#hanin lavellan

[telanadasvhenan]

im quite unhinged for knight enchanter Lavellan and solas, bc to me they parallel the Emerald knights & their wolves. This is very red strings territory here but,

"Wolf and elf would fight together, eat together, and when the knights slept, wolves would guard them." sounds a little reminiscent of, "Lavellan sometimes came awake from dreams in which her lover watched her sadly from across an endless distance." i need to lie down

[too-many-lavellans]

To the best of siblings and friends, Happy Birthday to @demi-pixellated!🍰☕

[attanos]

ithalia - first of clan lavellan

you have always been a leader, da'len, even if i had wished otherwise at times. do not doubt yourself, the shemlen will do that enough for you, and do not let them take who you are. sulevin ghilana hanin.

[sashthesloth]

Another 4 artfight attacks. This time featuring some neat dragon age characters I found using tag search.

1. Symphony ( @magebomb )

2. Khar’rel ( @pierroticism)

3. Fin ‘Moustache’ Hawke ( @sadmages )

4. Hanin Lavellan (@/c1ove on artfight)

[vir-tanadahl]

Summary: AU. After Felassan fails to secure the eluvian password, Solas summons him to Haven to assist in addressing the rising threat of Corypheus. When the situation takes a dire turn, Felassan accompanies Solas in joining the Inquisition. It isn’t long before Felassan recognizes that Marel Lavellan holds the key to saving this world—and possibly to altering Solas’s own plans. Find on Ao3!

Chapter 11: No Place fro the Dalish

The following day, Marel, Cole, Solas, and Felassan stood before the weathered stone entrance of Din’an Hanin, deep within the Emerald Graves. The overgrown path to the ruin was flanked by towering trees, their branches weaving a shadowed canopy. Wolf statues—Guardians of the Knights—emerged from the underbrush, half-buried by ivy and moss.

Above the archway, faded Dalish script whispered stories lost to time, much like the Emerald Knights themselves. The air was heavy with a quiet ache for something once great. Marel stepped forward, her fingertips brushing the cool, rough surface of the stone. A quiet breath escaped her, as if the touch alone tethered her to the past.

Behind her, Solas lingered, his sharp gaze scanning the ruin with a mix of scholarly interest and unspoken longing. Felassan, ever the contrast, whistled softly, his eyes roaming the structure with casual curiosity.

Their guide, a young Dalish scout sent reluctantly by his clan, stood stiffly nearby. He had surprised them that morning, waiting silently at their camp and offering his assistance—though with a promise to leave once their task was done. “This is a sacred place,” the scout said curtly, breaking the silence. “Do what you must, but tread lightly.”

Inside, the ruin swallowed them in solemn quiet. Their torches cast flickering light over crumbling walls, illuminating faded murals of Emerald Knights standing tall and defiant, loyal wolf companions by their sides. The scenes whispered of ancient glories—unity, courage against human armies—but time had dimmed their vibrancy. The floor was littered with broken altars and shattered statues, fragments of an elven past left to decay.

As they ventured deeper, the air grew denser, the weight of history pressing against them. In the heart of the ruin, they found it: a jeweled dagger resting on a pedestal, its blade faintly glinting in the torchlight. A delicate ring of wilted daisies encircled it, their faded petals a quiet symbol of mourning.

Around it lay a delicate ring of wilted daisies, their faded petals a symbol of mourning. "The daisies whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ but no one was there to hear them,” Cole’s voice said softy.

Marel’s breath hitched as she approached, drawn to the artifact’s undeniable presence. Her gaze lingered on its intricate design—the hilt carved with wolves intertwined in graceful arcs, and elven script along the blade that glimmered as though defying time: “For the people we serve, for the land we protect.”

No one spoke. The relic held their collective gaze, a tangible fragment of history that reverberated with loss and devotion.

Marel’s torchlight caught on a shadowed alcove, the flickering glow revealing a small chest half-buried beneath a fallen slab. Her breath quickened as she knelt, brushing aside debris with trembling fingers. Dust clung to her hands as she uncovered a silk-wrapped scroll. The fabric was fragile, its once-vibrant patterns faded to muted hues, and the brittle parchment crinkled faintly as she unrolled it.

Felassan approached, his usual levity absent as he leaned closer. “Well? What is it?” he asked, his tone quieter than usual, tinged with curiosity but tempered by caution.

Marel steadied her voice, though her chest felt tight. “An account… Red Crossing.”

The name alone was enough to make her pause. She had heard whispers of it before—a tragedy steeped in Dalish history. She glanced at Felassan, whose expression shifted, the lightness in his eyes replaced by something more guarded. Solas lingered nearby, his gaze sharp, as though bracing for the story to unfold.

As her voice filled the ruin, the words on the scroll wavered in the torchlight, fragile but heavy with the weight of the past. The tale of Elandrin and Adalene unfolded—a story of love, betrayal, and a miscommunication that spiraled into bloodshed. Her voice faltered as she reached the climax, trembling with emotion as the account detailed the final, tragic misunderstanding.

Her throat tightened. ‘Fear. It’s always fear.’

“They were scared,” Cole murmured softly, his presence almost ethereal in the dim light. His pale gaze lingered on the scroll as if he could see the emotions still clinging to its surface. “Scared of losing. Scared of trusting. Fear is loud—it drowns out love if you let it.”

The simplicity of his words struck a chord deep within Marel, reverberating against her own buried doubts. Her gaze flicked to the others—Felassan’s playful demeanor replaced by quiet thoughtfulness, Solas’s expression unreadable as his eyes turned distant. Even Cole’s usual curiosity seemed dimmed by the sorrow that clung to the air.

Marel’s voice cracked as she broke the stillness, her grip on the scroll tightening. “This… all of this… it didn’t have to happen. If they had just… talked, listened to one another… none of this would have happened.”

Later, outside the ruins, Marel sat at the base of a massive tree, its ancient roots twisting around her like silent witnesses. The scroll trembled in her hands, its fragile weight a mirror to the heaviness coiled in her chest. She stared into the middle distance, her thoughts circling the same relentless truths—history’s cruel repetitions, wounds left to fester by silence, misunderstanding, and fear.

‘Red Crossing. The Exalted March. The Fall of the Dales.’ The names rang in her mind like accusations, sharp and unforgiving. ‘It didn’t have to happen. Any of it.’ Her fingers tightened around the scroll, the parchment crackling faintly under the pressure. ‘All of it—because of one mistake. One misunderstanding.’ The thought gnawed at her, relentless. Her people had lost so much—again—to the same patterns of fear and distrust.

As Marel’s gaze drifted upward to the shifting canopy above, an idea settled into place—quiet but resolute. It felt inevitable, like the first light of dawn piercing through the shadows of the forest. The Dalish and the villagers of Red Crossing had carried the weight of a tragedy they didn’t fully understand, their grief fossilized into bitterness and suspicion. ‘Perhaps I can help loosen that burden.’ The thought filled her with a fragile hope, one she wasn’t sure she could afford to cling to.

A mourning halla. The sacred gesture of shared grief and unity might be enough—a symbol to bridge what had been broken. It wasn’t a solution, not entirely, but it was a start. Maybe a start is all they need.

The villagers might not understand the full significance of the halla, but the gesture would speak for itself. She hoped it would open a dialogue, bridging the gap between the Dalish and the villagers with a symbol of peace. Her pulse quickened at the thought, a mix of apprehension and determination swirling in her chest. If nothing else, they’ll know someone cared enough to try.

They were already heading in the direction of Red Crossing. Once they made camp for the night, Marel decided, she would rest briefly and then wake before dawn. She would visit the village, offer the mourning halla as a gesture of peace, and return to camp before her companions were likely to stir. They’ll never have to know.

The plan felt bold but necessary, a quiet defiance against the cycles of grief and hatred she’d read about in the ruins. Elandrin and Adalene. The Exalted March. The Fall of the Dales. The names and events rang in her mind like accusations, each one a reminder of the cost of silence, the wounds left to fester. She couldn’t stand by and let the story of Red Crossing remain another scar.

The next morning the sun hung low, its warm, golden rays steadily climbing over the horizon, stretching softly across the ground. By the time Marel reached Red Crossing, the landscape glowed with the gentle promise of a new day. Yet the light did little to ease the tension knotting in her chest. ‘What if this doesn’t work? What if it makes things worse?’ The doubts whispered, persistent and cruel, but she pushed them aside. 

As she approached the village, the reception was colder than she had feared. Villagers gathered in a loose, watchful circle, suspicion etched into every face. She could feel their eyes on her—sharp, unwelcoming, and heavy with the weight of their mistrust. Her stomach twisted, but she held her head high, forcing herself to step forward. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about them. About all of us.’

Her hands trembled as she unrolled the scroll, but her voice steadied as she began recounting the tragedy of Elandrin and Adalene. Each word felt heavier than the last, the sorrow of a story buried beneath centuries of silence pouring out into the morning air. Her voice wavered at times, but she pressed on, carrying the lessons of the past to the villagers before her. They need to hear this. Even if they don’t want to, they need to.

When she finished, she gestured to the halla standing patiently behind her. Its elegant form was a stark contrast to the tension radiating from the crowd.

“I offer this mourning halla as a sign of shared grief,” Marel said, her voice careful and sincere, though her heart pounded in her chest. “A reminder that even in tragedy, we are all connected.”

For a brief moment, she thought she saw something shift in their expressions—something softer, almost questioning. But the moment shattered as a man near the front stepped forward, his face twisting with anger. He spat at her feet, the act sharp and deliberate, cutting through her fragile hope like a blade.

“We don’t want your gifts, elf,” he growled, his voice thick with disdain. “Take your lies and your… your monster, and leave.”

Marel froze, the rejection hitting harder than she had expected. Her chest tightened as murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, each one a fresh sting. ‘They don’t want peace. They don’t want this. They don’t want me.’

Behind her, the halla shifted uneasily, sensing the tension in the air. Its movement pulled Marel back to the present, and she straightened her posture, forcing her expression to harden. She refused to let the bitterness in their voices see the hurt they caused. Without another word, she turned away, her steps measured but heavy as the weight of failure pressed down on her shoulders.

Without a word, Marel made her way back into the forest, leading the halla toward its herd. Its calm, patient presence was a stark contrast to the storm roiling within her, the silent judgment she had felt from the villagers still fresh in her mind. Only when she was alone did her composure falter. She let out a shaky whisper, her voice breaking under the weight of the moment. “Why won’t they listen? The truth is right there.”

The halla nickered softly, its gaze following her as she stepped away. Her vision blurred. At first, she barely noticed the sting in her eyes, the wetness streaking her cheeks.

The first tear broke free, trembling like a crack in ice. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold earth, her trembling hands pressing into the dirt as if it could somehow hold her together. But the earth didn’t answer, and neither did anyone else.

A choked sob tore from her throat, raw and guttural, unraveling her fragile composure. The tears came harder now, her breath hitching as the weight of everything she had been holding in crashed over her like a tidal wave. It was unstoppable, overwhelming.

She was alone.

Utterly, achingly alone, with the weight of everything she had tried to hold together crushing her. Alone in a role she had never asked for, bound to a human faith she didn’t believe in. A leader. A figurehead. A marked anomaly.

The magic on her hand burned faintly even now, a cruel reminder of its claim on her—a demand she still didn’t fully understand. She clenched her fist against the ache, but it only deepened, settling into her bones. It’s always there. Always waiting. Never letting me forget.

She was the only Dalish elf here. The only one who still wore her vallaslin. Once, they had felt like a mark of pride, a reminder of who she was and what her people had endured. But now? ‘Do they mark me as an elf—or as something other?’

The city-born elves avoided her, alienage-raised and far removed from the Dalish. At best, they treated her with distant curiosity; at worst, suspicion and derision. And the Dalish she had met since leaving her clan? Their stares cut deeper. 'Traitor. Dread Wolf’s servant.' The words echoed in her mind, sharp and unyielding wounds she couldn’t mend.

Her clan was far away now, across miles of wilderness and battlefields. ‘Would they take her back? Or had she lost them, too?’ The thought hollowed her out further. ‘Would they even recognize me anymore? Would I recognize them?’ She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she could bear finding out.

Her arms wrapped tightly around her trembling frame as her tears continued to fall. She hadn’t cried in months—not since the Conclave, not since everything unraveled. Not since her parents—don’t think of that. But the memory clawed its way forward anyway, unrelenting. Their faces. Still. Pale. Cold.

The day her world shattered, leaving her lost in an eternal silence.

The sobs came harder now, wracking her body, shaking her to her core. She pressed her forehead to the ground, her tears soaking into the earth like offerings to grief. She was that child again—kneeling between two lifeless bodies, crushed beneath the weight of everything she had lost. Trying to heal things beyond her understanding. She was that same child now, bearing the weight of a new world on her shoulders, with no one to share it with.

The halla had seen her. She had felt its quiet, knowing gaze, full of patience and calm. She had walked away from it, her head high, her steps steady. But here, away from its eyes, she couldn’t hold herself together any longer.

She was alone. Truly, utterly alone. And for the first time in months, she let herself feel it.

The sobs eventually subsided, leaving Marel drained and hollow. She sat there for a while longer, the cool earth beneath her palms grounding her, the weight in her chest too heavy to lift. The magic on her hand pulsed faintly, another reminder of the role she couldn’t set down, no matter how heavy it had become.

The forest around her was alive with sounds—branches creaking, leaves rustling, birds calling—but she barely heard them, her focus turned inward. Slowly, she wiped her face with trembling hands and exhaled a shaky breath. There’s nothing left to do here.

She rose unsteadily, brushing dirt from her knees, and made her way back to the herd. The halla regarded her with a calm, knowing gaze, its large eyes reflecting the light that now spilled through the trees. Its presence was soothing, even if only slightly, as though it understood her grief in a way the villagers never could.

As the halla turned back to its grazing, Marel squared her shoulders, drawing what little strength she could from the serene creature’s presence, and began the walk toward camp, her steps heavy with exhaustion. When Marel stepped into the clearing, the quiet crackle of the fire greeted her first, its warmth at odds with the cold knot twisting in her chest. Her companions looked up in unison, their gazes sharp and expectant, the stillness of the moment cutting like a blade.

Solas stood abruptly, his movements precise but taut, the tension radiating from him unmistakable. His sharp gaze locked onto her, unyielding and full of something too heavy to name. ‘Disappointment? Anger? Worry?’ She couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty only deepened the ache in her chest.

Felassan straightened from where he leaned casually against a tree, his arms crossing over his chest. His expression was guarded, but the hint of irritation in his posture was hard to miss. Even Cole, perched on a low rock, tilted his head as he studied her with wide, searching eyes full of quiet understanding.

Solas’s voice broke the silence, low and clipped, his frustration barely restrained. “Three hours. You left without a word. No explanation. No indication of when—or if—you intended to return. Do you realize how reckless that was? Was that your intent?”

Marel hesitated, her throat tightening as she struggled to find a response. Her lips parted, but no words came. She could feel the weight of their stares pressing against her, unspoken questions thickening the air around her. Reckless. Thoughtless. A liability. The words felt like accusations, even unspoken.

Felassan smirked, but the usual humor in his expression was muted, his irritation evident beneath the surface. “Tell me—when exactly did ‘wandering off into the wilds alone’ start sounding like a good idea? Was it before or after you realized you had no backup?”

The jab cut through her like a knife, sharper than she’d expected. Marel’s lips parted, but again, no words came. Her throat constricted painfully, and she gave a small, hesitant shake of her head, her gaze falling to the ground to avoid Felassan’s.

‘He’s right. They’re both right. It was reckless.’ The admission churned in her mind, mixing with the guilt already weighing her down. Blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes, she turned her head away, a subtle effort to regain her composure. Her shoulders sagged, and she folded her arms tightly around herself, as though trying to ward off the weight of their words.

Felassan’s smirk faded entirely, irritation giving way to a flicker of something softer. He sighed, glancing briefly at Solas before his expression hardened again. Don’t coddle her, Solas seemed to decide, though the tension in Felassan's stance betrayed his concern.

Solas stepped forward, his tone measured and precise, each word cutting like a blade. “You failed to think, and therein lies the problem.”

The words struck harder than Marel had prepared for. She flinched, her head dipping slightly, her shoulders folding inward as though bracing against a physical blow. She didn’t argue, didn’t defend herself. ‘What could I even say?’ The silence stretched as her gaze dropped to the ground, fixed on a point just beyond her feet.

Her breathing slowed, shallow and uneven, as the edges of the moment began to blur. Solas’s voice, Felassan’s presence, even the faint crackle of the fire—everything seemed distant, muffled, like she was hearing it from underwater. The weight of his judgment pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, but her mind slipped away, retreating into itself to escape.

‘It’s true,’ she thought distantly, the words echoing hollowly in her mind. ‘I didn’t think. I failed. Again.’ Her eyes stared blankly at the dirt, the lines and cracks in the earth drawing her attention in a way that felt safe, disconnected from the conversation. Her body felt distant too, her limbs heavy, her hands numb as they hung limply at her sides.

The voices around her faded further, her awareness narrowing to the ground beneath her feet. The jagged lines in the dirt began to shift and swirl in her vision, forming shapes—shapes she didn’t want to see.

Her chest tightened as the memory clawed its way forward, unwelcome and unrelenting: still bodies, pale and cold, lying in the same unforgiving dirt. The air seemed thinner suddenly, the firelight dimming at the edges of her vision. ‘Not now. Please, not now.’

Her lips parted, but no sound came. A faint tremor ran through her fingers, but she barely registered it. The weight in her chest spread, tightening like a vice, until all she could do was stand there, silent and small, swallowed by the enormity of everything she couldn’t fix.

Cole’s head tilted sharply, his wide eyes narrowing with sudden urgency. He took a step closer to Marel, his voice rising, sharp with concern. “She’s not here,” he said, his voice quick and frantic. “It’s too much. She’s slipping, caught in the cracks, drowning in what broke her.”

The words filtered through the fog in Marel’s mind, faint but cutting. ‘Not here.’ The phrase echoed somewhere distant, fragmented. She felt the weight of it pressing against her, but she couldn’t surface. Couldn’t let herself.

Felassan straightened from where he leaned against the tree, his expression shifting from irritation to unease. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice low but tense.

Cole turned to him, his hands fluttering in small, frantic motions. “She’s not seeing us anymore. She’s trying to hide from it, but it’s swallowing her whole.” He moved closer to Marel, his voice softening into something pleading. “You’re not there, Marel. You’re here. You’re safe. Please, come back.”

‘Safe?’ The word drifted across her thoughts like a leaf on water, insubstantial and fleeting. Safe wasn’t a place she understood anymore. Safe was a memory—a long-ago feeling she couldn’t reclaim.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular breaths. Her gaze, still unfocused, remained fixed on nothing, as though looking inward at something no one else could see. Images flickered at the edges of her vision: still hands, lifeless eyes, and the crushing weight of failure. She tried to push them away, but they pressed closer, suffocating her.

Cole’s voice fractured the stillness again, faster now, more erratic, each word spilling out like it couldn’t be held back. “The halla shifted behind her, nervous. She tried to be steady, to stand tall, but she couldn’t! Inside—inside, she was breaking!”

‘Breaking.’ The word shattered through her, raw and relentless. Her hands twitched faintly at her sides, her body caught in the push and pull of wanting to escape and being too paralyzed to move. ‘I was supposed to fix it. Supposed to make it right.’ But the cracks had spread too far, and now they were everywhere.

Solas stepped forward, his voice calm but edged with warning. “Cole, that’s enough—”

But Cole’s head snapped toward him, his words spilling out even faster, more chaotic. “No! It’s not enough! They hated her! She thought she could fix it, thought she could make it better, but they hated her for trying! Hated her for existing!”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her breath hitched, the memories crashing over her with the force of a tidal wave. The villagers’ sharp, accusing voices echoed in her mind. ‘We don’t want your lies.’

Her chest tightened painfully, the weight of their rejection pressing down on her like a stone. ‘Hated me. For trying. For offering peace.’ She thought of their eyes, burning with anger, and their words, so final, so cutting. ‘For existing.’

Felassan pushed off the tree, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Cole—” he began, but his voice sounded far away, muffled by the storm building within her.

“They didn’t see her!” Cole’s voice rose, cutting through Felassan’s interruption like a blade. “They only saw the elf! They saw the halla as a monster, but it wasn’t—it was her gift! Her heart!”

Marel flinched as the words tore into her. ‘My heart.’ She thought of the halla standing patiently behind her, the sacred gesture she had offered in good faith. It had been a piece of herself, a symbol of unity and hope. But they hadn’t seen it. They hadn’t wanted to see it. They’d only seen the elf, the outsider, the mistake.

Her breathing quickened, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. ‘They didn’t see me. They never see me. It’s always the titles, the roles, the mistakes. Never Marel.’

The tension in the air grew sharper, pressing against them all like the weight of a storm about to break. Cole’s voice cracked, trembling with raw emotion as he pressed forward, his hands gesturing wildly. “Her parents—she tried everything! Everything! She whispered, begged, held their hands, but it wasn’t enough! It’s never enough!”

The memory slammed into her with brutal force: her hands trembling as she reached for theirs, her whispered prayers, the frantic energy of her magic sparking uselessly in the stillness. The image was vivid, painfully clear, and it wouldn’t stop. ‘They didn’t come back. They couldn’t. I failed them.’

Cole choked on the words, his voice rising to a desperate crescendo. “You can’t heal the dead!”

Her shoulders flinched slightly, a faint shudder coursing through her frame, but her gaze stayed distant. The truth cut deeper than any accusation, too raw to bear. ‘I know. I know I can’t. But I couldn’t stop trying. I still can’t stop.’

“She feels it now!” Cole’s voice fractured, trembling with urgency. “What she felt then—failing, always failing! Not enough, never enough! Her hands couldn’t save them, and now—now they’re not enough for anyone!”

Marel’s chest heaved, her breathing ragged as her body trembled violently. Her mind was spinning, spiraling further into the cracks Cole’s words had exposed. ‘Not enough. Never enough.’ It was the mantra she couldn’t escape, the echo of everything she feared most. Her hands—always reaching, always trying—had never been able to hold anything together.

The lines blurred again, the ground beneath her feet cracking in her vision, twisting into memories she couldn’t push away. Still bodies. Empty hands. Furious faces. The rejection, the loss, the endless weight of expectations and failure—it all crashed into her at once, pulling her under.

Solas raised his voice, firm and unyielding. “Cole, stop!”

The words barely registered, drowned out by the roaring in Marel’s mind. She was slipping, caught in the tide of grief and self-doubt, her breathing shallow and uneven as the anchor on her hand began to glow faintly. She was drowning, and she couldn’t find the surface. ‘Not enough. Never enough.’

And in the fragile, shattering quiet of her thoughts, a truth she didn’t want to admit rose like a specter: ‘Maybe I never will be’

Cole surged forward, his eyes wide, his voice climbing higher with every word. “She’s breaking—piece by piece! They call her a traitor, say she’s not Dalish, not one of them!”

Marel flinched, her shoulders pulling inward as if bracing against a blow. The words rang too true, sharper than any accusation. ‘Not one of them. Not Dalish. Traitor. Dread Wolf’s pawn.’ The echoes of those voices had been haunting her, their judgment sinking deep into the cracks she already carried. The worst part was how deeply she believed them. ‘If I’m not Dalish, then what am I?’

Felassan stepped closer, his face grim, his usually light tone edged with tension. “Cole—”

“And she thinks—she thinks, ‘If not Dalish, then what? What kind of elf am I supposed to be? What kind of person am I supposed to be?’” Cole’s hands clenched into fists, his words pouring out faster, harder. “She doesn’t know! She doesn’t know! She doesn’t—”

The words slammed into Marel like a physical weight.’ I don’t know. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.’ The Dalish had been her identity, her grounding, her pride. But the clan felt so far away now, not just in distance but in spirit. Every rejection—every look of judgment and disdain from those she had once called kin—had stripped away pieces of her. Now, all that remained were fragments she didn’t know how to fit back together.

Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts. ‘If not Dalish, then what?’ The question clawed at her, sharp and relentless, demanding answers she didn’t have. The cracks were spreading, breaking her apart piece by piece, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Cole’s words cut off sharply as Marel’s body trembled violently. A faint green light flickered around her hand where the anchor rested, pulsing erratically like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The tension in the air reached a breaking point, crackling with unspoken energy.

Marel’s gaze dropped to the ground, unfocused and distant. The green glow from the anchor danced across her vision, but it only deepened her sense of disconnection. She felt the magic coursing through her, wild and unstable, but she couldn’t rein it in. ‘It’s too much. Always too much.’

Felassan stood at a distance at first, arms crossed as though trying to shield himself from the weight of what was unfolding. His sharp tongue, so often his armor, felt dull and useless now.

“Well, this is… grim,” he said softly, the quip falling flat even to his own ears. Marel didn’t register his voice. She was spiraling too deeply, her thoughts caught in the tangle of what she’d lost, what she couldn’t fix, and what she feared she could never be.

Felassan shifted uncomfortably, watching Marel crumble beneath a pain he couldn’t joke away. ‘I was supposed to be more than this. To make things better. To help her find her footing, not watch her fall apart.’ The faint guilt in his chest went unspoken as he muttered under his breath, his shoulders sagging. “Damn it, Marel. You’re supposed to be the stubborn one.”

“She likes the way you make her laugh, Felassan!” Cole’s voice sliced through the air, sharper now, frantic. His wide eyes fixed on Felassan, words tumbling out faster than he could control. “It reminds her of who she used to be—of the girl who could laugh, who felt light, alive! But it doesn’t last! The weight comes back—heavier, crushing her! She thinks it’s because Marel isn’t enough, that she’ll never be enough.”

The words pierced Marel’s already fragile composure. Her trembling hands twitched faintly at her sides, her breathing growing more uneven as the light around her flickered erratically. ‘I used to laugh, didn’t I? I used to feel light. When was the last time I felt that? Was it with Felassan? Was it even real?’

She couldn’t reconcile the person Cole described with the hollow shell she felt she had become. ‘Maybe I was never that girl. Maybe it was always just a mask.’

Her chest felt like it was caving in, the weight pressing down harder and harder. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Cole’s words were ripping through her defenses, pulling truths she didn’t want to face into the open. ‘I’m not enough. I’ve never been enough. Not for them, not for my clan, not for anyone.’

Felassan froze mid-step, his usually relaxed expression hardening, his arms folding tighter across his chest. He glanced at Marel, her body trembling, the glow of the anchor flickering wildly. “Cole, you’re not helping,” he said sharply, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

Marel felt the words like a distant echo, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill again. ‘I’m not helping either. I never am. I just keep making things worse.’

Her legs felt weak beneath her, as though they might give out at any moment. The magic on her hand burned faintly, pulsing in time with the chaos swirling in her mind. Her breaths came in shallow bursts, but they weren’t enough to steady her. The storm inside her chest raged on, relentless.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she might fall apart completely, shatter into the pieces Cole had so painfully described. Piece by piece. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it will end.

Cole turned on Solas next, his movements quick, almost jerky, as his voice cracked with raw emotion. “And you—she looks at you and feels so small, so far away! Not because you make her feel that way, but because you’re endless. You’re vast, like the Fade itself. She admires you for it. Craves it. But it scares her, too. She wonders if she could ever belong next to someone like you.”

Marel’s breath hitched, the words striking a chord she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. ‘Small.’ The word echoed in her mind, carrying the sharp sting of truth. Cole’s voice spilled her insecurities into the open, the ones she had buried so deeply even she avoided looking at them. Solas’s vastness, his wisdom, his connection to the Fade—she had marveled at it, but she had also feared it, feared how it made her feel like an unsteady shadow beside his brilliance.

‘Could I ever belong? Could someone like him even see me, or is it only the role—the Herald, the Inquisitor—that he sees?’

Cole’s voice rose, trembling under the weight of his own words. “But she thinks she can’t. She thinks you see the Herald, the Inquisitor, the titles they forced on her—not Marel. Not her.”

Her trembling grew, her chest tightening as Cole’s words dragged her unspoken fears into the open. ‘He doesn’t see Marel. Why would he? The Herald is easier. The Inquisitor is necessary. Marel… Marel is just in the way.’ Her thoughts spiraled, tangled and relentless, pulling her deeper into the storm brewing inside her.

Solas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. His sharp gaze flicked to Marel, her trembling form, and then back to Cole, his expression unreadable.

Cole’s words came faster now, his voice pitching higher as his distress deepened. “She’s bending under the weight of the Mask they gave her! It wasn’t hers—it was never hers! But they forced it on her, made her wear it, made her carry it! And now it’s crushing her! Twisting her! It’s breaking her into someone she doesn’t recognize, someone she doesn’t want to be!”

Her breathing hitched, each breath sharper, more ragged, as her body trembled violently. The Mask. The Herald. The Inquisitor. It wasn’t hers, had never been hers, but they had forced it onto her anyway. ‘And I let them. I put it on because they needed me to. But now I don’t know where it ends and I begin. Maybe it’s already swallowed me.’

The cracks Cole described felt real, spreading through her, breaking her apart from the inside. She was fighting—she had always been fighting—but the weight was relentless, unbearable. ‘I don’t want to twist. I don’t want to change. But I can feel it happening, and I don’t know how to stop it.’

Cole’s voice cracked, shattering the air. “She’s fighting so hard, but the cracks are spreading! She doesn’t want to twist, doesn’t want to change! But she’s slipping, twisting into someone she doesn’t know—someone she doesn’t want to—”

The scream tore from Marel, raw and guttural, a sound so visceral it cut through everything like a blade. It silenced the forest, freezing the air around them.

She didn’t know where the sound came from—whether it was from her chest or from somewhere deeper, somewhere raw and unguarded. All she knew was the pressure, the unbearable, unrelenting pressure that finally burst free.

Then, the ground seemed to ripple. A pulse of magic erupted from Marel, a violent wave of raw energy that blasted outward in a crackling green surge. The force hit Felassan and Solas like a physical blow, knocking them off their feet and sending them skidding across the ground.

The trees around them groaned under the pressure, branches whipping as though caught in a gale. Leaves rained down in a swirling storm of green, scattering across the forest floor. Marel felt the magic coursing through her, wild and untethered, mirroring the chaos in her mind. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t rein it in. It was too much, too fast, too overwhelming.

‘I’m breaking. I’m already broken. This is just what’s left spilling out.’

Solas was the first to stir. He coughed, pushing himself upright with one arm while his sharp gaze locked onto Marel. The glow of the anchor on her hand intensified, its light blazing in erratic pulses that threw flickering shadows across her face.

“Marel—” he began, his tone calm but cautious, almost coaxing.

She didn’t respond. Her body was rigid, taut like a bowstring ready to snap. Her gaze remained unfocused, lost somewhere beyond them, as though she couldn’t even hear his voice. The memories were too loud, too vivid: the villagers’ rejection, her clan’s judgment, the still bodies of her parents. The anchor’s light pulsed in time with the storm inside her, its rhythm uneven and chaotic.

‘It’s too much. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop it.’

Felassan groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his tunic. “What in the name of Mythal…” His voice trailed off as he noticed the wisps.

The air shimmered, and the oppressive stillness gave way to a strange, delicate movement. Wisps began to slip through the Veil, faint flickers of ethereal light weaving through the clearing like gentle fireflies. Marel’s breathing hitched, her gaze flickering briefly toward the ethereal shapes, but her mind remained distant, lost in the chaos.

They moved with purpose, hovering near her with an almost reverent grace. One by one, they approached, each carrying a small offering. Carefully, they placed their treasures at her feet, forming a tiny pile of delicate trinkets.

Felassan blinked, his usual wit subdued. “Is this normal, or should we be more worried than usual?”

Marel barely registered his words. The rhythm of the anchor’s light softened, syncing faintly with the wisps’ gentle movement, but she couldn’t feel it. Her body trembled, her hands twitching faintly at her sides. She stared blankly at the offerings, their delicate simplicity a stark contrast to the storm raging within her.

‘Why do they offer these to me? Why would anything reach for me, when I’m not enough?’ Her thoughts spiraled again, the fragile peace offered by the wisps slipping through her grasp. ‘I can’t hold this. I can’t hold anything.’

The faint glow of the anchor dimmed slightly, the energy within it seeming to quiet, but Marel’s chest still ached, her breaths shallow and uneven. The storm in her mind wasn’t gone—it was simply waiting for its next wave.

Solas took a cautious step closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Breathe, Marel,” he murmured, his tone steady and grounding. “Feel the earth beneath you, the air around you. This is where you are. Come back to it.”

The wisps continued to circle her, their light brightening faintly, as if echoing his words. But Marel didn’t move, didn’t blink. The scene hung in fragile suspension, the forest holding its breath as the anchor glimmered and the wisps hovered close, waiting for her to return to herself. Solas turned to Cole, his voice calm but laden with purpose. “You are Compassion, Cole. You can see what she cannot say, feel what she cannot express. Use that now. Reach her. Help her find her way back.”

The wisps drew closer, their light intensifying as the anchor on Marel’s hand pulsed faintly. The magic hummed in the air, filling the space with an electric tension, but Marel remained still, her breath shallow, her body trembling. Cole’s voice faltered, his hands reaching out but hovering just short of touching her. He shook his head, his voice breaking with sorrow. “I can’t,” he whispered. “She’s too far. It’s too heavy. I don’t know how to pull her out.”

The air shifted suddenly—a subtle warmth spreading like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark. Marel’s breath hitched as the sensation pressed gently against her chest, soothing the ache that had taken root there. The wisps stilled, their light dimming briefly, as though bowing in reverence, and then the warmth grew stronger, filling the space with a presence that was both calming and uplifting.

Through the Veil came a figure, radiant and serene, its light shimmering like sunlight on rippling water. Marel’s gaze flickered faintly, her awareness barely brushing against the spirit’s arrival. ‘What is this? Another judgment? Another weight to carry?’ Yet the warmth pushed back against her doubts, a quiet assurance that it was something more.

A Spirit of Hope.

Solas’s voice broke through, soft and edged with surprise. “A rare visitor,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent.

‘Rare. Hope itself is rare.’ The thought drifted in Marel’s mind, fragile and distant, as the figure stepped forward gracefully. Its presence felt strange—not a command, not a demand, but a quiet invitation. She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust anything to be that kind, not anymore. Hope has always been fleeting. A cruel joke.

The spirit’s voice was soft but resonant, each word carrying the weight of conviction and a warmth that seemed to reach deep into the soul. “She is not lost,” it said, addressing Solas and Cole with quiet certainty. “She has not forgotten how to hope—she only needs to remember.”

Marel’s body tensed at the words, a flicker of resistance sparking within her. ‘Not lost? I am lost. I’ve been lost since the Conclave. Since they gave me this title. Since the anchor made me into something I didn’t choose to be.’ But even as her thoughts fought against the spirit’s words, a small part of her stirred—a faint whisper beneath the noise of her mind, asking if it could be true.

The spirit moved closer to Marel, its light brightening as it approached. The wisps parted for it, their glow harmonizing with the spirit’s radiance. The sight was beautiful, serene, yet Marel felt no comfort. Instead, a tightness clawed at her chest. ‘Why approach me? Why waste this on me?’

The spirit knelt before Marel, its light illuminating her trembling form as it leaned toward her with a grace that was both deliberate and gentle.

“You are not shattered,” the spirit said, its voice weaving through the air like a soothing melody. “You are not twisted. You are Marel. You are still here.”

Marel shuddered, her breathing hitching as she processed the words. ‘Still here. But for how long?’ Still here, but in pieces. Still here, but not whole. The tension in her chest didn’t ease—it grew heavier, the weight of the spirit’s kindness pressing against her fragile defenses.

“You are not broken, nor are you whole,” the spirit said, its voice soft as starlight. “You are simply becoming, as all things do.”

The words pierced through her haze, unraveling a knot she hadn’t realized she’d tied around herself. ‘Becoming? Is that what this is? The cracking, the slipping—are they just steps forward? Or is this just me failing again?’ Her hands twitched faintly, the glow of the anchor pulsing in rhythm with the spirit’s voice. The steadiness of that rhythm contrasted painfully with her own erratic thoughts.

“You are not the cracks or the burdens you carry. You are not the Herald or the Inquisitor or any name they force upon you,” the spirit said. Its words hung in the air like a melody, resonating deeply despite Marel’s resistance. She wanted to reject them, to deny them outright, but something inside her whispered, ‘What if it’s true? What if I am more than this?’

“Like the halla,” the spirit said, its tone steady and warm, “you cannot be compelled to become something you are not. A halla knows her truth and suffers no one who dares to claim she is less. She does not bow, even when the path is steep, for her strength lies in her defiance."

The comparison struck something deep within Marel. The halla. Stubborn. Proud. Unyielding. Once, she had carried herself with that same defiance, hadn’t she? But now it felt so far away. ‘I bowed, didn’t I? To the role, to the titles. I became what they needed because I had no other choice.’

“You are the elven who did not submit, who stood unbroken when the world sought to bend you. You have stumbled, but you have not fallen. Like the halla, you rise—not because others demand it, but because your spirit refuses to yield. You are not the mask they gave you, nor the burdens they placed upon you. You are Marel. And that has always been enough.”

The spirit’s words washed over her, and Marel’s fingers twitched faintly, brushing against the glow of the anchor. A faint spark of energy rippled through her, its warmth cutting through the cold that had settled in her chest. ‘Enough. It’s always been enough?’ Her heart ached at the thought, the weight of its truth both liberating and unbearable.

The spirit extended a hand, not to pull her up, but to offer guidance. “Rise, Marel. Not for them, nor for the titles they imposed. Rise because you choose to. Because you are still here. Because you are still you. Your name itself carries your truth—Marel, your rebellious one. And in every step you have taken, you have proven it to be so.”

The words resonated deep within her, stirring something long buried. Marel. My rebellious one. Her chest heaved, her breathing uneven as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. She wanted to rise, to believe, but her body wouldn’t respond. Not yet. Not now.

The anchor on Marel’s hand flickered again, its green glow softening into a rhythmic beat that harmonized with the spirit’s presence. Her body shuddered, and then she collapsed, crumpling to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. Solas moved swiftly, kneeling beside Marel with precision, his sharp gaze scanning her trembling form. His hands hovered over her, careful yet uncertain, as though afraid his touch might fracture her further.

“Marel,” he murmured, his voice unusually soft. “You must come back.” His words brushed against her, faint but steady, but Marel remained unresponsive. Her mind lingered in the space the spirit had created, caught between its warmth and the cold weight of her doubts.

‘Come back?’ she thought dimly, her awareness flickering like the anchor’s light. ‘But to what?’ The question hung in her mind as she floated between hope and despair, her body still but her thoughts raging on. ‘If I rise, can I truly be enough?’

The faint rhythm of the anchor pulsed against her hand, the only tether she could feel in the chaos of her mind.

Felassan approached cautiously, his expression darkened with worry as he studied Marel’s still form. His usual sharp wit seemed dulled, though he forced the words out regardless. “Well,” he said dryly, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “…that’s one way to…” He hesitated, his humor faltering under the weight of the moment. “…tell us we were being… neglectful.”

Felassan's gaze lingered on Marel, the sight of her crumpled and unmoving striking deeper than he cared to admit. ‘You’re supposed to be the stubborn one, da’len. The one who fights back no matter how steep the odds. When did we miss the signs? When did I stop seeing you beneath everything else?’ The thought unsettled him more than he let on, and his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a feeble barrier against the growing sense of guilt gnawing at him.

Nearby, Cole lingered, his face a canvas of guilt and sorrow. His voice trembled as he whispered, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just… I wanted them to see. To understand what was breaking her.”

Solas knelt beside Marel, his sharp eyes scanning her as he listened to Cole’s words. A flicker of irritation passed through him—not anger at Cole, but at himself. ‘You saw her exhaustion, her quiet moments of retreat. And yet you let it pass, convinced she would manage, as she always does. Convincing yourself that she could bear it because she had to.’ His fingers hovered over her, unsure if his touch would offer comfort or further harm.

His mind churned with questions. ‘Was it the weight of the anchor? The rejection at Red Crossing? Or was it us—our blindness, our distance? Did we fail her?’

Before he could speak, the Spirit of Hope turned its gaze toward Cole, its light steady and unwavering. “You spoke her truths,” it said, its tone kind but resolute. “You gave voice to her pain, but her healing required more than words. Compassion bears witness, but it cannot lift the burden. Hope inspires her to rise.”

Felassan crossed his arms tighter, his sharp gaze flicking to Marel’s still form before settling on the Spirit of Hope. “So, you step in, say she’s enough, and vanish,” Felassan said lightly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of something heavier. He glanced at Marel again, the faint glow of the anchor casting flickering shadows across her face. His usual smirk faded entirely, replaced by a rare solemnity. “Maybe we should have seen it sooner.”

The admission echoed in his mind, sharper than he expected. ‘I should have seen it sooner.’ He thought of the times he’d dismissed her struggles with a teasing remark, the moments he’d let her quiet despair go unaddressed because it was easier to assume she’d bounce back. 

The spirit’s light shimmered faintly, the edges of its form softening. “What should have been seen earlier is not as important as what is seen now. Hope does not dwell on what was missed; it builds on what is found.”

Solas’s gaze shifted from the spirit to Marel, the faint tension in his jaw betraying the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. He had admired her strength, her quiet determination, but he realized now how often he had mistaken that strength for invulnerability. He had seen the signs, the weariness in her eyes, the moments of hesitation that spoke of doubt and exhaustion. And yet, he had let himself believe she would endure.

Solas’s hand hovered over hers, the faint glow of the anchor casting a green light across his fingers. The pulse of its magic was steady now, calming, but it was a stark reminder of the burden she carried.

Felassan sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. His sharp tongue, his wit—none of it felt useful now. Instead, he stood there, watching Marel’s still form with a helplessness he couldn’t shake. ‘I should have said more. Done more. But I always think there’s time for that later, don’t I? And then later looks like this.’ He glanced at Solas, watching the way the older elf’s hands hovered over Marel with rare uncertainty. ‘You’re not much better. For all your wisdom, you didn’t see this coming either. We’re both blind in our own ways.’ The thought gave him no satisfaction, only a bitter sense of shared failure.

The Spirit of Hope shifted slightly, its light growing softer, less overwhelming. “She is not alone,” it said, addressing them all. “She has stumbled, but she will rise—not because of you, but because of herself. You are here to witness, to support. Let that be enough.”

The words hung in the air, and for once, Felassan had no clever retort. His gaze returned to Marel, his usual grin replaced by something quieter. ‘You’ll rise, da’len, and I’ll be better at watching your back. I owe you that much.’

Solas straightened, his gaze lingering on Marel’s trembling form. Her stillness, the faint rhythm of the anchor’s glow, and the delicate offerings placed around her created an image that felt both fragile and profound. Yet the tension in his chest didn’t ease. He exhaled slowly, the air heavy with the unspoken weight of his thoughts.

“Why her?” Solas’s voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the stillness. “Why now, when the weight has almost crushed her?”

The spirit flickered briefly, its form softening. “She called me. Not with despair, but with resistance. The essence of who she is—a rebel, a fighter, a seeker, a protector—reached into the Fade. That spark drew me to her, as it has drawn others before me.”

Solas’s expression shifted, a flicker of unease passing through his eyes. He glanced down at Marel, his gaze softening slightly, though his thoughts remained conflicted. He turned to the Spirit of Hope, his expression thoughtful, though a shadow of self-reproach lingered in his eyes. “Your purpose is clear. Your timing, less so.” His voice softened, a note of vulnerability threading through his measured tone.

The Spirit of Hope inclined its head, its light rippling like a quiet acknowledgment. “You know why. You, who once carried the essence of Wisdom, understand that timing is as deliberate as purpose.” Its glow softened, dimming momentarily as its voice lowered, quiet yet piercing. “You call it failure, but was it not choice? You saw her pain and hesitated—was it hope that her strength would hold, or fear that you might misstep?”

Solas’s breath caught faintly, the words landing with precision. He listened intently, his expression guarded but intent. Each word struck a chord, resonating in ways he wasn’t yet ready to admit. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in its gentle reproach, though his jaw tightened at the sting of it.

The spirit’s radiance brightened gently, warm and resolute. “Even Wisdom falters beneath regret. It is not the seeing that matters, but the courage to act when it is most needed.”

Solas’s shoulders stiffened slightly, though his face remained composed. The spirit’s words pierced through him, a reflection of his own unspoken thoughts. His sharp gaze lingered on the spirit, his jaw tightening as though holding back a retort. For a long moment, he was silent, the weight of the truth settling over him like a mantle. Finally, he inclined his head, a gesture that was neither submission nor defiance but quiet acknowledgment.

The wisps shimmered faintly in response to the spirit’s presence, their glowing forms weaving gently around Marel, their tiny treasures still resting at her side. The anchor pulsed faintly, its glow calm now, rhythmic and steady, as the clearing fell into a soft, expectant silence.

The Spirit of Hope inclined its head gracefully, its shimmering form brightening momentarily before beginning to fade. Its voice, steady and resolute, resonated like a soft melody in the quiet clearing. “Now, she rests. The path ahead is hers to walk, but she is not alone. You—her companions, her guides—must help her see that. She cannot do this alone, nor should she have to. Hope cannot force her to rise; it can only remind her that she can.”

As the spirit dissolved, its light scattered into the air like embers caught in a soft breeze, painting the clearing in hues of gold and silver. Solas watched the fading light, its final words pressing firmly against his mind. 

The wisps lingered, their faint flickers growing steadier as they hovered protectively around Marel. They moved with purpose, bringing their delicate offerings closer. Each item was placed gently at her side, forming a quiet tribute, as if waiting for her to stir and acknowledge them.

Felassan leaned against a tree, his arms crossed, his face unreadable as the Spirit of Hope spoke. For once, he said nothing, the usual spark of mischief in his eyes dimmed. Felassan let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “Not bad for a glowstick,” he muttered, his voice lacking its usual snark. With a heavy sigh, Felassan walked over to Marel and knelt next to her, his tone softer but still carrying a weight of concern. “You really know how to give us a scare,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll let it go, but next time... don’t push your luck.”

The silence it left behind was heavy, but not in the way it had been before. This silence was filled with a quiet promise: “Hope cannot force her to rise; it can only remind her that she can.”

As Marel laid unconscious, her companions watched over her, each one uncertain but resolute. They would wait—for her to rise on her own terms. It wasn’t about saving her; it was about giving her the space to heal.

[shivunin]

what is the arranged marriage au 👀

WELL

The arranged marriage au is one of my longer unfinished wips (at ~75k currently) and I started writing it around when I started writing Wander the Drifting Roads (so....almost a year ago? geez). Sorry, this is a bit involved, but I don't have a simpler way of explaining lol:

The basic premise is that the second Exalted March on the Dales never happened. So the elves primarily live in extant kingdoms where Dirthavaren and Halamshiral are in the games. The catch is that the reason the March never happened was intervention on the behalf of Elandrin and Adalene (Codex entry here, which you find if you complete the Din'an Hanin area in the Emerald Graves), who were an elf-human couple. Part of the agreement between the elven government and the Chantry is that the compact between them must be renewed roughly every fifty years and one part of the renewal is an arranged marriage between an elf and a human.

That's what the humans know. What the elves know is that Siona, Elandrin's sister (whose murder of Adalene kicks off the massacre of Red Crossing) is held personally responsible for some of those events. Because it is her fault that the elves have to give up one of their own every fifty years, if one of her descendants is eligible they are automatically the candidate even though it's been some six/seven hundred years. In this age, that candidate is Adahlena Lavellan.

So: it is the Dragon Age, and the time has come for the next renewal of the compact. The only thing is...Ferelden barely has a new king, the Chantry is in shambles, Orlais is embroiled in its civil war, and there is just general pandemonium all over Thedas. Why should the elves give up an advantage and let the Chantry have the last say? No, they're gonna make the humans work for it. So they have each faction send an assortment of candidates representing various interests (nobles from the Free Marches, Ferelden, etc. as well as various experts on things they think might appeal) and over the course of several months the elves get to choose which of them will be the other side of the arranged marriage. Cullen, fresh off becoming the Knight-Commander of the Gallows post-DA2, is chosen by Leliana specifically to represent the Chantry.

Basically: I read that codex entry and I immediately thought, okay but what if they weren't star-crossed lovers and they didn't die? and because my brain is the way it is I had to extrapolate: what would the elves be like now if they'd had several hundred years to research their own magic and develop their own science and culture? So I wanted to depict that, but I also like shenanigans. Hence, arranged marriage au with two reluctant participants who grow to respect and gradually care for each other. Also, I love the OC I made for it---a grumpy gardener who has Trauma relating to Tranquility---and I really really need to finish it for Adahlena's sake if nothing else.

It's one of those things that I really, really want to finish, have so many good ideas for...and when I sit down to write, poof! All gone.

[saintlethanavir]

7, 17, 21!

Thank you so much for the asks bb!!

7. If they had to choose one person most important to them, who would that be?

Tzvi Mahariel: Alistair or Merrill, honestly. A lot of their friends and clan sort of fell to the wayside after they became a Grey Warden and there was the loss of Tamlen. He's very introverted as well and prefers the company of very few. Alistair and Merrill are his best friends in the whole world.

Ophelia Hawke: They've got a top 3 I'll be honest but if they had to choose it would be a painstakingly rough decision between Fenris and Varric. Their top three includes Carver as part of that. They all know Ophelia incredibly well and they've stuck by them through the worst possible moments.

Calliope Lavellan: Aurelius would be the obvious answer but it would actually be their father, Hanin. He taught them everything and he kept them strong through every terrible thing to happen to their family. If anything would happen to his father Calliope would be devastated.

17. What were they like as a child?

Tzvi Mahariel: So depressed lmao his dad ran off and his parents died early on after that so it's a rough time for him. Ashalle did everything she could but the only thing that brought out his sunshine were Tamlen and Merrill. And being with the halla. He just felt better around them.

Ophelia Hawke: Absolutely insane, chaotic child. Their magic came early and they were the type to just be so impulsive. Definitely jumped off the roof more than once pretending they could fly and almost or did break something. They've always been very protective of their family members as well, and would beat up any bully, even the ones bigger than them at the time.

Calliope Lavellan: Very reserved and quiet, they loved to ramble on about their special interests to their brother and father though. He struggled to make friends outside of the two or three that he grew up with, and never really broke out of their shell until Inquisition forced them to do so. Calliope ran off with their twin Aurelius to play in the Temple to Falon'Din that the clan would often camp out by , it was their favourite place in the Graves!

21. What's their biggest regret?

Tzvi Mahariel: That he couldn't save Tamlen. He has huge survivors guilt about it and feels it should have been Tamlen who became the Warden and not him.

Ophelia Hawke: Both that they didn't push Aveline to go after the man who eventually killed Leandra, and that they didn't save Bethany from that ogre. It haunts them every waking moment.

Calliope Lavellan: That they never learned to control their magic as a child, it led to a lot of problems in Inquisition and may have saved their mother in the end as well.

Ask me about my Dragon Age World State!

[thraaaaaaaanduuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiil]

6, 8, and 10 for the Inquisitor asks!

6. Where does your Inquisitor like to hang out at Haven?

Well, Leanos is a Dalish mage whose parents were murdered by Templars when he was only 3, so basically he hangs out as far away from Cullen, Cassandra, and the Templars as he can reasonably get. After he finds that little cabin while hunting down those notes for Adan, he spends a lot of time there, at least until he gets a good scolding from Josie because nobody can find him for hours one time. After that, he tends to put himself somewhere near Solas or Dorian (especially Dorian). 8. Which advisor does your Inquisitor like best? Which do they trust the most?

Probably Josie. She's the most respectful of him from the beginning and even though she only knows one phrase in Elvhen, he does appreciate that she used it when she had the chance. Leanos would prefer for there to be non-violent, diplomatic resolutions to their problems that don't directly involve demons and Fade rifts. He and Josie don't always understand each other, but they're both willing to learn and make the effort to understand, so they get along well. 10. What does your Inquisitor do with their free time? Do they have any hobbies?

I don't think he HAS much free time tbh. With the clan, he's constantly with Deshann, either learning about Keeper things or actively performing Keeper duties. Deshanna was never supposed to be the Lavellans' Keeper. She got pressed into service as First after Leanos's parents (who had been First and Second to the previous Keeper, Leanos's grandfather) and, since Hanin Lavellan was older and starting to become more frail by that point, she largely had a crash course in being Keeper in the space of about 5 years. (I've been reworking her part in Leanos's backstory a little and now I think she might even have been sent by another clan after Leanos's parents died.) Hanin started training his grandson and granddaughter, Leanos's twin sister Eliana, as soon as they showed signs of magic. Deshanna took over when Hanin died. On the plus side, Leanos (and Eliana for that matter) didn't have the rushed training she had. On the down side, this is also largely because she was determined they could both be fully independent, functional Keepers by the time they came of age if needed. Since Leanos was the one who showed the most interest in and aptitude for the Keeper's work even as a small child, he rarely had much free time because Deshanna was constantly dragging him after her while she did her work so he could learn.

When he's with the Inquisition but before he becomes Inquisitor, Leanos tries to fill his time with small but useful tasks. He isn't entirely convinced the humans won't toss him out, put him back in the dungeon, or even outright kill him if he isn't useful to them at all times. On the rare occasions he takes downtime, he's exhausted and needs a nap and to be out of sight of the humans. After he becomes Inquisitor, his fear of what the humans will do largely vanishes, and even though he's quite busy with Inquisitor duties, he finds he has some large periods of truly free time for the first time in ages. He tends to spend that time in the library with Dorian, reading as much as he can. (more Inquisitor asks here!)

[thereluctantinquisitor]

👀 👀 👀

[adenerimlullaby]

A good evening to wallow in memories. Still like this one. 

[too-many-lavellans]

As the years go on

[saphylee]

Soft angst starter: “don’t give me space. that’s the last thing i want with you.”

Thelrand’s chest felt tight and no amount of air was enoughto fill him, if he could breathe at all. The letter shook in his hand while hetapped a war piece incessantly on the edge of the table with the other. Hereread the words over and over again as if that would rearrange the letters,forming different words with a different meaning, changing reality to a betterone.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine started, though didn’t continue whenthe tapping stopped.

It seemed his advisors had enough sense not to speak. Theyall had read the letter, so they all knew what befell the Lavellan clan, howthey were too late, how they made all the wrong moves, how they, no, he, couldn’tsave them.

Thelrand looked up from his letter without uttering a word,all three of them avoiding his cold steel gaze. He couldn’t put all the blameon them; even with their guidance that had many different outcomes, heultimately was the one who set up his clan for execution. Even so, he wouldn’tabsolve them of guilt.

He tossed the piece towards the cluster that sat overWycome, knocking them all over, then turned on his heel to storm out the warroom, the letter crumpling in his clenched hand. He was glad that his quarterswere so close by. He couldn’t stand to see the gossiping courtiers thatlingered in the main hall.

The letter laid still crumpled on the desk, the embersbarely glowing in the fire pit when Hanin found him several hours later. Thelrandwas sprawled on the couch, arm covering his eyes, a nearly empty bottle of winedangling from his fingers over the edge. A couple more empty bottles weresettled nearby.

When Hanin lingered, Thelrand sighed, a quick puff of airfrom his mouth. “I thought the locked door made it clear that I didn’t wantvisitors.”

“Ah,” Hanin began. “I figured but..” He paused when Thelrandsuddenly sat up, stepping towards him when he swayed dangerously forward. Hecorrected himself and Hanin frowned. “You’ve been up here for hours. No onewould tell me what was going on.”

Thelrand bit his lip, refusing to meet his eyes. He opened hismouth, but nothing came out, instead gulping the last of his wine. He didn’tknow how to begin to explain what happened, how he failed their clan in theworst way. He was supposed to protect them, keep them safe, and now they weredead. His head spun with wine and his stomach lurched with guilt.

The deafening silence dragged until Hanin sighed. “Listen, Iwon’t force it out of you and you’re clearly… drunk, so I’ll just… give youspace.”

Thelrand reached out to grab his wrist, his fingers brushinghis skin before he tumbled off the couch. “Shit..!” He landed on his hands andknees, lowering his head to the ground to fight off the spinning before pushinghimself up to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes. “No, Hanin, don’t give mespace. That’s.. that’s the last thing I want with you. You’re all I have left.You and Syla are the only family I have.” His voice cracked near the end and hebroke down sobbing.

Hanin knelt in front of him, not sure where to put his handsbefore settling on his hunched shoulders. “What do you mean? We’re the onlyclan members here, yes, but you know everyone will welcome you back home.”

Thelrand shook his head, clutching Hanin’s sleeves. “N-No,you don’t understand!” More sobs interrupted him, wracking through his body,almost turning into mournful wails. “The clan… They’re.. They’re gone. They’redead!”

[bloodwrit]

I just discovered your blog and I am living for Hanin.... I love everything about him ;;;; your art is so pretty and just wow... My crops are watered and my skin is clear, I've been blessed by the panini boy and your amazing art 💕

Ahhh thank you so much!!! I haven’t thought of my panini boy in a long time. I’m so glad you like him ; o; here’s a little doodle of him to say thanks! 

[reluctantwrites]

One Last Chance

Part 1 - The Letter |  Part 2 - Cope | Part 3 - The Arrival | Part 4 - Necessary Risks

Part 5 - Eleven Years (AO3 Link)

The final preparations take place and the infiltration begins. But first, Hanin has some things to get off his chest...

CW: mature themes re: the treatment of slaves in the Imperium (mainly physical and sexual abuse). The acts themselves are not described in any detail, but are alluded to briefly.

Hanin shifted uncomfortably, tugging down the sleeve of the black and gold uniform until it sat flat on his wrist, wishing pointlessly that there was more than just a thin layer of well-made fabric between himself and a potential blade. Grunting, he gave up trying to manipulate the uncomfortable outfit, and Cassius nodded his approval, arms folded across his chest. The man seemed far more at home in Hanin’s clothes, now that they had completed the awkward exchange. Apparently, smuggling additional sets of household uniforms might have drawn needless suspicion.

Hanin suspected Launcet just thought it would be amusing to make them swap outfits.

“Well, that was fun.” Lyrene, now clad in a matching servant uniform, sighed and twisted, glancing behind her. “Does this make by butt look as good as I think it does?”

Hanin chose not to dignify that with a response. But Daimon, who was currently sliding into Ralon’s shirt across the room, grinned and gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

“Probably the point, really,” Launcet remarked with a shrug. “Not to dampen your spirits or anything, but there’s more to it than just serving food. Talveron isn’t the worst dominus out there, but he’s far from a saint.”

The flippancy with which Launcet said those words sent a chill up Hanin’s spine. He turned to the man, gaze dark with warning. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

For the first time since they met, Launcet’s easy confidence seemed to waver. “I, ah… well, this is the Imperium. Slaves often serve… multiple purposes.” He moved, crossing the room to check the map, placing the table strategically between himself and Hanin before continuing. “I am simply saying that there are motives for almost everything. A flattering uniform is no accident, I’m afraid.”

Still scowling, Hanin glanced over at Lyrene, who took a moment to process the new information before releasing a heavy sigh. 

“Well, thanks for ruining that for me.” 

Shaking her head, she moved over to the table, Hanin falling into step, the rest of the Dawn Squad joining them. Cyrus, Ralon, Darren and Connors now wore the uniforms of guards, although for that night, it was unlikely they would be needed. It was simply a precaution, in case Hanin and Lyrene needed an out. As Launcet had said, it was better to be overprepared than underprepared.

For once, Hanin agreed with the man.

“Alright. Their little party should be winding down soon. Once it’s over, we’ll give it a quarter-hour, then send you two to the kitchen entrance.” Launcet, again, indicated the back area of the manor. Thankfully, it was not too far from their current building. If they were careful, they shouldn’t be spotted coming and going. “Everyone in the kitchens will be busy cleaning up and preparing for the morning banquet. It will be a special kind of chaos, so you shouldn’t have any problem slipping in.”

“Yeah, great, but what if they do?” Cyrus demanded, his brow knitted so tight it might be permanently stuck in a frown. “You got a plan for that?”

Launcet drew in a slow, patient breath. “Yes , I do, but thank you for your confidence. That, my prickly friend, is where you come in. Just in case there’s a problem, you’ll walk with them and be ready to give the excuse that they were tossing scraps to the chickens.” He leveled a pointed stare in Cyrus’ direction. “Happy?”

The Orlesian’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing, biting back a series of undoubtedly colourful suggestions about where Launcet could shove his happiness. Thankfully, the tone of the conversation changed as Launcet pulled a pouch from his belt and set it down on the table, opening it to reveal two silver discs, about an inch in height. After brief inspection, he tossed one to Lyrene and the other to Hanin. “Step two is covering up those markings of yours. Get it done. There isn’t much time.”

Lyrene groaned and wandered over to a window, plopping herself down in front of it and squinting into the glass. However, barely a moment passed before Darren sat down beside her and held out his hand, smiling as she tilted her head back and let him get to work on the markings that framed her face.

As for Hanin, he stood dumbly for a moment with the tin in hand until he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, Captain, why don’t you give me that? Seems our genius planner didn't think to pack a mirror.”

Launcet rolled his eyes at Ralon. “You try stuffing a mirror into your pants, Prince Charming. There was only so much I could smuggle.”

Settling into a chair and motioning for Hanin to sit across from him, Ralon just snorted. “Reckon I could do it just fine.” He flashed a grin at Hanin, popping the lid off the tin to reveal a thick looking tinted paste. Curious, he sniffed it, then crinkled his nose. “Phew. Alright, then, wish me luck! I’ll try not to make it look like you have some kind of skin disease.”

Hanin raised a brow at him, but Ralon just tutted playfully. “Nuh-uh, none of those looks tonight, Captain. You’ve gotta hold still.”

Deftly, the Antivan got to work, running his fingertip carefully along the lines of Hanin’s vallaslin, following the intricate curves that marked his dedication to Mythal. As he worked, the rest of the room dispersed, settling to speak in soft tones or otherwise preoccupy themselves. It left the two of them with a sense of privacy for which Hanin was grateful. It was odd, letting someone cover his vallaslin. A part of him felt silly for it, but it just seemed… wrong.

“These are important, right?” Ralon asked, dipping his fingertip into the pan and tilting Hanin’s head slightly up. “Like, a cultural thing?”

“Yes.” Hanin tried his best not to move as Ralon worked on the lines curving beneath his eye. “We receive them when we become an adult in the clan. There is ceremony behind it. Tradition.”

“Huh.” Ralon paused to inspect his work, then used this thumb to clean up some of the edges. “I don’t suppose you cover it for anything, normally?”

Hanin almost shook his head, but stopped himself just in time. “No. The vallaslin is something to be worn proudly.” He paused, then added, “It is a part of who I am. To hide it would be to hide my own face.”

The Antivan’s brown eyes shifted slightly, meeting Hanin’s for a moment before returning to their task. “Shit. This guy must mean a lot to you, huh?” When Hanin didn’t respond for a moment, Ralon gave a sheepish laugh. “I mean, not that the rest of this is child’s play or anything, but… I don’t know. This part just seems worse, somehow.”

Dipping a fingertip back into the pan, Hanin moved his head accordingly to Ralon’s silent guidance. So far, his squad had been kind to him. They had not pushed for answers, or even for more than what was already detailed in the plan. Despite the lengths they were going to, none of them had demanded anything personal from him to justify the risk. Without hesitation, they had just accepted it as something that needed to be done. They had just trusted that it was important enough to be worth it.

Sitting there, with Ralon carefully concealing his vallaslin, Hanin realised with a pang of regret that they all deserved so much better from him.

Perhaps it was his turn to trust.

“We were… together, for a time. Athran and I. When we were younger.” He closed his eyes as Ralon began working near them, the scent of the tinted mixture something akin to wet clay and stone. “Over eleven years ago.”

He felt Ralon’s hands pause, just for a moment. Then, as gently and calmly as before, they kept going, carefully brushing across Hanin’s skin. “Well... that explains a lot. I mean, some of us had a feeling, but it didn’t seem like a good time to go prying into your personal life.”

The corner of Hanin’s mouth twitched up slightly at that. “Impressive restraint.”

Ralon’s chuckle was quiet and fond as he patted over a couple more spots on Hanin’s forehead. “Yeah, well... we learned from the king of bottling things up. What did you expect?”

As usual, he showed a remarkable talent for delivering a compliment and an insult simultaneously, but Hanin was not one to hold such a skill against him. But before Hanin had to think of something to say, Ralon continued softly. "But seriously... thanks. For telling me. Or us, because you know I'm going to go tell the others the second you leave." Hanin just huffed softly at that. He knew. Ralon smirked slightly and continued. "I know you don't like talking about your clan, after everything that happened, and shit, that's fair. It can't have been easy to ask us for help in the first place, but it means a lot. Even more, now that we know what you're going through a bit better."

Guilt twisted like a knife in Hanin's gut. "I shouldn't have kept it from all of you. I'm sorry."

"Hey, your business is your business. We were going to give it everything we had anyway. Fact of the matter is you didn't have to, but you did. It's just... nice." A soft smile replaced the smirk on Ralon's lips. "We trust you too, Captain."

Hanin didn't know what to say to that, and in truth, there was really nothing more to add. Instead, he just remained still until Ralon finished his task, an instruction that he open his eyes and face the lantern marking the end of the arduous process. “Hm... doesn’t look like I missed anything,” Ralon murmured, inspecting Hanin’s face like a painter before a canvas. He raised his voice. “What do you guys think? Look alright?”

The next thing Hanin knew, he had twelve sets of eyes trained intensely on his face. He swore he’d had nightmares that were similar.

“Looks good to me,” said Cyrus. “I mean, weird as fuck, but you can’t see any of it.”

“Don’t touch your face,” Connors instructed sternly. “It will rub off if you’re not careful.”

Glancing across to catch Lyrene’s eye, she and Hanin nodded. It was strange, seeing the woman without the mark of June. In that moment, Hanin was almost grateful no one had brought a mirror. He had not seen his bare face since he was fifteen years old, and he had no desire to.

“Alright, if we’re done playing salon, it’s time to get moving.” Launcet was at the open door, peering through the crack. “Looks like the kitchens are coming to life. Means the fun’s over and it’s time to get to work.” Glancing over his shoulder at the group, he tossed them a wink. “Same goes for you lot.”

Breathing out a long, steady breath, Hanin stood, Lyrene and Cyrus moving to his side. He was about to leave when Ralon cleared his throat, catching his attention.

“Hey, be careful, alright? Both of you.” Ralon’s gaze passed over Cyrus to focus on Lyrene, and ended on Hanin. “We’ll get him back. Just play it safe.”

With that, the trio exited the building, Launcet joining them for a time before breaking away to head to the guard’s barracks and find a copy of the roster. Heart thrumming, Hanin and Lyrene made their way across to the manor, the once inviting cobbled path now feeling ominous and exposed; a dead giveaway. But Cyrus strode beside them, the uniform well-tailored and neat, a blade belted securely to his side, a scowl dark on his face. Hanin had a feeling his presence alone would be enough to see them wherever they needed to go.

They arrived at the kitchen entrance just as an older servant was pushing her way out with her hip, a heavy sack burdening her arms. Without thinking, Hanin reached out, quickly catching the door and holding it open. Flustered and red-cheeked, the woman glanced up, brown eyes confused for a moment as they came to rest on his face. A tense moment passed. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanin could see Cyrus shifting slightly, about to intervene.

“Ah, you must be one of the new ones!” The woman grinned, wrinkles drawing aside like curtains to frame her face. “So polite. Strong, too. Maker, it's about time we got someone with a little meat on his bones.” She shuffled past, taking care to navigate the single step that led down to the cobbled path. “You just head on inside. Plenty of work for a big pair of hands.” She glanced up, catching sight of Lyrene. “Ah, good, more of you! Go on inside, too. As for you...” She winced and shifted, holding out the heavy sack to Cyrus. “Be a dear and help an old serving woman. That’s it.”

Uncertain of how to back out of the rapidly unfolding situation, Cyrus just grunted in surprise as the old woman dumped the sack into his arms. He glanced across at Lyrene, who shrugged helplessly, and gave a terse sigh. “Fine. Where are we taking this thing?”

“Out to the chickens, dear. My turn to feed the poor things tonight. Come along.”

Lyrene’s eyes widened like saucepans. She turned to Hanin as Cyrus and the old woman shuffled out of hearing distance, the lady practically gluing herself to Cyrus’ side, chattering away as they walked. “Shit… good thing he kept quiet, huh?”

Nodding, Hanin opened the door wider. “It was. Come on.” Hurrying forward, Lyrene darted into the kitchens, Hanin following close behind. Almost immediately, Hanin was nearly crashed into by a harried looking servant, his hands full of vegetable scraps, a demand for them to be brought to a bin halfway past his lips until he took in the height and bulk of Hanin’s form. There was the briefest moment of calculation, during which he clearly thought better of the request and moved on. The entire interaction was over before Hanin even had a chance to mutter an apology.

It was difficult, getting through the warzone that was the kitchen. Hanin swore he had been on battlefields that possessed more order; more structure. Cooks and assistants shouted back and forth over the clamor of pots and utensils, boiling water throwing steam into the air, the floor gritty with salt and flour as Hanin tried his best to navigate the chaos without drawing too much attention to himself. That proved to be a nearly impossible task, and as he moved he found himself mechanically grabbing pots and bottles from high shelves on command, passing them down to impatiently waiting servants who would have made admirable drill sergeants in another life. 

Lyrene, however, managed to slip by relatively unscathed, the woman soon finding her way to a doorway at the far side of the room. She lingered there awkwardly until Hanin was spat out by the crowd a few feet away, his dark uniform askew and dusted with flour, a bottle of salt, for some reason, clutched tightly in his hand. Before he even turned to look at it, it was snatched away by a passing cook.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Lyrene grinned as Hanin fired her a deadly look. “C’mon, cranky. This way.” She opened the door and slipped through. Hanin followed, tugging his uniform straight, determined to escape the broiling havoc of the kitchens. Soon, he found himself swiftly submerged in near total silence. The bright lights of ovens and lanterns disappeared behind the closing door, leaving Hanin and Lyrene in a grey-stone corridor, only the muted hum of arguments and barked instructions making it through the thick wooden barrier. “Creepy,” Lyrene whispered, then slowly set off, her footsteps softly echoing as she moved. “Kind of like dipping your head underwater, huh?”

According to the floor plan, the cellar entrance was halfway down the hall. Sure enough, Lyrene halted before a second door, less sturdy than the one they had just fled through. Its hinges creaked in bitter protest as she pushed it open to reveal a smaller room with a large trapdoor built into the floor. The entrance to the cellar.

And a guard, sitting a few feet behind it.

Lyrene froze as the guard looked up from his book and grunted, his face pulling into a scowl beneath his thick, unkempt moustache. “What’s this, then? You lot done with duties?”

Some part of Hanin immediately screamed kill him. Luckily, and possibly for that precise reason, he had not been sent alone.

Dropping into a curtsy, Lyrene bowed her head. “Yes, Ser. Apologies for interrupting.”

He grunted again, shifting, the chair squeaking beneath his bulk. “What about the kitchens, eh? Got a lot of busy-work in there.”

“Of course, Ser.” Lyrene did not hesitate. “We offered our services, but they preferred us away from the food.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the guard seemed to chew over her answer. Then his eyes slid across to Hanin, standing directly behind Lyrene, his uniform a dishevelled mess. That fact likely helped prove Lyrene's point, and slowly the guard nodded. Leaning to his right, he grabbed a key from a hook on the wall beside the chair. “Right. Fair enough.” His heavy boots scraped across the stone floor as he stood and crouched down by the cellar entrance. He slipped it into the thick padlock, turning it until the metal snapped open, freeing the doors. “Go on, then. Off with you.” Glancing up, his gaze lingered for a moment on Lyrene. “Unless you want to spend a little time with me, that is...”

Immediately, Hanin moved past Lyrene and stooped, throwing open one side of the trapdoor, revealing a flight of steep, unlit stairs. “We are under orders,” he stated flatly, nodding for Lyrene to move past him as he stood between her and the guard. “No fraternising.”

As Lyrene scampered past, the guard glowered up at Hanin. “That so? Wasn’t made aware of any orders like that, slave.”

Sensing he was racing towards dangerous waters, Hanin tensed his jaw and took a gamble. “It is a household rule, for when there are important guests.” Thinking back to what Launcet had said earlier, Hanin grit his teeth. “We are to remain... available.”

Understanding seemed to flash in the guard’s eyes, and he huffed, waving a dismissive hand towards the cellar steps. “Fuckin' perfect. Take a job like this, and for what? No perks at all.” Grumbling, he returned to his seat. “Last time I volunteer for any of this shit…”

Leaving the man to his bitter reading, Hanin took his leave, moving down the steps, trying his best to hide the visceral relief that his gamble had paid off. From what he’d seen of Talveron’s personal guards, they all took their duties very seriously, particularly with such important visitors at the estate. A rough looking man reading a book in a side room? Just because he was dressed like one of them didn’t mean he was cut from the same cloth. More than likely he was a mercenary, or a guard from a lesser noble, who had been sent to bolster Talveron’s forces for the duration of the event.

The cellar door slammed shut after a few moments, and Hanin heard the sound of a lock snapping in place.

Well… that was something new to account for.

Letting that issue drift to the back of his mind for the time being, Hanin reached the bottom of the stairs where Lyrene was waiting, shifting back and forth from foot to foot, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Oh thank the Creators,” she breathed when Hanin appeared. “What were you thinking? Don’t you remember what Launcet said? What Ralon said? We need to play it safe!”

“Are you safe?”

Lyrene hesitated, mouth still open mid-reprimand. “I… yeah. I suppose.”

“Then we played it well.” He paused, then reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You are already doing more than you should, Lyrene. Just because we are not in uniform does not make you any less of my responsibility.”

Slowly, seeming almost reluctant, Lyrene nodded. “Yeah. I’m getting that, alright? Just… don’t go throwing punches or anything. I’m drawing a line there.”

A faint smile played across Hanin’s face as he released her shoulder. “Understood.”

The cellar was about what Hanin had expected, although admittedly not quite as terrible. Stone made up the walls, floor, and ceiling, the surprisingly large space interspersed by wooden support beams to maintain the integrity of the structure. On the right side of the room, cots were crammed in tight rows, only about three feet of space between each bed. None possessed more than a blanket over a thin mattress, and while a healthy number were occupied, a significant amount remained empty. A wooden barrier split the room down the center, the other side of which Hanin glimpsed a makeshift living area with chairs, tables, and benches that, while plain, could at least be considered usable.  

“It’s like a prison,” Hanin murmured. The word left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was no other way he could think to describe it. “It functions, but…”

“What gave it away? Was it the guard? The locked door? The miserable grey walls?” Lyrene’s face had twisted into a scowl. She clearly enjoyed being there as much as Hanin did. “Come on. Let’s look around. If your clanmate is anywhere, it’d be down here.”

Nodding grimly, Hanin and Lyrene split off to cover more ground. There were no guards in the cellar, so Hanin felt less worried about letting his subordinate out of his sight, especially considering majority of Talveron’s slaves appeared too exhausted to even raise their heads, let alone pick a fight. Moving about the space, Hanin was grateful for the dim light. It meant that, even though there were no more than fifty beds in the cellar, no one really took the time to scrutinise him as he passed. In fact, majority seemed more interested in picking their way through meagre meals, or engaging in soft conversations with their neighbours. At a glance, most were humans of varying ages, majority of whom appeared to be native to Tevinter. Briefly, he recalled Varlen mentioning the Imperium practice of selling oneself into slavery. Hanin could only imagine how dire their situation must have been, for anyone to even consider trading away their freedom.

With Lyrene prowling the rows of cots, Hanin found himself moving towards the left side of the room, a break in the wooden partition allowing passage at its centre. However, as he approached, the sound of a sharp conversation stopped in him place.

“...t were you thinking? Have you finally gone mad?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Then what the fuck were you doing there? That wasn’t even your area.”

“I just wanted to see them, Tellene.”

“Did you get a good look? Well, did you? Was it worth all… all of this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I had to try something. Is that so wrong?”

“What’s wrong is you pulling a stupid stunt like that, and then what? You come crawling over to me to coddle you like a damn child, that’s what. Every bloody time.”

“I’m sorry. You can go sleep. I don’t need your help.”

“... Oh Maker’s breath. Piss off with that and hold still.” A pause followed. “I swear, you’ll send me to my grave good and early. Just what exactly did you think would happen? That they’d whisk you away on the spot?”

“I--”

-- “That they’d drop everything and buy you from the dominus?”

“No, I just--”

-- “Then what?” The woman’s frustration had clearly reached its peak, her tone as sharp as a freshly honed blade as it cut the man off. “I don’t know what you’ve been thinking lately, but you’re living in a fantasy. I’ll tell you what will happen. They’ll come here, have their little meeting, and then they’ll leave. Just like all the rest. And guess who’s going to be left picking up the pieces again?”

Hanin could feel that thrum pulsing in the back of his mind, his heart hammering against his ribs as the conversation gave way to a tense, heavy silence.

“... I said I was sorry.”

The woman released a long, exasperated sigh. “I told you, Athran. I told you not to go getting your hopes up. Now… Maker, look at you.”

Athran.

Even before hearing the name, Hanin had known. Deep down, he had known. That voice, the way he spoke, the cadence of each sentence, was like a piece of shattered memory pressed into his palm, cutting deep, drawing blood. And all he wanted to do was close his hand around it. Hold it close.

Breathless, unthinking, uncaring, Hanin stepped around the barrier into the room.

Mismatched furniture littered the area, some grouped, others standing alone by the cold stone walls. It was mostly empty save for two figures sitting at one of the tables in the back corner, although Hanin could only see the face of one. The woman was an old elf, likely in her sixth or seventh decade, her shrewd green eyes narrowed into disapproving slits as she peered at the face of the man sitting across from her. An elven man with long blond hair.

Hanin's stomach dropped to its knees.

“It’s nothing a little makeup can’t cover, Tel.” That voice. Hanin took a step slow step forward, mind reeling, his throat so tight it felt like he was being choked by an unseen hand.

Tellene rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Well, doesn’t that just make it all better. You really--” She cut off suddenly, her gaze snapping across, honing in on Hanin like a hawk on a rat. “Are you lost or something?”

There was venom to the words, but also a kind of instinctive protectiveness. Like a single puzzle piece slotting into place, it set some small part of Hanin at ease to know she was there, fussing over Athran. “No. I’m not.”

Her expression darkened, jaw tensing as she lowered her hands, a cloth clutched in one, a small tub of salve in the other. “Then get lost. If you’re new, go find someone else to hold your hand. Mine are full.”

“Tellene. Don’t be cruel.” Athran rested a staying hand on the woman’s wrist, everything about him strangely slow. Strangely calm. Or perhaps defeated was the better word for the way in which he moved, like the air was thick and his heart just wasn’t quite in it. Even as he turned, it was not without difficulty, a pained tremor wracking his frame as he twisted in the seat. “I’m sorry about her. She’s just…”

Athran’s gaze came to rest on Hanin, and the rest of the world seemed to crumble to ash at his feet. Flooding in to fill the space came a deep and impenetrable nothingness so fathomless and dark Hanin feared for a moment that he might drown in it.

A beat passed.

Another.

Then, slowly, those brown eyes widened.

Athran’s expression shifted, his familiar face falling slack. The chair grated across the floor as he rose unsteadily to his feet, the sound impossibly loud, impossibly slow, as though it had been dragged out for minutes instead of seconds. That thrum in the back of Hanin’s mind slowed as well, quieting until it was nothing more than a dull, rhythmic thump, the sensation pulsing through his body until it lost its shape, melting into another rhythm. Another sensation.

The beating of his heart.

“I’m here.”

The words sounded so laughably inadequate, even as Hanin said them. Athran just stood there, his breathing short and stiff, the space between them seeming too far, too distant, even though it wasn’t. Even though they finally, finally, shared the same room.

“You’re late.” There was something odd about Athran’s voice, like in the process of speaking it had been drawn too tight. Pulled too thin. Stiffly, Hanin swallowed.

“I know.”

Athran exhaled in a sudden, shivering rush. The breaths started coming deeper, his lower lip beginning to tremble even as he fought against it, hands curling into fists at his side.

“It’s been eleven years.”

That impossible pressure rose back up, coiling at the back of Hanin’s throat, threatening to choke him.

“I know.”

He didn’t have the words. Even after two weeks of planning, of agonising, of sleepless nights building up to that precise moment, Hanin had never found them. He’d played it out over and over in his head, but none of them were right. None of them were enough . None of them could ever give shape to all the things that needed to be said.

So, he said the truth.

“Ir abelas.” Shaking his head, wishing he was better - wishing he was more - Hanin took a single step forward. “Lethallin, I...”

Hanin never had a chance to finish his sentence. He never even had a chance to finish the thought behind it because the second the first word left his lips Athran was moving. In the space of a few frantic heartbeats he crossed the distance and was in Hanin’s arms, head buried against his chest, his grip so tight it was like he was terrified Hanin would vanish from between his fingers. For once, it was nothing for Hanin to hug the man back. He held Athran so firmly that when the man's legs almost gave way beneath him he didn’t fall. Instead, Athran was caught and held by Hanin as they both stood in shock, in disbelief, in relief of eleven years of distance closed in the span of seconds. With Athran finally safe in his embrace, the pair locked together so tightly, Hanin dared the Creators, the Maker, anyone to try to tear them apart again.

Let them try.

Let anyone try.

[smolpocketmonstercoffee]

Scrutiny & Aid

               The world was cool outside of the mess hall and he wished he could freeze the words that echoed around in his head at his retreat from his sister and his new comrades. He wished he could take those frozen words and shatter them to snow and leave them to the wind to carry them away and disappear.

               They went on a job and didn’t come back.

               Those words were still bitter in his throat.

               Assan didn’t know.

               And she never would.

               She had only been nine, too young and too unobservant to know that he made them go after them. Too tired to notice him slipping away from her side in the depths of the night to find them.

               And he found them.

               To him, his family had always been so huge. So strong. So unstoppable. But even the huge, the strong, the unstoppable could be made small, made weak. Could be stopped.

               There would always be someone better, Zese told him whenever Shanedan had gotten frustrated with himself at not being better. There will always be someone better than you. Better than me. And there will be someone better than that too. And until there is no one left, there will always be someone better.

               Well someone better had found his family.

               And the aftermath had left their bodies almost beyond recognition.

               If he hadn’t known them so well.

               If he hadn’t known Ore and Ghorbash’s horns. The missing fingers on Zese’s hands. The broken bit of blade lodged in Maltese’s back that had been slowly killing him by blood poisoning, too dangerously close to his spine that Katria didn’t have faith in herself enough to be able to remove it safely. The smell of magic that perpetually clung to Katria.

               He had been theirs for ten years.

               How could he have not known them so well?

               They had saved him. Had given him a purpose, a name, a day to celebrate being alive.

               They had given him something else as well.

               A family.

               And he had been the one to bury them.

               Shanedan didn’t remember if he had wept but he did recall that Assan was so incredibly unobservant as per usual that she didn’t notice the blisters in his hands that weren’t there the night before. Ghorbash would have thumped her in the forehead for not paying attention better. But he wasn’t there anymore. Katria would have worried over his hands and scolded him for not wearing gloves. But she wasn’t there anymore. Maltese would have sighed and shook his head before telling him to go cut more firewood. But he wasn’t there anymore. Zese would have tousled his hair and said something to lighten the mood. But he wasn’t there anymore. Ore would have simply told him to keep Assan safe.

               Because she wasn’t there anymore.

               Assan was all he had left.

               And he would die to keep her safe.

               That was why he brought her here.

               She wanted to fight. He wanted her safety.

               And if anything happened to her, it would have to wait until after his corpse was cold as the stones of Skyhold’s wall.

               Settling into the snow on the outer edge of the wall, Shanedan breathed, letting the icy air whistle past his ears and carry away his thoughts like leaves on a river, snowflakes falling clinging to his eyelashes. Melting on the bare skin of his face.

               Thinking about them wouldn’t bring them back.

               Thinking about his words wouldn’t take them back.

               Assan was no doubt correcting the mood he had left behind with their new teammates, and he would let her.

               And he let the noise of the world around him lull him into a quiet sense of serenity, a temporary sensation of stillness in his forever restless soul that went uninterrupted long enough that when he emerged from it, his broken and mended bones ached, the hot grain bag was cool, and his fingertips, ears, and nose stung from the chill.

               Two hours maybe.

               He was covered in powder white and when he shook himself, the wind swept in and carried it away.

               The rest of it would melt off once he was inside either the kitchens or the stables. One or the other would want his help.

               Is-There-Anything-I-Can-Help-With Shanedan.

               The ex-merc soldier who was never satisfied by just training or screwing off like other soldiers. In the absence of an assignment, a training demand, or his sister, he had to keep himself busy. Useful. Otherwise, what was he doing with his life?

               He could hear the soldiers that he passed, taller than most but never taller than any of his own kind. Runt was murmured like a curse behind his back among Qunari but at least he was no longer raas.

               Ore and Zese and Katria and Maltese and Ghorbash had made sure of that.

               “Shanedan.”

               He blinked in surprise as he became aware of a voice not far from him, catching him off guard and directing his attention that should have been focused, and he looked back to the speaker with his brows mildly raised.

               “I trust you ae not out here in the cold because the others chased you off?” His new team leader inquired, one of his meticulous brows arched. Careful. Like he was already considering actions to take place depending on Shane’s own answer.

               A breath and the vashoth shook his head, offering the Dalish the barest whisper of a smile on his lips that didn’t break the rest of his stotic face. A poker face worth playing, he had heard someone describe him. He could lie and no one would know. But Assan knew. Somehow she knew. “No, sir,” he answered. “I was simply meditating.”

               Hanin regarded him for a moment and Shanedan watched those green eyes of his flick over his face.

               He knew what he was looking for.

               The man he had heard many things about, some benign, most good, was looking for hints of a lie that was entirely absent.

               A hard-ass, most said, but Cullen held him in great faith. He wasn’t as cold as some soldiers grumbled he was. The way he had handled the remainder of training that morning had confirmed it as well.

               And then he nodded, glancing to the gentle snow that was still falling.

               “Do you often meditate in the snow?” He asked. “The barracks are usually empty during the afternoon. If you prefer.”

               A kindness he didn’t need to offer.

               And Shanedan allowed a little bit of emotion to soften his expression. “The open air is typically kinder to my goal than doing so inside. Sounds have room to move. It’s less distracting,” he explained, one of his ears twitching as he heard a snicker and a muttered curse of his breeding behind his back that he ignored as he always did. Some soldiers still didn’t think fondly of a qunari among the army, especially not one with a hot-headed sister who had a penchant for disobedience.

               Shanedan Shanedan, some Qunari liked to tease.

               They weren’t wrong.

               I-Hear-You Shanedan.

               Hanin frowned thoughtfully, “Sounds have room to move?” he repeated, his voice sounding curious. “When some meditate, they aim to block everything out. I take it you… listen instead?”

               Without his permission, his mouth turned upwards before he corrected it, making a smile more like a smirk appear and disappear fast enough that if Hanin blinked he might have missed it entirely. “Yes, sir, I do,” Shanedan explained, turning fully to his superior officer, folding his hands behind his back and clasping his own elbows, “It’s easier for me, like floating on one’s back rather than treading water.”

               One required nearly no effort, the other demanded constant effort.

               Meditation, Zese and Katria had explained to him, was supposed to be gentle. Flowing. Why struggle and risk being pulled under the water when you could simply relax and look to the sky instead?

               His new team leader seemed to accept this, and even appreciate it almost.

               “Very good, then. It is a wise habit to maintain. A soldier’s mind is as important as their body. Too many neglect it,” the elf said, shifting and Shanedan heard the snow crunch beneath Hanin’s feet. He saw a slight smile at the corner of Hanin’s mouth. “You are without your sister,” he noted, “Though I imagine she is not one for meditation.”

               “She is not,” Shanedan agreed. Assan found it impossible to sit still for longer than three minutes let alone be able to manage to match his own meditation routine that could sometimes extend to be a few hours. She also didn’t have any particular taste for brain exercises that he did. “Assan enjoys her banter and socializing more. Speaking of which,” he noted, his meditation-addled brain jarring itself awake with the fact, “she and I grew more acquainted with our team at breakfast.” There was no point telling Hanin about a second near-miss altercation with Cyrus. He didn’t doubt that he would eventually hear about it, either from conversation with another or it would be brought up should their talk continue.

               And it did.

               “That is good.” Hanin sounded pleased by the news Shanedan had shared. “It will take time for you to feel like a unit, being a young squad compared to others. The more time you dedicate to anything, the better.”

               “Such is the case with all things,” Shanedan agreed, his head tilting slightly with a thought, “My only hopes are that Assan will begin to follow your instructions without my reinforcement quickly.”

               A smirk seemed to flit across Hanin’s lips. “Indeed. As for your sister, Cullen informed me of the… nature of her transfer. I can be lenient at Skyhold while we train but I will not be on the battlefield when lives are at stake. I hope she is a swift learner. For all our sakes.”

               Shanedan wouldn’t have it any other way, as harsh as some might think that were. This place felt good, it felt like an odd sense of kindness to Shanedan, and he hoped that it would work out for her. His sister didn’t have any more chances after this squad. If she messed this up, she would be kicked out of the army and it wouldn’t matter if he liked Skyhold or not, it didn’t matter that his record was relatively unblemished and he had many more opportunities here, if she left, he would go with her and that would be the end of it.

               “I assure you that I will be paying attention on the battlefield to ensure there are no repeats of that event, sir.”

               Hanin watched him for a moment and then released a short breath. “There will come a time when you and Assan will need to be able to work independently. Building trust is what we try to do here.

               Speaking of trust, the thought that crossed Shanedan’s mind made his expression pinch slightly in resignation with an almost withheld sigh on his breath, “I also hope that she and Cyrus might avoid going completely teeth-and-claws at each other until then.”

               At the mention of Cyrus, Hanin snorted. “Those two will… clash. But while Cyrus will never admit it, he grows attached. Once the two of you have settled in, he will ease.” A pause and then a sigh that entirely mirrored Shanedan’s emotions on the matter, “Somewhat.”

               “I’m honestly surprised they don’t like each other more. They are two different brands of the same impossible stuff,” Shanedan sighed.

               Then a thought seized his brain so jarringly fast that it made Shanedan physically wince, his hold on his own expression laxing to restrained terror at the thought of Assan and Cyrus actually becoming friends and reigning terror upon Skyhold with the more assholish side of their personalities. “Please forget I said that, Divines, that would be bad.”

               This time Hanin snorted in amusement, his arms folding across his armored chest and he shook his head. “They say people can be too similar and that in itself can cause conflict. Particularly when the similarities are combative ones.”

               Wasn’t that for certain…

               A smirk tugged at the corner of Hanin’s mouth, briefly drawing Shanedan’s attention to the scar that caught the edge of his lower lip before going up no higher than the bottom of his nose all before the vashoth’s eyes went back to his team leader’s face.

               Ralon had a scar similar, further to the corner of his mouth than Hanin’s and it went halfway up his cheek, partnered with a small one on his nose. There was just something that drew his attention to those scars. Maybe it was the location? Mouths were so unique after all. Voices too.

               Hanin had a nice one.

               “But yes, I agree. The two of them would be… difficult.”

               Shanedan allowed his shoulders to relax, letting out an almost nervous breath. “Hopefully the altercations will die down quickly between them. I don’t believe the rest of the team would appreciate our moving into the squad’s barracks just to end up listening to the makings of a fist-fight in progress. Although I think it would be good sparring practice for both of them,” he added as an afterthought. Let them blow off some steam, potentially work out their differences. It would have to be refereed appropriately of course, otherwise things could go badly.

               His squad leader raised his chin, giving a slight hum in agreement. “A step ahead, I see why your sister would trust you so deeply.”

               That is hardly a step ahead, Shanedan thought, keeping his expression trained. Assan’s trust in him came from years of devotion, not mediating her fights with whoever she happens to butt heads with.

               “They will spar, and they will do it on my watch. Outside of that, well. I can only hope it will not come to that,” Hanin stated, his expression growing sterner, “I won’t have my squad turning on one another off the field. Part of being a soldier is restraint. It can be a tough lesson to learn, particularly in challenging company.”

               And Assan and Cyrus were certainly challenging to each other’s company…

               “I will try to make sure it never gets to that point.” A slight and very sly smile crossed his lips as amusement reached his eyes, “Jabs at them flirting with each other seem to work thus far,” Shanedan decided to share, a fact that made Hanin laugh.

               “An interesting tactic. I am not one to turn down what works. Whatever keeps them in line.”

               It did work, and that was what mattered.

               Shanedan let out a breath, his thoughts turning away from the conversation.

               It was cold and idly standing there, even if it was being spent speaking to his squad leader, made him feel rather useless. Perhaps…

               “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, is there anything I can help with?”

               Is-There-Anything-I-Can-Help-With Shanedan, at your service indeed.

               The request seem to take Hanin aback, as though he hadn’t expected it. A long moment of stillness between their eyes and Hanin cleared his throat. “I… yes,” he said, sounding a little distracted as though he was rifling through his thoughts for just what Shanedan wanted, “There is new equipment at the blacksmith’s forge that needs to be moved to the armory. I was just heading there.”

               “I will help if you would like” the vashoth offered peacefully.

               “By all means. Come. The master smith does not take well to tardiness.”

               Wasn’t that a fact that Shanedan had become familiar with over the last month…

               With a simple motion, slight bend at the waist, mild turn of the wrist, he allowed Hanin to lead on, following easily. His boots gave noise that would have been otherwise absent otherwise.

               For a time, they walked in silence that both of them seemed to be mutually at home with, although it did not surprise Shanedan when Hanin decided to speak. “What are you and Assan hoping to get out of this?” he inquired when they climbed the stairs to the Great Hall. “People join the cause for various reasons. What’s yours?”

               And the Qunari held his own silence a bit longer before he replied.

               “Assan came because I suggested we come,” he stated. He had heard much about the Inquisition and the fight that they were leading to protect people. It paid as well. It offered a sense of security. “Assan wanted to fight, so that’s what she’s doing. My goal in joining the inquisition’s army was in hopes of ensuring stability for my sister’s life.”

               His eyes flicked over Hanin.

               He was his squad leader and he had asked.

               There was no point in omitting facts like that.

               “In case anything happens to me.”

               If anything he had heard about Hanin was true, then the elvish man would not miss the weight of his goal.

               “Both are fine goals,” he said after a moment, glancing over to meet Shanedan’s grey eyes. His eyes seemed soft almost, “Ones to be proud of. They will serve you well.” There was a brief pause before Hanin added, “War is a dangerous business. There are no guarantees, as I am sure I do not need to tell you. But you are under my command now albeit against your will. Your sister’s life, and yours, weigh equal to me.” Hanin pushed the door open to the storage area of the forge as he stated, “The bond of family—blood or chosen—is worth protecting. I, too, would not see it broken.” And then their eyes met, as though that would be enough for him.

               And although Shanedan had faith in him and his words, there was still a part of him that wanted to see those words come into action. A part of him that wondered if they were really true.

               A doubt that had he had never been able to shake in other people.

               It wasn’t anything against Hanin.

               Shanedan had just learned far too well what happened when you put too much trust in other people too early on.

               He had scars to prove it.

               “Against my sister’s will, yes, but not against mine, Hanin,” the vashoth decided to state, his voice gentle yet firm, stormcloud grey gaze absolutely unwavering with his team leader.

               He was his sister’s tag-along after all. He had chosen to transfer with her rather than remain in his previous squad, a squad he could have stayed in but chose otherwise. It was not a completely awful thing to transfer considering the fact that Assan and Shanedan both thought that their previous squad leader was rather incompetent to his duties.

               “I heard good things about you and what you are doing with your squad,” Shanedan continued, words calm and steady as his gaze, “Things that I was able to confirm not only during training this morning but at breakfast as well.”

               But there were other things he wanted to confirm as well, things Hanin probably didn’t know Shane would be judging him on, particularly on the battlefield. Respect and compliance were different than trust and only a great few people had ever earned Shanedan’s complete trust. Warfare was Shanedan’s playground and he had hopes that this team leader might have the chance to be one of them.

               “I appreciate that, Shanedan. We all do what we can for the cause and for the people we serve alongside.”

               Stepping into the forge storage, Hanin and Shanedan both picked up a crate, Hanin grunting from the weight while Shanedan maintained his silence, his expressions straining for a moment and Hanin shoved the door back open, holding it open for the Qunari and then they walked to the armory.

               “Before we continue further with your training, is there anything about you or your sister that it would be best I know?” the squad leader inquired.

               It was hard to talk and keep his breath level at the same time and for a moment Shanedan felt a little envious at Hanin’s strength, he didn’t seem half as bothered by the weight as Shanedan personally felt he himself was. Swallowing, he said shortly, “Assan’s impatience is her main issue. She’s strong but her technique is lacking a bit. Observation as well. And her footing isn’t stable when she’s not on flat ground,” he informed his companion, reminding himself of his breathing, “As for myself, there will always be things I could be significantly better at.”

               “I see. And what things do you seek to improve.”

               Sweat on Shanedan’s hands weren’t helping with his traction and he adjusted his grip on the crate. “Strength for one. Stamina. Endurance. I would like to improve my hand-to-hand as well.”

               His stamina and his hand-to-hand wasn’t really something that he needed to polish as they were two of his most proficient skills right alongside blocking and dodging but there was always room for improvement. What he really wanted to improve was disarming his opponent but why not improve all of it?

               It wasn’t as though he had exposed all his cards to Hanin yet with that spar against Cyrus.

               Only Assan knew all the tricks he had up his sleeve. Anyone could be an enemy.

               “I had a feeling,” he heard Hanin say. “You are already fast and precise. Strength and stamina make the most sense.” He saw Hanin shift the crate a little higher in his arms. “Just as well you offered to tag along. As far as endurance goes, this is decent training in and of itself.”

               “I could be better at those too,” Shanedan said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice as his jaw started to clench a little.

               “Of course. There is room for improvement for all of us regardless of how skilled we may be. But it is also important to acknowledge our strengths or we forget we have them. Pushing yourself is well and good but punishing yourself is not. With anything, if you take it too far, you will only cause yourself pain. That will set you back.”

               Those words sounded oddly a lot like the ones Ore and Maltese would tell him. Strange to think it had already been thirteen years since they died.

               Shane said nothing, his attention mostly on adjusting his grip so he didn’t drop the crate, the muscles attached to his collarbone protesting this exercise and making his brows pinch together.

               Pausing on the path, Hanin lowered his crate onto one of the low posts of the fence, giving Shanedan the grateful opportunity to do the same so they could stretch and shake out their muscles that had begun to tighten and burn.

               “I forget, sometimes, how large Skyhold truly is,” Hanin said, sounding like a confession, “Perhaps I am just unused to walls and towers. Viewed from the outside, they always made everything seem so… confined.”

               Leaning on the crate, Shane stretched his fingers out individually, knuckles cracking as he flexed each digit one by one. No doubt if he wanted to continue lifting crates and traveling distances like this he would have to get some gloves, his traction was so poor. Looking up at the towers, he remembered something absently about forts, all forts including Skyhold.

               “Have you ever noticed the stairs in towers are astonishingly uneven?” he asked Hanin as he steadied his own breathing. When the elf looked, he gave a slight smile, feeling wise as he explained, “They’re designed that way so that the occupants of the fort, who are used to them, will ascend quickly while attacking foreigners will struggle against them.”

               Hanin glanced back towards the towers, an eyebrow arched. “Huh. Here I just assumed time had worn them down or they had been made poorly to begin with.”

               Technically speaking, they had been poorly made but as it turned out, it worked in the disadvantage of anyone who was aiming to attack. One’s environment helped evolve habits after all.

               “Who taught you that?”

               “I noticed it when I was young; every fort I had been in had uneven stairs in the towers,” he admitted. “Zese, my teacher, eventually asked an architect for me.”

               He had been eight back then.

               Assan had still been a baby.

               “A keen eye for detail and the curiosity to pursue it. If only more people shared those traits.”

               He sounded pleased.

               And for a moment, Shanedan allowed himself to feel a little proud.

               “I had the chance to ask questions and get answers, so I did.”

               They picked up their crates to begin the final stretch towards the armory, walking side by side this time.

               “You spent much of your time in forts?”

               “Assan and I were raised by a group of mercenaries. We traveled a lot.”

               “A difficult experience, I imagine. But one that made you and your sister who you are. Do you have any family other than each other?”

               A smile like a wince tugged at Shane’s lips and disappeared.

               “No,” he answered quietly. “We’re all we have left.”

               “I see. I’m sorry.”

               Shane wished people would stop saying I’m sorry.

               “It was the risk they chose when they decided to become mercenaries. It was the risk we agreed to when we decided to follow in their footsteps. By being here, maybe the cycle will change for us.”

               He couldn’t recall how many times he had told himself that over the years.

               It had almost become a mantra at that point.

               “Very well. Your point stands true, but you are still allowed to miss them.”

               And he did.

               Reaching the armory, Hanin shoved the door open, propping it open with his body and Shane stepped inside to deposit his crate, pushing it into place and then taking Hanin’s crate from him so as to spare his fellow soldier the trouble.

               With a breath of relief, Hanin relaxed, “Some of the other squads were tasked to fetch the other crates as part of their daily chores, so we can save ourselves another trip.”

               For that, Shanedan was eternally grateful.

               Together, they stepped back out into the cold open air and Shanedan felt some form of mild surprise when he felt Hanin’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you for your help. I appreciated the company.”

               The Qunari spared him a smile. “I’m glad to help. If you ever need any assistance, just ask.”

               There was a light squeeze and then Hanin let go. “As you were then. And if anyone gives you or your sister trouble, you can always come to me.”

               The offer was surprisingly sweet. Comforting. And a thankful smile touched Shanedan’s lips.

               “Thank you, Hanin, I will.”

               As they parted ways, Shanedan realized with some slight annoyance that he had been too focused on the conversation and hadn’t been able to figure out Hanin’s walking pattern. Next time perhaps. And Shanedan made his ways to the kitchens where three buckets of potatoes were waiting for him to peel for today’s lunch.

               Peacefully, he weathered through the cook’s scolding for not showing up sooner and then he went to work.

               And that was enough for him.

               He would do what he could here and then he would find Assan and they would move their things out of their previous barracks and into the Dawn Squad’s. There would be less privacy and he would be more hard-pressed to change the bandages that covered the worst of his insecurities without being spotted but he had time to figure it out. He would burn that bridge when he crossed it.

               Was that the right idiom?

[smeefblog]

Saw these running around and thought I should do one.

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