#eden/varric

[mrs-theirin]

It wasn’t what the Champion would do. No, the Champion would raise her staff to the sky, a daring grin tugging at her lips as she boldly accepted the Arishok’s challenge, her blue eyes gleaming with determination as she sliced through him. She would stand tall, victorious, with minor injuries and a head held high as she accepted her new title of Champion and returned home to celebrate the victory, crumbled city be damned. The Champion would not be rolled over on her side, gashes littering her body, barely clinging to life as her mind surely raged with the guilt of killing a man she respected.

read all 5 chapters of my hawke/varric amnesia au fic here!

*ps - if this looks familiar, that's because it is! i started this years ago and never finished, so if you read it back then, start from the beginning! i rewrote the posted chapters

[stinkrascal]

also i genuinely think i was just playing da2 wrong the first time bc im having SO much fun in this playthrough... thats the difference between siding with the mages and the templars i suppose

[thedragonagebigbang]

Some truths are best left buried

Written by: Teine Mallaichte Illustrated by: Exalted Dawn and Eden

Rating: General Audiences Content Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom(s): Dragon Age 2 Major Pairing(s)/Character(s): Male Hawke, Anders, Merrill, Varric, Fenris.

Long before Kirkwall was the city of chains, before it was Emerius, before the imperium there was Creanaom - a small settlement inhabited by the Daefad. When Hawke stumbles upon a cryptic note signed by The Band of Three, he has no idea where his new obsession might lead.

More from Teine Mallaichte: @teine-mallaichte More from Exalted Dawn: @exalted-dawn | bsky More from Eden: @diableriepervert | twitter

Full art by Exalted Dawn:

Full art by Eden:

[anakliro]

Name: Garrett Hawke

Title(s): Champion of Kirkwall Class/Specialization: Mage/Force magic, Elemental Magic, Telekinesis Traits: communicative, charismatic, willful Virtue(s): valor, justice, liberality Vice(s): intemperance, wrath, Martin Eden syndrome Jungian archetype: Rebel Tarot arcana: Tower

Favorite location(s): Kirkwall outskirts, Western approach, Lothering Chantry Soundrack: "LUSI", Offer Nissim & Nasrin Kadri

Habit(s): skin picking, singing out loud, reciting poetry whenever alone Fear(s): being replaced, fighting in vain, loss of loved ones and self Closest circle: Varric, Aveline, Solona, Carver, Alistair, Isabela Romance: ???

Misc:

Really likes romantic poetry. Ballads, short poems imbued with deep passion, yearning and desire. Has a preference for a succinct, striking manner of writing, rather than the one that builds up over time.

Tried his hand at writing, wasn’t exactly good at it until he actually was, but he keeps his poems locked up in a drawer. His poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea, but someone with a taste for sharp and straightforward word-weaving would certainly find it to their liking. Hawke doesn’t take his hobby and himself as a poet seriously, though.

He isn’t the reader type, his curiosity is rare and selective, but he’s the one to swallow and obsess over a topic of interest, whenever he finds one.

Likes gentle people. Likes being taken care of. It’s not easy for him to feel safe and calm, so he overcompensates it by assuming this fierce stance and providing safety and ultimate protection to others. Is the type of person who people assume don’t need comforting. And he usually doesn’t, but still.

Despite his temperament, has quite a lot of patience. Has an insane capacity for love.

Likes the smell of vetiver and blood lotus.

Walks fast.

Has a big nose, and whenever Hawke is about to sneeze, Carver would say “just don’t blow me away, now”.

[sharp-teeth-and-archived]

Get to know the author!

name : Bambi or Eden, mostly known by Bambi.

pronouns :  She/her.

preference of communication : My ims are messed up a bit sometimes, especially on my main blog because I hardly ever get a notification there, but I don't have a preference. Discord or ims work, discord is probably the quickest to reach me.

most active muse :  It changes daily and changes based on my mood, but usually Astrid, Sean, Cassie or Lydia, & Hewlett. Varric is the more active da muse, but my muse is really slow with that fandom for some reason.

experience / how many years :  In the tumblr rpc since 2018, I've been roleplaying since I was 10.

best experience : There are too many for me, honestly, but I think one of my best experiences are with Hewlett's threads, my ship dynamics over the years (like how Lilith/Jacob have been together for around 4 years, it makes me feel old lmao). But basically, I have too many to claim one as my overall best experience.

rp pet peeves : Force shipping, not giving me much to work with in a reply, not communicating. I don't have too many rp pet peeves, honestly.

plots or memes :  Memes? I do like plots, but usually for a first interaction memes are easier. But I don't mind either way. I like both my plotted and meme-centered threads and interactions. Plotting tends to give me a better idea of where a thread is heading.

long or short replies :  Lately, short replies since I'm slowly easing into writing again and long threads weirdly overwhelm me when I'm easing back into writing. But I don't mind either one. Usually, I end up writing a lot in a reply anyways lmao.

are you like your muses : I have multiple muses, but I think I have a piece of myself in each one. I think it's hard to not have that occur when you are writing a character, especially ocs. But my muse type is kind of complicated: I usually go for muses that are not like myself or are just interesting to me in general with their perspective.

For what muse I'm most like, it has to be Cassie. She isn't a self-insert oc at all, but I think my current predicament in life really resonates with Cassie's character arc. I'm trying to find myself in my early years, I come from parents that sheltered me a lot growing up. (Cassie has a very extreme situation with her parental dynamic, way different from mine other than very small aspects of her sheltering situation). I feel my emotions deeply, similar to Cassie, and I love just as deeply (if not deeper). I'm still figuring out my past, trying to find myself, like Cassie and I'm going in the direction I think is right. I'm also looking for companionship as she strives for. But unlike Cassie, I cannot bottle up my emotions (especially anger and sadness). I'm not as gullible as Cassie is. Cassie is more rigid, polite, and formal than I am. I'm more laid back, especially with speaking. She's also more talkative and extroverted than I am. But Cassie does reflect a few traits I want to emphasize in myself. She's probably the oc and muse I'm most similar to.

[libartz]

Dragon Age characters’ favourite Boost Juice flavours (Feat. My PCs)

Nayra Brosca- veggie garden blend

Linda Amell- lemon crush

Alistair- all berry bang

Leliana- strawberry squeeze

Zevran- mango tango crush

Morrigan- raspberry ripple

Wynne- green tea mango mantra

Oghren- choc muscle hustle

Sten- cookies and creme

Nathaniel- 2 and 5 blend

Sigrun- caribbean green

Velanna- grape escape

Justice- blue honolulu

Benjamin Hawke- banana buzz

Anders- coffee dream

Fenris- lychee charm

Sebastian- blueberry blast

Aveline- brekkie to gogo

Carver- protein supreme

Bethany- razzberry mango

Isabela- janine’s favourite

Merrill- wild berry blend

Varric- mornin’ mocha

Ornaros Lavellan- berry remedy juice

Meraad Adaar- wondermelon

Cullen- mango magic

Josephine- tropical storm

Dorian- king william chocolate

Iron Bull- pink paradise

Vivienne- watermelon crush

Sera- power plant protein

Blackwall- mint condition blend

Solas- Pure eden super smoothie

Cassandra- strawbrekkie

Cole- lychee crush

[veorlian]

“You think too much. It’s me.”

the last chapter of the road, the hidden truth, & you is up!! @mrs-theirin you did such an amazing job with this chapter and with the whole story <3 <3 <3

[merrybandofmurderers]

used this generator to make some fake covers for my fics

Jain has never felt powerful. In the Circle, that was for the best. But the Inquisition is a far cry from that life, and as Herald, Jain is fashioned into a symbol of hope. Under the weight of these responsibilities, unexpected revelations are made, and Jain must contend with a newfound strength ney has always feared to possess. But the Inquisition is not the Circle, and Jain’s fears find no purchase here.

A letter written in a blocky hand on a tattered piece of parchment, found on Donal Sutherland’s pillow: Pa, I hate to leave like this, but I know I can’t convince you. I’ve gone to join the Inquisition. It’s calling to me, Pa. I want to be a part of this. I’m sorry to leave you alone, but Berta’s got more sons than she knows what to do with. I’m sure one of them will be glad to help you. I’ve only taken Freckles and some provisions for the trip. I’ll write when I get there to let you know I made it safe. Take care of yourself, Pa. I’ll see you again.

Eden Hawke sacrificed herself in the Fade at Adamant. She survived against all odds, but the Fade has not been kind to her. When she finally escapes, she finds that the world she remembers has drastically changed. But that can wait. For as long as she wandered the Fade, only the thought of her lover, Varric, kept her moving forward, and she's determined to reunite with him no matter how different things are.

@mrs-theirin, @gaysolavellan, @calicostorms, @fade-and-loathing-in-thedas, @transfenris-truther, @midnightprelude

[hawkeish]

Happy Friday! It’s the end of the week, and you know what that means. Time to rec! some! fics!

I haven’t read that much this week because work’s been a whole lot and I’ve been hanging out with my family (read: indoctrinating them into the cult of Anthony Bourdain, may he rest in peace), but here’s what I’ve been enjoying.

(As always, please let me know if any of the creators are on Tumblr and I’ll tag them, if I haven’t already!)

- The Seventh Circle by dismalzelenka and ladymdc. A really cool modern w/magic Awakening AU where the Wardens & darkspawn are a myth, a bedtime story parents tell their children. Focuses on Cousland, Tabris and the Awakening gang, whose dynamics are SO well-written. Only two chapters in, but it’s pretty fun!

- Reflections by @mrs-theirin​. What happens when the ever-joking Eden Hawke can't find the joke anymore? Varric visits her home in hopes of a warm night; he instead finds her in the worst state he's ever seen her in. If you like hurt/comfort, angst, trauma and Hawke/Varric, this one’s for you. Beautifully sad and beautifully written, but does contain implied/referenced self-harm, just to warn!

- Burn A Path by serenityfails. The slow-burn enemies-to-friends-to-lovers Nate/Velanna fic of my heart. So I’ve never actually played Awakening, but fics like this have given me such a second-hand love of it and the whole cast of characters. Again, so wonderfully written, and the action is such a delight to read. And the romance. The romance!

- The Coolness of Your Shadow by Viscariafields @nug-juggler​ Bethany/Alistair. Bethany/Alistair! BETHANY/ALISTAIR. The ship I didn’t know I needed, but it’s just *closes eyes, throws a chef kiss up to God* so good.

Happy reading, have a great weekend and don’t forget to season ur reads with a little kudos or a few cheeky comments!

And feel free to reblog/reply with any more good fics to read - I always crave some fanfic-based procrastination when I should be focusing on real life.

[mrs-theirin]

[ao3 link]

Andraste’s ass.

After the Seeker left, well informed but deeply dissatisfied with Varric’s answers, all Varric had left was the ruin of the estate and silence.

Hawke’s estate wasn’t used to silence. Even on her worst days, she managed to keep it loud and bustling, bursting with music or laughter or just plain shouting. Whether it was the chaos of the mages taking refuge or the banter of their friends, there was always noise. Yet silent it had been for years. Until now.

Letters scattered on the cold tile. Lamps shattered, desks haphazardly laid ajar, doors thrown open and left agape. Even bottles of wine poured onto the floor in case there was something, anything hidden within them. Cassandra and her men did not spare a single corner.

To bring him here, to interrogate him about her in her own home–

Varric’s fist tightened around a discarded bottle of wine.

Rivain’s purest, the bottle read. The telltale sign Hawke was traveling with Isabela.

How stupid did Cassandra think they were?

Straight from the Anderfels, said the bottle at his feet. Taste of Tevinter, read the bottle shattered a few steps away. Finest from Ferelden, said the bottle in her room upstairs. Did the Seeker really think that Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, a woman of lies, of banter and deceit and all things criminal, the woman who had survived in Kirkwall by hiding her identity, would be stupid enough to send Varric letters? 

Given that Cassandra had taken everything he had said as fact, Varric didn’t think she was all that bright in the first place. Sure, Hawke had known nothing of Anders’s plan–after all, why wouldn’t she be oblivious to her closest friend’s plans to change the course of history? Everything that had happened to Hawke was an unlucky happenstance; of course she killed the Arishok with pride, of course she had been up and running with a grin immediately after Leandra died, of course she was best buddies with the captain of the guard. Surely none of these could be false.

Meanwhile, if Cassandra had just asked Aveline what she thought of Hawke, she’d be able to provide her with such a long string of synonyms for the word “bitch” that she’d still be talking a week later.

He tilted the bottle in his hand. The simplest code, and the Seeker still couldn’t crack it. Didn’t even consider it. Hawke always knew how to outsmart the public.

Interrogated in her home. It was all such complete bullshit.

If he had just come here a second sooner–

Maker’s breath, the place was empty. So empty. 

And now, just like everything else in Hawke’s life, it was tainted by people who thought they were entitled to her life. To come here looking for her as a sign of faith, as if dragging her to continue being the #1 punching bag of the cosmos was a luxury, as if it was an honor. As if all she had fought for was to get yanked back into it against her will by idiots who were just trying to do “the right thing”.

Hawke’s estate was empty. And if the Seeker had her way, it would stay that way forever. Silent. Everything that Hawke never was. And never would be, if Varric had anything to say about it.

But even as he stood in the ruins of her home, clutching a bottle with her essence on it, with the sound of her voice in the dryness of the wine, with a wisp of her hair stuck to the side, he knew he’d never had a say in the matter, and likely never would. Because no matter how many stories he wrote, no matter how many lies he spun, his writing couldn’t change reality, and reality had never been kind to people like Hawke. Hawke especially. 

In her own fucking home.

Andraste’s ass.

[foxtophat]

2021 WIPs

so for 2021 i’m hoping to finish some of my older wips and put them up. this is unlikely to happen as every single wip i decided to work on in the last 6 days has been a fucking multi-chaptered monster, but if i can get even one of these finished by december i will feel pretty good!!!  so for your perusal (lmk if you want to know more)...

[Fallout New Vegas] Untitled Benny/Arcade Fic – Arcade gets manhandled by some big flying bastards, only to wind up safe in the embrace of The Fuckhead Who Shot Me, one Benny Gecko.  Whether or not he realizes he’s dabbling with his friend’s murderer or not, Arcade is hard pressed to ignore a hot piece of savior ass. (created 2017) – Comes with a sequel that wouldn’t be counted towards the ‘21 WIP, about Benny becoming a man about town, to Arcade’s massive confusion.

[Dragon Age: Inquisition] Meadowlark (Dorian/Varric + Anders!Redemption) – Dorian and Varric are sent out to find a mysterious healer in the Hinterlands. Turns out the mysterious healer is none other than Anders, who has been trying to make up for his massive fuck-up.  Varric is clearly unhappy about bringing Anders into the fold, but as the Red Templars approach, he might not have much of a choice in the matter! (created 2017) – Definitely bound to be the longest WIP, but also it’s the only one that has a (mostly) fleshed out plot.  Unfortunately, this one requires me playing through fucking Inquisition again :|

[Dragon Age Modern!AU] Untitled Dorian/Blackwall Fic in a Thedas with 5G Internet – Dorian abandons the life he knew in Tevinter in favor for one of freedom in Fereldan.  His depression gets to him, but thankfully he is surrounded by decent people who are also just trying to live free. From the mage-right’s-activist living next door with his two cats to the mysterious, gruff older man living across the hall, Dorian finds himself distracted further and further away from the troubles that brought him here in the first place. (created 2017) – HAAHA wow I can tell this was me writing about my own shitty living situation. Hindsight right?? anyway this one doesn’t have a plot so much as a bunch of loosely-connected stories, but I have a lot of fun with it.  Anders has a crush on Hawke, Dorian is playing the field, and Solas is just an obnoxious elf who RPs as eleven gods online

[Far Cry New Dawn: Mercyverse] Confrontations, Birthday Party, & Trailer Town Stories – John has his first run in with Eden’s Gate; Carmina has her 10th birthday; and the boys in the trailer park all have a lot of opinions on John. – OK this isn’t so much a WIP as a promise that I’m still working on Mercyverse.  I have the first draft of the next part ready (Confrontations should be out by the end of January?), and I’ll try to sprinkle the other stuff in over the next couple months.  I’m gonna AIM to have Carmina’s birthday come out around when it would happen (early/mid autumn) but who knows I might get excited.  John and Carmina get to talk okay!!! it’s going to be hard to write!!!!

[johaerys-writes]

I’m prompting you with this entire Emily Dickinson poem for Tristan and Dorian. :) Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!

Thanks so much for this prompt, babe! For @dadrunkwriting :)

The sounds of music, conversation and the clinking of cups as they met in merry toasts drifted through the tavern. The upper floor of the Herald’s rest had been entirely reserved for the Inquisitor and his inner circle to celebrate his triumphant return from the Emerald Graves. The Inner Circle was there. The Inquisitor wasn’t. 

Sitting by the low table, Dorian took a generous sip of his wine and winced. Whatever passed for wine in this part of the world was nobody’s business. He took another sip, just for good measure, and winced again. He was wondering whether drinking enough of the stuff would temporarily make him forget his sense of taste, when he was startled by a hand clapping him hard on the shoulder. 

“Why’re you wrinkling that nose of yours?” Sera said, plopping on the chair next to him. She leaned forward, sniffing the contents of his cup, then proceeding to make a disgusted grimace. “Did something die in there?”

“I think so, yes.” He swirled the wine in the cup a few times, then placed it on the table. “It appears you have a keen nose for wine.”

“Never liked the stuff. Ale’s better.”

“Ah.” He stayed silent, eyes drifting towards the door. What in the Void was taking Trevelyan so long?

“Oi.” Sera’s face, when it blocked his vision, wore a curious, perplexed frown. “What’s with the puppy eyes?”

Dorian huffed, folding his arms before his chest. “Sera, I’ve told you time and time again. These are no puppy eyes. This is what it looks like when people think. You should try it sometime.”

She blinked, leaning closer. A toothy grin widened her lips. “Miss your boyfriend?”

“My b- would you stop it with all the questions?” he hissed, swatting her away. “Preposterous. Wherever you get those ideas, I’ll never know. Now , if you’ll excuse me, I must-“

He was ready to stand up and go to the bar and demand a decent drink, when the door swung open, and the cheers that rose from the people gathered in the tavern were nigh on deafening. 

Dorian’s breath hitched as he watched Trevelyan make his way through the tables downstairs, giving reserved nods and half smiles to the people holding their cups up, shouting greetings and praises as he passed. 

He hopped up the steps to the upper level two at a time, his pale blonde waves bouncing before his face with his movements. His cheeks were flushed when he reached the stair landing and glanced about him. His eyes met Dorian’s, and he smiled. A warm, slow spreading smile. Dorian gulped. 

“There he is! The man of the hour,” Bull said, standing up. “Good to see you, Boss.”

“Likewise.” Trevelyan took the cup that was offered to him, glancing at Dorian over its rim as he drank. He sauntered over to the seat next to him, snaking a hand around his waist as he sat. “Did I miss anything?”

Dorian blinked at him. “Have you been drinking?”

“Had a meeting with some nobles from Orlais. There was wine.” He sipped some more of whatever swill Bull had given him, wincing as he swallowed. “But this is better.” He leaned closer, sighing as he nuzzled Dorian’s ear. “You smell good.” 

Dorian’s skin prickled with his touch, a shiver running down his spine. He noticed a few eyes straying to their direction and he cleared his throat, reluctantly edging back to look at him. Trevelyan’s eyes glinted oddly in the light from the torches, the lingering scent of fruity wine on his breath. Dorian swallowed thickly, trying to keep his voice level. “Thank you. So do you.”

Trevelyan smiled cheekily at him as he took another draught from his cup, fingers skimming the small of Dorian’s back before he stood up again to speak with Leliana. That dratted tease of a man. 

Sip after sip, cup after cup, and soon everyone in that room was floating along different levels of inebriation. Josephine was clapping excitedly as Bull and Krem were perched atop a table, singing a bawdy tavern song, while Varric and Cullen had stopped their game of Wicked Grace to join them. 

Bull and Krem’s song drew to a close amongst thunderous claps and jeers. Bull’s laughter was loud and booming echoed when he stepped down, slinging an enormous arm over Trevelyan’s shoulder. “Who wants to hear a word from the Inquisitor?” 

Everyone stomped their feet, laughing and cheering. Bull nudged Trevelyan towards the table, who brought no resistance -for once in his life. He was swaying slightly on his feet when he stood upon the table and cleared his throat.

“Shit,” Sera whispered in Dorian’s ear. “Is he going to sing? That oughta be good.” 

“No.” Dorian’s smile was hidden behind the rim of his mug. “No, he won’t.” 

Sera looked at him questioningly, but before she could say anything else, Trevelyan’s voice cut through the silence that had spread over the company. 

“I would to heaven that I were so much clay, As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling- Because at least the past were passed away- And for the future- (but I recite this reeling, Having got drunk exceedingly today, So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) I say- the future is a serious matter- And so - for the Maker’s sake- whisky and ice cold water!” 

More cheers, claps, and the sound of mugs banging against the table erupted from the crowd as Trevelyan bowed dramatically and hopped off the table, landing on his feet like a cat, staggering only a hair. He made as if to return to his chair next to Dorian, when Varric shouted “More! More!” 

Trevelyan shook his head, laughing, but more and more took up the chant. He turned to look at Dorian, who was watching him carefully, silently. Waiting. A playful smirk curled the edges of his lips as he covered the distance between them, falling on one knee before him. 

“Wild Nights,” Trevelyan started, and silence fell in the room once again, “Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be our luxury. Futile - the winds - To a heart in port - Done with the compass - Done with chart! Rowing in Eden - Ah, the sea! Might I moor - Tonight… in thee.” The scoundrel had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows at him. 

Dorian’s heart beat madly against his ribcage, making his head swim. He could feel all eyes on them, waiting for his reaction. Trevelyan was watching him, too, that tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth more pronounced than ever. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him so… jovial. So carefree. He let his eyes glide over Trevelyan’s features, and so rosy was the flush in cheeks, so wide his smile, so bright the glint in his dark blue eyes, that suddenly Dorian couldn’t care less who was to see. 

He reached out, gently cupping Trevelyan’s cheek. His lover’s gaze softened as he leaned into his touch, brushing his lips over his palm. Lips soft like flower petals, the tiny bristles of day old stubble caressing his skin. His beautiful, drunk, exquisite man. 

Without a word, Trevelyan stood up, pulling Dorian into his arms. The raucous of cheers and applause around them was deafening when Trevelyan’s lips closed over his, arms wrapping around his waist. He tasted of wine and that terrible swill Bull had given him, and Dorian lapped at it eagerly, uncovering the sweet, earthy taste of him. 

He was dangerously short of breath when Trevelyan drew back to look at him, thumb brushing his cheek. “So… is that a yes on the mooring thing?” 

Dorian laughed against his lips, pulling him flush against him, oblivious to everyone and everything that wasn’t them. “Festis bei umo canavarum.“ 

*********************

Poem 1: I would to heaven that I were so much clay - Lord Byron (changed only slightly to fit the scene!)

Poem 2: Wild Nights - Wild Nights! - Emily Dickinson

[rileymcdaniels]

Dear Winter, I hope you like your name.

@magicaltalents

“I promised Felicity that I would go with her and Sam today. Is that okay?” Eden nearly hops with excitement as she walks next to her papa, grinning up at him.

It’s the Harvest Festival, which is her favorite time of year and not just because her birthday was last week. Their town’s main thoroughfare is lined with vendors selling everything from apple candy and autumn beer to fine woolen clothing for the winter. There are entertainers of all kinds playing music and telling stories.

“Sure,” Papa says. “Here.”

Eden holds her hand out, surprised when two gold pieces are dropped into her palm. She beams. “Thank you!” she chirps, putting the money in her pocket for safekeeping.

“Don’t tell your mother,” he warns, but he’s smiling.

Eden giggles as Mama catches up to them, Eden’s little brother at her heels. Her brother is five and has recently decided to become very annoying, so she ignores him. Eden much prefers Alara, who is six months old and asleep in Mama’s arms. Eden goes up onto her tiptoes to peer at Alara’s face and kiss her round baby cheeks.

“Wait before you run off,” Mama says as she passes Alara to Papa, who cradles her with his arm.

Mama refastens Eden’s cloak as Eden stands still, impatient with excitement but obedient. “There,” Mama says as she looks Eden over. “I know you were disappointed we wouldn’t be able to stay as long as usual.”

“Alara’s too little,” Eden says, shrugging like she has never been bothered by anything in her life. “I don’t care.”

Mama smiles. “Your papa and I decided you’re old enough to stay a little longer. Be home before supper, alright?”

Eden bounces, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, waving at her parents as she dashes off. Felicity and Samantha, twins with bright red hair, are easy enough to find, and together, the girls go off to enjoy the festival.

They split the cost of one of Miss Turner’s famously sized pumpkin pastries and eat it sitting on a bench near the blacksmith. With the rest of their money, Sam and Felicity buy real silk ribbons so the dresses they wear to the Chantry each week will not be so boring.

Eden does not need ribbons. She has never attended Chantry services in her life. And after last week, she isn’t even curious anymore. Eden’s palms itch as she thinks about watching her brother tumble out of a tree and the crackling energy that exploded from her hands to form a protective bubble around him so he hit the ground without a scratch on him.

Once the twins tuck their new ribbons into their pockets, Eden buys apple candy and hot apple cider for all three of them. She puts the handful of silver pieces she has left back into her pocket with her apple candy. Sam leads the way to a bard with the largest audience.

The bard is a stout human woman whose glorious textured curls fall down to her waist, and the bard begins a story just as they walk up.

Eden hears the story of the Inquisition and of Corypheus and of an end of the world that never came to pass that afternoon. It’s not the first time she has heard the story. She doesn’t remember the first time she heard it. She knows most of the names.

Seeker Cassandra is her Aunt Cassandra, who taught her to throw a punch when she was six. Magister Pavus is Uncle Dorian, and Eden makes a face to hear someone talk about him so seriously because Uncle Dorian is absolutely ridiculous. Eden has never deigned to call Uncle Bull The Iron Bull in her life. Her parents still do not know about the copy of The Viper’s Nest by Uncle Varric that she keeps under her pillow, and if her brother knows what’s good for him, they never will.

The archer with deadly aim – although the bard seems to knows more about the archer’s love for the Herald than anything else – is her mama.

And to her, the Lord Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, is just her papa.

But – the bard’s telling is not the story she knows. Her mouth tightens as she looks around and watches people’s faces. When the story is over, Felicity and Sam chatter excitedly, but Eden follows a step or two behind, head heavy with questions.

“Are you okay?”

Sam and Felicity are looking at her with concern.

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. Um. I think I’m going to go home. I promised my mama I wouldn’t stay too late.”

The twins nod and say goodbye as Eden takes the path away from town towards her house. It’s not far, only a few minutes, but it’s not even close to suppertime, so she takes it slow.

The story she just heard is a lot bigger than the one she’s heard before. Maybe she used to just be too little to understand it. It’s not like she thinks about it everyday. And Corypheus had been dead for ages by the time she was born.

The world had almost been destroyed. She almost was never born. But she was. She’s eleven years old. Just this morning, Papa had asked her, in a long-suffering tone, to be a little kinder to her brother. Mama nagged her about picking up her books yesterday.

They saved the world.

And then, as the house comes into view, it occurs to her that Papa is more powerful than empresses and kings. Or he was. And the bard said Papa deliberately left all of that for a quieter life. It didn’t end naturally like Mama used to say. It occurs to her that Papa and Mama would have known that they were having her when Papa left the Inquisition.

Papa had been greater than an emperor or king or Archon, but he and Mama came here, to their little house and farm, a few months before she was born. She hesitates before opening the front door. Papa didn’t have to do that. Lots of important people have kids but stay important. But unlike those kids, Papa is there to ruffle her hair and remind her to be nice to her brother and kiss Mama everyday.

“I’m home!” Eden calls out as she opens the door and hangs up her cloak, kicking her shoes off. She only just remembers to nudge them out of the walkway before going further into the house.

Mama comes down the stairs, smiling. “Hey, little love. You’re back early. Everything okay?”

Eden nods and looks down at her stocking feet to avoid seeing the skepticism in Mama’s eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. Felicity and Sam were bickering and I didn’t want to listen to them,” she lies. She swallows around the lump in her throat, and she pops up onto her toes to kiss Mama’s cheek. “Where’s Papa?”

“Getting Alara to sleep,” Mama says. “He’s going to start supper soon.” Mama pauses and looks at her. “I love you, Eden. I am so proud to be your mother.”

Tears threaten Eden’s composure, so she just nods. Mama always seems to know what she means even when she can’t say it, so she probably understands.

Eden goes up the stairs to her parents’ bedroom and peeks in. Papa is looking at Alara in her crib with soft eyes, and Eden taps lightly on the door to get his attention.

He looks up and smiles when he sees her. “Hey. Did you have fun today?”

Tears burn at her eyes again, but she nods. “It was good.” There are more words she wants to say, other words, but they get all tangled in her mouth. And she’s shy all of a sudden. She hesitates at the door.

Her papa saved the whole world. He was more important than the empress of Orlais. And now, instead of being the most important person in the world, he’s leaning down to kiss Alara’s forehead as she sleeps.

Eden crosses the room to him, and he rests his arm around her shoulders when she wraps her arms tightly around his waist. She presses her face against his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“I love you, Papa,” she says, mouth pressed against his shirt’s fabric. A couple of tears slip out. “I’m so glad you’re my papa.”

[intoxicatiing]

WHAT HOZIER SONG REPRESENTS HOW YOU LOVE?

From Eden

Love for you is about comfort and familiarity. Love is that feeling of coming home. It’s about always finding a way back to each other no matter what, because your love is stronger than what can keep you apart. “I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door” fits this so perfectly. Overcoming anything that has separated you, but also there’s something so gentle and true about waiting at your lover’s doorstep. It’s a pure connection of patience and belonging. You have belonged together since the beginning of time, and you feel that in your chest when you see them. There’s a magical eternity there between your souls.

tagged by: @brycecousland​t

tagging: @longmayshereignxcersei​ @sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins​ (varric and sera?) @intothewildsea​ @paramounticebound​ @pcrseverance​ and @ you!

[cruelangelstheses]

something lonesome

fandom: dragon age rating: G characters: fenris/m!hawke, original child character, anders words: 3k additional tags: canon compliant, kid fic, some implied past violence description: when fenris finds an orphaned elven child in the kirkwall alienage, all he knows is that he has to help her somehow. a/n: hello everyone!! i wrote this fic for the @fenriszine and now that the orders have been shipped out i can finally post it!! :D i’m thinking about writing more fics in this ‘verse as well :0 title is from “from eden” by hozier

read it on ao3

—

The alienage is so busy, Fenris almost doesn’t hear the cries—almost.

It’s not rare to hear an infant wailing, but this is different. It’s plaintive, almost mournful, the howl of someone crushed under the weight of a terrible loss. Intrigued, Fenris stops in his tracks and listens closely, furrowing his brow. Some elves bump into him or brush past him, shaking their heads or muttering something under their breath. After a few seconds of standing in the middle of the street like a fool, he hears it again: tiny, high-pitched sobs.

Fenris had planned on just dropping off the food for Merrill and then leaving the alienage before he could get roped into anything. Too late for that now, it seems.

Turning his head to the side, he quickly pinpoints the probable source of the sound: an alleyway partially hidden by barrels and the shadows of buildings. When he takes a few steps forward, his suspicions are confirmed—the cries get louder the closer he gets.

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything in the alley. Fenris peers behind one of the barrels, and there he spots the perpetrator, huddled in the dirt and the darkness: an elven child, probably no older than four, curled up in the fetal position.

The child must have heard his footsteps, or otherwise sensed his presence, because she lifts her head up abruptly, revealing a reddened and tear-streaked face. Her skin is only a shade or two lighter than his, and her pointed ears protrude from underneath a mess of long, tangled black hair. Upon seeing Fenris towering over her, the girl gasps, her bright green eyes widening in fear.

Fenris isn’t quite sure what to do, so he holds his hands up in a universal gesture of surrender. “Hold on,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The girl sniffles and wipes at her eyes, her lip trembling. She doesn’t seem all that convinced.

Fenris kneels down in front of her. “What happened?” he asks softly, trying his best to adopt a less threatening demeanor, a difficult task when he looks quite...well, threatening.

Unexpectedly, the girl stands up and points toward the alienage, her expression suddenly solemn. Without a word, she steps out into the street, gesturing for him to follow her. Fenris raises a confused eyebrow and rises to his feet.

The girl scurries halfway across the alienage, darting in between groups of elves and ducking underneath their hands. Fenris, being much larger than her, almost crashes into a few of them in his effort to keep track of her. Finally he finds her standing in front of a little home similar to Merrill’s, only Merrill’s front door has never been knocked off its hinges (as far as he knows). It lies broken against the wall, a signifier to all who enter that the rest of the place will probably be in a similar state.

“Is this your house?” Fenris asks the girl. She nods.

When he steps into the main room, he catches the distinct scent of corpses and burnt flesh. He doesn’t even need to see the bodies to get an idea of what may have happened—one glance at the broken furniture, bloodstains, charred wood, and half-frozen weapons is enough.

The first body he finds is that of a templar, badly burned, lying near the entrance to the back room. Fenris already knows what he’ll find on the other side, but he forces himself to take a look.

The smell of death is worse in this room, where pools of blood surround two dead elves on the floor. Though neither wear mage robes, the woman holds a staff in her hand; the man seems to have fought with daggers.

“They came for Mama.”

Fenris jumps at the sound of the voice and spins around to see the young girl standing in front of him, speaking to him for the first time. “They wanted to...to take her away,” she continues. “She didn’t want to. And Papa didn’t want her to. And things got scary. So I ran.”

“I...I see,” Fenris says slowly. Templars sometimes take children of mages away, to be raised by the Chantry—perhaps they never found her after she fled the house. “And you have no other family that could take you in?”

The girl shakes her head.

It doesn’t take long for Fenris to come to a decision. He can’t just leave her here. With an awkward half-smile, an attempt at comfort, he says, “Well, I suppose you will just have to come with me for the moment.”

The girl narrows her eyes in confusion. “Huh?”

“I can help you find somewhere to stay,” he explains. “Will that be alright?”

Some part of his mind wonders if it’s silly to negotiate with a child. He hasn’t had much experience with them; he wouldn’t know. But the way the girl looks at him—with trust and possibly even respect—makes him think that it isn’t, or it shouldn’t be.

“Yes,” the girl says finally. “Thank you, messere.”

For a moment, Fenris wonders if he heard her correctly. Messere—the title one uses when speaking to someone of greater social status in the Free Marches. It’s a title he never expected anyone to be able to use for him, not even a four-year-old. Clearly her parents taught her to be polite. Caught off guard, he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I—yes, well—you’re welcome. But, ah, feel free to call me Fenris instead.”

“Okay,” the girl says. “Um...I’m Lyra.”

“Lyra,” Fenris repeats. He likes the way it feels on his tongue. “Well, then, Lyra. Let’s find a place for you, shall we?”

—

“Finding a place” for Lyra turns out to be a much more difficult task than Fenris expected. The Kirkwall Chantry isn’t willing to take in the elven daughter of a mage, so he couldn’t give her to them even if he wanted to. The elves in the alienage are already struggling under the weight of poverty, so none of them can afford another mouth to feed, and none of the other humans want an elven child.

Lyra, for her part, doesn’t seem to want human parents, either. Already naturally shy and skittish, she shrinks in fear whenever Fenris tries to introduce her to a human acquaintance, even Hawke, who has always been popular with children. Hawke offers to take her in—says the estate feels too big and empty without his mother in it—but when Fenris mentions this to Lyra, she simply shakes her head furiously. It doesn’t matter that two dwarves and an elven servant also live there; all that matters is that there is a human.

That just leaves Varric and Merrill, and Varric respectfully declines. “The Hanged Man is no place for a child,” he says, and Fenris is inclined to agree. Merrill offers, but she can barely take care of herself at the moment, so focused on her mirror that she forgets to eat—that’s the whole reason Fenris was even in the alienage that day. It very rapidly becomes clear that Lyra will probably have to stay at his place for a little while, a prospect that alarms him far more than it should for reasons he can’t quite describe.

It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the mansion; it’s as good as anywhere else, and he likes the idea of destroying things that Danarius considers “his,” of letting a symbol of depravity crumble around him. Still, he feels the need to warn Lyra about its deterioration so that she isn’t surprised by the stark contrast between it and the surrounding mansions.

Lyra, however, is in awe of the place, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the double staircases, the statues, the high ceiling. As he leads her up the stairs, she asks timidly, “How come you don’t live in the alienage?”

“It’s a long story,” Fenris replies. “Let’s just say I got lucky.”

The irony of that phrase isn’t lost on him. Having been a slave isn’t exactly something to be envious of.

—

Days turn into weeks with Lyra living in Fenris’s mansion. He doesn’t mind, necessarily, and he has enough coin to feed them both, but Aveline is getting antsy. It’s been hard enough for her to hide an elven adult squatting in a deteriorating Hightown manor; adding a child to the mix has only made the neighbors more suspicious. No one has contacted her about actually taking Lyra, though, even temporarily, so there’s nowhere else for the poor kid to go.

Besides, Fenris realizes that he actually rather likes her. She’s quick and clever, but he soon discovers that she can also be playful once she gets comfortable. Sometimes she asks him to tell her a story, only for her to argue with him the whole way through. Occasionally, he’ll find her trying to lift one of his weapons or playing with kitchen knives. She’ll sneak up on him to startle him or climb onto his back while he’s sitting and demand a piggyback ride—but she also listens when he speaks seriously and comes to him when she gets upset.

Fenris can’t watch her all the time, obviously, since Hawke is always bringing him on some sketchy mission or another, but that’s where Bodahn comes in. Lyra takes to him and Sandal immediately, and she seems to see Orana as almost an older sister figure. When he and Hawke return, though, she shrinks behind one of them at the sight of a human, a pitiful transformation from vibrant and animated to the terrified girl she was when Fenris found her.

Eventually she does warm up to Hawke, who still insists on visiting the mansion for reading lessons, but it takes some time. At first, she just sits on the other side of the room, watching them carefully without a word. It isn’t until Hawke’s third visit that she actually speaks to him, asking questions and making comments. Hawke, of course, takes it all in stride, and slowly but surely, Lyra starts to look at him not with fear but with awe.

After close to three years, the sessions aren’t so much “lessons” as “Fenris reading books to Hawke and occasionally stumbling over a word or two.” Fenris constantly reminds him that he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but still Hawke visits once a week, a grin on his face and a book in hand. “He’s just using it as an excuse to visit you,” Isabela said about it once, smirking, but Fenris didn’t quite believe it. He still doesn’t.

It’s during one of these sessions that Fenris notices something different about Lyra. She seems more subdued than usual—at this point, she’s gotten comfortable enough to make comments about the story they’re reading from underneath the desk, where she likes to sit and listen (while playing with Fenris’s toes). Today, though, she doesn’t say much of anything, not even at a major plot twist that nearly makes Fenris toss the novel across the room. He tries to engage her by asking what she thinks, but the most he gets out of her is a noncommittal grunt or a one-word answer.

At first, he figures she’s probably just grumpy. After Hawke leaves, though, Fenris hears her coughing.

“Lyra?” he says, peering underneath the desk. He finds her lying on the ground, cheeks flushed, breathing labored, forehead beading with sweat. At the sound of his voice, she gazes up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Fenris tries not to immediately launch into a panic. “Lyra, how long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since...yesterday,” she says weakly. “Got worse...today.”

Fenris groans and runs a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself. He noticed that she seemed drowsier than usual this morning, but other than that, she showed no outward signs of sickness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want...to worry you,” Lyra says, closing her eyes and coughing again.

Fenris’s mind races, and the solution comes to him almost instantly. Breathing deeply and trying to sound calm, he says, “Listen. I’m going to take you to a human in Darktown. He is good at what he does. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Lyra doesn’t protest. When he picks her up, her head lies limp on his shoulder.

—

The sun is almost below the horizon by the time Fenris reaches the clinic and shoves the door open.

Anders is the only one there, in the process of cleaning a bloody cot when he looks up and registers Fenris’s presence. “What—?” he starts, narrowing his eyes in confusion, before his gaze drops to the now-unconscious child in Fenris’s arms. “Oh, no.”

“Do something,” Fenris says, almost pleading.

Anders doesn’t hesitate. Gesturing to a clean cot nearby, he says, “Lay her down over there.”

Fenris spends most of his time in the clinic pacing back and forth, agitated, his focus always on Anders and Lyra. He should have noticed sooner. He should have paid closer attention to her. He should have made sure she knew to come to him. He should have—

“Fenris.” Anders’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts. Fenris glances over at him, at the way his hands glow with bright blue light as they hover over Lyra. Without looking up from her, Anders says, “She’ll be alright.”

Automatically, Fenris breathes a sigh of relief and sits down on the next cot over, watching them. “It’s a pretty common illness,” Anders continues. “Children just aren’t as resistant to it because their bodies haven’t built up immunity yet. She’ll have to stay here overnight so I can keep an eye on her, but after that she should be fine.”

Fenris nods slowly. He’ll admit, Lyra already looks a bit better. “I...thank you,” he says, somewhat awkwardly.

“It’s nothing.”

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then Anders finally looks up at him with the faintest smile and says, not unkindly, “You’ve gotten quite attached to her, haven’t you?”

That catches Fenris off-guard. He opens his mouth to deny it, but he can’t come up with any plausible excuse. It’s only been about a month and a half, but in that time he’s come to enjoy Lyra’s presence in his life. He hates to think of anything bad happening to her, and he’ll be sad to see her go with another family.

“I...suppose,” he mutters, but now that someone has actually said it, it can’t be ignored. He has gotten attached. It’s almost pathetic.

—

About two weeks later, Fenris learns that Varania is in Kirkwall.

When he returns from the Hanged Man that fateful day, Lyra bombards him with questions. “How did it go? What did she look like? Was she nice? What did you talk about? Am I gonna get to meet her?”

Fenris only answers the last one. “No,” he says brusquely as he opens the door to the mansion. “You will not get to meet her.”

Lyra frowns. “Why not?”

Fenris sighs. “Because sometimes there is a difference between being linked by blood and being family.”

He says it offhandedly, a statement filled with bitterness and loneliness, but as the words leave his mouth, he glances down at the child he’s been caring for and realizes that perhaps it’s true in more ways than one.

—

The next day, things start to fall into place.

Danarius is dead. He is free to do whatever he wishes. More importantly, though, Hawke is still there. Hawke wants to be there. As they talk, Fenris wonders if perhaps Isabela was on to something. He’s never felt such longing in his life, never allowed himself to—but Hawke has proven to be an exception more times than Fenris can count.

When they finally, finally kiss, Fenris feels his chest brim with something akin to hope. He can still have a future. He can still have a family.

As if on cue, Lyra waltzes into the room about four seconds later. “Ewww!” she groans, sticking her tongue out and immediately walking away. “I knew it! I knew you were like Mama and Papa! I knew it!”

Hawke and Fenris separate almost instantly. Fenris can feel his cheeks heating up. Hawke mutters, “How much tension must we have had, for even a four-year-old to figure it out?”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Fenris replies. “She is quite clever.”

Hawke nods and scratches his beard in thought. “You know, speaking of the future,” he says slowly, “what are you planning to do about her?”

Fenris pauses before finally speaking the ludicrous idea that’s been bouncing around in his head. “I’ve...been considering...keeping her. Raising her.”

He waits for Hawke to call him crazy, but it never happens. Instead, Hawke grins and says, “Two can play at that game.”

Fenris just smiles and kisses him again.

—

It happens a week later, at the estate.

One minute, Lyra is running around the house with Sandal. The next, she’s sobbing on the floor, despite not being visibly injured. Fenris and Hawke both rush over to her and kneel down to see her better. Sniffling, she says, “I can tell you anything, right?”

“Of course,” Fenris replies immediately.

“Okay,” Lyra says, wiping at her eyes. “I was...just playing with Sandal, but then…”

She holds her palms out. Almost immediately, a tiny flame starts to form at her fingertips. Fenris thinks back to Lyra’s mother, dead on the floor with a staff in hand.

Lyra buries her head into Fenris’s shoulder. “Don’t let them take me,” she pleads.

Hawke and Fenris exchange glances, but if he’s being completely honest with himself, there was never any doubt. Hawke is a strong mage, a skilled mage, raised by an apostate. If anyone can teach Lyra to control her powers, it’s him.

“We won’t,” Fenris says softly, pulling her into an embrace. “They will not take you from us. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

[veorlian]

So when he said—

“I need you to be my date.”

—she heard—

“I need a plus one and you’re the only one I can ask.”

—when what he really said was—

“I want you to go to this wedding as my girlfriend.”

i am once again thinking about the road, the hidden truth, & you by @mrs-theirin and crying so