusion. "What mer - Oh, Seggrit, you utter ..." She trailed off, anger steaming through her thoughts. Seggrit had sold her out. His resentment and ego made him a perfect target for spies with money. How long had Samson been planning to make her a pawn in his games? Cullen was going to be furious.

"Yes," the Tevinter mage said amicably, glancing through the draped window of the carriage as they passed through the last gate on the far side of the reservoir. "Odious little beast, he is, but full of information about your little organization. Injured arrogance is so easy to stoke."

"Keep gloating," she warned. "One day, not very far from now, the Inquisitor will slide a sword between your ribs. And if I'm very lucky, I'll be there to see it."

"Oh, I doubt that, my lady." He nodded to the thug at her side. "Bind her hands, gag her. We really should do this the right way."

Rory knew better than to fight as heavy hands wrapped rope about her wrists in a complex figure-of-eight, as thick fingers tucked a length of rough linen between her teeth to hold down her tongue and tied it behind her head. Silenced and bound, she glared at the pair of them, trying to hold her terror at bay. They were already miles from the Inquisition's base of operations in Val Royeaux. How much further away would they be before anyone realized what had happened? Why hadn't she thought this would ever happen to her?

One thing was absolutely certain in her mind. Cullen is going to go spare.

[twists-of-fade]

Arianni becomes Evune

They were in the farms near Redcliffe when the missive arrived. As the messenger approached, Arianni was discussing with a farmer where the wolves had created their den, and how the farmers might best avoid them. Dorian and Solas were nearby, helping another farmer repair a fence that had been destroyed by their Druffalo herd when the Templars and mages had fought in the area.

Cole was suddenly at her side, pulling on his gloves nervously as the farmer thanked Arianni and left.

"The paper carries sadness," Cole warned as Arianni noted the messenger.

"What?" Arianni turned to him in confusion.

"Cannot look at her, paper heavy in my hand, rode as fast as the horse could. It is.. bad. Very bad," Cole said. "You shouldn't read it yet. But you must. You have somewhere you have to go. I will get Nehna."

Arianni stared after him, feeling her heart pound as the messenger approached. The scout's eyes were downcast as she held out a hand, a tightly furled paper in it. Arianni felt her hand shaking as she took the paper. The scout saluted before turning and walking as quickly as she dared back towards her horse. The letter in her hand was sealed with Cullen's seal, but sloppily, as if he'd had to try twice to apply it. That didn't bode well, either. He had been nervous to send this to her.

As she broke the wax seal, fingers fumbling, she heard Dorian and Solas approaching.

"Where did Cole run off to?" Dorian asked. "The boy just suddenly charged off towards camp."

Arianni didn't answer. She was too busy staring at the words in front of her. Her brain couldn't register what she was reading.

"Arianni? What's wrong?" Dorian asked, concerned.

Arianni couldn't answer. She didn't know how. Everything around her had gone silent. It felt as though even her heart had ceased beating as she read the letter again, willing the words within it to change. They didn't, and the same words jumped out at her, screaming themselves at her, making it impossible to focus on the rest of the letter.

"... to clan Lavellan... Agents arrived too late... few survivors remained... all injured... I'm so sorry, Arianni."

Cole approached, then, leading her halla, Nehna. Arianni felt Nehna's inquisitive snort as the animal placed it's snout against her cheek. She dropped the letter, letting it flutter to the muddied ground as she reached for Nehna's reigns. Arianni could feel her heart beating now, and it was louder than anything around her. Louder than Dorian's questions, Cole's enigmatic words. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out the sight of Solas's worried stare as Arianni mounted Nehna, reigning the Halla in. She heard Solas calling after her as she rode away from them, but she didn't turn back. Cole was right, she had somewhere she had to be.

Leaning towards her childhood friend's ear, she whispered, "Josa, Nehna."

The halla took off at a sprint, spurned by Arianni's heartfelt plea, and fueled by the fear she had heard in Arianni's voice.

Arianni couldn't say later how long she rode, only that it was a matter of days. When Nehna tired, Arianni poured magic into her, soothing her muscles and reinvigorating her. Arianni paid no heed to her surroundings, knowing only that she needed to go northeast, towards Wycome. She needed to go home.

As the sunlight broke over the hills, shining through the trees, Arianni saw the top of the Inquisition's golden banner. The smell of smoke filled the air, though there was no sign yet of a fire.

A scout approached her, quickly recognizable as scout Harding. Arianni looked at her, a thousand unasked questions in her eyes as Nehna slowed, snorting with fatigue and concern for the smoke she smelled. Harding turned without a word, her face inscrutable, and led Arianni to the camp. What was left of it, anyway.

Fear filled her every pore as Arianni saw the wreckage of the camp. Tents torn down, banners ripped, aravel burned. Blood littered the ground, but there were no bodies. Nehna's head swiveled, looking for familiar faces as the smell of blood hit her nose. Arianni patted her neck absently, unable to reassure her halla with the fear she also felt so cold in her heart.

Harding led them to a large inquisition tent, guarded by several soldiers. Arianni dismounted Nehna, stumbling as her legs threatened to buckle. Scout Harding reached out as though to help her, but Arianni righted herself, shaking her head. Silently, she pushed open the tent flap and entered.

The tent was filled with cots. Injured elves from her clan lay in many, Inquisition soldiers filled the rest. Healers were busily covering several of the elves with white sheets, their faces grim as they worked.

Scanning the cots for familiar faces, Arianni recognized the Keeper, laying in a corner cot. Cullen stood nearby, and they spoke in hushed tones.

"Deshanna!" Arianni called out as she rushed to the cot.

"Arianni?" Cullen's voice was shocked. "I didn't expect you to arrive for days."

Arianni ignored him, her focus only on the Keeper. "Deshanna, what has happened?"

"You came, da'len. I told him you would," Deshanna Istimaethoriel said, her voice pained. "The men of the city believe us responsible for an illness. Something that plagues their people. It did not matter how we plead our innocence, they were afraid, and fear drove their actions. But you should not be here."  Deshanna pulled a hand from beneath the blankets, her movements shaky. "Your mother," She said, pointing to a cot at the other end of the tent.

Arianni took her hand, placing her lips to it a moment, eyes closed. "Be well, Deshanna," She said, before standing.

Unable to meet Cullen's gaze, she moved to the cot the Keeper had pointed out, and felt her knees buckle. She didn't feel her knees hit the hard ground. She reached a hand out and caressed her mother's face. Isera was asleep, her face relaxed, though the many bandages across her neck and side of her face tore at Arianni's heart.

"Mamae," Arianni whispered, her voice breaking, before clearing her throat and trying again. "Mamae."

Isera's uncovered eye fluttered open, and her mouth gaped in surprise as she saw Arianni. "Da'len," she said softly, smiling, and Arianni couldn't stop the tears anymore as they poured down her face.

"I'm here, Mamae," she whimpered, and her mother placed a hand to the back of her head, caressing her ear gently. Arianni placed her face to her mother's chest and cried while Isera stroked her hair. "Ir abelas, Mamae. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

"Shh, hush, ma'enansal," Isera crooned. "You are here now. Look at me, da'len."

Arianni raised her head, and Isera wiped the tears from one eye, then the other. "I didn't think I'd see your face again, emm'asha," Isera said, stroking Arianni's cheek. "You've grown so. You've changed. Your pretty brown eyes glow with the light of the Beyond."

Arianni nodded. "It is because of what occurred at the Conclave," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"They are beautiful, da'len."

Arianni smiled a moment, before frowning. "Mamae..." Arianni hesitated, scared of the answer to the unasked question.

"Your father has gone to the Beyond, emm'asha," Isera said, her voice sad. "He fought bravely for our clan, for me. I could not run, and he defended me from the soldiers who attacked. He fell to them just as your soldiers arrived."

Arianni sniffed. She nodded wordlessly. Another thing that was her fault. If she hadn't caused her mother's injury, maybe they could have escaped. Anger, hot and heavy, pooled in her as she stood.

Isera frowned. "He would be so proud of you. Just as I am, da'len."

"I know, Mamae," Arianni replied, forcing a smile. "You rest now. I am going to take care of things. I love you, Mamae."

"And I you, ma'enansal," Isera replied. "Be safe."

Arinni kissed her mother's brow before leaving, sparing Cullen a look that bade him to follow her.

When he exited the tent, she continued walking, away from the camp, into the woods. Once he had followed her a suitable distance, she rounded on him.

"What the fuck happened, Cullen?" She shouted.

"Wycome's soldiers. They used poisoned weapons. The healers are doing all they can. You should read Leliana's report," Cullen answered, passing her the letter in his hand.

As Arianni scanned the words, the anger in the pit of her stomach grew. "The Duke of Wycome was working with the Venatori. They poisoned the city's water supply with red lyrium and blamed the elves. Blamed my family. This is his fault. His and Corypheus'. At least one of them is closer at hand." She threw the letter to the ground in disgust and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Cullen called after her.

Arianni didn't turn as she replied. "Emma shem'nan. I have an appointment with Duke Antoine."

----

Arianni threw the sniveling man to the ground. "Ma halam, shemlen."

"What are you going to do to me?" He cried.

"Ar tu na'din," Arianni replied, ignoring his confusion.

Citizens of Wycome were gathering, drawn by the man's cries.

Duke Antoine of Wycome knelt before her, whimpering. His hands were bound behind him, his face bloody, burned, and frostbitten. Arianni stood in the middle of the city's main courtyard, where major announcements and executions would take place. They were surrounded by the retainer Duke Antoine often had with him. Every last one of them had been Venatori agents. Every one of them was now dead. The inhabitants of the city had crowded around them, many angry, some scared, but all curious.

"Your true enemy is before you," Arianni shouted, addressing the building crowd. "He has been before you the entire time, spreading lies among you even as he spread poison within your waters. You will hear it of him." She turned to the Duke. "Tell them what you did," Arianni said loudly.

Antoine whimpered, shaking his head.

Arianni reached a hand to the back of his head, placing a fire rune at the base of his skull. Arianni leaned down, her mouth at the ear of the cowering noble. "I will boil your brains in your skull if you dare to lie to them," she said softly, before straightening.

"Tell them of your crimes!" She shouted.

"I... I did it," the duke said. "I poisoned the well and b-brought the plague."

The crowd gasped as a collective whole, and many began whispering among themselves, staring at Arianni and the Duke with a mixture of confusion and distrust.

"On whose orders?"

The Venatori," Antoine whispered. As the fire rune grew hotter, he repeated himself louder. "The Venatori!"

Another collective gasp. The people clearly knew the name, but Arianni wasn't leaving anything to chance. She needed them on her side.

"The Venatori, yes," Arianni said, addressing the crowd again. "Followers of the would-be god who tore a hole in the very heavens. Do you know who it was that closed the breach?"

"You did," the duke spat bitterly.

"Yes," Arianni said. "I did. Chosen of Andraste, blessed of the Maker. On behalf of the peoples of Thedas, ALL of them, I lead the Inquisition against the would-be god who dreams to destroy us all. While such a threat exists, you, who should be protecting your own people, have instead poisoned them, turned them against one another, and convinced them to slaughter each other."

Arianni gave the words a moment to sink in.

"The elves of the Alienage, whose only crime was existing, were made into a scapegoat for your crimes. How many of them died for your lie?"

"How should I know-" The Duke began, but Arianni shouted over him, increasing the temperature of the fire rune.

"HOW MANY? HOW MANY DIED FOR YOU?"

"Th-there were probably three hundred of them," Antoine shouted, rolling onto his back, attempting to stifle the fire rune against the cobblestone.

"Three hundred dead," Arianni repeated, speaking loudly to ensure the citizens heard her. "Three hundred innocents. Undoubtedly, this includes children, babies. That doesn't include the number of your own population dead because of your poison. How many of Wycome's very own citizens died at your hands?"

"I don't know," Antoine cried out, writhing. "Dozens."

"Dozens of your own, mainly babies and the elderly, dead."

The crowd was growing restless, glaring at the duke. Some hurled insults.

"I ask you, the people of this city," Arianni shouted. "What would you have done with this man? He has lied to you, deceived you, poisoned your children, and forced you to kill innocents. What would you have done with him?"

The crowd shouted, their anger rising. "Kill him!" shouted some. "Jail!" said another.

"I leave him in your hands," Arianni said. "As the people of this city, it is your right to judge your own."

"Take him out of here!" A citizen shouted, stepping forward. A grizzled old man with a missing eye and grey beard. "He killed your people, too. The group of elves outside the city. You have as much right to judge him as anyone. More, even. You and your Inquisition are the only ones standing up to the nug-fucker that calls himself a god."

There were sounds of agreement within the crowd as the man continued. "If you and your people aim to stop this false-god, then you've got my support, and anyone in this town worth the hair on a nug's ass should say the same."

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, and a soldier stepped forward, blade drawn. Arianni made no move to stop him as he approached, knelt, and placed his sword at her feet.

"For the Inquisition," He said.

"For the Inquisition!" Cried out a citizen. The old man took up the cry, and as the crowd began to chant, soldiers came forward, each one kneeling and placing their blades before Arianni.

Wycome was theirs.

--- "You did well," Cullen said when they met to speak in his tent. It was late, and he'd already removed his armor, preparing for bed when she walked to the camp with Antoine in chains. "I thought we had lost Wycome for sure. The duke has been prepared for transport to Skyhold to await trial."

"Why didn't the soldiers defend the elves, Cullen?" Arianni asked, staring at him. "I didn't ask before, because there were more urgent matters."

Cullen sighed and fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt, not meeting her eyes. "Lieutenant Rozzellene Chambreterre led the forces into Wycome. They were able to destroy the source of red lyrium poisoning the city's inhabitants, but the city soldiers forced them to retreat. When the Inquisition's forces were safely camped outside Wycome, Lieutenant Chambreterre realized the mistake. Wycome's forces fell upon the Alienage elves, as well as Clan Lavellan. By the time the forces returned to help..." Cullen trailed off.

Arianni stared at him, incredulous. "Let me get this straight," she said, her voice low. "I trust the men under your command to take care of the situation in Wycome, and not only could they not do that, but they abandoned my people, my clan, my FAMILY, to die for them?!"

"You know that isn't what she wanted," Cullen replied softly.

Arianni scoffed. "No, of course not. It's just what happened."

Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but a soldier pressed her head through the tent flap.

"Sers, you should come quickly," She said. "It doesn't look good."

Arianni practically threw soldiers out of her way as she shoved into the medical tent. she felt her heart catch in her throat as she saw two healers placing a sheet over Keeper Istimaethoriel.

"No," she whispered. "No, she can't. Deshanna."

"Arianni..." Cullen's voice snatched her back to where she stood. He was pointing past her, past far too many empty cots to the one in the corner.

Arianni felt her blood run cold. The room went silent. She didn't remember walking to her mother's cot, didn't remember crumpling in front of it. She remembered her mother's face, the drop of sweat on her brow, the way her unbandaged eye was squinted in pain. She remembered the way Isera struggled for breath. Arianni would never forget the smile Isera had on her face when she realized Arianni was there. Or the way it slowly slipped away as Isera took her last breath.

She remembered screaming. Clutching her mother's hands, begging her to come back. Screaming at the healers and their damned white sheet, throwing herself over her mother's body, refusing to let them touch her. She threatened to burn the entire forest to the ground if they dared. She remembered Cullen pulling her away, somehow gentle despite her thrashing. When he finally managed to pull her from the tent, she broke away from him, sprinting towards the trees, fear and anger mingling with an overwhelming despair as they fueled her steps.

When Cullen finally caught up with her, she was still as stone, kneeling in a field of tall grasses, watching the blades sway in the breeze. The sun had nearly set, and the first stars twinkled in the sky, visible through wisps of clouds.

Cullen approached her slowly, silently, and she did not stir.

"Arianni?" He spoke softly, trying not to startle her.

"It's like the world doesn't even care that she's gone," Arianni said. She felt numb inside, as though some part of her had died with her mother. While the rest of her mind was screaming, throwing things, thrashing, tearing itself apart, that part inside of her was so calm it frightened her. "In books and tales," she continued, "the death of someone special is always marked with rain, all very dramatic, of course, with the very heavens weeping for the loss. But here, barely a short walk from the tent, the world is so peaceful it's as though nothing even happened. The world can't see how special she was."

Cullen approached and knelt down next to her. "Then the world doesn't know what it has lost," he said.

"The world spins on even as my own has shattered," she said. "My clan is gone. My family. My mother..." She broke off, clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Cullen put an arm around her, leaning her against him. "It is okay to feel your emotions," he said quietly. "You are in pain. Trying to hold this in won't help."

At his words, Arianni felt the tears begin running down her face. She took heavy breaths and found herself clutching his shirt. "They left me alone. All of them. What am I supposed to do now?" she asked between sobs.

Cullen wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her against him, hugging her tightly. "That's not for me to say," he said. "Whatever comes next, know that you are not alone. I'm here, Arianni. The Inquisition is with you. You are never alone."

Neither of them spoke for a long time, while Arianni cried all of the tears she had in her, and Cullen held her to his chest, rocking her gently and stroking her neck. Long after her hoarse sobs faded away, tears still ran down her cheeks, and Cullen sat with her until she pulled away, wiping her face.

The sun had faded beyond the horizon long before, and stars sparkled i th sky. A full moon illuminated the field, twinkling off the blades of the tall grass. Arianni stared at the moon for a moment.

"I have to bury them," Arianni said, pushing herself to her feet. "There are certain rites, certain things that must be done."

"Can it not wait?" Cullen asked as he stood, stretching his legs.  

"It cannot. Not if they are to find their way through the Beyond."

"Will you let me help you?" Cullen asked, concerned.

"I shouldn't," Arianni said, shaking her head.

"You're exhausted. I know you haven't slept since you arrived, and you probably didn't stop the entire way here from Redcliffe. Please, let me help you. You don't have to do this alone."

Arianni considered his words for a long moment.

"I could use help with the burials," she acquiesed. "However, afterwards, there are things I must do alone."

"Arlight," Cullen said, and Arianni was grateful that he didn’t argue.

They buried the clan in the field. As much as she wanted to avoid it, Arianni forced herself to look in the faces of each of her clansmen, to face their fate and accept her part in it. When it came time to bury her mother, Arianni broke down again, crying over the body, caressing her mother's cold cheek. She murmured countless apologies, in Elven and the common tongue. Her hands shook when it came time to cover Isera, and Cullen placed a hand over hers, taking the shovel from her gently.

"Let me," he said softly, and Arianni nodded, turning away.

"Thank you," she said, when it was done.

"Don't," he replied, his voice low. "Don't thank me for this."

Arianni nodded. "I need to be alone for the rest," she said. "Please."

"Right." Cullen stuck the blade of the shovel into the ground before walking away.

Venturing into the forest, Arianni gathered a rowan branch for each of the clan, removing the twigs from them and placing one at each grave.

"To scatter Fear and Deceit," she murmured as she placed each of them.

When this was done, she approached the site of the Keeper, placed at the highest point in the field. She took her staff from her back.

"A staff of yew, to guide your steps as you lead them through the Beyond," she whispered, not trusting her voice. "May Falon'Din  guide you, as you have guided us. Dareth shiral, lethallan."

She knelt by the Keeper's grave, praying a wordless prayer that her efforts were not wasted, that she had done the rites in time, and that they could forgive her.

When she opened her eyes, she looked around her. The sun was beginning to rise behind her, and the stars had nearly all twinkled out. The full moon sat at the horizon, directly ahead of her. As she looked at it, Arianni felt a strange sense of ending, as though a part of her was closing. It wasn't the same feeling of loss as she had felt previously. This felt as though she could find new beginning. For the first time since she had received the missive, she felt that maybe the world would keep turning.

"Evune," she whispered, the Elven word for moon, and as she tasted the word, it felt right.

Evune.

When she returned to the camp, Cullen was there, his face haggard. She hadn't noticed before just how tired he looked, the stress of leading the Inquisition's soldiers leaving dark circles beneath his eyes, and worry lines between his brows. He looked relieved to see her approach, and some of the lines on his face disappeared as he visibly relaxed.

"Arianni-" he began, but she threw up a hand.

"Arianni Lavellan is gone," she said softly, noticing the concern and alarm on his face at her words. "I am still me," she said, attempting to reassure him, "but I won't go by that name any longer. I will allow the Lavellan clan to end in this forest. I have chosen a new name."

Cullen furrowed his brow, looking at her with the worry she had grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What name?"

"I will go by Evune," she replied simply. "The Lavellan clan ends with me, with Arianni, and rather than carry the burdens and loneliness, I will bury them with the rest of my family, so that I can devote myself entirely to the Inquisition."

Cullen was silent a moment, contemplating her words. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked finally. "My knowledge of Elven custom is limited, but I thought that as the First, you would become Keeper, responsible for passing on your clan's legacy."

"Yes," Evune replied. "To do so, I would be expected to join a new clan, marrying in, joining their name as humans join noble houses. I would have to devote myself to my clan's history. It would prevent me from dedicating myself fully to the Inquisition, or to anyone else."

Cullen's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't realize," he replied.

Evune nodded. "When all of this started, I would often think about going home, returning to my clan, my studies. As First, I'd never have to worry about being married off, because the Keeper is expected to devote herself entirely to her clan. I thought I wanted that simplicity." She picked at the bark of a nearby tree, running a hand over a scorch mark from the clan's battle with Wycome's soldiers.

Cullen tilted his head as he watched her. "What changed?" he asked curiously.

Evune sighed. "Everything," she said. "It went from 'closing the Breach and going home' to 'saving the world."' She shook her head, then smiled slightly at Cullen. "I have made such wonderful friends, and met such incredible people. People who, regardless of where they came from, what they had to return to, were willing to put that aside to fight for something bigger than themselves. To believe in something bigger than their own problems."

Cullen nodded. "Some of us also found someONE to believe in," he said, stepping towards her.

Evune nodded. "Yes, there's that, too. So many people believing in me, relying on me. Running off to frolic naked in the trees seems like a terrible way to repay that faith."

Cullen chuckled. "There are some who wouldn't mind the sight," he joked, causing Evune to laugh.

"I can imagine," she said.

"So," Cullen said. "Evune?"

"Yes," She replied.

"What does it mean?"

"It is the Elven word for moon," she said, smiling up at him. She pointed to where the full moon was beginning to dip below the horizon line. "Just as the moon enters a new phase, so shall I. I am letting go of my past, of that I cannot save, to focus on what I can."

"A worthy goal," Cullen said, looking back at her. "I will do my best to adjust to the new name quickly. It’s a beautiful name."

Evune smiled. "Thank you, Cullen."

"You should rest," he said, putting a hand to her arm and turning. "Your tent is this way."  

Evune felt the smile leave her face. The prospect of being alone with her thoughts in an empty tent wasn't one she could greet eagerly. Still, she knew Cullen was exhausted as well, so she followed without comment. When he showed her the tent, however, she caught his arm as he made to leave.

"Cullen," she sighed. "I made a big deal about change and all, but I just... I really don't want to be alone right now. It's probably incredibly inappropriate, considering everything, but... Please stay with me. Just for a little while." She stared at the ground as she spoke.

"Of course," came the quick reply, causing Evune to look up at him in surprise. "I can stay as long as you need," Cullen continued.

Evune felt a wave of gratitude wash over her as Cullen held open the tent flap, and it did not recede as he lay down next to her on the bedroll, placing an arm around her easily. He stroked her hair while they talked about the forest, Skyhold, Dorian's sense of humor, anything but what waited outside the tent. She fell asleep feeling his chest move against her back as he told her about his sisters.