#hard thing too is how GOOD the fics for bull/Cullen or all three of them are like it makes me feel like I’m standing among giants BUT at

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Reread a favorite bull/Cullen/Dorian fic ( exit light) and now i feel a desperate need to work on my own fics bc i love this ship so much and I want to contribute my own takes on it and my own different style of story

[crossdressingdeath]

something in trespasser that really got to me was like. the lack of reactions from the companions until the anchor is too bad to ignore. obviously some of them did notice (sera, bull for sure, probably cole too) but to me it seemed like certain companions (varric, cassandra, cullen) forgot or ignored that the quiz being “Herald of Andraste/The Inquisitor” didn’t mean that the anchor was a threat to their life from the beginning. it certainly feeds into the feeling that quiz has to play those roles, part of which is because of the expectations of their companions! anyways id love to hear your thoughts about the anchor in trespasser, this is giving me so many angsty fic ideas

The way I see it, Bioware had four options re the cast reacting to the Anchor. One: no one notices, Quiz does a good job of hiding it until they can't anymore. Two, my personal favourite: everyone notices, Quiz is not doing as good a job of hiding it as they think they are but no one knows how to raise the topic and/or doesn't want to risk causing problems for the Inquisition during the Council and so keeps quiet; this is where we get into things like Sera's "Don't say their hand looks bad, it looks really bad" journal entry. Three, everyone notices and talks about it because hey, when your friend looks like shit you kind of want to ask about that. Four, only some of the cast notices but it's the ones who were already established as being particularly observant (Bull, Cole, maybe Vivienne) or who have been present the whole time (the advisors) and Quiz's LI (since by Trespasser it would be pretty difficult to do any sort of "character with the highest approval" thing a la IHW given by this point in the game you're liable to have maxed out a lot of the companions). Bioware chose... none of these. For reasons. It leads to a bunch of the characters feeling incredibly callous, because... for example, if Sera notices that Quiz is seriously messed up on the first day of the Council, why do the advisors—who've been with Quiz the whole time—not seem to notice anything's wrong until the Anchor starts going off during meetings? Are they completely oblivious to the fact that Quiz is in fact still a person with mortal limits, or do they just not care?

Anyway, though, the Anchor. This is absolutely not canon since Bioware is allergic to acknowledging that being the Inquisitor is not a good thing even when it lets you-as-Quiz clearly be so completely done with this role it's not even funny (I'll never be over how all the angry responses boil down to calling Orlais and Ferelden ungrateful and not "How dare you force me to keep to this role after it was no longer needed" but that's a whole other thing), but it's like... the Anchor is literally tearing Quiz apart from the inside out, but if your Inquisitor is unwilling, or even just tired and ready to stop, just being the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste would be tearing them apart just as much, just metaphorically instead of literally. Everything about this situation is killing Quiz! The game focuses on the physical impact of the Anchor, but unless your Quiz is all for playing head of a bunch of heretics who expect them to be a good little Andrastian forever the mental and emotional strain of the whole situation would be just as bad. Especially if you consider the added stress of Quiz thinking that even if they survive the Anchor their only reward will be... continuing to be the Inquisitor indefinitely. Hard to really want to survive your agonizing, apparently unavoidable death when all you're getting is more of being crammed into a position you hate.

[other-cullen-ficrecs]

DA January Challenge: Day 13 - Breathless.

Pairing: (pre) Cullen/Krem Warnings/Additional Tags: talking about bad binding habits, fluff, crush, mentions of dysphoria Summary: This fic is specially dedicated to my new binder which is awesome but also one day will probably break me in half.  

Krem ignored his back pain with years of practice when he went to sleep but it was becoming more of an issue when it refused to go away in the morning. He tried stretching out as subtly as possible but Stitches eyes were immediately on him.

"Your back is bothering you?"

"It's nothing, don't worry about it," Krem said quickly, sitting up straight and ignoring Stitches' unimpressed look.

"We've talked about this, Krem. You need to be more careful."

"It's fine! I've done the same thing for years in the army and it was... alright. Oh, stop worrying. I'm just no longer used to it!"

"And a few years older with more injuries on your record and a longer history of abusing your upper body."

Krem frowned.

"... Are you calling me old?"

"You will always be a child to me," Bull assured him walking into the room just to start a day with a good breakfast and an impressive eye-roll from his favourite lieutenant.

"Thanks, chief."

Stitches would not be derailed.

"He's playing a dangerous game with his binding again."

"Now that sounds more like me than Krem."

"Leave him be," Rocky tuned in and now apparently it was an all-Chargers issue.

Just a usual mercenary business. Meet in the tavern's backroom for breakfast and talk shop so everyone stays updated. Chief just returned from three weeks long mission with the Inquisitor, Stitches needed volunteers to drag to the woods and collect herbs, they finally received the payment for their last job in Orlais, and oh, yeah, Krem was binding too tight and for too long.

"He came back after last training with the recruits panting like a dog, he could barely catch a breath."

"Oh, now I'm old and out of shape."

"Binding this tightly for the whole day while sparing and training recruits is just dangerous. Maker's breath, I'm your healer, not a nanny. You know this perfectly well. Either cut hours and take breaks for breathing or just skip full binding and keep the armour for..." Stitches finally lost the momentum of his rant and gestured vaguely with his hand, "You know."

"Aesthetics?" Rocky suggested helpfully making Grimm snicker.

"But his armour doesn't show off his ass," Skinner protested and Krem pointed at her happily seeing someone was finally on his side before he realized what she said.

"No, wait, what? That- That doesn't have anything to do with this."

"You're showing off and you know it."

"I- No!"

"For Maker's sake, you've shown off enough," grumbled Stitches. "Just tell him."

"Waiting for him to make a move might take a while," Dalish agreed sympathetically.

Krem carefully made sure not to look at the Iron Bull who was oddly quiet and his eye just kept moving between them, clearly catching on the developments he missed while he was stuck at Wounded Coast with the Inquisitor. Oh well, he came back with a Vint boyfriend from one of those trips. Let's see how he felt on the other end of that bargain.

Not that Krem had a boyfriend.

"It's not so easy and you very well know it."

"Sure it is," assured Stitches. "You go and say, hello handsome, do you like the look of me in this armour? I look even better without it and when I can actually breathe. - Wait can you actually speak that long once you're panting like a dog?"

"Stick to short sentences," advised Skinner.

"It's not that easy because he most likely doesn't like guys. And if he doesn't like guys then he won't like me. Or worse, he will like me despite not liking guys. And he might already know this or he might not know about me and he doesn't know why he likes me despite me being a guy and when he finds out it will be really awkward. Or maybe he does like guys and it will only be worse."

Finally, there was a moment of silence around the table.

"Going on a limb here, since I clearly missed a bit of foreplay, but is it possible you've been overthinking it a little, oh Krem de la Creme?"

"Absolutely not! I was very careful to overthink it A LOT."

Bull snorted and patted him on the back, careful to avoid any extra painful spots but paused quickly seeing how Krem tensed already and winced in pain. He just looked down at him and Krem sighed.

"I know, I know. I'll just wear armour today."

"And tell your boy you wanna do him over his desk," suggested Rocky.

"All in good time," assured Bull as Krem just threw cheese at the dwarf.

-

"Krem? A word?"

Krem ran a hand over his forehead, wiping off the sweat. He nodded, already moving towards Cullen who stood unobtrusively next to the training ground. Just Krem's luck to actually speak with the Commander when his armour didn't lay on him exactly as he would prefer. Logically he knew the soldiers would have to try hard to even notice but logic rarely was able to battle the tricks his mind tried to play on him. At least, he cheered himself, he had some breath to speak with.

"Commander?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were in good health, you seemed... unwell, yesterday."

Krem winced. So much for his aches and pains being easily managed and hidden.

"I'm fine," he assured, thinking fast and looking up at Cullen.

The man didn't seem worried like Stitches did, Stitches was a friend and a healer and knew better than anyone how far Krem could push his spine and ribs when he felt worse about his torso. Still, Cullen didn't look like a commanding officer annoyed that he will need to replace the man he talked with. He was frowning at Krem, his gaze focused and serious as if he was faced with the most important problem. As if it barely mattered if he was thinking the strategy to take on Corypheus' general or making sure Krem was alright.

Krem sighed, the whole daydreaming and overthinking could only go so far. And if Cullen turned out to be a dick about it, he could probably just knock him out on his ass. And if he couldn't, Chief would. It wouldn't do them any favours but Bull punched more important people for smaller offences. Krem squared down his shoulders, looking nonchalantly away as if it was just another calm chat they had leaning on the training rings' rails. Best techniques to train fresh recruits, tactics for fighting with and against mages, running training with your chest wrapped tightly enough to bruise...

"I overdid it a bit with binding my chest. Don't worry, I already had a talking to with Stitches... It was just a while since I was this close to being in the army, I think my old habits of trying extra hard came out." Cullen was blinking at him, clearly surprised and Krem bit down on a sigh and went for a reassuring smile instead. "Don't worry about it, Commander."

So much for the crush.

Cullen looked away from him as well. His hand going to his neck as he scratched it awkwardly.

"I-" he coughed. "Of course. I- We can also plan the training better, so you could have sufficient breaks."

"There's no need, I am perfectly capable-"

Cullen just raised his hand to silence him.

"I've no doubt. However training new recruits, while crucial to our cause, is not a task that cannot be scheduled in a better way. We may yet need you soon on a battlefield, I would rather not risk your abilities being limited then due to back pain or breathing issues."

Krem just stared, nodding slowly.

"It's a bit jarring how I went from being kicked out of the army for this," he said with a somewhat confused smile, "to having training rescheduled around me for my comfort. Templars get some special inclusiveness training or something?"

Cullen snorted, flashing him a smile. His hand clenched nervously around his swords handle.

"Hardly. Templars..." He paused and looked at Krem again as if he was trying to decide on what to say and looking for a suggestion. He sighed quietly and continued in a slightly lower voice: "Templars are not allowed to ask a healer to change their bodies in a major way until they're eighteen and completed their vows. There.... There's a lot of training before that."

He licked his lips nervously but his gaze never wavered from Krem, urging him to understand the unspoken implications. Krem nodded shortly, his eyes wide in surprise. He smiled brightly seeing the relief on Cullen's face. If any lingering recruits passed them and saw them smiling at each other silently for a long moment, they were smart enough to just keep walking.

[sinsbymanka]

Wicked Grace: Cadash/Varric

FLUFFUARY DAY 5: Kiss on the Forehead

THIS NEVER MADE IT INTO MY MAIN CADASH/VARRIC FIC OKAY AND I’M STILL UPSET.

Varric, unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, sat through too many games of strip wicked grace to be surprised by how the tables had turned. He nonchalantly looked up from his hand, but he wasn’t able to stiffle his chuckle as Curly grew steadily more and more beet red from the tips of his ears the whole way to, Varric guessed but would not date confirm, his bare ass pressed against the bench.

“Don’t say a word, dwarf.” Cullen snarled as effectively as he could while sitting in all his Maker-given glory and nothing else. 

“I tried to warn you, Curly.” Varric laughed. From across the table, Maria’s eyes glimmered joyfully. She had her head resting on Dorian’s shoulder and Cullen’s...cape, thing, around her shoulders. She’d been pleased to win it from Josephine. Cullen had been hopeful she’d give it back to him, but their Inquisitor was just as merciless as their Ambassador.

“Never bet against an Antivan, Commander.” Josephine pulled the last pot towards her with a flourish of her ruffled sleeves. The good news, Varric reminded himself as he folded his own abysmal hand, was that most of the time the clever little Ambassador was on their side. 

Cassandra pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against stone as she scoffed. “I’m leaving.” 

“So soon, Cass?” Maria lifted her head from Dorian’s shoulder. 

“I don’t want to witness our Commander’s walk of shame back to the barracks.” 

“Well, I do!” Dorian perked up immediately, lifting his glass of cheap wine to his mustache with a sly, predatory grin that made Cullen flush all the more crimson. In fact, Varric would hazard to say the shade nearly matched Maria’s scarlet hair. 

“Inquisitor...” Cullen pleaded helplessly. Maria shook her head quickly, a corner of her smile curling her lips. 

“Don’t Inquisitor me. You got yourself into this mess.” 

“It comes off.” Cole reached out to touch the furred mantle over Maria’s shoulders with an air of bewilderment. “I didn’t know it came off...”

Laughter broke across the table, Maria slammed her head down on the table, shoulders wracked with mirth as Josephine stood up with complete, elegant nonchalance. She picked up both Cullen’s shirt and breeches, threw them over her arm, and began to sashay away.

Varric stood as well, the spell breaking over the assembled group. Chairs pushed back, coin clinked, last sips of ale and wine thrown into open mouths. The only three still sitting were Maria, the Iron Bull, and Cullen. Maria raised her silver eyes from the table and slowly spun out of the chair, turning her back on the poor commander with an amused toss of her head. 

Cullen pushed his chair back so violently it clattered to the floor. The only sight Varric caught of him was freckled pale flesh dashing up the stairs behind Josephine. 

“To Cullen!” Bull cheered, raising the last of his ale and downing it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, stretching. Varric shook his head while Maria drifted to his side, the rest of the group scattering. Bull cast a meaningful glance in Varric’s direction as he too ascended the steps. 

“I’m glad you came along for the ride, Princess.” Varric grinned into her face, flushed rosy with laughter and the spiced ale she favored. Maria made a small, non committal noise in her throat and looked into the flickering flames. A small armchair, just the right size for her to curl up in and get lost, stood just to the right. She leaned back against the chair, watching him with those striking eyes. 

“How’d you know I needed this tonight?” She asked quietly. 

“Well, typically, I know everything.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Although I confess, it’s not hard to tell. We’ve been back at Skyhold getting ready for this damn Orlesian nonsense for months. You get this little wrinkle between your eyes every time someone bows and calls you Lady Cadash.” 

As if to illustrate his point, her brows drew together and she glared at him playfully. “See!” He waved with a beaming grin. “Just like that.” 

“Varric...” She warned softly. He sighed, adopted an air of weary martyrdom as he sidled around her, dropped himself into the armchair so she had to twist to look down at him from her perch on the armrest. He patted his thigh with an arched brow. 

She considered it for a moment, but only for a brief one before she slid effortlessly into his lap. He hadn’t been sure she would, had half-thought she’d smack him for presumption. 

He hadn’t quite expected his body to react to her so viscerally. His arm moved on his own, curling around her soft waist, the thin cotton shirt warmed from a combination of her own heat and the fire in front of them. He wanted to dip his nose to the dip of her neck, to inhale greedily the scent of leather and spices, elfroot and alchemy. 

“It’s easy to forget you’re not just an icon. A symbol. Like those statues of Andraste holding bowls of fire. It’s easier when we’re out of Skyhold, when it’s just our people out in camp or trekking through whatever blighted wasteland you drag us to.” 

“You’re the only person I’ve heard refer to the Emerald Graves as a blighted wasteland, Varric.” She reprimanded with a mischevious grin. 

“Roots the size of us, Princess!” He exclaimed, horrified. “And you nearly had to scrape me off a giant’s foot.” 

“I saved you.” She reminded him with a fond roll of her eyes. “So stop your whining.” 

“That’s the gift of being the storyteller. In my version, I heroically dash in and rescue you from becoming toe fungus.” 

“So very grateful for the assist, Serah.” Maria purred, shifting in his lap so she could wrap both her arms around his neck, still encased in the leather gloves she hardly removed. 

He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself. He stole a glance at her brilliant eyes and found himself breathless in the face of them. She frowned, in concentration, while she peered into his face.

For a moment, he feared she’d see everything there. The heartache, the loneliness, the disappointment. 

For a dizzying second, he almost hoped she would. 

“Do you?” She asked 

“Do I...?” He sounded like a blighted idiot, a nug-brained kid with a girl for the first damn time, but Ancestors help him he couldn’t figured out what she was talking about. 

“Do you forget I’m a real person?” She whispered. 

He’d been beside her through deserts and battles, swamps and rain-drenched coast, through her worst nightmares in the Fade, through his. And she couldn’t be real, his mind protested, because she was certainly too brilliant, too brave, too kind to be real. 

And yet, Maria Cadash perched in his lap. Warm, alive, no figure of stone holding a bowl of flames. 

“No.” He admitted. “Even though I probably should, Maria.” 

The smile that broke over her face could have dimmed the sun in comparison. It lit her up from within and she swooped closer to him, her lips touching his forehead tenderly, sweetly. “Thank you. For this, for tonight, for... for everything.” 

[seraphym100]

Okay beloved readers, I need your help.

I’ve gotten myself into a teeny bit of stickiness. Oh, dear. No pun intended.

The thing is, I ship too many ships. And I have too many OCs. And I really, really like sex but here’s the thing it’s always so complicated between my characters and while that is a really great thing (for me, anyway), it leads to long story arcs and slow burns and now I have three of them going on...

It’s not that it’s hard for me to keep track of them... not in the least. It’s that I have too many options and for the last few days I’ve found myself going back and forth between them - writing a lot, but never actually completing a polished chapter. I want to keep this wonderful momentum I’ve found and I’m afraid I’m going to landlock myself here pretty soon.

So here’s how you can help. I’m going to link all three... oh shit I just realized there are four... okay, all four stories that I have been working on. Whichever one gets the most attention (metrics will be hits/comments/kudos) over the next week will be the one I focus on until I finish it. I know I can make this promise because I know the one I’m having the most trouble with is the one that will get the least attention, so that works out fine!

Without further ado:

Stronger Than She Feels and Leave it Locked are both part of my as-yet-unnamed Solavellan longfiction with Silvhen. This work has lots and lots of it written already, I just need to get serious about cleaning it up and posting it once I’ve figured out how to put these two together as separate chapters of one work. It’s my most ambitious project and also the one I’m having the most trouble with. Canon/lore issues.

Snow is a tiny chapter of my also-unnamed Cullenxf!Inquisitor fic featuring my very first OC, Evanis. She’s a mage who knows nothing of the Circle because her mother hid Evanis’ magic rather than lose her daughter. Evanis began to lose her hearing in childhood. The Inquisition, the War, and vanquishing Corypheus would have been hard enough, but by the time she is called upon to lead the Inquisition, Evanis knows she will eventually be deaf. The best part of this story for me is how little it matters. I love the relationship between Cullen and Evanis so much. Zero pity. I’ve written the least for this one.

Working Title: We’ll Regret This My Lady is my BlackwallxCadash romance and ohhh, it’s really delicious fluff & angst. I’ve messed up the Ao3 format with this one too, because there’s another sort of chapter but it’s posted as a separate work. Anyway, I have this one maybe one-quarter written and I already know the ending which is a super-bonus plus for me. It just hasn’t gotten a great deal of attention and I find myself worried that it’s been done better elsewhere.

Which brings me to my latest endeavour, The Campaign for Aevrienne, which, holy shit. Not at all what I am used to writing and frankly, far too ambitious for my skills as a writer, but I have caught feelings hard for The Iron Bull (I read a whole bunch of expository lore articles on his character and just omg). It’s dark, probably darker than Solas and Silvhen’s story, honestly. I want to explore the dichotomies in Bull’s character by highlighting them in an unusual way. But I will admit I’m not going to do a good job.

So there they are! Four stories I’m dying to write, causing a lovely pile-up in the intersection of Imagine It Street and Write It Avenue. I’m looking forward to it coming down to a simple vote-by-interaction to determine which one to finish first! So please, please, please, I’d so appreciate your comments and kudos this week!

[buttsonthebeach]

The Last Game, Pt. 1

I have the distinct honor of announcing that I am working on a new type of commission with @scharoux! I have been trusted to write a long fic commission featuring Rhaella and Solas. I am aiming for around 25,000 words total for this commission, and the price is essentially a discount on commissioning that many full scenes.

Other fics/commissions in the series:

1. All Things Green and Growing

2. The Same Kind of Scar

3. World Without End (this picks up directly after it)

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 6/8/19)

This kind of commission is not currently open since I want to give Rhaella and Solas the attention they deserve, but I hope to open commissions for longer fics again in the future. I will post about the process in greater detail when I do :)

Pairing: Rhaella Lavellan x Solas

Rating: Teen for vague sexual references; rating will go up in the future. TW for discussions of what to do about an unplanned pregnancy, but they are extremely vague.

Scharoux has already drawn art for this one!!!

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

1.

The sickness came on so suddenly that Rhaella barely had a chance to get somewhere private to empty her stomach. She was in a daze as she crossed through Skyhold’s lower courtyard, it was true, but she’d been in a daze more or less since she returned from the Crossroads. Since she’d last felt the touch of Solas’s hand on her skin. Really, hadn’t she been in a daze since she first uttered the words you are Fen’Harel, standing there in the Crossroads, seeing the man she loved clearly for the first time?

Being in a daze and being suddenly sick to her stomach were two different things, though. She was only just processing the idea, standing there in the shade of the smithy, when her stomach heaved again. And again. And then a fourth time, nothing but bile. Her head was swimming and the whole world was swaying and she knew, distantly, that she should be more worried than she was about this turn of events, but a numbness had come with the haze of the last eight weeks too.

“Rhaella? Rhaella, what’s happening?”

Cullen, looming large behind her, one broad hand already on her back. Rhaella’s stomach heaved but nothing came up this time. That anything had come up at all was something of a miracle to her. She’d barely eaten anything that morning.

“Maker - Rhaella, sit down. Here.” He’d pushed her gently onto a nearby barrell, the only seating nearby. Now his hand was on her forehead, testing her temperature. “You aren’t too feverish. Have you been training down here again? I told you that you are pushing yourself too hard. You have to see reason, Rhaella. Your body can’t handle this after all it has been through. Did you hear me?”

At that her focus snapped back. She glared up at him, willing the full force of her authority to the fore.

“I will not be treated like a child, least of all by the commander of my forces.”

Cullen set his jaw.

“As the one supervising your new training program, I’d like to think I have some say.”

“You weren’t there,” Rhaella said, rising, pretending her head did not swim at that simple motion, that her stomach did not lurch as if she had fallen from a great height, that she did not suddenly want to lie down and sleep for as long as possible, though it wasn’t even noon. “You didn’t see them. The librarians of the Vir’Dirthara. My companions have gone, the Inquisition is disbanded in name and half its forces are gone, and I am the only one who stands a chance of finding-”

She could not say his name. Saying his name would bring to life a dozen memories of that in-between place where he’d brought her after she nearly died, of the anger and then the whispered words. It would bring back the memory of skin gliding on skin in the dark, the sound of waterfalls, the sent of lavender. She did not look away from Cullen, even in that awkward pause.

“I cannot afford to be caught off guard like that again. I have to be ready for whatever comes. And with my other arm missing, I need to work twice as hard to get twice as good. No matter the cost.”

Cullen threw his hands up. “Andraste preserve us. You are stubborn as a mule.”

“I am your leader, even if I am not Inquisitor any longer. You don’t get to give me orders.”

Cullen looked at her then, a sad, soft look that said many things. Things Rhaella did not want to hear. There was a warmth in his gold-brown eyes that always made her look away from him - an intensity in them that she could not match, that frightened her.

“As your friend,” he said, gentling his tone a little. “I must insist that you ease off on this excessive training. I cannot be good for you. You are pale, you are sick, you are sleeping too much. I worry for you.”

Rhaella began to walk away from him, back towards the Keep.

“I do not need your worry.”

Cullen, of course, followed, then cut in front of her, blocking her path.

“Go see the surgeon, or the apothecary - I don’t care who. I will leave you alone if you do.”

“How about I go to one of the mages instead?” she retorted, knowing it was a low blow, still satisfied to see his grimace. He’d come a long way in his views on magic, but he had further still to go.

“The surgeon is closer. Come. I’ll walk you there. Please?”

Cullen Rutherford was a good man. He was still here, even after everything, even after people like Varric and Sera and Dorian and Bull and Thom had gone. Rhaella sighed, and let him lead.

The infirmary was emptier than it had been in the Inquisition’s heyday, and to Rhaella’s annoyance the surgeon was able to see her at once. The woman felt Rhaella’s head for fever, ran her knuckles along her jaw and just below her collarbone, looking for swollen glands common in illnesses. She asked about rashes, diet, sleep habits. Then she finally pursed her lips and said.

“Your monthly courses, your grace - have they been regular?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaella could see Cullen’s face reddening. She thought back, trying to remember the last one she’d had. Her memory was gray as the sky outside was. It would snow later that day. She could feel it in her bones.

“I can’t remember to be honest. Maybe three months ago? Maybe two?”

The surgeon glanced at Cullen, who was shifting back and forth from one foot to the other now, and then back at Rhaella. She cleared her throat.

“And have you lain with anyone in that time?”

Rhaella looked away. Not out of embarrassment, but because the words brought up that awful surge of perfect memories. Her and Solas and their world apart. The world he’d cast her out of so abruptly, still so mired in his foolish notions of justice and duty that he could not allow either of them the happiness they needed.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Cullen broken in, voice strained.

Rhaella merely met the surgeon’s eyes, and nodded once.

The surgeon reached out towards her stomach. “May I?”

Rhaella nodded, and the woman pressed her fingertips into Rhaella’s lower belly, feeling around.

“Your grace,” the surgeon said, keeping her voice as calm as possible. “Based on the illness, the exhaustion, the lack of appetite - I believe you are with child.”

Cullen turned on his heel and disappeared out the door, the suddenness of his movement causing a cold rush of wind to brush against Rhaella’s cheek. The temperature outside was dropping further and further. It really was going to snow later, possibly a good deal.

And she was carrying Solas’s child.

She’d have expected the words to come as a hot shock, to pierce the numbness his absence had woven around her like a funeral shroud. Instead it thickened the fog in her mind, made her words come slow and dumb from her lips.

“Thank you. I should be going.”

Pregnant. She supposed they hadn’t bothered with contraception, had they? It hadn’t been on her mind. There had been only Solas, the undying need to have him closer, closer, closer, to match up all their scars and see if they could both find some sort of healing in one another. It had been the most real thing that had ever happened to her, and yet it had also happened in another world, one where some part of her assumed all the rules were suspended. But it was clear now that this last, most elemental rule had never been suspended. They had lain together, loved one another, and now there would be a child from that union.

“How could you be so careless?” Cullen’s voice was hoarse.

Rhaella did not look at him, looking instead across the upper courtyard, towards the Keep, remembering how she had once stood waiting on those steps for Solas after Wisdom died. How it filled her whole heart up to see him coming through the great portcullis towards her, how she’d told him he did not need to mourn alone. Now she would be alone in this. In raising their child.

“Do you hear me? How could you have allowed yourself to get into this - mess? Did you not consider the consequences, or that there are perfectly reasonable ways to prevent this sort of thing?”

His tone sparked something in her at last. She turned to him, saw his face flushing red with anger and hurt, and unleashed her own.

“How dare you speak to me like that? As if I am a simpleton, a child, who does not understand how the world works?”

“So you’re claiming that this is what you wanted? To carry the baby of the man who has abandoned you over and over again?”

“I do not owe you a single explanation of what I wanted or didn’t want, Cullen. You are completely out of line right now. Who do you think you are to me, that you can speak to me this way? My father?”

Cullen reached out and took hold of both of her shoulders.

“I love you, Rhaella.”

There it was. The warmth from his gold-brown eyes and the sadness and the softness and the need made plain. The thing she had tried to force herself to remain oblivious too because he was the commander of her armies and a good man, even if he would not ever be a man she could love. Rhaella stepped back, and he let her go, releasing his hold on her.

“I have loved you from the first. Since Haven. I know it was not proper at first but - things are different now. The Inquisition is not really here anymore. You yourself said I could leave, pursue my own dreams but - this is my dream, Rhaella. You are my dream. If I’d had my chance to love you as I have wanted to these months and months I would not have pushed you away again and again like he did.”

“Lower your voice,” Rhaella said. The wind picked up and the first few snowflakes began to fall from the iron grey sky above them.

Cullen did lower his voice. He lowered his eyes for a moment, too. He let out a helpless, broken laugh, and then he looked to her again.

“This doesn’t even change anything about how I feel. The fact that you will have a child with him. With a person who never chose you whenever there was a choice to be made. You can’t do this alone. I don’t want you to have to do it alone. If you would have me - if you could love me -”

“Stop.”

“If you could just - try to love me, I would raise this child as my own. You would not want or fear for anything. I swear it. If you could just -”

Rhaella fled through the falling snow.

She’d been exhausted all morning, she had thrown up everything she’d managed to eat, but it wasn’t energy that gave her feet the strength to move as she crossed the courtyard to the ramparts and took the steps two at a time. It wasn’t even really her magic that gave her the strength, even though she did draw on just enough to bolster herself. It wasn’t just the need to escape Cullen, his suffocating affection, the way he spoke to her as if she was not a grown woman. It was the sheer, overwhelming weight of it all that powered her. Like all her responsibilities, all her fears, were a boulder rolling towards her, threatening to crush her, and she had no choice but to run.

She made it to a quiet corner of the ramparts, one where no one was on guard, before her legs gave way. She knelt there on hands and knees, panting, crying, staring at the ageless stone of the castle Solas had given to her. The castle he would take away, the way he would take everything else away. He took and he took and he took and he’d made it clear now that he was going to keep on taking. Cullen was right. He had never once chosen her, when there was a choice to be made.

And now she was pregnant with his child.

The tears turned into sobs that hurt her ribs and closed up her throat. The snow was falling fast and thick now, coating her back and sticking to her hair. Soon the whole world would be white. If she stayed in one place, it would bury her. She heard Cullen’s voice dimly on the wind but ignored it. She sank down further, lowering her forehead to her forearms, and lay there on the icy stone like that.

She was pregnant with the Dread Wolf’s child.

She had only ever dreamed dimly of motherhood before. She’d never been close enough to any one to think it might happen. There’d only been one lover before Solas, and their time together was so brief, so fleeting, that it did not really matter. But when she had thought of motherhood, she had not imagined doing it alone. She had not imagined carrying the child of a man with so many enemies, all of whom would target her now. She had not imagined that simply carrying the child would take her own allies and turn them into enemies. She had not imagined any of this.

She had not imagined she would love a man who left her, over and over, in pursuit of a goal that while just on the surface was rotten to the core.

She knew she should not love him.

She still did, crouched there in the snow, sick to her stomach. She still loved him. She knew she should not love him, she knew she should not want this baby. She knew it should be a simple choice to go back to the surgeon and ask what could be done. But she still loved him, and the choice was not simple or clear. So she crouched there in the snow, letting it pile up around her, until her whole body was cold, until the tracks her tears had left on her cheeks were frozen. She did not have the luxury of being broken like this every day. But she let herself break for now, until the breaking was done, and she had the strength to stand and go inside.

*

She waited until that evening to call Leliana and Cullen into a meeting in the war room. Cullen was doing his best to look professional, upright, unperturbed, as if he did not know the reason this meeting was being called, but she could see the redness around his eyes, the tenseness in his posture.

“What is it that you need, Inquisitor?” Leliana asked at once.

“I am carrying Solas’s child,” Rhaella said.

For all that people joked that Sister Nightingale knew things before they happened, Leliana was surprised. She did not show it as obviously as some might, of course. Maybe it was just Rhaella’s closeness with her friend that allowed her to pick up on the tells. The single, carefully arched eyebrow, the pursing of the lips, the brief faraway look in Leliana’s eyes that told Rhaella that her spymaster was quickly combing through data in her mind, drawing connections, looking for patterns.

Cullen let out a long slow breath, and planted his gauntleted hands on the edge of the war table, as if this heaviness was on him, too. Rhaella wanted to remind him that he had stepped into that burden willingly. That he could turn and walk away any time he wanted.

“Obviously, this was not in our plans,” Rhaella went on. “But it needs to be now. I intend to keep the child.”

Leliana nodded once, the faraway look returning. Her hand drifted to her chin and tapped it twice, thoughtfully.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I believe that it is best that we begin spreading rumors about whose child it is. It will not be safe for you, or for the baby, or for our plans, if people know that the child is Fen’Harel’s.” Leliana glanced to her left, towards Cullen. “Cullen is likely the best candidate.”

“Absolutely not,” Rhaella said at once, even though Cullen was already nodding his agreement. “I don’t think -”

“I am sorry,” Leliana broke in. “I know that the proposition is not ideal to you, but he is not only our most believable candidate due to his close proximity to you - he is also the one who will do the least damage to your reputation. Particularly in Orlais. If we claim it is some random passerby, or some lower ranking member of our organization, it will not look good for you or for us. If we say it is Cullen, it seems like a beautiful romance. The Inquisitor and her Commander. The Orlesians will lap it up like fresh cream.”

Leliana leaned over the table, studying the map. “Furthermore, if we can make it seem like you are preparing to retire to a simple life with your lover, we can signal to Solas’s agents that we are no longer searching for him. They may grow bolder and more careless as a result. That may just be the edge we need to find him.”

“And stop him,” Cullen added, as if that needed to be said, as if that was not implicit in all of this.

Rhaella looked across the table at him. It was still snowing outside and the whole room was lit with the amber glow of candles. She wanted to summon mage lights to brighten it up, to test him, to see just how much his reaction to her casual use of magic might have changed. She stilled the impulse in herself. He was a good man. He was willing to do this for her.

“We are putting much on Cullen’s shoulders,” Rhaella said. “Are we certain that is wise? He does not enjoy the Game.”

Leliana turned to him as well. “Rhaella is right. We are asking you to live a lie for several months at least.”

“And it would have to be that, Cullen,” Rhaella added before he could speak. “It would have to be a lie.”

Cullen studied her for a long moment. Then he let out a short, decisive breath through his nose and nodded.

“I understand. I am willing to do what is necessary for our mission. For our leader’s safety.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Leliana said. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the war table. Rhaella loved her ruthless practicality. It grounded her, made her feel that the world was not simply spinning out from underneath her feet. Leliana had a plan, and it would work. “I will need to start spreading the rumor, then. Strategically. I have a few ideas of where to begin. With your permission…?”

For one last split second, Rhaella wanted to argue. She let the feeling pass.

“Do what you must, Leliana.”

Leliana cleared her throat delicately, and folded her hands behind the small of her back. “Then may I suggest that we begin by having the two of you seen going up to Rhaella’s chambers together this evening? There are still some visiting dignitaries in the hall, and the servants of course. You need not spend the night, Commander. You can slip out late.”

“Around midnight there should be a change of the guard,” Cullen said. “I will ensure that I am seen.”

She and Cullen brushed shoulders on their way out of the war room, but they did not meet eyes. They did not really meet each other’s eyes the entire way through the grand hall and up to her quarters, or even once they were in her quarters.

“I am very tired,” Rhaella said once they were there.

“Of course,” Cullen replied. “I will go down to the landing while you change.”

“Thank you. And - thank you for -”

“Of course,” Cullen said, without hesitation, meeting her eyes at last, giving her a small bow, and then turning and descending.

Rhaella thought she might lay awake for the rest of the night, turning things over in her mind, continuing to try and process the idea that she was pregnant, that in seven months or so there would be a child. Her child. His child. But instead she slipped at once into a deep, nearly dreamless sleep. There was only one flickering image in her mind when she woke the next morning. A wolf’s eyes, watching her through a stand of trees.

*

The ruse worked well, which shouldn’t have been a surprise for Rhaella, given Leliana’s intensity and attention to detail. By the time her belly rounded out enough that it was no longer easy to hide the rumors about her and Cullen were already swirling. He had spent several nights in her chambers, sometimes sitting down on the landing near the top of the stairs, sometimes on one of the couches in her room, which she always offered to him. He had not repeated his declaration of love but it was there in the sadness in his eyes whenever she thanked him for what he was doing.

“It is no burden,” he always said, even though she knew he wished it wasn’t all a lie, that the child really was his, or that at least she would truly love him and let him raise it as his own.

“We’ll start to run into problems when the baby is born,” she told Leliana one morning when they were in the rookery, discussing the latest leads on eluvians through Thedas that might lead them to Solas.

“How so?”

“The baby will be an elf, not a human.”

“We’ll think of something,” Leliana said with a wave of her hand. “We’ll continue to lie to people far enough away that they will never see the child and limit access to you and the baby to only our most trustworthy people, so they don’t give away the ruse.”

Rhaella imagined what that life would be like for her, for the baby. Ever cautious of where they went, ever cautious of keeping up a lie. An anxious father hovering near, but not the father. Not the man Rhaella loved. She ran her hand over her stomach.

I am sorry, da’len.

She had not felt her child quicken yet. In some ways that made it feel less real, however much her body was changing. She tried to imagine what the baby would look like, if it would have her eyes or his, but her mind could not conjure a single image. She wondered what Solas would think if he were here. If he would dote on her, overprotect her, want to dream with her about the child. She pushed the thoughts away every time.

He made his choice.

She saw the wolf every night in her sleep, of course, and she knew it for what it was. But it never approached her, and she did not chase it.

Their search for Solas went on for months without a concrete lead. By the time one came, Rhaella’s belly was big and round as the sky in the Western Approach. The midwife they’d brought to Skyhold predicted that she had three months or so to go. Three months and she would hold in her arms the squirming, squalling proof that what she’d had with Solas was real. Her child. That was how she had come to think of it in the months since she’d discovered she was pregnant. It was her child. Even if - when - they did find Solas, she would not tell him otherwise.

She’d refused to give up any of her duties as leader of their organization besides direct combat, though she insisted on training under Cullen’s careful supervision, which was how she ended up at an hours long council at the war table, her back aching, as Leliana described the leads her team had uncovered in the Emerald Graves.

“The area had been quiet ever since we drove out the Freemen of the Dales and the Red Templars, but the people were on edge enough after those experiences that they reported to our agents what they’d seen at once.”

Rhaella shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to ease the ache. Leliana went on.

“Large numbers of elves - but not a Dalish clan - seen moving through the area. Their movements seem to be centered around a cave near Elgar’nan’s Bastion. We sent a mage with our last team, and the magical signatures left behind in the area suggest that there is an eluvian.”

Somehow the new position she had chosen was worse. Rhaella shifted her weight back to the other foot, letting a breath out through her nose.

“With so much traffic, we can only thing it has to lead somewhere important. If not to Solas himself, then to one of his largest bases of operations.” Leliana hesitated. “I have a feeling about this place. I think it will yield information we can act on.”

Rhaella braced her lower back with her remaining hand, looking down at the location indicated on the map. Elgar’nan’s Bastion. There was a waterfall there, and the cliffs above it were looped with long vines of crystal grace. It was beautiful. It was like the place Solas had taken Rhaella after he saved her from Vir’Dirthara. She could almost imagine seeing him there.

And yet the larger part of her could not - did not - want to imagine finding him anywhere, because she knew what she would have to do.

“Maker’s breath. This meeting has gone on too long. Rhaella, you need to rest. I can tell. Let us adjourn for now.” Cullen’s words were clipped. He was already stepping closer to her as if to guide her from the room.

“No,” Rhaella said, straightening her back again, wincing. “I want to hear Leliana’s plan of attack, especially since I plan on going myself.”

Cullen made no attempt to hide his sigh. “See reason.”

He’d said those words over and over to her since she’d become pregnant. He’d said them to her the day they found out. As if reason was something she was always blind to - as if his kind of reason was the only one that mattered. Perhaps he and Solas would have gotten along after all, if they had ever tried to get to know each other. She would not stand for another man thinking they knew better than she did what she needed.

“I am seeing reason. I am the leader of this organization and the only reasonable thing for me to do is to plan how we will confront our greatest threat.”

The baby squirmed and kicked within her and Rhaella’s chest filled with grief and joy alike. The joy of feeling the small life growing within her, hearing her heartbeat from the inside, and the grief of knowing she had just called that baby’s father their greatest threat.

I hope you have all that’s best of him, da’len. I hope you are kind and bright and that you care for others. I hope you are not so stubborn that you think your way is the only one is right. I hope you never let anger blind you to the beauty of this world.

“I am waiting on one more report,” Leliana offered. “I should have it by tomorrow morning.”

Another kick, this one more painful than the last. Rhaella hissed at the sharp stab of it.

Be kind to mamae, da’len.

“Very well,” Rhaella relented. “First thing tomorrow.”

She went alone to her chambers, as much as she went alone anywhere now, considering that the child continued tumbling and wriggling in her belly as she went on her way, and when she laid down to rest. She allowed herself a smile as she rubbed the stretched out skin of her stomach, feeling the movements on the outside and on the inside. Her child. She would love them. She would protect them. She would give them a world that was safe.

She could almost believe it was that easy until she drifted off to sleep, and the wolf was there in her dreams. This night, it was not just watching her this time with its silent yellow eyes. Instead, it was howling its anguish up to a moonless sky clotted with dark clouds - an ancient, hair-raising sound that reminded her that from here on out nothing would be easy.

to be continued

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 54. In which the proverbial gauntlet is metaphorically thrown

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The days of unbroken working and concentration meant Cullen's headaches had returned in full force by the end of the week. Thanks to Evana, however, he now had a new supply of draughts and the occasional magical assist if things got too bad.

The pain behind his eyes was particularly intense today. He'd spent part of the day with Hawke training the men they were to take with them for the assault. The physical exercise had felt wonderful at the time, but now, as he sat alone in his office, the aches in his shoulders, hips and knees only added to his discomfort.

He debated sending a note to Evana but decided to pour himself a draught instead. He'd just stood up to retrieve it when his door opened, and the object of his thoughts slipped inside. She smiled at him shyly and locked the door behind her. His heart began to pound as she walked toward him, but his smile turned to concern when she swayed on her feet. He raced from behind his desk to steady her, placing his hands on her hips. Her hands came up to rest on his upper arms, and her smile widened to a grin when her eyes met his.

"Good evening, Commander."

The faint smell of The Iron Bull's liquor wafted to his nostrils, and he heaved a sigh through a wry smile. "You, my dear, are drunk."

"Not drunk," she contradicted as she shook her head, raised a hand and pinched her forefinger and thumb together in front of her eye. "Just a liiiittle tipsy. Bull insisted that I celebrate with him and the Chargers, so that's what I've been doing for the last couple of hours. Didn't let him get me as drunk as last time... though he wants me to come back later, when I'm done talking with you."

"Talking with me?"

She nodded but said nothing further. Normally, he'd be delighted to talk with her any time, but her strange behavior had him nervous. A roiling sensation took up residence in his gut as they stared at each other in the dim candlelight.

"What would you like to talk about?" he asked warily.

"You. And Magic. And templars. And... other things."

Cullen furrowed his brow, the uncomfortable feeling growing. "I'm always happy to answer any questions you might have."

"Thank you, Cullen, that's... that means a lot to me." She looked away, but her eyes darted back to him a couple of times before she finally spoke. "I guess... I guess I want to know if you... do you still regret the man you became after leaving Ferelden?"

He breathed an internal sigh of relief. The question was personal, but no more or less than any of their other conversations. Still he had to think on his answer a moment.

"Well... in many respects, yes. After the Ferelden Circle, I thought all mages were like the ones there. Knight-Commander Meredith's methods were harsh. I recognize that now, but at the time, all I could see was that they kept people safe."

"But you said Meredith was unstable," she observed quietly.

Cullen shrugged and absently let his thumbs caress her waist as he fell into memories of his past. "She was my Knight-Commander, and I her Knight-Captain. I had no reason to distrust her. Perhaps it was naive of me... but she wasn't wrong about the blood mages in Kirkwall. Meredith encouraged my anger toward the mages. But there was only so far I would go, and she knew that, too. I was her second-in-command, but she kept decisions from me - those I would question. I believed she was serving the city. I never thought to question her. Not until it was too late."

"You can't control everything. And you stood up to her in the end," she reminded him.

He appreciated her words, but he was still entrenched in the memories. "If I hadn't, would I be like her now? I wanted mages locked away as much as she did. I trusted they were treated reasonably well, but I should have done more. I should have looked into it." He shook his head as if trying to shake away a bad dream. "It is not yet enough. The Inquisition is my chance to atone. I will see it through."

Her eyes filled with concern, yet there was hesitancy in her looks as well. "I know you will. But... with so much corruption and ill treatment of both mages and templars, things... they can't go back to the way they used to be. Don't you think...? I mean... do you think templars should cease to exist?"

His skin prickled in defensiveness at the loaded question. How could she ask him such a thing? Unsure of where she was headed with this line of questioning, however, he bit back his initial reaction and answered in as even a tone as possible.

"No. I may have chosen to leave that life, but I respect those who remain. Magic ungoverned could tear the world apart. It's doing so now. Templars are trained and able to confront such dangers."

"Like the Grey Wardens can deal with the Blight?"

Cullen frowned. "I... I suppose so. Although I would hardly compare magic with the Blight. Magic can do good. The Blight never could."

She smiled a little at his rebuttal of her comparison. It seemed to please her, and he relaxed the tiniest bit. Her next question, however, put him right back on edge again.

"What would you suggest, then? To change things, I mean."

This was a serious conversation to be having with a slightly tipsy Inquisitor, and it was a dangerous conversation for an ex-templar to be having with his slightly tipsy mage lover. And yet, he could not bring himself to deny her an answer. They'd been having variations of this conversation from the beginning of their acquaintance. She'd even needed to get a little drunk to work up the courage to ask these questions, so they must be hard for her. He couldn't blame her. He could do with a bracing shot of whiskey right about now.

Cullen sighed as he gripped tighter at her waist and tried to organize his thoughts. He'd always assumed the resolution between mages and templars would rest in hands far more qualified than his own - such as the new Divine's. But the Inquisition was quickly becoming a powerful political organization thanks to their ambassador. His answer might carry more weight than he realized, and that scared him. She likely wouldn't be pleased by what he had to say, but he had to speak truthfully and from his own experiences.

"Some call the Circle a prison that can only breed resentment. Perhaps opportunities to work outside the Circle? A mixed military service, or healer's clinics with templar support? And there must be a safer way for templars to leave the Order. Templars can lose their memories to lyrium. Some call it a gift - to forget the failed harrowings, the demons." He looked away from her. "You know that some atrocities haunt me still. But to lose what good I can recall... I nearly lost my mind once. It is no gift."

Her eyes were troubled as he turned back to her. She pulled away from him, and after a moment's hesitation, he let her go.

"And yet, to me," she countered, "this seems even more reason to end the Templar Order. Why bind them to such a horrible fate at all? Mages can take care of themselves. Dalish mages such as myself have survived for thousands of years without templar interference. And you know... until the explosion at the Conclave, the only truly horrific thing in my life was caused by templars. Fiona has done a good job of leading the Inquisition mages without templar support. And if things are really so bad for templars, I wonder why we need them at all."

The rational part of his brain argued that her experiences might indeed lead her to such a conclusion, but the words still cut. Anger flared, and he responded in kind, his voice scraping harshly through the void between them.

"Tell that to the parents of a child who falls prey to possession. Mages cannot handle such threats alone."

The sudden heat and adrenaline that rose up between them nearly stifled him. She crossed her arms and leaned her hip to one side, her eyes narrowing on him with a steely glint of defiance.

Yes, this is a very dangerous conversation.

But it had begun, and he had no idea how to stop it without seeming as if he were dismissing her concerns - or burying his own. When she responded, her voice carried a forceful determination he'd only heard a few times before and usually only around the war table.

"Can they not?" she responded, a note of disdain coloring her previously hesitant tone. "Far more parents mourn the loss of their children to the Circle or try to hide their loved ones from the templars rather than lose them. How many of those possessions could have been avoided by simply teaching mages in the places they live instead of ripping them away from their homes? It's unnecessary."

Cullen's lip curled in answering derision, his hands fisting at his sides, his voice tightly leashed to prevent himself from shouting. "And when the people become overly frightened of the two or three mages in their midst, what then? Should we simply turn a blind eye to the deaths of those who could have been otherwise protected in a Circle?"

"Protected?! Is that what you call the likes of Kirkwall? The Gallows? The very name betrays the murderous intent behind the place. And don't even get me started on how many abominations could have been prevented by simply giving mages equal rights instead of treating them as prisoners."

"Circles are not supposed to be prisons," he tried to reason. "They allow for mages to learn from one another. Senior enchanters could often come and go on official business with little oversight. And young mages could be with others like themselves instead of ostracized as different or freakish. Tell me, why is that a bad thing?"

"Because they have no choice!" she cried. "Whether or not Circles were intended as prisons, that's what they became. You said it yourself - rounding up mages and forcing them into cramped spaces breeds resentment. And putting that many mages in a single space where their interactions with the Fade can do serious damage to the Veil, thinning it and drawing demons with the collective power of so many mages? It's madness!"

Cullen's anger faltered slightly as images of Kinloch flashed through his mind. His head throbbed insistently, the headache of a few moments ago blooming into a full-on migraine. The questions flooding his mind now were not new, though they'd only recently surfaced as he slowly came to terms with traumas long past: Would so many have died if they hadn't been locked in the tower together? Would anyone have become possessed at all? She seemed so certain...

He shook his head, using the simmering anger to push away the memories. He knew what he'd experienced. Mages could not deal with such things. He had to believe it. Otherwise... otherwise he and all the others had suffered and died for nothing. He paced away from her, his agitation requiring movement to keep it within manageable levels.

"I understand what you're saying, but the idea of no oversight... No, I cannot accept that. It's too dangerous! Look what we're dealing with now - magic running wild and threatening our very existence. Perhaps... perhaps properly Circle-trained mages could be allowed freedom in exchange for-"

"No!" Evana sliced a hand through the air. "Mages should not be imprisoned simply because we were born with a gift and then have to earn our freedom based on the whim of some Chantry lackey. Why can't you see this? It's so simple!"

"There is nothing simple about it!" he snarled.

"Yes, there is. Either you think mages are worthy of the same respect and freedom as non-mages or you think them inferior... you think me inferior." Her voice broke slightly as she asked, "Which is it, Cullen?"

"I don't..." he stumbled, her comments throwing him off balance. "I'm not talking about you. I-"

"I. Am. A. Mage," she hissed. "I am not an exception. I am no different from the rest. If you think of mages as inferior, as untrustworthy, you are including me. So which is it? Am I a person? Do I have the right to be free, or should I be locked up in a tower with all the other animals?"

Mages cannot be treated like people; they are not like you and me.

The words - his words from what seemed a lifetime ago - rose up out of the swirling confusion of thought to taunt him, and he cringed internally as truth dawned slowly despite the maelstrom of emotion. He'd set her apart. He'd relegated her to a "different" category, just as he had Dorian and even Vivienne. But those impulses still simmered under his skin - the knee-jerk reaction of mistrust, the feeling of impending doom when he thought of mage freedom, the desire to exert some sort of control over the uncontrollable.

He saw the flash of pain behind her anger and realized he'd taken too long to answer. He gritted his teeth and tried to regain some control over himself and the conversation, but trying to reconcile his thoughts on mages with his thoughts about Evana proved difficult.

"I... I do think mages deserve respect," he finally managed to grind out, "but their 'gift' as you call it has the power to harm far more people than a non-mage ever could. Their-"

"Our," she inserted in a forceful tone.

"Your..." Cullen looked at her, his irritation dipping briefly into despair as her truth - the truth? - continued to pound at the thick wall the Chantry had built around his values and moorings. Although weathered and eroded through the years, the walls held, and he knew he'd need more time to resolve the cognitive dissonance she'd forced him to acknowledge tonight. He shook his head, a surge of irrational resentment bleeding into his words. "Regardless of how I might feel, your powers are fearsome, and those powers out of control exponentially so. People will not simply accept mages among them because you will it."

"I am the Inquisitor. If anyone can do this, start us down the path, it's me. And why do you think people are frightened of mages in the first place, Cullen? Perhaps because the Chantry and those in power have taught them to be afraid? The Dalish-"

"Are not a sufficient example of how mages could be integrated!" Cullen snapped in a burst of frustration. He sucked in a breath and modulated his voice, immediately knowing his mistake and yet unable to keep his mouth shut. "Your culture is admirable, but it's a bit presumptuous to suggest your methods are transferable to a people with an entirely different set of cultural beliefs and values, don't you think?"

Her eyes widened in shock and then immediately narrowed to slits. "Careful, vhenan. You are sorely out of your depth. Have I not been immersed in both cultures? Do you think so little of me that you believe I would suggest something without first giving it proper consideration?"

Cullen took a step back at the fury in her gaze. Maker, he should not have said it. But then he should not have said half of what had come out of his mouth this evening.

"I'm sorry," he conceded in a low, even tone as he held his hands in front of him in supplication. "I went too far."

Her body relaxed the tiniest bit, and she jerked her head in a small nod of acceptance. Silence strained between them, and Cullen struggled with the despair steadily creeping up to suffocate his anger. They'd needed to deal with this fundamental disagreement, but he wished he'd been more prepared. Now, angry words had been exchanged, and she'd never seemed further away from him than in this moment.

Maker, was this the end? Would they fall apart over an age-old question out of sheer stubbornness? He pressed a thumb and finger into his temples. He had to regain control of his emotions. I cannot... Maker... I cannot bear to lose her...

"Even if some areas of training need modification, the base is sound," Evana finally continued in a slightly subdued tone. "Educating mages in the ways of magic doesn't require giving up lives and families. It just requires careful tutoring by a senior mage or two - as I had in my clan. I learned to control my power, but I was never restricted from seeing my mother or Vash'an or anyone else. The Chantry and the Order have cultivated a culture of fear around mages, but the vast majority of mages want to do good - or at the very least live normal lives. Those few who would do evil could be judged and monitored by other mages... or maybe... maybe a force of templars could guard those judged guilty of purposefully harming people with magic - but only after they have done so. And the children... those poor children..."

Her voice broke, and a fat, angry tear that had been glistening in her eye while she spoke finally rolled down her pale cheek. She looked down and swiped at it angrily, huffing out something in elven under her breath.

A single tear had never more effectively doused a fire. Her eyes locked on his again, the glistening depths pleading for him to understand, and he slumped slightly, all his remaining fight drowned in that single, passionate tear. That and her allowance - the possibility of a place for templars in her dream of mage freedom - placated him in no small way.

"Those children..." she finally continued in a wavering voice, "locked up for the rest of their lives, never to see their family again... At least for you it was a choice, though even that is debatable. For a mage... You would do that to your own child? You would allow them to be taken to a Circle... you would agree to never see your own flesh and blood ever again?"

His anger had already faded, but with the shock of this final retort came an additional flash of understanding. She was concerned about herself and the mages she'd taken in but also about any children those mages - or she - might have. She was appealing to his own sense of familial duty.

He didn't dwell on the fact that, if things progressed between them, any child of hers would also be his. That dream of his - of the life he and Evana might have after the Inquisition - hadn't progressed that far. He hadn't allowed himself to dream such a precious and terrifying thing.

He also didn't dwell on the disturbing fact that he wasn't sure what he would do if he had a mage child of his own. Six years ago, they would have gone to the Circle, no question. Four years ago, he would have balked until ensuring for himself that the Circle in question followed all proper procedures.

And now? Though the current lack of Circles rendered it a theoretical question, he simply didn't know. He would want to keep his own child, he was sure of that. But whether he thought it better for them to be in a Circle... for their own good...

"I do believe things must change, Evana," he conceded in a rough tone. "And I didn't mean to imply that my ideas were the only answers. You asked, and I spoke the first things that came to mind. If Fiona has methods for safeguarding free mages as well as non-mages from the dangers of magic, I would love to hear them... as would others in the Inquisition, I'm sure."

She stared at him, clearly trying to comprehend his sudden attempt at reconciliation. Then her arms fell listless to her sides, and her shoulders slumped forward, falling out of the taut, defensive position she'd maintained only a moment ago. Giving in to the urge, he carefully approached her, placing his hands tentatively on her arms as he used to do when comforting her in Haven... back before he could comfort her in other ways.

"Evana, I..."

He stopped, unsure of what to say. He did not agree with her vision of completely free mages, but he reminded himself that his objections were based on a lifetime of Chantry indoctrination. He'd not missed her implication that, even at eighteen, he might not have been in a right mind to make a decision about dedicating his life to the templars. It was an ugly, insidious thought he'd only recently allowed himself to acknowledge. He first reaction was still indignant denial of such a thing, but deep down he knew he'd eventually have to deal with the implications.

Not tonight, though.

"This is not a question we can answer in one night," he said gently. "I know we still disagree on many things, but... but I want us to keep talking. We... I'm willing to walk the path with you until we come to a mutually agreeable understanding. And I do believe we can come to an understanding. I promise to think more carefully on the subject in the future. I don't want-" He cut off as his voice broke slightly with emotion. He cleared his throat and continued on. "Evana, I don't want this to come between us. Can... can that be enough for now?"

She took a breath and gave him a weak smile. "Yes... Yes. I want... I want us to come to an understanding, too. I want that for us. I'm sorry if I came on strong, but you can appreciate my... passion on the subject, I think?"

"Quite well."

He dropped his arms back to his sides, hesitant to act on the urge to pull her into an embrace. A strange silence fell between them. She was quiet, but not in her normal way. It was... awkward and oppressive. Their fight - for it could be called nothing else - still hung in the air, tainting their tenuous peace with vague unease.

She looked down at the floor, her posture relaxing slightly but not enough for him to feel completely easy. The heaviness in the air closed around him, invoking a feeling of confinement and putting him on edge yet again. He found himself raising a hand the back of his neck to rub at the pain and tension gathering there as panic bubbled up in his already roiling gut.

After all that... what now?

He wished to ease the strain between them, however, so he took a deep breath and prompted softly, "Uh... there was something else you wished to talk about?"

"Oh... um... yes, it's nothing, really, but..." She shifted and glanced up at him. "Did you hear that Solas is back? He arrived a couple of hours ago."

Cullen stiffened as he read the nervousness in her eyes. Why was she nervous? Panic struck more forcefully this time. Taking a breath and forcing himself to relax, he spoke as nonchalantly as he could manage.

"No, I hadn't heard, yet. That's... good news. How is he doing?"

"As well as can be expected after losing a dear friend." She looked away from Cullen yet again and took a couple little breaths before blurting out, "I hugged him. When he came back... came through the gates... we hugged."

Cullen felt his jaw clench involuntarily. The hammer pounding at the inside of his head threatened to explode from his skull, exacerbated by their heated exchange, and now this. Why was she telling him, anyway? Unless... she felt guilty for some reason. That would explain the nervousness. But - Maker - what does she feel guilty about? He was surprised at the evenness in his own voice as he responded.

"Oh?"

"Yes. It was right downstairs in the courtyard. I didn't want you to hear it from gossips who'd make it out to be... something it wasn't. You know?"

Cullen let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he was holding. If that was all...

"You don't need to justify yourself to me, Evana. And you give many of your friends hugs. Why is this different?"

She suddenly started pacing. Oh... Andraste. The panic turned quite suddenly into a knife of jealousy sliding through his heart.

"It just... is. But... Fenedhis! I didn't mean to say it like that."

"Regardless, that is how you said it."

Despite intentions, his tone came out harsh, but he was barely keeping himself together. She glanced at him as she paced, and he saw her eyes glistening as she gestured wildly.

"I know. I can't help it! You're the one who... who I always talk to when I don't know how to deal with something. Or when I'm scared of something. You even told me... I have to talk through my fears and doubts! But... I know that's unfair in this case. I've always relied on you far too much. I shouldn't be talking about it... not with you. No matter what Cole says, it's not fair to burden you with it. But if not you, who? There's no one I trust as much as you."

She was rambling now, and he could only decipher bits and pieces of it. Most of it seemed gratifying. But the small part about "in this case" caused the knife to slide deeper. His breathing grew erratic as panic clawed at him, and he shook his head slightly. They'd never get to the truth unless they both calmed down.

Reaching out to stop her pacing, he pulled her to the chairs by the fire and sat her down. Then, he moved the table aside and pulled the other chair up until their knees touched when he sat down. Grabbing her hands, he looked her in the eye.

"You know you can tell me anything, Evana. Anything. Our previous... conversation should be proof enough of that. You can tell me. Even if it... even if I don't like it. I'd..." He swallowed and drew in a long breath in an attempt to ease the pain of his heart cracking open in his chest. "I would rather know the truth."

Her eyes went wide. "Oh... no! I don't mean... Andraste's holy teardrops! This entire thing is ridiculous!"

In spite of the seriousness, Cullen let out a nervous chuckle at her creative cursing. "Learned that one from Varric, did we?"

She gave him a pained half smile. "Yes. He's a bad influence... But... Cullen..."

The door handle rattled. Malia's muffled voice called out to him. He stood, checking the lock on the nearest door on his way. He opened the middle door, but before Malia could say a word, he cut her off.

"I'm occupied. Come back in fifteen minutes."

Confused and a tiny bit terrified, she started to back away. In the gloom of twilight, Cullen spied another messenger walking across the bridge toward him.

"On second thought, stay right here. Tell anyone who approaches that I am not to be disturbed for the next fifteen minutes. Or really, until I open the door again. Got it?"

"Y-yes, ser!"

Cullen closed and relocked the door and then headed over to the third door to lock it as well. He came back to the chair to sit in front of Evana and took her hands in his once again.

"You were saying?"

Her face was a strange mixture of warmth and disturbance, adoration and distress. She took a deep breath and began.

"I... I think... with the way Solas looks at me sometimes... the way he looked at me today..." She glanced away from Cullen and then looked back with a haunted expression. "I think he cares for me... in a... in a romantic way."

He felt his jaw clench again and let a heartbeat pass before he responded. "I know."

Her brows furrowed, and she blinked once, then twice. "You do?"

"He's cared for you probably as long as I have. I used to play a little game in my head about which one of us was more jealous of the other. I usually won. He seemed to have your attention more often... for a time, at least. He certainly saw more of you in those early days than I ever did."

Wide eyed, she blinked yet again. "I... I don't know what to say..."

Cullen shook his head, set his lips in a thin line and breathed out through his nose. He still held tightly to her hands, but she seemed to be slipping from his grasp. He felt powerless to stop it.

"All I need to know is... how do you feel about it?"

"Awful!" she answered immediately. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I never wanted it. I knew... I guess I knew there was a little something. Even since our first trip to the Hinterlands. It's why I've always been so careful around him. I didn't know it had gone so far - that he had continued to... But there's so much I can learn from him, Cullen! So much I've already learned about the history and lore of the People while talking and walking the Fade with him. I know him so well now - he's much more than just a mage. I've always felt like there was a deeper connection between us. I can feel when he's around without even looking. I know he can feel the same... but... Oh, gods! Cullen!"

Now he was the one pacing, his sudden dropping of her hands and movement away from her causing her exclamation. He couldn't take it. His stomach lurched and not just from the pounding in his head. The thought of her leaving him had always dogged him, nipping at the heels of every happy moment with her, but to have it be a real possibility? He felt sick inside.

He knew exactly what she was saying. A part of her wasn't his. A part of her belonged to Solas - might always belong to Solas. They had a connection. One that she'd never have with him because he was not a mage. In his bitterness, he nearly laughed aloud at the irony.

She got up out of her chair now, standing before him as he paced. Her voice dropped to a deadly quiet, her panicked breathing the only other sound in the room. He had to pause in his pacing to even hear her, and so he stood rigid like a statue, facing away from her as she spoke.

"None of that matters, Cullen. I don't want that with him. How could I when I have you? Whatever might be between me and Solas doesn't matter because what I have with you is so much more - infinitely more. I would never give you up - not by choice. And I... I only want you. You believe me, don't you?" Her voice descended into a hoarse whisper. "Please... vhenan..."

Her words soothed him, but he resisted her for a moment longer even as he knew he'd eventually give in. To be without her... it had seemed impossible before, but now, after everything they'd been through, it was unthinkable. Even knowing they had such differing values, even knowing there was a part of her he couldn't touch, that was out of his reach - even knowing all that, he couldn't fathom giving her up.

Her hand tentatively slid into his as he remained facing away from her. She circled around to stand in front of him, still holding his hand. His fingers involuntarily clenched around hers - whether out of a subconscious rebellion at holding out on her or simply a force of habit he wasn't sure. A tiny, hopeful smile played at her lips as she felt him grip her hand firmly. But it dissolved into a pained, pleading look the longer he remained silent. Finally, he closed his eyes and pulled in a shaky breath.

"Of course. Of course, I believe you."

She gasped and surged toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist. His own arms immediately closed around her, his gloved hands rubbing slowly up and down her back. He felt her body shake slightly and then heard the sharp inhale of a sob. Sorrow and concern replaced his lingering doubts as he gathered her even closer.

"Evana... darling... it's alright," he soothed.

"You shouldn't be comforting me!" came her muffled reply. "I don't deserve that. Ir abelas, emma lath. Ir abelas."

The final vestiges of disappointment slipped from him as he felt the firm reality of her there in his arms. Jealousy still wound a thin string around his heart, constricting his normal full feeling, but her quietly passionate words still echoed in his brain - I only want you. Tears threatened at the edges of his vision. It was enough.

"I have nothing to blame you for," he replied, "so do not blame yourself."

His arms tightened around her, and he simply held her as she cried. Eventually, her sobs died down to an occasional hiccup. He pulled back slightly and handed her a handkerchief before pulling her back into him and resting his cheek on the crown of her head. After another moment of silence, he finally spoke.

"What is... emma lath?" he asked quietly, testing the words on his tongue.

He knew his pronunciation wasn't quite right, but she didn't laugh. In fact, she didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, she mumbled something indecipherable into the handkerchief. He lifted his head and pressed a kiss into her hair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth in spite of the heaviness surrounding them.

"What was that?"

Without looking at him, she raised her head slightly and whispered, "It... it means... ... my love."

Cullen's heart stopped and then thundered violently against his ribcage. The woman would be the death of him - scaring him with all this talk of magic and Solas... then calling him her love. It was basically like she was saying...

"Oh," he breathed.

It was all he could manage as her eyes turned up to meet his. She held his gaze for a long moment before her whisper cut through the silence.

"I... Cullen... ... I-"

Another knock sounded along with a muffled "Commander?" at the door nearest to them, and whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips as she looked toward the door. He recognized the voice of one of his lieutenants through the door and internally cursed the man for interrupting. But the moment was gone, anyway, and as much as he wanted to stay with her - Maker, how he wanted it - he had to get back to work. They were leaving the same day as the Inquisitor, and packing up and marching an army across Orlais required much more planning than four companions riding off on horseback.

He bent down and kissed her tear-stained cheeks. She sighed softly and leaned into his embrace.

"I'm sorry. I have to get back to work now, but... shall I..." He cleared his throat and kissed her soft lips to have more time to choose his words. "Shall I come see you tonight?"

She gave him the first genuine smile of the evening. "Yes. Please. I'd like that."

 **

 Cullen found her still in her clothes, passed out on her bed and smelling distinctly of Bull's liquor. He sat down on the edge of the bed, but she didn't move at all. Only her gentle snoring betrayed her continued status among the living.

So, she had gone back to drink more with Bull and the Chargers. He chuckled a little and then sighed. He'd allowed himself to hope that tonight might finally be the right time... But it was late, and realistically, he knew it wasn't ideal, even if she'd been awake - and sober. Then again, when would be ideal in the middle of a war?

The simple truth was that he loved her, and now, he thought she might truly... Maker, she might actually love him in return. Reconciling their differences would require work, but she'd agreed to stay with him and do that work. She'd been given the opportunity to choose another, but she'd chosen to stay with him. His chest constricted and his breathe came in short puffs simply thinking about it. She'd called him her love. Emma lath. He tried not to read too much into it. After all, it was a familiar term of endearment throughout Thedas. Perhaps she hadn't meant for it to carry so much weight.

However, every time she left him, it was entirely possible she would never return, and he wanted desperately to tell her and to hear the words from her in return before they all departed on the day after tomorrow. Could he say them now? In truth, he thought perhaps he could. He nearly had just a few days ago, but his fear had gotten the better of him. Now though... despite their differences, he now knew she would choose him above others.

But when would they find the time? He had just one more day to finish preparations for an entire army to begin their march across Orlais.

He sighed heavily once more and leaned over her, tracing a finger over her vallaslin as he had that morning. Not so long ago, he'd felt like an intruder in her room, but last night she'd welcomed him into her bed - asked him to stay. At least twice during the night he'd awoken disoriented, but her small movements and even breathing quickly reminded him where he was and who he was with. In those early morning hours, he'd pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

He leaned back, and she mumbled incoherently as he moved to the end of the bed and lifted her feet to unlace her boots. He smiled to himself. How many times had he done this now? He'd helped her to bed in her exhaustion, during her illness, and now in her adorable drunkenness. His hands glided gently, reverently over her calves and feet as he pulled off her boots.

She took a deep breath as he laid her foot back on the mattress. Her eyes opened, and her face broke into a wide, lazy grin. Her arms and hands beckoned to him.

"'ma lath, come t' bed."

He smiled and came over to sit by her side, taking her hands in his own. "In a moment."

She nodded, and her hands went limp as her eyes fell closed again. He looked her over and decided to leave her clothes for now. Her teasing that morning made him nervous to test her assertions of not wearing any smallclothes. In the back of his mind, however, he wondered how long it might be before changing her clothes became a lovingly repeated gesture alongside removing her boots. He longed for it as he longed for every comfort, every familiarity with her. Each one gained became more precious to him than the last.

Now was not that time, though. In fact, he pondered the wisdom of staying at all. This morning had been awkward enough passing by the guards at her door. Their faces had first registered confusion, then surprise, and finally a knowing, almost congratulatory glee. He was positive there couldn't be a soul remaining in Skyhold who didn't know that the Commander had spent last night with their Inquisitor. And they hadn't even done anything... yet.

Well, if the damage is already done...

Pulling off his own boots and, after moment's hesitation, his tunic as well, he slid into bed beside her and gently pulled her back against his chest. She murmured breathily again, and he let out a sharp hiss as she wriggled her backside to get closer to him. Maker...

Willing his body to stay calm, he wrapped his arm around the lithe form in front of him and thought fondly over the previous year of misunderstandings and reconciliations. In hindsight, he saw it all before him, every moment of tension, every doubt, every small gesture, blush or kind word interlocking with the next to create the present.

To his relief, their misunderstandings were fewer and farther between, but they still seemed to move forward in gigantic leaps. For days - weeks even - everything would appear to be flowing smoothly. Then, as with today, a small step forward in their relationship would cause a landslide. Perhaps that was simply the result of their limited time together. Non-private letters made it difficult to express any kind of affection while she was away, and their busy schedules left them little real time together... which was another reason why this felt so precious to him.

The fire popped lazily in the hearth as he adjusted the blankets. Comically, her bed was a bit larger than his, and he relished the way his feet didn't quite reach the bottom edge of the bed. His eyes drooped, but he forced them open. Tomorrow would be just as full as today, but he wanted to savor this moment just a little longer. However, exhaustion quickly overtook him, and he fell asleep to the soothing sounds of her quiet snoring.

[sorrelchestnut]

Do you have any fic recs? I really like the stuff you write!

Aw, thanks, anon!  The short answer to that question is my bookmarks page on AO3, because if I read something and like it, I bookmark it.  As a result, it’s… extensive.  However, you can always filter for fandom/pairing/what have you, if you’re looking for any fandom in particular.

It does mean that I don’t really keep curated recs lists anymore, though, so instead I can offer two things: major fandom favorites that I’ve reread recently for at least the third time, and a handful of my favorites for fandoms I’m actually in.

Don’t look for any particular rhyme or reason here.

First:

What We Pretend We Can’t See, by @gyzym.  (Harry Potter: Harry/Draco.)  I actually just read this again this afternoon.  I saw a Harry/Draco mention go by on my dash and thought, “Shit, I need to read that again” so I did.  It’s become my defining fic for that pairing, with my ideal dynamic, a.k.a., “compatible issues.”

(This is my ideal dynamic for pretty much every pairing, honestly.  I usually look for people to have some kind of inexpressable sameness under the skin, but with strengths and weaknesses that complement each other.  I want the whole to be greater than the sum of the parts.)

Where All the Ladders Start, by @emungere.  (Hannibal: Hannibal/Will.)  I think Blackbird was my first emungere fic and still remains my favorite, but it’s Ladders I keep coming back to, I think because of the scope of it, the expanse of their relationship and what happens after.  In general I love pretty much all of their work, however.  Precise, but dreamlike.  By which I mean not just the abstract watercolor brushstroke style that people usually refer to when they mean dreamlike, but also the raw emotion that only a dreaming mind can really inflict.

The Silver Age, by @copperbadge.  (MCU: Tony/Bucky.)  I think I originally meant to rec Ironsides, which I have also re-read recently and remains a high point of rule 63 fic, of which I am a deep and studied connoisseur, but it’s Silver Age that I keep coming back to.  There’s something just so… kind about it.  It’s not a recovery fic, precisely—those never quite hit the right chords for me, I’m not enough into h/c to enjoy them—but it has the comforting trappings of recovery fic that make me always want to like them.  It’s got the brisk and wryly funny bones of a story that, ultimately, is about how much an outstretched hand at the right moment can really mean, when it’s desperately needed.  And not just once, but over and over, multiples times of the course of several stories.  It’s gentle and clever and kind of my go-to curl up on the couch and read it for the fifteenth time.

And now for fandoms I’m actually in:

The Ice Has Melted Me Back to Life, by @valorious.  (FO4: F!Sole/MacCready) a.k.a the fic that got me into this pairing, and therefore, into this fandom.  I must have read it a thousand freaking times, I swear.

the too-huge world vaulting us, by @mustinvestigate.  (FO4: F!Sole/MacCready)  Probably one of my favorites for this pairing.  Very different dynamic than I write, but god, it’s so well-done.  I always loved all of the tiny imperfections to them, the incredibly human ways they sometimes talk at cross-purposes and screw each other up with the best of intentions.  The characters in this feel like actual people.

Obviously Chantilly Lace by @khirsahle.  (FO4: F!Sole/MacCready.)  This needs no explanation, except maybe to say that reading it always makes me grin like a fiend.

One, Two, Three, by @notebookalpha.  (FO4: F!Sole/Deacon)  This was the Deacon fic I read when I first decided to dip my toe into that corner of the fandom; I was already working on one fic at the time and was trying hard not to get invested in another pairing and thanks to this fic I complete lost that battle.  Maybe if there’d been a hundred more like it I wouldn’t have had to write some of my own, but unfortunately there was just enough to whet the appetite without satisfying it.

Freedom Trail and Policy of Truth by @youreusingcoconuts.  (FO4: M!Sole/Deacon.)  Freedom Trail is probably my Ultimate Deacon Fic, it is the story to which all others are measured and usually found wanting.  It showed me just what you could do with dialogue.  Policy of Truth is a lot more sharp-edged, and if you’re looking for emotional satisfaction I suggest reading that first unless you want to stare angrily at the ceiling all night like I did, but it’s also really fucking good.  Because you don’t have to be a good person to be good at what you do; sometimes, being a good person can kind of get in the way.  It’s a less romantic view of a compulsive liar and lifetime spy, but I love it.  I sometimes want to brain the main character with a fucking brick, but that’s part of the charm.

Three Kisses and One They Could Understand (Hurt His Hands) by cereslupin.  (DA:I, Cullen/Dorian and then Cullen/F!Inquisitor.)  The first is a short, sweet story that manages to sketch out a beautiful piece of characterization in a very small space of time, for a pairing I didn’t realize I was into until I read this.  The second is one of my favorite Cullen/Inquisitor fics because it’s… hmm.  All this time and I still can’t think of a good way to describe it, but I think because it isn’t a recovery fic, precisely; it’s a snapshot of people in recovery, together.  It feels like two people who are better because they have each other, even if sometimes things like sex are huge and scary, it’s about taking your partner’s hand and going into it together.  Does that make sense?

The Heart of the Labyrinth by Barkour.  (DA:I: Iron Bull/Dorian.)  All of Barkour’s fic for this pairing is great, but this is the first I read and still my favorite.  I had to read it at least three times just to make sure I caught all of the details and nuance—there’s a lot going on under the surface—but this is another case of a writer who showed me what language could really do.  Both characters are just so fully realized and clever and sharp-edged and prickly and tender and kind in all the wrong moments.

Rebel Heart by @dinoswrites.  (DA:I Solas/F!Lavellan.)  The long, plotty, post-game novel that gives you all the action, adventure, and romance you could possibly desire for these two.  I’ve read a fair bit of solavellan of various stripes and loved a whole bunch of it, but honestly this is always the one I come back to the most.

Greatly Approved by @damalur.  (DA:I, Varric/F!Hawke.)  Probably the truest bioware pairing of my heart, and cruelly denied by canon but you know what?  There’s this fic instead.  And that’s almost better, because that’s my Hawke.  That’s the Hawke I always think of when I think of Hawke, which is to say completely mental, compulsively sarcastic, incapable of taking anything seriously, terrified of anything that looks like commitment, and someone who feels things so deeply and profoundly she could fucking choke on them.  It’s the kind of story that has you laughing along, fizzy and warm with it, until the anvil drops in the best way.  And Cassandra!  Fuck, Cassandra is so good in this, I could write a whole essay about her relationship with Hawke alone and not run out of things to say.

Honorable mention goes to Crooked Little by the same author, same pairing.  God but the last few scenes of that always get me, even when I know how it ends!  And double-honorable mention to Crucible (f!Shepard/Vakarian), also by the same author, as being my One True Fic for my truest Mass Effect OTP.  All other stories must compare to it, and all others fall short, always.

[kyoulove]

40 Questions - Meme for Shippers

So @bethanyactually was doing these yesterday, and I wanted to answer them all, so I am! I’ll do a couple then put the rest under a cut so you all don’t get a wall of text. :D (I’ve actually had this open in a word document for about a week, so it’s way later than I intended to post hahahaha whoops)

1.  Talk about the first ship you ever had. OH MAN. My wee shipper heart! I think (think!) the first one I ever had was the couple from Today’s Special? That kids show where the mannequin came to life and they were obviously in love with eachother.

2.  Talk about three of the most important ships throughout your life. Oooo in my life? Well…. Snape/Hermione was one that I shipped for YEARS as a teen (I still ship them but don’t actively read about them). Bulma/Vegeta from DBZ really got me into fandom as a youngling. Inquisitor/Cullen is so important to me too, because of the impact that Dragon Age Inquisition had on me.

3.  What’s your current OTP? But how do I pick just one? Right this second I have tabs open for stories to read with Bellamy/Clarke, from The 100. And also Jyn/Cassian from Rogue One. And a couple random Inquisitor/Cullen stories and Steve/Bucky ones.

4.  What’s your current NOTP? Um….. There isn’t a lot I don’t ship, really….. Hm…. Haha - Voldemort/Hermione. I don’t know what was happening in the internet last week but wow. Ooooo wait I thought of one! Ron/Hermione. Nope, don’t like it.

5.  Do you have any poly ships? Damn you, Leverage, but you made me ship it. So hard. SO HARD.

6.  How do you feel about love triangles? While I’m pretty much over them right now, done right I don’t necessarily dislike them. Sometimes. Really though, at this point in my reading/shipping life, a love triangle seems like such a contrived plot point that I just want it to go away.

7.  How do you feel about RPF? It makes me really uncomfortable, and I don’t read it. Fictional characters are wonderful to write about, but real people are actually real people and there is a line there, I think. (Though, when I was but a young teen, a couple friends and I were deep DEEP into writing Hanson RPF – I think we wrote that they moved in next door? It spawned and epic and ultimately weirdly tragic tale.)

8.  Have you ever shipped yourself with a character? Have I ever introduced you to my fictional husband, Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford? (Though honestly, I actually ship myself more with the Iron Bull, because I can’t play through his romance in game.)

9.  Do you have many ships that never got together at all? Yesssssss so many. Betty/Jughead (I haven’t thought of them in so long, thanks Riverdale), let’s not even get into Stiles/Derek, are Clarke/Bellamy actually together? I don’t know, I think most of my ships are not canon. I tend to like those almost more in fandom, because romances that happen on screen have already happened! It’s a weird feeling.  

10.  Do you ship any characters that have never met? No, I can’t think of any?

11.  Talk about your favorite first kiss. Ooooo Veronica and Logan. They have an A+ first kiss.

12.  Have you ever been disappointed when your ship finally got together? Well, most of my ships don’t…

13.  Has a ship ever broken your heart? YES. Elizabeth and Will in Pirates of the Caribbean. The ending of the first trilogy, where they can only be together for one day every 10 years was SO UNSATISFYING I can’t actually watch the movies again.

14.  How do you feel about will they/won’t they? Uggggg. I don’t mind a bit of tension about the relationship, but if it’s dragged on too long I lose interest, and frankly think the relationship becomes unhealthy. Pining is great, pining for years is awkward. (See: Bones)

15.  Have you ever “shipped at first sight”? Yes, pretty much always.

16.  Talk about a ship you initially disliked. I would say probably my OT3 from Leverage, just because I didn’t want an OT3 in my life LOL.

17.  Talk about a pairing you’ve stopped shipping romantically. When I was reading the first Mistborn book, I initially shipped Vin and Kelsier together. However as the book progressed, they fell into more of a father/daughter relationship which suited the characters perfectly.

18.  Talk about a moment which made you question an entire ship. I’m sure there is something but I’m drawing a blank, friends. A BLANK. I guess the entire Civil War arc made me question all my Steve/Tony feels?

19.  Have you ever shipped something despite yourself? Well, I am normally not into poly relationships, but then ALONG CAME LEVERAGE AND HERE WE ARE. Lordie. The three of them are just so in love. I really didn’t want anything to do with The 100 as a show either, but I slipped and fell in thanks to the fanfiction LOL.

20.  Talk about a ship you feel alone in shipping. Lassiter/Shawn from Psych. I mean. Clearly they love eachother. But there just isn’t a whole lot of fanfiction! One day, maybe!

21.  Is there a ship you just don’t get, but have nothing against? Scott/Stiles, I think. I really love them as brothers, and have a hard time moving past that!

22.  Which of your ships have the best chemistry? Steve/Bucky, probably. Sterek is a close second too!

23.  Which of your ships deserve better writing? All have good writing, I think, but I think the Jack/Phryne ship needs more. Much more. Because I love them and I need it :D (Actually, more is basically what I want for all fandoms ever, because I’m just so greedy LOL)

24.  Do you mostly ship canon pairings? No, I think I ship the ones that never really happen the most!

25.  Have you ever shipped a pairing before you even started watching the show/movie simply because of gifs and graphics or similar? I have never had the slightest desire to watch The 100, but I ship Bellamy/Clarke so hard. I also started watching Teen Wolf solely because of the quality Sterek fandom of the time.

26.  Have you noticed a pattern in your shipping? Is there a romantic dynamic you’re more drawn to? I love enemies to lovers, I love “OOOPS I caught a feeling what do I do”, I love an age difference (only in fiction kids, only in fiction), I love sass and pining. I love a long, drawn out story where both of the idiots think the other doesn’t have any romantic feelings. Oh, and coffee shop AUs. Classic.

27.  Is there a ship you’ve shipped for most of your life? Not really, though Snape/Hermione is probably the longest running one.

28.  Does shipping come easily to you? As easy as breathing. I love love! Show me two people with the slightest degree of feelings and BAM I have probably shipped it.

29.  Do you need to ship something to really enjoy a movie/book/tv show/comic? No, but it certainly helps! And frankly, unless it is a piece of entertainment with only one person I am probably going to find the ship hiding in it.

30.  Name a couple of fandoms in which you have no ships. Ahahahahahahahhaha it’s possible that one doesn’t exist but TRY ME INTERNET.

31.  Talk about one of your favorite headcanons for a ship you love. It’s not really a headcannon per se, but I’ve read a lot of fanfics where Jyn/Cassian share a bed before they really admit their feelings and I love itttttt.

32.  Share five must-read fics. But How to choose??? Tearing Down the Heavens [Inquisitor/Cullen – Dragon Age Inquisition], Champion’s Coffer [Hawke/Varric – Dragon Age 2], let’s give ‘em something to talk about [Jyn/Cassian – Star Wars Rogue One], regardless of warning the future doesn’t scare me at all [Clarke/Bellamy – The 100], This Your Protect [Steve/Bucky – Captain America: The Winter Soldier]

33.  Name your favorite fanartist(s). Ummmm….. I don’t have one?

34.  Share your favorite fanmix for your OTP. I don’t have one of these either!

35.  Recommend 1-5 shipper blogs. Pass – I don’t want to link to people and all the blogs I follow are multi fandom blogs :D

36.  Do you create fanmixes/gif sets/fanart/fic/fanvids and so on for you ships? Nope!

37.  Do you have a favorite trope and/or AU for your OTP? Coffeeshop AUs are just the best I think. A long slow burn and enemies to lovers is also great.

38.  Do you like and use ship names? I think the only one I really use is Sterek, the rest of them are name/name.

39.  Is there a fictional relationship you’d really want for yourself? Mmmm nah. I mean, I love my husband a lot, and frankly, we put our favorite characters through some shit!

40.  If you could change one thing about your OTP, what would that be? Hahahah I don’t have an OTP – the closest I can get is sometimes an OTP within a fandom lol. Let’s see. I think across the board I would like to see more producers/writers who love the fandom actually DO something with that information. Less queerbaiting and actually making it canon, for a start (looking at you, Teen Wolf). If there are some unattached people that are loudly and enthusiastically paired together, why not try it out? Sometimes the writers have a different path in mind, and I get that, but so often in shows it’s to draw out the tension or to just ignore it entirely. And please, stop the love triangles.

Well, now that I’ve read and written the word “ship” way to many times, thank you and goodnight. :D

[norafmoore]

A Port in a Storm

If you are at all interested, I have posted Chapter 1 of a longer fic. The link to the AO3 piece is at the bottom. Arames stared at the canvas ceiling to his tent, trying to make sense of his life. Or the past several weeks, at least. Leaving his family and clan. Traveling across the Waking Sea. Hiding in a seemingly endless rotation of stolen mercenary gear or servant's garb. He could have passed for a Circle mage if it had not been for the vallaslin on his face, so faint one could barely see it. Though few Circle mages, if any, would have been with a clan long enough to obtain their vallaslin and then be sent to a Circle. But anything was possible. The world had changed. A Grey Warden abomination had blown up the Kirkwall Chantry. The Circles had been dissolved and Templars had abandoned the Chantry. And he was simultaneously a prisoner and the savior of Thedas. A part of him was glad he had undergone only the first markings for his vallaslin. It would be easier to blend in. Creators, he had already been mistaken for a servant several times at Haven. One unsuspecting fellow made the mistake of calling him a knife ear within earshot of Cullen. The Commander could be quite formidable when angered. Arames found him distracting. The travel and tents were nothing new. Though he did miss the familiar rumble of the Aravalls and the gentle bleats of the grazing Halla. But that was were the familiarity stopped. He knew nothing of the world of men nor their Chantry. Before the Conclave, his contact with humans had been limited. He had never met a dwarf or Qunari before encountering Varric and Iron Bull. They were at least open to Arames' endless questions. He had been less successful talking with Solas or Sera. The former viewed the Dalish as children making up stories, while the latter steered clear of anything “too elfy.” Whatever that meant. Sometimes he could pretend that he was still with his clan. That his hand did not glow or ache with a newfound magic he could barely contain. He could pretend his sister’s magic had not manifested, leaving their clan with four mages. But it was harder with his current roommate. Bull snored loudly next to him and muttered in an unfamiliar language. Qunlat, probably. The large Qunari's presence reminded Arames that it did not matter. He was here now. He would have left his clan no matter what. Better the Herald of Andraste than a mercenary or worse. He wondered if he would have resorted to selling his body, as so many Dalish had done before. Based on the offers from the more unsavory merchants their clan ran across, he'd fetch a good price. Didn't matter now. Whether or not he believed in a Maker, he was tied to this organization for the rest of his days. And now time magic and a Magister in Redcliffe. Creators, what was next? A Tevinter ally, for one. Arames played they day over and over again, trying to remember what he noticed first. Everything, it seemed. From the man's impressive display of magic, to his crooked smile, to the mischievous glint in his eyes, Dorian was occupying more than a fair amount of space in Arames' mind. Arames rubbed his eyes. He heard a soft rumble next to him. He glanced over, Bull was awake and grinning over at him. “That ‘Vint on your mind?” “How did you—?” Bull chuckled. “He seems your type.” “Is it that obvious?” Arames sighed. “No, Boss, it isn't. Ben-Hassrath, remember? But enough of the serving girls have been falling over you the last few weeks and the only more oblivious person in Haven might be Cullen. And he's got his own reasons.” “Fair enough. It doesn't bother you, does it?” “Me? Nah. None of my business. Frankly, Boss, it's no one's business. Anyone gives you a hard time let me know and I'll set ‘em straight. Sort to speak.” Arames let a few moments of silence before speaking up again. “What are your thoughts on Dorian?” Bull grunted. “He is pretty. But so are most dangerous things.” “That's what Blackwall said about Vivienne. How the poisonous snakes are always more colorful.” “There’s truth in that. I wouldn't cross Viv.” Arames sat up and looked Bull in the eyes, or eye, as it were. “I do not always make the best decisions…” He stammered. “Aww, sure you do. Look you're just a kid, Boss. You're—how old again?” “Twenty, barely.” “Yeah. When I was your age they were sending me out to Seheron. It's hard to have this kind of power or authority when you don't feel like you earned it. But you've got good instincts. The important thing is to listen to those around you. Don't just decide you know best. A good leader takes advice and suggestions and makes adjustments. Just keep doing that.” “Thanks, Bull.” “No problem, Boss.” The Qunari yawned and stretched. He took up most of the tent. Arames found it comforting. A few minutes passed when Bull startled Arames. “Don't worry, Boss. You'll see him again.” Arames bit his lip. "Creators protect me, I hope so." Bull was right. Dorian burst through the doors in the back of the Chantry with more flair and swagger than Arames could have imagined. His confidence was awe inspiring. And seductive. Cullen wanted none of it. It was not strategic to risk the one means of closing rifts in a futile attempt to get mages to close the Breach. Arames felt reckless. His life had been forfeit since he awoke with the mark on his left hand. Wasn't it only a matter of time? And while he had grown used to the quiet ache in his hand, the jaw pain was irritating. But Dorian had promised a means to get Leliana's people inside. Which meant a chance at actually getting the mages to join the Inquisition. Arames recalled his time in Redcliffe only a few days prior. Many of the free mages were elderly, infirm, or children. One small girl reminded him of his sister. And then the tranquil. Sera had picked the lock on a whim, hoping to find something worth selling when she stumbled upon a room filled with skulls, gemstones jammed into the eye sockets. Ocularum, Solas had called them. Made from the skulls of tranquil and mounted on to wooden stakes all over Thedas. Arames had run out of the room to vomit. Sera soon joined him. Bull rubbed his back. “Watch the boots, Boss.” Arames nodded and heaved. “I thought they were with the rebel mages,” Cassandra muttered as she left the cabin. She shook her head and looked over at Bull. “I should have looked harder.” Arames wiped his mouth and spat on the ground. He took a swig from Varric’s water skin to rinse out his mouth. “We cannot let Alexius keep the mages.” Cassandra nodded. He repeated it in the War Room. There were too many lives in the balance. Cassandra and Leliana agreed. Cullen acquiesced. So Arames had given the orders and now Dorian was sitting across from him at the Seagull as they went over their plans one last time. “I will accompany the assassins through the hidden entrance and disable any of Alexius’ wards or other security measures.” Arames nodded. “While Cassandra, Bull and I go through the main entrance and provide enough of a distraction to allow you safe passage. Meanwhile, Varric and Sera,” Arames pointed at the dwarf and young elven archer, “will wait at the Inn. If we don't come out after…how long was it?” “Two hours,” Sera said. “We agreed on three,” Varric corrected her. “Should be two,” she grumbled. “Creepy mages…” “After three hours, if there is no news, they send word however they can to Haven. By any means necessary.” They nodded in affirmation. “I do not like putting you at risk,” Cassandra fretted. “None of us do,” Bull countered, “but it's a necessary risk. Provided you do your job.” Bull leveled his gaze on Dorian. For just a moment Arames saw uncertainty in the handsome Tevinter man’s face. But then it was gone. “Of course I can.” His eyes traveled and lingered on Arames, as if seeing him for the first time. Arames smiled. Dorian smiled back, his eyes studying the Herald of Andraste. Arames was used to people staring. They had done so his whole life. His eyes were often the first feature people would comment on. Icy green, the color of elfroot in a frost, with flecks of blue. They seemed to simply reflect light wherever he was. Like a cat. If it was not his eyes, then it would be his hair. Arames was grateful he had cut his hair when he came to Ferelden. He had started growing it when he had been named Keeper Deshana’s apprentice. He got less attention with his hair cropped close to his scalp. He thought of it as simply brown, but thanks to a particularly persistent young server in the Haven tavern he had learned it was a rich chestnut, with streaks of auburn and gold. His skin was tanned from the sun, and soft freckles adorned his nose, which offset his full lips, high cheekbones, and square jaw. He felt heat creep up his neck as he felt the intensity of Dorian’s gaze. Bull had described Dorian as pretty. And he was. He was tall, with broad shoulders and was strong, especially for a Mage. Mostly because Dorian used his staff as a physical weapon, not just a means to concentrate his magic, chiseling the man’s upper body. Bull would likely have some competition with the pretty young girls in Haven. Bull slung an arm over Arames’ shoulder. “Boss,” he whispered gently. Arames looked up at the giant next to him and then back at Dorian. The mage was suddenly studying his hands intently. Cassandra was scowling and Varric and Sera were sharing a bemused expression. “Oh, Creators,” Arames muttered. “It wasn't that long.” Bull whispered, smiling. “But there was that thing you wanted to do.” Arames cleared his throat. “Sera.” “Yes, all-touched Herald?” She had a wicked grin. “I have something I need you to do. It's important.” Her smile faded and she scowled. “What is it?” He pulled an envelope from his tunic and handed it to her. “Should I…should I not return, I need you to make sure that this gets to my clan. To my sister.” “All right…” She said. She studied the letter suspiciously. “You have a sister?” Cassandra did not try to hide her surprise. Arames nodded. “Two, actually. Both younger. But Izzy, she's only twelve. She's…fragile. She should know what became of me. And that she should run.” “Why'd you leave then, if she's so fragile?” “Keeper Deshana will take care of her. It is better that I am not there.” It was the first time he had mentioned his clan or any family to other members of the Inquisition. For the first time since he awoke in shackles he felt like crying. “Please, Sera. It is import to me. If anything happened to her.” His voice cracked. Bull squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, fine.” She stuffed the letter somewhere. “Thank you.” They sat in silence. Finally Arames cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, shall we head up to the castle?” http://archiveofourown.org/works/8757226/chapters/20073634

[autistic-red-jenny]

Three Mages Walk Into a War Chapter 8: Riding

Pairing: Lanyla Lavellan x Cullen, Tamsyn Amell x Zevran, Aliss Hawke x Fenris Fic Summary: Inquisitor Lanyla Lavellan is doing an admirable job leading the Inquisition, but she cannot do it alone. Fortunately, she has the help of two new advisers: Aliss Hawke and Tamsyn Amell. Chapter Summary: The Inquisitor and her companions set out for the Western Approach. Rating: SFW Warnings: None Author’s Note: Thanks to my favorite beta, @conteur-reveur!

AO3

It wasn’t that Hawke was afraid of horses, exactly.

She’d faced down a dragon and laughed, fought a Qunari warlord in single combat; it wouldn’t make any sense for her to be afraid of some animal.

If she seemed a bit nervous around them, it was only because she had little experience with them. Ferelden apostate families didn’t generally keep a stable, and when she’d lived in Kirkwall everything important was close enough to walk.

So if she was cautious around the beasts, there was every sensible reason for it.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

Mounting one, however, was proving difficult. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually ridden, and most of those were a half-blind nag that belonged to a neighbor in Lothering. Which didn’t really compare to an enormous, purebred warhorse, no matter how docile the horsemaster assured her it was.

“You’re allowed to ask for help, you know,” said Tamsyn. The Warden rode up beside Hawke, calm and collected even in the chaos of Inquisition forces preparing to leave. Her mabari loped along beside the horse, mouth wide and tongue out in a doggy grin.

The Inquisitor’s party was just the head of a caravan that included foot soldiers, scouts, supply wagons, and extra horses; it was a far cry from grabbing a few friends and a dog to walk the alleyways of Kirkwall.

“Most people in armor need a hand mounting up anyway,” continued Tamsyn. “No one will think anything of it.”

“The Inquisitor doesn’t need any help,” Hawke said. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, and she hated herself a bit for it, but she was the Champion of Kirkwall, damn it, she shouldn’t this intimidated by an animal.

“Lanyla is a tiny elf who weighs six pounds soaking wet, even in that little coat she calls armor,” replied Tamsyn, arching a brow. “Not a six foot tall human in leather and metal plate.” She glanced behind where Hawke was standing. “But if you’re determined not to ask anyone for a boost, there’s a mounting block about three feet behind you.”

“Oh.”

Several minutes--and some undignified clambering--later, Hawke was on the horse and at least pretending she was ready to leave.

Fenris joined her near Skyhold’s gates on his own mount, a massive deer. He’d barely left her side in the few days since their reunion; the hovering would be almost irritating if she wasn’t just as eager to have him near.

“Are you ready to get going?” he asked.

“Oh, just thrilled,” Hawke replied. “Grey Wardens, cultists, the middle of the desert? That combination always works out so well for us.”

Fenris chuckled, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Next time,” Hawke continued, “if someone needs us to help them save the world, we only say yes if it’s somewhere nice. An ancient magister’s uncle laying siege to a beach, maybe.”

“Don’t even joke, Hawke,” interjected Varric, riding up behind Fenris on a sturdy little pony. “With your luck, jokes like that are just giving fate ideas.” He turned to Fenris. “Would you look at that, Broody’s still all smiles.”

Fenris growled at the jab, but only half-heartedly. And Aliss had to admit, Fenris had been in a good mood ever since he joined her at Skyhold. So had she, for that matter.

Fenris said something in return, but Aliss only half-listened, her attention caught by something across the courtyard.

Tamsyn was bending over in her saddle, leaning in towards where Zevran stood beside her. The assassin rested a hand on her thigh, saying something that Hawke couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made Tamsyn laugh and shake her head at her husband. Her smile softened as Zevran pushed back a loose strand of her hair, then grew wider when he tugged himself up by her saddle for a kiss.

Aliss looked away, feeling like she was intruding.

“Hair still soft, eyes still blue, wrinkles there that weren’t before. She’s leaving again, without me. Can’t protect her this time. Please come back, please come back to me, mi alma.”

“Cole,” said Lanyla, leading another horse up to the gates. “We talked about this. Try to stay out of people’s heads when they’re in a group, please.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said the boy--and Hawke really needed to figure out what was going on with him--though he’d apparently walked away by the time she turned to look. Which he seemed to do a lot, now that she thought about it.

“Is everyone ready?” the Inquisitor asked, pulling up and seating herself lightly in the saddle of her own horse.

“Whenever you are, Boss,” answered Iron Bull, as he and Dorian joined the rest of the party.

“I thought your Warden friend was coming?” Hawke asked. “The beardy one?”

Lanyla shrugged. “It seemed unnecessary, with Tamsyn coming. So he offered to stay behind and help train some of the new recruits. Besides,” she added, grinning up at Bull, “I hear there’s a dragon in the area.”

With the Qunari’s booming laugh echoing through Skyhold’s courtyard, they set off across the stone bridge.

  Lanyla wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the expression on Hawke’s face or offer her some kind of poultice to help with whatever was causing her so much pain.

Varric had been teasing her ever since they left Skyhold, only increasing it once they’d took a break at noon and had to mount up again. Now that they were nearing evening, Lanyla was fairly certain that Hawke’s concentration on riding was the only thing keeping her from setting Varric’s chest hair on fire. As it was, she’d barely said a word in response in a few hours, focusing instead on her white-knuckled grip on the reins.

On Hawke’s other side was Fenris, apparently much more comfortable in the saddle, but just as quiet. He smirked every so often at one of Varric’s comments, but managed a straight face whenever Hawke looked his way.

Lanyla realized that they’d barely spoken since he’d come to Skyhold beyond the short introduction Aliss had given. She’d meant to ask him more about his time in Kirkwall and about Hawke, but he had an air about him that seemed to discourage casual conversation. Which only made things more awkward now that they’d be traveling and fighting together for the foreseeable future.

“Fenris?” Lanyla said, spurring her horse forward to draw even with him. The other elf nodded in acknowledgement.

“Inquisitor,” he replied, his tone formal and his posture a bit stiff. Hawke, on his other side, was even stiffer, glaring at her mount’s head like she expected it to turn and attack her. Fenris followed Lanyla’s gaze, and his expression softened marginally when he looked at Hawke.

“Is there something you need?” he said, turning back to Lanyla.

“Oh, um…” she said, feeling a blush rise on her cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just… Varric said you speak Qunlat?”

“Yes?” he answered, raising an eyebrow.

“The Qunari have reached out to us recently,” Lanyla continued, growing a bit more confident, “about allying against Corypheus, so I thought I’d learn some of the language to communicate better. Bull’s been helping me, but no one else I work with speaks it. And I’d really like to practice with another person, too, so I can get another opinion on how I’m doing.”

“If you like, Inquisitor,” he replied, nodding in her direction.

“Just don’t let him arrange any duels with the Arishok,” said Hawke, managing a quip even while holding her entire body as stiffly as possible. “He’s really good at doing that.”

“Be fair, Hawke,” said Varric, “that was at least half Rivaini’s fault too.”

Lanyla could hear Tamsyn chuckle on her right, where the Warden kept pace on her massive black charger. “If it helps, Lanyla,” she said. “I think the current Arishok would be a bit easier to deal with without a duel. He’s hard, but reasonable. Or at least he was when I knew him.”

“You know the Arishok?” Lanyla asked.

“Yes. Though he was a Sten of the Beresaad when we met.”

“Ha! Dorian, you owe me ten sovereigns,” Bull said, interrupting from where he and Dorian rode behind them. The mage shook his head and started rummaging in one of the pouches on his belt. “He didn’t believe me when I said you were that Warden,” Bull explained.

Tamsyn laughed again. “Yes, I am that Warden. I suppose it’s no use trying to keep it a secret when we’re going to be working together these next few weeks. Especially not from you, Hissrad.”

Lanyla glanced back to Bull, not sure what his reaction would be. But the Qunari only shook his head, leaning back a bit in his saddle for one of his deep barking laughs. “Should’ve known you’d figure it out, after all that time in Par Vollen. And your Crow seems sharp, too.”

Frowning, Lanyla opened her mouth to ask when Tamsyn had been in Par Vollen, and how Bull knew Zevran was a Crow, when she was interrupted by Barkspawn huffing as one of the Inquisition scouts came trotting up to their party.

“Inquisitor!” he called, reining in his horse. “We’ve marked a spot for a camp, just about a mile ahead. “The forward unit has already started setting up, your tents should be ready by the time you get there.”

“Thank you,” Lanyla replied.

“Fucking finally,” she heard Hawke mutter.

“What’s your name?” Lanyla asked the scout, ignoring Hawke’s grousing.

He straightened a bit in his saddle and squared his shoulders. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, with barely enough goatee to cover his chin. “Bevis, Your Worship.”

“Thank you, Bevis,” Lanyla said. “Good work.”

The lad beamed, saluting with an arm across his chest. He dipped his head quickly and then rode off, presumably to report to one of the leaders further back in the caravan.

“Hear that, Hawke?” Varric asked. “We’ll be able to camp soon.”

“My hearing is fine, Varric, thank you.”

“Just in time to rest up for another three weeks of riding!”

Lanyla had to admire the creativity of Hawke’s profanity. Not to mention the quantity.

 Tamsyn took a long drink to finish off her cider, listening to Hawke and Varric bicker on the other side of the fire. She had to laugh a bit, listening to them. She knew they’d been friends for almost as long as she’d known Zevran, and they clearly cared for each other, but once they got going they squabbled like children.

Fenris didn’t talk nearly as much, but he stayed at Hawke’s side, listening to her talk and rarely taking his eyes from her face.

Not that Tamsyn blamed him. She fingered the gold hoop in her right ear and looked down at her hand. The band on her ring finger glinted in the firelight. Maker, she missed Zevran already. And it’d likely be another two months, at least, before she saw him again.

They’d been separated before, had been apart longer, but it never got easier.

Barkspawn whined a bit and laid his head in her lap, looking up at her in that too-smart way he had. She smiled softly and scratched behind his ear until he huffed and closed his eyes.

“So, Warden,” asked Varric. “The Hero of Ferelden must have some stories.”

Tamsyn laughed and set down her drink. “Most of it wasn’t nearly as exciting as everyone seems to think. A lot of walking, a lot of camping, a lot of bad stew. You should know better than anyone how stories get blown out of proportion.”

“Bullshit,” said Hawke. “Even if only a tenth of the stories are true, you still have plenty to tell.”

“She has a point,” Dorian added, speaking up for the first time since they'd started eating. The mage had been uncharacteristically quiet since they'd left Skyhold. If Tamsyn had to guess, it was probably because of the looks Aliss shot him every so often and the long stares Fenris gave him.

“We heard things about you even in Tevinter,” he continued. “And most of my countrymen would rather die than compliment a Ferelden.”

“The Dalish too!” Lanyla interjected. “For months, it seemed like every bit of news we got was about refugees, the Blight, or you. Even out in the Marches.”

Tamsyn held up her hands. “Alright, alright!” she said, laughing. “I surrender.” She leaned back and supported herself with a hand. “Let’s see… Have any of you ever been to the Brecilian Forest?”

The evening went on like that, Tamsyn and the others swapping stories and feeding the dying fire.

After a few hours, Hawke yawned and stood, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, as fun as this has been,” she said, “I need to try and sleep if I’m going to be spending another month riding that creature.” Fenris stood to join her, taking her hand as they walked towards the tent set up for them. “Goodnight!” she called over one shoulder, laughing as Fenris tugged her through the opening in the canvas.

“Who wants to take first watch?” asked Lanyla.

“I’ll do it,” Tamsyn answered. “I’ll be up a while longer anyway.”

“I’ll join you, Warden,” said Varric. “Bianca’s still a bit antsy. She can never sleep the first night on the road.”

Lanyla laughed as the others started getting up. “Wake me in a few hours, I’ll take a turn. You’re sharing a tent with me.”

Barkspawn stood and trotted after Lanyla, then looked back at Tamsyn with a cocked head.

“Go on,” she said. “I’ll come soon.” The mabari stayed where he was, still watching her. Tamsyn raised an eyebrow. “Go. Guard the Inquisitor. I’m fine here.”

Barkspawn turned away, apparently satisfied with his new orders, though he looked back at her twice more before entering the tent. Some days Tamsyn wondered why he didn’t start speaking Common just so he could argue with her outright.

As everyone made their way to their tents and settled in, Tamsyn and Varric moved to a spot out of the fire’s direct light. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Tamsyn took a deep breath as she looked up at the stars. Eleven years out of the Circle, and it still felt like something special to look up and see sky instead of stone.

“Thirsty?” Varric asked, passing her a flask that he pulled from some hidden pocket.

“Thanks.”

Tamsyn took a swig, handed it back, and they sat in silence for a while, just watching the night. A short ways down a hill she could see the fires of the main Inquisition camp, figures moving in front of the light and between the tents.

“So, Master Tethras,” she said, after a long while without speaking. “I read your book.”

Varric chuckled. “Really?” he replied. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Mmhmm,” said Tamsyn, reaching for the flask and taking another drink. “And I had a question for you.” She handed it back and turned to stare down the dwarf. “You know that Anders served with me at Vigil’s Keep.”

“Blondie might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

“And while we worked together, I told Anders a few stories. Places I’ve been, battles I fought, that kind of thing.” She leaned forward and rested her chin in one hand. “And, you know, I couldn’t help but notice a few similarities between one of those stories and a certain scene in your book.”

“Oh?” said Varric, suddenly very interested in polishing the stock of his crossbow.

“Yeah, you tend not to forget fighting a nightmarish monster formed of corpses and blood magic.”

“Hmm?” murmured Varric, brushing an invisible speck of dust off of his sleeve.

“And when Zevran and I were in the Free Marches, we ran into this group of mages. Said they were from Kirkwall.”

“No kidding.”

“And, you know, the mage leading them… he looked an awful lot like how you described Orsino.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. He told us this great story, about how this apostate and her friends helped them escape the city. About how a brilliant author promised to cover for them once they were gone.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“Yeah.”

They both fell silent, watching the quiet hills around them.

“Weird coincidence, isn’t it?” said Tamsyn.

“Yeah. Weird.”

[kauriart]

An Agent of Fen’Harel

An ever-so-slightly NSFW Dragon Age Fic | Cullen x Solas x f!Trevelyan | Read it on A03

Cullen stares at the report in his hand, breathing hard. Eyes unfocused. He’s standing — somehow — but the room still tilts wildly beneath his feet. Every word on the page an inconsequential blur, save for those five little letters.

S-o-l-a-s

It has been nearly two years since he’s seen that name in a report.

There had been a time, when, for nearly three months, that name had crossed his desk every day. A small footnote at the end of the every consolidated report from the Inquisition’s network of scouts. No sign of Solas.

Every day, passing with no answer.

Every day, pretending it didn’t matter.

Every night, with Trevelyan crying herself to sleep in his arms.

Then one evening, the report failed to mention Solas at all. There was just empty space beneath the update on Fairbanks’ men in the Dales. Cullen had sat for an hour looking at the blank, bottom-half of the page, the hollowness in his breast slowly turning to a furious and mounting rage.

How could they? How could they stop looking? How could they abandon Solas to his fate?

How could he let them?

He’d written new orders. A blistering command to continue the search.

The Inquisition will continue to turn its might towards finding Solas, who has been companion and confidant to the Inquisitor. We do not turn our back on our own. The search will resume, and continue for as long as it takes, until he is found. - CSR

Companion, and confidant.

The omission had made him feel hollow, though the true nature of their relationship was — if not an outright secret — not widely known. They'd been discreet, in truth, at Solas’ insistence. Asking the Chantry to overlook a Circle mage and an ex-Templar was one thing. Adding an elven apostate to the mix, was quite another.

So he didn’t write that Solas was the Inquisitor’s lover.

And his.

And he didn’t send the new orders.

Yet now, years later, there it is. Solas’ name. Printed in Carter's neat, and economic hand. Wedged between a passage outlining the gaatlok black market, and another, detailing the rotation of Inquisition scouts stationed at the Winter Palace.

Solas, formerly of the Inquisition, has been named an agent of Fen’Harel. Presumed dangerous. Orders to detain on sight with all possible caution. Eliminate if necessary.

Cullen reads the passage again. And again. And again. His eyes keep getting tugged back to those five little letters, so it takes him a moment — several, nerve-jangling moments of pure vertigo — before he comprehends the final sentence.

Eliminate if necessary.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Fear is a strangely honest creature. In the span of a single heartbeat, it makes mockery of the years Cullen has spent stubbornly convincing himself that he no longer cares for Solas. It’s a knot of anxiety bunched up beneath his breastbone, makes it difficult to breathe. Makes it difficult to not break into a run, and find Solas — find Solas now — and get his hands around the soft, fragile parts of anyone who would ever try to harm him.

Instead he jams the report into his pocket, and goes at once to find Trevelyan, a prayer on his lips, because what is he to tell her.

Solas had been…

Solas is...

Maker’s breath.

When he finds her, Trevelyan is where she’s mostly been since arriving at the Winter Palace;  sitting at her desk in the modest — by Orlesian standards, anyway — tent they shared. (Cullen still felt ridiculous calling the thing a “tent”, it was carpeted, and one of the walls was solid stone, and set with a gilded fireplace.) She’s pale, and the purple smudges that have lingered beneath her eyes since they returned to Halamshiral, are darker, like a bruise growing worse, instead of better. Her marked hand is ungloved, and cradled, palm-up in her lap. Cullen squints at it suspiciously.

There’s an open report on the desk in front of her.

A splash of tears across the page.

What a joke that they ever thought themselves capable, of moving past that elf.

“You saw.” He says inanely.

Trevelyan nods. Her expression is still, but he knows her well enough to see the desperate edges. “Are you alright?” She asks.

He moves closer, running his hand through his hair. “I hardly know.” More than anything, it feels as though someone has punched a hole in his chest. He looks up. “Are you?”

A shadow passes over Trevelyan’s face, lingers in her eyes for a moment before clearing. “I’ll be fine.”

Something cold slides down Cullen’s back. Hits every bump of his spine. Maker, he’s so afraid for her.

And for Solas.

“Go to him.” Her voice is too weak to be commanding, but it is not a request. “He needs you.”

“I cannot leave you.” Cullen insists, voice low. He doesn’t know what sort of magic might split a man in two. But if such a spell existed, it must feel very much like this. Strain all down the middle of his chest, as though he might split at the seams.

“There is no one else.” She reaches up, knuckles brushing against his cheek. Apologetic. “Dorian will stay and tend to the anchor. Bull too — the Qunari are involved, he has to remain. Vivienne is dealing with the Chantry. Leliana and Josephine are managing the council. I need Sara’s intel around the palace.” She shakes her head. “I’m sending Cassandra to investigate. And Cole. He’s sympathetic to Solas, but—"

“Unreliable.” Cullen sighs. “And Cassandra is likely to kill him on sight.”

“Unless you’re there.” Trevelyan says. “She trusts you. She’ll follow your lead. Take Varric, too. He’s good with Cole.”

“I can’t leave you.” He says again.

“I’m alright, Cullen.” She smiles, fingers against his jaw. “I’m not sleeping well, is all. Whatever this is...” She makes an annoyed gesture with her marked hand. “Dorian will sort it out. I trust him.”

Cullen hesitates. “Solas was always best with the anchor.”

“Then you should find him.” She hooks her hand over the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him closer. “And when you do, give him this —”

Her lips are warm and soft against his own. Lingering. Hesitant to move on.

“— from the both us.” She finishes softly.

***

Beyond the eluvian, the world is strange. There's so much magic in the air, it makes Cullen’s teeth ache. It is like Trevelyan’s descriptions of the Temple of Mythal, come to life. An ancient, angry world laid bare. Bitter ruins that scream of loss, yet here and there, untouched. Glittering mosaics. Blossoming trees. Power the world thought gone.

On and on they press. Every twist of the road becomes stranger, and more dangerous. There are too many secrets. Too many mirrors. Cullen finds himself separated. Alone in a grove surrounded by frozen Qunari.

But he’s not really alone.

A solitary figure stands before a giant eluvian, clad in strange, golden armor, shoulder slung with pale grey fur. His back is turned, but there is only one person in all the world who stands with such an easy, almost thoughtless grace.

Solas.

Cullen feels his heart leap, and lodge in his throat.

A dozen emotions hit him all at once. Relief. Longing. Joy. Fear. And a wrath so fierce it freezes him in place.

“You.”

Solas doesn’t turn around. The line of his shoulders are tight with tension, but he inclines his head slightly. A small, strangely easy motion. “Cullen.”

It steals his breath, the way Solas says his name — it always did — but now it’s a voice he barely recognizes. Cool, and controlled. Implacable, where Cullen feels his own shaking apart. “You.” He says again, takes a wet, noisy breath that makes him sound like he’s drowning, and forces the words out from under his diaphragm. “Fuck. You.”

Solas’ head swivels abruptly away, back towards the eluvian that towers before him. The mirror is in it’s dormant state, and doesn’t reflect, so he can’t see Solas’ expression, even then. But there’s something in his posture that seems poised for flight. Again.

“How...” Cullen growls, fights to keep from stammering. “How could you?”

 “You had each other.” Solas croaks hoarsely. “You were together before we… before I...” He shakes his head.

“Go on. Say it.” Cullen can feel the breath hiss between his teeth. “Coward. Before we fell in love with you. Before we lost you.”

He’s trembling. Balls his hands into fists to stop himself. Tight enough that his greaves dig into the joints of his fingers, and he’s glad for the tiny slivers of pain that prickle at the edges of his consciousness. Anything, anything to take his attention off the searing pain that lances his heart.

Cullen makes a sound that has the shape of a laugh, but isn’t. “That’s how we always spoke of it. That we lost you. But that’s not what happened, was it? You left us.” The words come out weak, and shaky, not angry like he wanted. “You left us.”

He runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

And Solas’ fucking back is still turned.

Rage bubbles inside him again.

“Look at me!” He roars, hand flying to the pommel of his sword. For one bright instant he thinks he’ll run Solas through if he doesn’t turn around.

But he does.

A small, graceful movement. The strange armor Solas wears glints as he turns, catches the light of the setting sun, and the elf seems to sparkle, all tawny gold, and bronze, and was he always this beautiful? Cullen swallows around the inane urge to laugh. He tries to grasp at the tendrils of rage still coiling in his belly but they seem to slip through his fingers. Now the hand clutched tight around the pommel of his sword, is to keep from reaching for Solas. To keep from touching him.

I still love you.

He grinds his teeth to stop the reckless, useless words from spilling out. He can’t say it. He can’t say it. So instead, he blurts out the next thing that crosses his mind.

“She’s dying.”

Solas’s careful expression holds for a single heartbeat before it cracks. He makes a pained sound, doubling over. A tiny motion as he crumples inward. Solas straightens almost at once, schooling his features into something less calm, but just as blank. His eyes slide from Cullen’s. “I see.”

“She… she hasn't told anyone, yet. But... I can tell.” There it is. That old urge to confide in him. To share life’s burdens. “Her hand.” He whispers. “It’s eating her alive.”

Solas’s eyes close. He exhales slowly through his nose, the sound soft and even.

Cullen watches Solas carefully. His expression is still, almost frozen. But he’s always been so careful, and guarded with his emotions. It was only ever in bed that he —

Memories rise, unbidden. Sharp, and clear, as though it were just yesterday they’d shared each other. He can practically taste Solas in his mouth, feel the heat of him beneath his hands. The long, lean muscles of Solas’ torso flexing in spasms, breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The sudden feeling of being overwhelmed. Of too much heat, too much sensation. The feel of Solas’ teeth beneath his thumb, as he presses his jaw down. Presses his mouth open. Holds him there, pliant, and patient. Eager for a taste. The quick, mercurial shift of heat in his loins as he jerks himself. And the guttural cry that lodges in his throat when he comes.

A splash of white across Solas’s lips.

Blue eyes turned black with desire.

Salty kisses.

Sighs.

“Fuck.” Cullen says, angry.

The last thing he wants is this. To be near Solas, and feel himself coming apart at the seams. He wants distance. Disdain. He wants Solas to hurt, and it fills him with shame. But not as much shame as knowing that what he wants more than anything is for Solas to touch him like he did that last night.

Their last night together.

Trevelyan had been off to face Corypheus the next morning, Solas at her side.

Before that night, Cullen had thought he knew what it was to make love to someone. He had bedded Trevelyan and Solas, a thousand times. Known every flavor of their touch. But nothing he had experienced — before, or since — had ever come close to the tenderness, and connection of that night. The gentle exploration of fingers and tongues memorizing the tiniest of details. The prickles of Solas’ eyelashes against his cheek. The curving smile of Trevelyan’s mouth. The thrust of bodies moving as one. A perfect fit. Tangled limbs, slick with sweat, pressed so close together it was hard to tell where one of them ended, and the other began. Whispered promises. Prayers. He’d fought back tears. Terror lingering behind the joy of their touch.

If it was the last time…

If he was to lose one of them...

But he had lost one of them. Solas had never come back. Had never planned to come back.

The memory sours.

Turns rancid in his belly.

Idiot. Fool. He was always going to leave. You were always going to lose him.

“And now… I’m going to lose you both.” Cullen gasps, suddenly overwhelmed. He trembles. Can’t catch his breath. It was always, always what he feared the most.

And Solas’ mouth finds his. Catches the sob as it leave his body, a great, tearing sound of grief that Solas pulls into himself. There isn’t any hesitation then. Or distance. Solas drags their bodies flush together, and Maker, there’s too much armor between them. Even the elf’s hands are covered. He catches Solas’ face in his palms, thumbs brushing at the high, sharp cheekbones. He can feel the clench of Solas’ jaw before it relaxes, and his mouth opens, and Cullen tastes the man who had once been his lover.

It is bittersweet, this kiss.

Desperate, and inelegant. Shades of all the nights they’d shared together, all the nights they’d shared each other. Passion. Laughter. Love. Loss…

Cullen grips one of Solas’ wrists tightly, terrified he’ll go.

But Solas is hanging on just as tightly.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.” Cullen begs. Hates that he can’t stop the words. Hates himself.

Don't stop.

Don’t leave.

“Don’t let her die.” He says instead, desperate.

Solas pulls back, but only a little. He keeps a grip on Cullen’s hip. A steady pressure that keeps him anchored to the ground.

“Can you take me to her?” Solas asks, voice rough.

Cullen nods. He has no idea where the others might be, but only Cole would be willing to help sneak Solas back, anyway. It would be easy enough. Trace their steps back to the eluvian in the Crossroads. It should still be clear of any Qunari, though, judging by the ring of stone statues, Solas would have little trouble dealing with anyone they encountered. But...  

“You can’t go like that.” Cullen says, and feels his cheeks grow warm. “There are few enough elves at the Winter Palace, as is, and none dressed likethat.”

The rebuke hangs oddly in the air between them.

Solas nods, eyes lowered, and drops his hand from Cullen’s hip.

“You can wear my shirt.” Cullen offers, praying that his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

Solas nods again, and his hands begin to work open that absurdly beautiful armor.

The body beneath is the same as he remembers. Long, and lean. Surprisingly broad-shouldered. Spattered with tiny freckles. Cullen tries to keep his eyes lowered as they undress, though it feels unnatural to do so. He knows Solas’s body as well as his own, and despite their years apart, he is unused to being strangers. His gaze keeps darting upward — the elf is too beautiful by half, and it is so, so difficult not to watch the muscles of his back flex and shift as he pries himself out of his armor, piece by golden piece.

And no, apparently, mysterious agents of sinister Elvhen Gods, do not wear smalls of any sort.

“Maker’s Breath.” Cullen feels his face flame.

Solas’s arse is the same, too.

“Perfect.” Cullen mutters to himself, as the laces of his bracer snarl into a knot.

Solas glances at him, brows raised.

“Nevermind. Shit.” He swears, and offers the elf his undertunic.

The garment is creased with wear, but clean enough, though Solas grimaces as he pulls it on. It’s too big for him. There’s extra fabric in the shoulders, and the hem falls to his mid-thigh. Solas takes a few deep breaths, and looks thoroughly disconcerted. His cheeks turn faintly pink.

Cullen frowns, suddenly worried. “It… doesn’t smell bad, does it?”

Solas’ cheeks pinken further. “No.”

Cullen makes a flat sound, unsure of what to do next. He could —

“Pants, Cullen.”

Maker’s fucking breath.

“Shit.” He says. “Yes, sorry.” And turns his back on Solas, because that makes all this easier somehow. He gets his breeches open, and around his thighs before he remembers he still needs to remove his boots.

Shit, shit, fuck.

His face flames, as he hops on one foot, working a boot off. It isn’t the most elegant of views that he presents, but it’s nothing Solas hasn’t seen before. He risks a glance back, but the elf’s back is turned, and he isn’t sure if he’s relieved or offended that Solas isn’t looking at him as he undresses. He swears under his breath as the final boot pulls free, and he steps out of his breeches, and smalls. The wind of wherever-the-hell-Solas-has-dragged-them-to tickles his balls.

He mutters a brief prayer to the Maker, thankful that he still favors the knee-length smallclothes worn by Templars. “Here.”

Solas nods in thanks, and half-turns so Cullen gets a glimpse of his cock, and the breath wheezes out of him.

Cullen steps back into his breeches as quickly as he can, face bright red, and redresses with a sort of awkward, half-aroused haste. The wool is uncomfortably scratchy against his cock and balls, and his plate feels strange against bare skin. But as long as he keeps his surcoat tucked against him, most of the gaps in his armor aren’t easily visible.

Solas looks… odd. A too large shirt, and too threadbare trousers. Bare shins, and bare feet. But if he stands behind Cullen, and doesn’t bring a staff, it is possible that no one would stop to question them. Provided it wasn’t someone who actually recognized Solas. And if it was there’d be little-to-no chance of keeping them from raising some sort of alarm. Even Leliana would likely stab first, and ask questions later.

He frowns, weighing the risk to Solas — and his own ability, as Commander of the Inquisition to protect him — against the risk of not bringing Solas.

“We should not delay.” Solas insists quietly, and activates the eluvian before them.

Cullen nods, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Andraste watch over us all.” He mutters, and steps through.

***

They exit the eluvian in the small storage room below the Winter Palace, practically into the lap of several Inquisition guards, none of whom seem to find a barefoot elf trailing behind the Commander of the Inquisition to be particularly worrisome.

“Maker, Solas.” He growls under his breath as they head towards the Inquisitor’s tent. “You could have warned me.” While he’s glad enough to skip any encounter with Qunari forces, he’s more than a little unnerved that an agent of this Fen’Harel — even one as presumably high-ranking as Solas — could have waltzed into Halamshiral anytime they wanted.

It rankles that he might be putting his own feelings for Solas ahead of the safety of the Inquisition. And he makes a mental note to double the guard at the eluvian, and send soldiers out to retrieve Cassandra, Varric, and Cole.

He steers the elf around the outskirts of the courtyard, carefully avoiding the clusters of nobles, and guardsmen that gather here and there. There aren’t any guards stationed outside the Inquisitor’s tent — at Trevelyan’s insistence — and for once, Cullen is glad for their absence.

Inside, the tent is dark and quiet, but the Inquisitor isn’t alone. Dorian is with her on the bed, bent over the glow of the anchor. The look of hopelessness on Dorian’s face is nearly as terrifying as the state of her hand.

Maker, her hand…

It glows. A near constant spill of light. Not just from her palm. Her entire hand is lit up, and garish, it barely looks like a hand. He’s never seen it like this, not even in the most desperate moments of battle.

It takes a moment for the pair on the bed to notice them. Trevelyan’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and Dorian is absorbed with the mark, muttering to himself in Tevene, and sending half-hearted pulses of magic into the air around her hand. Dorian notices them first, and stands abruptly, mouth twisting so the curl of his mustache is askew. Shock, anger, and then, a profound relief flickers across his face as his eyes light upon Solas.

“How…” Dorian blinks.

Her eyes flutter open, bright with pain, but her expression clears when she sees them.

“Solas…” She breathes.

Solas is  at her side in an instant, and there is no hesitation in the way he kneels at her bedside, the backs of his fingers stroking her cheek. He whispers her name, low, and rough, and wrecked. His brows crease.

So do Cullen’s.

She’s worse. Dramatically so.

Maker, if something had happened to her, and he wasn’t there…

“I…” He shakes his head. Looks to Dorian for some sort of reassurance, but the mage’s face is lined with only fear and exhaustion.

And resignation.

Dorian stares down at Solas down for a moment, grey eyes intense. “I feel compelled to remind you that the world cannot do without her.” He says, voice tight. “And neither can I.” He shoots Trevelyan a last, agonized look, squeezes Cullen’s elbow briefly in passing, and is gone.

And they are alone together, for the first time in two years.

Together.

Perhaps for the last time.

Cullen feels his chest constrict, watching the way Solas and Trevelyan have tangled their fingers together, hanging on, as though the other might slip suddenly away. She murmurs something to him, too quiet for Cullen to catch, and Solas nods, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her eyes are bright, and wide, like she’s too hungry for the sight of him to blink.

“You look well.” She says softly to Solas, brushing her fingers down the side of his face. Her thumb lingers in the dimple on his chin.

“You should have seen him before.” Cullen says, kneeling at the opposite side of the bed. “He looked a bit like Abelas. Head to toe in gold nevarrite. Ought to be leading armies dressed like that, not — what?”

Trevelyan and Solas are still looking at each other, but their expressions have shifted. Cullen frowns.

“What?” He says again.

“Cullen.” The way she says his name, soft, and tender like she’s being careful not to bruise him, all but freezes him in place. “He's Fen’Harel.”

Cullen blinks. “No, that’s impossible. I’ve read all the reports. The Qunari we encountered…” He shakes his head. “He's an agent of—"

“Clever, isn't it?” She seems almost proud.

Solas looks a bit like she’s punched him.

“It’s —”

The anchor flares suddenly, sparking gouts of vibrant, green magic. Trevelyan closes her fist around it, tucks her hand tightly against her gut, as if trying to contain it by sheer force of will. She isn’t very successful. Emerald light and sparks of magic bounce off Solas’s face, but he doesn’t let go of her. His gaze is fixed, and focused, and he murmurs something that sounds like Elven. A spell, perhaps. It doesn’t seem to work — or it does. The light shifts. It doesn’t dim, but it seems less green for a moment. Less wild.

Then all at once, the light dies out completely.

Trevelyan lies perfectly still upon the bed. Her eyes are closed, and slightly sunken, and there’s a greyish cast to her skin now. Her lower lip is swollen, and bloodied where she’s bitten through it, and her hand… her hand. That unsettling light has spread. The glow resumes, trails across her wrist, and halfway down her forearm.

“Is she —”

“No.” The sound Solas makes is harsh denial. “She’s exhausted.”

Cullen swallows down a bubble of hysteria. “It’s true? The orb she found… the anchor… it’s yours?” He takes a ragged breath. “Your relic. Your magic.” His face feels hot, like his skin might just burst into flames. “Your fault.”

Solas meets his gaze, eyes glassy with pain. “Yes.”

“For a long time, she was certain you were dead.” Cullen says softly. “She couldn’t believe that you would have ever left like that, without a word. Just… gone. Watching her realize that you were willing to walk out on us like that… was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to see.” Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he shakes his head, annoyed with himself.

His fingers brush against his own lips. He can still feel the ghost of Solas’s kiss. And Solas… has never looked so lost, or alone.

Cullen’s heart thumps heavily.

“It wasn’t the same, after you left.” He clears his throat, trying to steady the tremble in his voice, and draws closer. “We weren’t a pair anymore. We were just...” A hollow laugh as his palm finds the bare skin of Solas’ cheek. “Incomplete.”

Solas makes a small sound of pain, and tucks himself closer against Cullen’s palm.

“Maker, Solas.” He says, voice low. “Whatever this is, whatever you need… She would have helped you with it, I would have —”

“No.” The word is bitter, and sharp, and Solas turns and presses a tiny kiss to his palm to ease the sound. “You couldn’t. Neither of you would have ever—”

“We can!” Cullen insists fiercely, and Solas smiles. Small, and strained, and sad.

“You know who I am.” He reminds Cullen, softly.

Cullen’s brow furrows. “Fen’Harel.” The name is strange in his mouth. He’s not sure he’s ever said it out loud before.

“There was a war once, long ago.” Solas says, eyes gone dark with memory. “When it was won, the generals who had led their people, the Evanuris, ascended to godhood. But they were false gods. Petty and cruel. They enslaved their own people for the sake of glory. They were ageless, endless. The Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world, if given the chance.” When his eyes open, they flicker with blue light for the barest moment. “I created the Veil to stop them, and in doing so, divided the Fade from the waking world.”

“I… yes. I saw. In the library. A spirit… a memory…” Cullen makes an awkward sound. “They said Fen’Harel killed them.”

“The Archivist. There were many like it, once. Spirits of Wisdom. Connection. Curiosity. Torn from this world, because of me.” Solas’ brows draw together, a deep, ancient pain in his eyes.

How often has Cullen seen that look? A terrible grief, and loneliness he never understood, and could never hope to reach. This. This is why.

He slides his hand against Solas’s, heart aching, and weaves their fingers together. “Because of the Veil.”

“Yes.” A muscle in Solas’ cheek leaps, and he turns his face away, but he doesn’t pull his hand back. “Magic was like air. It was everywhere, in everything. And then it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough magic, and there wasn’t enough air.” His fingers clench around Cullen’s, the grip almost painful. “My people starved, hundreds of thousands of them. Our world was built for beauty, not utility.” Solas’ voice takes on a sharp and bitter edge. “The Elves slaughtered each other for what was left after the collapse. Food. Shelter. Knowledge. Without magic… they were not themselves. Altered, in every sense of the word. The Evanuris were gone… but the Veil took everything from the Elves.”

It is a struggle. Cullen’s concept of magic has been his backbone since he was a child — that magic is as rare as dragon bone, and those who possess it are inherently dangerous. A world where spirits roam freely, and magic is a part of everyone is both terrifying, and terribly hard to imagine.

“Solas, I… You were trying to stop the Eva — the False Gods.” He says, fumbling with the strange Elven word. “You can’t blame yourself for —”

“The ruin of my people?” He says bitterly, and shakes his head. “No. The Veil was the only answer. There was… a miscalculation. What happened was preventable. It is still preventable.”  

One by one, the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand up. “Preventable, how?”

Solas stands, and turns away. There is something in his demeanor, in the stiff line of his shoulders that reminds Cullen of how he looked standing before the eluvian. Distant. Half a stranger.

“I will tear down the Veil, and restore the world to what it once was.”

“You…” Cullen’s heart skips a solid beat. “You want to bring magic back to this world? All magic?”

“No.”

A relieved breath escapes Cullen before he can stop himself.

“This world will be unmade.” Solas says, softly. “It will become future that will never exist.”

Cullen is thunderstruck. His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

Solas turns, expression quiet, but desperate. “Have we not spoken of the injustices of this world, how it would feel to… unmake them? To fix them?”

“You can’t.” Cullen insists.

“No Cullen, I will be able to, soon enough.” Solas’s mouth tugs into a small, sad smile. “That is the difference between us. You regret, but are helpless to change the past. I am not.”

“That doesn’t mean — Maker, Solas. How could you even think such a thing?”

Solas shakes his head. “I cannot live with myself if I do not prevent this future from occurring. The ruinous path my people have been made to walk. The thousands that have been made to suffer. Innocents. People I’ve loved. People I’ve promised to save. The Inquisitor...” Solas’ voice breaks for the first time. “What I have done to her...”

“We are not an abstract future, Solas. You would be killing millions. You would be killing her.”

“I have already killed her.” Solas says in that soft, broken voice.

And Cullen’s heart squeezes so painfully, he clutches at his chest. His eyes close, and a single tear slips down his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

How had it all come to this?

“You’re right.” Cullen says, voice flat. “I couldn’t…” He shakes his head, voice faltering. It feels like a betrayal. Even now. “I won’t help you.”

“I do not love you less for it.” Solas says solemnly.

The words rattle in his chest, like a physical wound, sharp and tearing, and he presses a hand to his ribs, nearly expecting to find them slick with blood. “Maker, Solas.” His hands are trembling, and he digs them into the bones to steady himself.

Trevelyan is still unconscious on the bed, glowing hand draped across her chest. Magic hangs heavy in the air. Ozone lingering on the back of his tongue. And he hates it. For a moment, fierce and bright, Cullen hates magic with a passion he has not felt since his days in the Order. Maker, what does magic touch that it doesn’t ruin? If he could tear the magic out of her… tear all magic out of the world entirely… would he do it?

How could he?

How could he not?

“No.” Cullen shudders, his head drops into his hands in despair. “I can’t. Maker, a world like that… I could never belong to it.”

“You would not be alone.” Solas drops down beside him. “I will wait for you.” Solas says, tears in his eyes, and running down his cheeks. He grips Cullen’s arm. “I will find you. A hundred, thousand years —”

Cullen’s heart lifts, and collapses in on itself all at once. “And who do you think you would find?” He gapes. “You cannot think that you could change all the details of my life, all the forces that have shaped me, and yet somehow I would come out the other side the same man. I —” His eyes grow wide with realization, while horror settles heavily on his shoulders, like a mantle. But it is laughter, sharp and manic that bubbles to the surface.

Solas blinks.

“I — Maker’s Breath.” He laughs, covering his eyes. The strangled sounds have the cadence of a sob. “Only you could make me fight to keep the most terrible pieces of my life. Kinloch. Kirkwall. The Order. Even the damned lyrium.” Cullen takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his face with an angry gesture, and glares at Solas. “I have made terrible mistakes… and yes I’ve wanted to take them all back. But that is not the way the world works, Solas.” He pauses, jaw clenching. “Fen’Harel.” He adds, tightly. “Perhaps you are capable of this, of tearing down the Veil.” Cullen shakes his head. “But do not fool yourself into thinking this is about magic. This is about your hubris.”

Solas starts, as if struck.

“I don’t know how she can stomach us, sometimes.” Cullen says bitterly.

“It is the best of her, that sees past the worst of us.” Solas bows his head. “Though, your mistakes pale in comparison to —”

“Don’t do that.” Cullen snaps. “Don’t you fucking dare. I may not be what you are — whatever you are — but you do not get to belittle the people I’ve wronged, by telling me my mistakes aren’t as important as yours. You do not get to say that their suffering matters less.”

A heartbeat of shocked silence.

And then...

“I apologize.” Solas says quietly. Then, a moment later, “For everything.”

Cullen lets his breath out through his nose. “Solas —”

There’s no warning at all. The walls of the tent are suddenly bathed in an emerald light, and Trevelyan, roused by the pain, is fighting back a scream. The fingers of her marked hand fly open with such force that the joints are bent backward, grotesquely. He’s seen her before, bent over the raging light in her palm. Teeth fixed into her bottom lip, tears on her cheeks. But he hasn’t seen this.

She isn’t simply dying.

It’s happening right, fucking now.

“No!”

Cullen’s not sure if that tearing sound of grief comes from himself, or Solas. But the elf is already casting. A faint stir of magic makes the hair on the back on his neck stand up.

And Trevelyan’s hand explodes.

Not with light.

Not with magic.

It simply disintegrates in Solas’s grasp. Vanishing under the force of the power Solas calls upon.

Maker.

Cullen feels his knees hit the floor.

The anchor hangs in the air between them, white-hot and crackling. More magic in a single place than Cullen has ever seen. He feels it rushing over his bones, the terrible, droning sound of it, and for a single, desperate moment he wishes he was a Templar still, so he could stamp it out of this world.

No one person should be able to wield so much magic.

Solas gestures, and the anchor seems to solidify, and shrink, like raw fire turned to coal. It’s effortless, the way he commands the power that had — quite literally — torn Trevelyan apart. Chilling. The way he pulls the magic back into himself, lets it sink into his skin, and his soul. The way it lights his eyes.

Maker, maybe he really is a God.

Solas kneels, sends a wash of magic over Trevelyan. And then another. Blood dots the sheets, but the ragged wound over what is left of her arm, smooths out. The skin, fragile looking, but whole enough. When the magic goes still, there is only emptiness. And the horrible, wet sound of Cullen’s own breathing.

He tries one last time. “You can’t.”

Solas’s mouth twists. It isn’t a grimace, and it isn't a smile. “You’ll stop me.”

It’s a plea, Cullen realizes. And he wants to laugh, but he’s closer to crying. He looks at Trevelyan, still, and pale, and lopsided. “We can’t stop you without the anchor.” He says.

Maker, the irony.

And then he laughs. And cries. The sounds are manic, and unhinged, and horrible.

He reaches for Trevelyan, grasps her remaining hand, feels the bones shift beneath his thumb, and the harsh laughter dissolves, and there are only tears left to him. Cullen weeps at her bedside. A creature of grief and regret in one moment, of gratitude the next.

Trevelyan’s hand beneath his, is warm. Pulse, light, and strangely easy. He’d needed no Templar powers before to sense the magic raging inside her, but now, everything is still, and quiet, and glassy as a lake.

Cullen sighs, tears suddenly spent. He feels empty, and raw, and fragile enough to shatter in a breeze. “I hope you haven’t any damning revelations left.” He says to Solas, hoarsely. “I’m not sure I can take much more today.”

“I’m sorry.” Solas says. He turns, and for a moment, seems like he wants to say more, but his jaw tightens, and instead he nods to Cullen, something final in the tiny gesture.

He turns to go.

“I still love you.” Cullen says, suddenly. “I’ll probably always love you.”

Solas freezes, hand at the door. His fist convulses at the frame, and it very much like that first night — that very first night after Adamant, when Trevelyan had invited Solas to their bed, and he had stood there in the doorway surprised, and vulnerable.

He’s still surprised, and vulnerable.

And, despite everything, Cullen feels himself fall in love with Solas, all over again.

It is the simplest thing he has ever done. Galling, and terrifying, and heart-rending, but simple.

Maker.

Cullen crosses the space between them in two long strides, seizes Solas’ face in his hands, and kisses him.

His lips are warm and soft against Solas’. Lingering. Hesitant to move on.

“She wanted me to give that to you.” He says, hoarsely. “From the both of us.”

Solas’ shocked expression shifts into something wounded, and raw. And Cullen thinks that for someone who — if not a God — certainly wields godlike power, Solas looks very much like someone who has been dealt a mortal blow.

He hesitates.

Solas hesitates, and Cullen feels a giddy hope unfurl in his belly. But the elf clenches his jaw, expression smoothing into something closed off, and unreadable, and is gone before Cullen can think to try and stop him.

Cullen stands in the empty doorway, listening to the steady sounds of Trevelyan’s breathing — easier somehow than it had been in months — and thinks that he needs to cry for a very, very long time, or punch something until his fists bleed, or until she wakes, and the hole in his heart can close.

Extra special thanks to @stardustlings who agreed to be my beta, and whose fault all this is. 

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 45. In which good advice comes from unexpected places

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The paper crumpled under his palm as he leaned both hands against his desk and hung his head. She wasn't coming back. She'd gone to the Exalted Plains instead. With Solas. Just Solas. And the words didn't even come from her. The message before him was penned by The Iron Bull several days ago.

"Maker, help me."

The jealousy was irrational, and he knew it. He did trust her. She wouldn't... not without ending things properly first. But the part of him that felt like he didn't deserve her in the first place, that understood he would lose her regardless of anything he said or did, whispered that it might be better if she did. It's better this way. Move on and don't look back.

The week leading up to his breakdown, to his confession, he'd felt himself slipping. The stress of the Winter Palace had caused the nightmares of torture, vacant eyes, and the mangled corpses of his friends to bleed into his waking hours, pulling him down. He'd locked the doors more than once during that week to empty the contents of his stomach and curl up on the floor until someone knocked hard enough to pull him from his stupor and get him working again. The need for lyrium had been nearly unbearable, making him shake uncontrollably - joints aching, skin crawling, pain shooting through his body. The box came off the shelf countless times, but inevitably, he'd think of her. Nothing else stopped him. Only the imagined disappointment on her face. The vision of her dismay would force him to close the box, he feet heavy as he shuffled over to place it in its normal spot. Then he'd work until the wee hours of the morning, trying to avoid the nightmares. He barely slept. The draughts were gone by the fourth day, but he didn't dare ask for more lest she worry. The only time he could truly breathe was during her brief visits when he could drown his thoughts in the softness of her lips under his, the intensity of her responses, the give of her body in his hands.

But she'd noticed anyway. She'd asked questions. And he'd been gruff and unresponsive in return. Then he'd broken down and shown her exactly how weak he was. He exhaled in a short hiss.

Now she isn't coming back.

He straightened himself and then attempted to straighten the crumpled message from Bull. The days since she'd left had been difficult, but gradually the pain faded and, with it, the intensity of the gut-wrenching visions. He felt physically stronger than he had in weeks. When the images of his past haunted his thoughts and sought to trip him, that strength helped him stay grounded. That and her faith in him. Always her faith in him.

The lack of a constant reminder - a lack of lyrium within arm's reach - had also helped more than he'd thought it would. The strip on the inside lid of his box that carried a relief of Andraste had somewhat miraculously survived the violent collision with his door. He now touched it briefly as it lay on his desk - a reminder that he'd come through it. With her help, and maybe a little from Andraste, he had endured... this time. At least he had yet to let her down in that way.

But she would be gone for at least another two weeks now - probably closer to three of four - and she hadn't written him a letter. Since her first trip to the Hinterlands, she'd always written at least one letter directly to him during her travels. They weren't sentimental. They rarely contained anything but a more detailed and flowery account of her dealings in each place. But those letters, his letters, came with pretty elven doodles and small stories and jokes and turns of phrase she knew he'd appreciate.

This time, however, she'd barely corresponded with any of them. Leliana resorted to requesting an update, but by that time, Evana had already - finally - sent one. Even Cole had sent him a brief and mystifying note. But she had sent him nothing.

And he couldn't even think about the fact that she'd deliberately fought yet another dragon.

If she were rethinking her attachment to him, he couldn't blame her. He wasn't proud of his past - he was doing everything possible to atone. He had come a long way but still had a long journey ahead. How could he ask her to look at him the same way now that she knew - now that she'd seen his brokenness?

On top of everything he put her through that day, he'd forgotten she was leaving until he heard the gates rising. By the time he'd scrambled down from his loft and out to the battlements, she was lost to the mist. In his pain and weakness, he'd pushed her away, and she'd gone. He had no one to blame but himself.

But that voice whispered to him again. It's better this way. You're going to lose her eventually anyway...

"Commander, you're wanted in the war room immediately."

Cullen hadn't noticed Leliana's messenger, Harvil, enter his office. Turning slightly to face the young man, he nodded.

"I'll be there momentarily."

Gathering up his paperwork, he took the long way around to the great hall. As if making up for the unseasonably warm Haring, Wintermarch had been nothing but cold and snow so far. Even now, a storm roiled on the horizon, obscuring much of the mountains as the clouds descended upon them, but the bitterly cold wind on the battlements felt good on his flushed face.

By the time he walked into the war room, he'd ordered his thoughts and pushed down the doubts. He had a job to do, so he would do it to the best of his ability. Everything else was superfluous.

Leliana and Josephine waited for him around the table. As he approached, Leliana laid a letter on the war table for him to read.

"Ah, Cullen. Good. We need your input. This just came in from one of my agents still stationed in the Free Marches."

He picked it up, and a feeling of dread settled over him as the words Clan Lavellan and Wycome jumped off the page.

"I think we can safely say that soldiers are not a good response to this situation," Josephine added. "Perhaps Leliana could risk sending her agents again, but even her own man warns us against that in his letter. I believe our best option is an ‘ambassador' from the Inquisition. I know just the person, too."

Cullen finished skimming over the missive and looked up at the other two advisors. The letter painted a grim picture, but he couldn't fault Josephine's logic. The humans - and only humans - in Wycome were getting sick on a massive scale. No one could figure out why. What better scapegoat than a somewhat hostile clan of elves camped just outside the city? He'd love nothing more than to send all his forces to Wycome, but at this rate, the elves would be dead before his soldiers even reached the city gates. The situation required delicacy, and Josephine's ambassador could provide that.

"It sounds like you've already made your decision," he observed, adding a touch of coolness to his tone. "What do you need me for?"

Leliana and Josephine shared an enigmatic look. Leliana spoke first.

"We thought you might be the most qualified to break the news to the Inquisitor. It will have to be done through letter and you are close with her... are you not?"

Cullen blanched. It must've been the exact wrong reaction. Their faces contorted into expressions of concern bordering on panic.

"What happened?" Josephine asked softly.

Cullen willed his face to remain passive, but he could feel his jaw clenching anyway. "Nothing."

Which was true, he realized with startling clarity. Nothing had been spoken between them to end things. All his doubt and concerns amounted nothing more than speculation - and possibly withdrawal-driven paranoia - based on her vaguely abnormal behavior in the days since she'd left. He clenched his jaw in defiance of his own tendency to deny himself. As much as he might not deserve her, he could not truly wish to be without her. It was another weakness. She was his weakness... and yet also his strength.

"I am not the most eloquent of correspondents when it comes to... delicate situations," he dissembled.

Leliana narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she said nothing. Josephine merely waved her hand at him and smiled reassuringly.

"No matter. Have Varric help you with the language if you're worried. It will mean more coming from you. Tell her I have already sent an ambassador, and her clan is in good hands."

How could he argue without raising further suspicion? He stared down at the war table as he responded in measured tones.

"Very well. I will have it to you by the end of the day. Anything further?"

Leliana finally spoke again. "The mage tower renovations are nearly complete and the mages started moving their books and research work there. Also, Harritt stopped me on my way here to tell me he has narrowed his list of blacksmiths down to two based on the samples they have sent. He thinks you should visit them both personally to make your choice. You should probably go speak to him for more details."

Cullen looked up to find Leliana watching him closely. "I will... after."

She nodded. "That's all I have. Josephine?"

"Nothing right now."

Cullen nodded and grabbed the letter. "I'll need this for reference. I will bring it back with my message."

They left the room, each with their own destination. Cullen had never felt anything like the dread that now pooled in his stomach. He must write her a letter to tell her Clan Lavellan was in danger... again. The task was daunting enough even without the prickling fear that she especially might not want to hear it from him at all.

He pushed the thought away. It was his task, and he would do it.

Walking through the hall and down the steps to the upper courtyard, Cullen's legs felt heavy with the weight of his reluctance. He was loath to ask the sarcastic dwarf for assistance, but truthfully, Varric was his best chance at not mucking this up. In the last few months, a kind of tentative camaraderie had developed between the former Kirkwall residents. Cullen hoped the bond would be strong enough to elicit the more serious side of Varric's talents.

He opened the door to the Herald's Rest and instantly found Varric and Hawke by the volume of their laughter alone. As with every other woman on the planet, Marian Hawke had made Cullen nervous when she first introduced herself in Kirkwall, especially with how she'd relentlessly flirted with him. With her classic beauty and warrior prowess, he'd been awed and annoyed by her in equal measure.

Here in Skyhold, however, it wasn't business and it wasn't battle. This was just... life, and she was even more sarcastic and biting than Varric sometimes. Just as with Cassandra, however, Cullen had come to know the Champion of Kirkwall better in the several months she'd been hanging around Skyhold off and on. He could now laugh with her most of the time, even when she directed her biting comments at him. She seemed unaware of his relationship with Evana, so he was not afraid of anything she might say.

"Curly!" Varric exclaimed when he finally noticed Cullen's approach. "What brings you here so early? It's not even noon, yet."

Cullen huffed out a little laugh as he sat down beside them. "I could say the same to you, but we all know you two spend most of your time here heckling the other customers, drinking ale and playing card games."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Beats working ourselves to death. Besides, I've been helping with drills every day and you know it. Where have you been the last couple of weeks?"

Even this, Cullen could take. In the months he'd been with the Inquisition, he'd become adept at providing excuses for his occasional absences.

"Doing serious work planning an assault," he replied easily.

Varric pointed a thumb at Hawke. "You know, she could probably help you out with that, having been part of a few assaults in her lifetime."

"Fair point," Cullen acknowledged. "But today, I actually need your assistance, Varric."

Varric looked half surprised, half amused. "Hold on to your boots, Hawke. Curly needs my help." Hawke snorted indelicately, and Varric gave her a toothy grin before turning his attention back to Cullen. "What can I do for ya?"

"I need help writing a delicate letter. The Inquisitor's clan is in danger, and... I am not well versed in sentimentality. I could use some advice."

Varric's face went serious instantly. "What kind danger?"

"Will you come back to my office? It's too loud here for me to think. And this is not the type of information that should be widely distributed."

Surprised by the sudden serious looks on their faces, Cullen raised an eyebrow at both of them. Hawke must have truly come to respect their Inquisitor during their time pursuing the Warden threat. She seemed almost... distraught.

"Mind if I tag along?" she asked. "I have a female perspective that - well, let's just say I don't trust you men to not put a foot in it."

Cullen nodded. Varric mocked an offended look, punched her lightly on the arm and then sobered.

"Of course. Let's do this."

They trudged up the stairs to Cullen's office. The clouds that threatened at the edge of the mountain grew ever closer, and he wondered briefly if the storm would hit tonight. He told the guards on the battlements that he wasn't to be disturbed and closed and locked all the doors as they entered the relative warmth of his office. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled up a chair for Varric. Hawke leaned her hip on the desk at his opposite side.

"So, how do you begin a letter like this?"

Varric looked at him seriously. "First, I can't help you write this letter until know what in Andraste's name is going on between you two."

Cullen felt all the blood drain from his face for the second time that day. Varric's face contorted, and he wondered vaguely if this was the "awww, shit" face Evana had told them about during one of their early war council meetings in Haven.

"Did you two have a fight?" Hawke asked quietly.

Cullen's head whipped from Varric to Hawke and then back again. By the blood of the Maker, does everyone know everything about my relationship with the Inquisitor? He turned to stare blankly at his desk for a moment. He didn't want to say it. But Varric was right. The dwarf couldn't really help with the letter unless he knew all the variables. All Cullen's paranoid fears and over-sensitive assumptions. He grimaced and then let out a giant sigh as he leaned back in his chair.

"No, nothing so simple as a fight, I'm afraid."

Hawke raised her eyebrows in surprise. "A fight would be simple in comparison? That doesn't bode well."

Cullen struggled again. How did he describe something he wasn't sure he could really put in words himself? Perhaps Varric just needed the facts. He knew Evana better than almost anyone. Maybe he could work out what she might be thinking.

"I... you asked about my absences... I didn't lie. I have been planning for Adamant. But I have also been dealing with..." Cullen took a deep breath and then rushed through the rest. "... with lyrium withdrawal. I asked Cassandra relieve me from duty, but Evana talked me down. I told her things about my past. Things I'm not proud of - Kirkwall, which of course you are aware - but also things before that. Worse things. I needed time to process, so I asked her for a moment. In my distraction, I forgot she was leaving the next morning. I've never missed seeing her off before - not once. And now, she's acting... distant. I think. It's hard to tell, but... well, she's been gone for weeks and hasn't sent me any letters, yet."

Varric hummed at this last piece of news, but otherwise, the two remained silent, seemingly deep in thought. Cullen didn't dare look at either one of them. He'd revealed one of his greatest weaknesses to two people who, by all accounts, would be the worst people to tell. Therefore, Hawke's quiet, sympathetic response threw him off completely.

"Sorry for the earlier jab. I didn't know. Lyrium withdrawal..." She sucked in a breath. "Shit. How long have you been off it?"

Cullen finally looked up at her. "Almost a year now. It was a momentary lapse. I'm fine now... well, perhaps fine isn't quite right. I'm sure I will have difficult days in the future. But I am better. I didn't get a chance to tell her... I... I need her to know that her faith in me made all the difference. I don't want to tell her this through a letter, but I also don't want to seem distant."

"Yes. I can see your problem, though you seem to have a better grasp on the situation than most. Men are usually so clueless." She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I always thought you were a bit of a stick in the mud, but lately I find I like you better and better."

Cullen let out a derisive laugh. "Having a grasp on the situation doesn't mean I know how to deal with it."

Hawke just gave him a sympathetic smile. Varric had been silent up to this point, and Cullen risked a glance in his direction. The dwarf sat, staring at the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, clearly thinking through things. Finally, he turned to Cullen.

"You said she was acting ‘distant' and mentioned no letters. Anything else?"

"She-" Cullen cut off abruptly. Now that he'd had a chance to think over things, he found his fears didn't hold as much weight as they had before. But he would let Varric be the judge. He talked through all his reasons, including the dragon fight, and ended with her leaving her companions behind to go on alone with Solas.

"I know Solas' friend was in danger," he finished, "but... it seems contrary to her typical style. She's usually so careful - considers all her options."

Varric nodded. "I can see why you'd say that, but if you want my opinion, I think it's more about you asking for time than any shocking revelations about your past sins. She's trying to give you space. And knowing her, she's maybe a little scared of what you'll say if she approaches you first. Try to remember that only a few months ago she barely talked to any of us at all, even you Curly. She's still not very good at all this relationship stuff." Varric gave Cullen a significant look and then turned to Hawke. "Any thoughts from the token female in the room?"

Hawke shot Varric a dirty look and then smiled brilliantly. "Thanks for asking. Don't worry, Varric, you almost got it right."

Varric swept his hand between himself and Cullen. "Then by all means, enlighten us poor, ‘clueless men,' your all-knowing-ness."

"Well, from what you've told me about your Inquisitor and the little I've been able to observe, I think she's having a bit of a growing moment. She wants to stand on her own two feet and rely on herself a bit more now that she's unsure of whether or not she can approach you. You just need to reassure her that things between you haven't changed."

Varric just stared at her. Finally, he sputtered, "Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, Hawke - that's basically what I said!"

Hawke reached over Cullen and gave the dwarf a condescending pat on the head. "You just keep telling yourself that, darling. After all, someone has to stroke that giant ego of yours."

"I have a giant ego?" Varric asked incredulously.

As the two bickered, Cullen frantically processed their words. It came down to the fact that he'd pushed her away, and now she felt alone, like she had to deal with things on her own. Would she return to the way she'd been when she first joined them? Close them out of her life? Close him out of her life?

Maker's breath, he'd failed her. He raised his fingers to his temples, trying to massage away the beginnings of a headache. Hawke's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts.

"Don't worry so much, Cullen. We heroes all have to go through something like this sooner or later. Friends - and lovers - are necessary. We should trust them and let them help us with our burdens, but we should never use them as a crutch... Unless that friend is Varric, in which case," she raised her hand to about Varric's height on her body, "he's just about the right height for it."

"Pretty words for a walking disaster," Varric quipped. Hawke scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes at him, but Varric ignored her and turned back to Cullen. "Regardless, we need to get this letter written and off to her as soon as possible. Has Scout Harding been sent to the Exalted Plains already?"

Cullen nodded, glad to speak of something not related to conjecture and feelings. Firm facts were much easier.

"Yes, and she has likely arrived, though we haven't heard from her yet. We expect to today. She'll set up a forward camp and send out scouts to find the Inquisitor and her companions as soon as she arrives."

Varric grunted. "Good. Now, tell us about what's going on with her clan."

Cullen passed the letter from Leliana's agent to Varric. "It's all here. Josephine is sending an ambassador, but the situation is tenuous. I don't wish to frighten Evana, but I also don't want to give her false hope that everything will be well."

Varric skimmed the letter and then handed it to Hawke. "Well, we've got a lot to cover in one letter. Let's get started."

They worked for over an hour, but by the time Varric and Hawke left his office, Cullen was satisfied that it was as good as it could be under the circumstances. Varric had encouraged him to be more forthcoming about his... feelings, but Cullen could only bring himself to let her know he would like to speak with her when she returned. He's also felt it necessary to write in a postscript - as she had all those months ago - explaining that he'd had a little help writing the letter. He wasn't about to pretend he'd suddenly gotten good at all this. Even though he still had his doubts, he already felt less discouraged, and most of that was because of Varric and Hawke. Hawke in particular had given him much to think about - the Champion might be the only person in Skyhold who truly understood the pressures Evana faced.

Once again, the strong urge to give Evana something - to show her how he felt - washed over him. But he had nothing. Templars never had much to begin with, but after Haven, even the little he'd collected since leaving the Order had been burned or buried. A trunk full of clothing and letters wasn't really much to lament - except for the loss of her letters. Perhaps he could commission something? He must speak with Harritt about the additional blacksmith anyway. Perhaps the man would have some ideas about what she might like.

Shoving the letter in his mantle, Cullen walked across the bridge to Solas' empty office. The apostate elf's murals now stretched across half of the rotunda. Evana's many deeds were painted there in detail, and he felt a surge of awe as he paused to remember the events in each scene. She had accomplished so much. No one could question now why they'd made her their leader.

Cullen climbed the stairs up to Leliana's rookery. She wasn't there, so, he laid the letter on her desk and headed for the Undercroft. He found Harritt leaning over the bellows, fanning the giant forge. In spite of the frigid weather and the giant hole in the side of the room, the forge kept the room at a nearly oppressive temperature. As he approached the smith, a thin sheen of sweat formed on his brow. A vague wave of dizziness hit him and then subsided.

"Harritt, Leliana said you wished to discuss the blacksmith situation with me."

Harritt turned, a frown pulling his lips down and creasing his brow. "Eh? Oh, Commander! Yes. Give me a moment, will you?"

"Of course."

Cullen left the smith to his work and wandered around the Undercroft until he came upon Dagna, Skyhold's new arcanist, working on a rune. "Good afternoon, Dagna."

Clearly absorbed in her work, Dagna jumped at the sound of Cullen's voice. "Oh! Hi, Commander! So good to see you!"

"I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, no! Well, yeah... but it's fine."

Her happy tone always unnerved him a bit, and he was unsure of what else to say. Harritt wasn't ready for him, though, so he asked the first question that popped into his head.

"How are you enjoying life at Skyhold?" Dagna gave him a great grin. "Never a dull moment here, that's for sure. I'm so happy to be here and working with such an amazing team of people. Also, the work is fascinating." She held up a tiny, red shard in her gloved hand. "This stuff... it's just crazy. And weird."

Cullen had felt a little woozy as he approached, but he'd assumed it was the terrifying drop only ten feet to his right. Now, he knew why his stomach lurched and why perspiration soaked through his under tunic. A faint, twisted humming wound its way to his ears.

"Right. Red lyrium. Please be careful. It's very dangerous."

The chipper dwarf nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, absolutely! It's dangerous enough handling the raw form of normal lyrium, let alone this strange stuff. I'll certainly be careful. It's still fascinating, though. Still trying to figure out what makes it red."

At her words, the dizziness returned, so Cullen merely bowed in response and made a hasty retreat. He'd known she was working with it - trying to find weaknesses to exploit - but seeing it was different. He shuddered when he thought of what might have been... If I hadn't accepted Cassandra's offer, would I be a red templar by now?

Harritt waved at him from his workbench. "Commander, I'm ready."

Cullen walked around the forge and stood in front of the man, who had turned around to grab a couple of samples off his bench. Turning back, he presented two pieces of armor for Cullen to review.

"These are the best two, Commander. I'll admit they're both mighty fine pieces - nearly as good as what we've got here. Both smiths are reputable and hardworking, and both are within a few-day's journey of here. I think the only thing left is to visit ‘em both and form an opinion of the smiths themselves. Nothing like an in-person visit from the Commander of the Inquisition forces."

"Where are they from?"

Harritt handed him a sleeve and vambrace. "This piece is from a smith in West Hill, up near the Storm Coast. The details are fine and strong, no chinks or weaknesses, and he comes highly recommended by soldiers as far away as Denerim."

Cullen worked the pieces and nodded. It was strong and the pieces moved smoothly around each other. After a moment, Harritt took that piece and handed him the second piece - a full cuirass.

"This one is a fine specimen as well. The breastplate is solid and barely shows the beating we gave it. You can see, no cracks and nice coverage all the way 'round. Made down south, from a smith in Honnleath."

Cullen broke into a surprised half-smile. "Ah."

"Know him?"

Cullen admired the piece and then handed it back to Harritt. "Not the blacksmith, no, but my family is originally from Honnleath."

"Well, then, it's a good excuse to visit home, then, eh?"

"Well... my family moved to South Reach more than ten years ago - during the Blight - so I doubt if I know anyone in the area anymore."

Harritt tilted his head and regarded Cullen curiously. "Still, mightn't there be some familiar places you could visit?" The smith turned to place the cuirass on his bench before adding, "You should take the Inquisitor with you."

Cullen shifted on his feet, his mouth opening before he could consider his words. "Uh... what?"

"She's a mite obsessed when it comes to crafting and forging," he explained as he arranged a few things on his work table. "She'd love to visit the blacksmiths. And you could show her a place or two around Honnleath while you're there."

Even without Harritt's direct gaze, Cullen's face blazed with heat, and he couldn't blame the forge for that. But he also couldn't deny that Harritt's words had merit. After all they'd been through, perhaps a few days away would give him and Evana time to focus on something other than imminent doom. That is, if she still wanted to go anywhere with him.

 "Ah, yes... perhaps you're right. I will ask if she wishes to accompany me... errr... us..."

He paused, teeth clenched, and gathered his courage. Harritt continued to putter at his desk as if he knew Cullen was having a difficult time and wished to give him time to compose himself.

"You seem to know our Inquisitor quite well," Cullen finally managed.

The words came out more a question than a statement. Harritt finally turned around, and Cullen forced himself to look into the smith's now twinkling eyes.

"I'd say we're well acquainted, yes."

"The other advisors and I were thinking of... giving the Inquisitor a gift. I thought you might have an idea of... of something the Inquisitor would like? Something I... uh, we... might commission?"

If it were possible, his face would have turned even more red. As it was, the added heat of his embarrassment caused a single bead of sweat to trickle down his cheek. Cullen cleared his throat slightly and tried for nonchalance as he wiped it away with a leathered finger.

"Something like a piece of jewelry?" Harritt asked rather too innocently.

A small bit of panic rose up in his gut, but Cullen forced himself to remain calm. "Not necessarily. Just something she would like. A small gift. A token of m- our... uh... gratitude for all she's done."

That wasn't the word on the tip of Cullen's tongue, but the look in Harritt's eye revealed that the smith already knew it. Affection, he could almost hear Harritt say. The word you're looking for is affection. Cullen cleared his throat again.

"Perhaps a useful item, such as a coat or a new staff?" Cullen suggested in a weak voice.

Harritt hummed while he stroked his chin and gazed off into the distance. "I could. The Inquisitor is a rare one in that she does prefer the useful and functional over something grand and overblown." He stroked his chin a bit more, the sparkle returning to his eye as he flicked his gaze toward Cullen. "But I wonder... do you happen to know her favorite stone? Or do you - any of you - have a keepsake you'd be willing to part with? The thought behind a gesture also impresses her. Maker knows she talked about that garden nonstop for weeks..."

Before Cullen could smother it, a stupid grin spread across his face. He ducked his head down in an attempt to hide it and then glanced back up at Harritt. "She did?"

"Maker, yes! She went on and on about it. That she'd mentioned wanting to fix it up, that you'd simply gone and done it because you thought she'd like it."

Try as he might, he couldn't seem to wipe the grin off his face. She truly liked it. Another blush suffused his face as he recalled her arms around his neck and the soft press of her lips against his cheek. It had been worth all the distractions and disruptions the renovations had caused just for that one moment, but to know that she'd then talked about it with others...

So she liked the thought behind the gesture? He barely registered when he began pacing. What did he have? Nothing. Could he obtain something in Honnleath? Honnleath...

The thought struck him, and he suddenly wondered why he'd never thought of it before. He did have something. Something he'd kept with him at all times. Something that seemed small and insignificant but meant a great deal to him. If she appreciated the thought - if that's what really pleased her - then perhaps Harritt could make it into something she'd treasure. He stopped pacing and reached into the small, hidden pocket in his breeches. There at the bottom of the pocket rested an old coin. Giving up all pretenses that this gift would come from "the advisors" - Harritt seemed to know anyway - Cullen pulled it out and handed it to the smith.

"This... this is the only thing I still have of my life before I joined the templars. Could you make something of that?"

Harritt took it and turned the worn currency over in his hands. "Wouldn't want to compromise the coin itself, of course. That's part of the charm. But... I wonder... Would you be willing to part with it for a bit? I need to do some thinking."

Cullen nodded. "Of course. Thank you, Harritt. Obviously, I understand that this cannot be a priority, but when you are able, let me know what I owe you."

Harritt held up his hands and shook his head. "I'll let you know the cost of materials, but the labor is on me..." He lifted the corner of his mouth in a knowing grin. "Just be happy, son. And make her happy, too."

Cullen flushed yet again but knew better than to deny anything. He tilted his head at the man in a gesture of acquiescence and respect.

"I'll do my very best."

"That's all anyone can ask," Harritt acknowledged.

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 34. In which love is a balm and anger is an analgesic

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Josie had secured them passage on a boat that left from Jader, the port city on the border of Orlais and Ferelden, and they rode hard out of Skyhold to ensure they made it on time. The pace left little room for talking, but she wouldn't have wanted to speak anyway. The last few days had been too special, too unbelievable to be able to engage in idle talk just yet.

As she gazed unseeing at the blur of rocks, hills and trees around her, Evana faded into herself to sort through the strange aches and flutters that had plagued her since that day on the battlements. Her tender feelings had flourished under Cullen's gentle care, roots digging in deeper, tighter, woven into intricate, irreversible patterns through her heart. But the way her heart now yearned for him, the way every step away from him pulled at the fragile roots, testing strength as only time and distance could... Would she break under these new and uncomfortable feelings? Would the separation wither the ties between them? Would he change his mind with so much time to rethink their impractical relationship?

A tiny gasp escaped her lips at the sharp, visceral ache that pulsed through her at the thought, an ache unlike anything she'd felt before. She then sighed as one truth became crystal clear. This is going to be a long trip.

They made camp late that night and set off early the next morning to catch their boat. Josephine's connection had offered them passage all the way across the Waking Sea and up the river through the Heartlands to a small port town on western side of Lake Celestine, which meant they'd only have a few days of traveling by horse after disembarking. When Leliana had sent word to Captain Rylen to expect them, Rylen had responded that they had yet to hear from the Champion or Warden Stroud. Evana intoned a prayer as she rode that they were both OK.

Although the prayer was directed to the Creators, she couldn't help the small part of her that wondered if she should also address it to the Maker and his prophet, Andraste. She was supposed to be Andraste's Herald after all, and Cullen's song the other night had moved her in a way she hadn't expected - in a way the songs about the Elvhen lore and Creators never had.

She felt a tinge of shame for even thinking in such a way. But what if Andraste had really guided her through the Fade and given her a mark to fight Corypheus? She still had no memory of what had happened to her in the Fade, but the more regions they stabilized and the more they emerged victorious, the more it felt as though a guiding force had truly taken interest in their mission. The existence of one god did not preclude others, after all.

She pushed the thoughts aside. Her faith in the Elvhen gods had always been more academic than spiritual, but she wasn't ready to jump into another religion quite yet... if ever.

They reached Jader with a couple hours to spare, so they made their arrangements and stopped in for a late afternoon meal at a nearby restaurant. As she absently listened to the idle banter of her companions, she picked at her food. She should be hungry, but the food held no appeal. Halfway through the meal, Dorian's voice finally cut through the haze of her thoughts.

"... I know. But she's clearly not listening to anything we're saying. It's no fun to tease someone who isn't even paying attention to you."

Evana looked up to see her companions staring at her with equally amused and concerned expressions on their faces. "Hmmmm...?"

"There you are. I thought I might have to do some sort of interpretive dance to get your attention. We are supposed to be dancing our way through Thedas, after all," Dorian quipped. After a pause during which she merely rolled her eyes at him, he continued. "So, can I guess what - or rather who - you're thinking of? Perhaps the person I saw kissing you so passionately in the courtyard yesterday morning?"

Varric laughed. "And it's about damn time, too. I thought Curly was never going to make a move."

Evana blushed hotly and looked back down at her food without responding. She wouldn't take the bait. Perhaps she'd be able to joke about it later, but right now, it was too precious a thing to sully with Dorian and Varric's teasing. Bull's voice cut in, much softer and laced with concern.

"I was merely saying that you really should eat, boss. We won't have another meal like this for... well... weeks."

They all gave her their most serious looks. The irony of her three most sarcastic, smart-ass companions being serious for this long was not lost on her. She had to laugh, or she would cry.

"Creators, I'm not made of glass! I'll be fine... and yes, I'll eat, Bull. I was just... distracted."

To prove her point, she began eating in earnest. She made sure to finish the plate for good measure. As they boarded the ship, Evana tried engage more with her companions, but she found herself drifting into her own thoughts in spite of her best intentions. She wasn't used to having friends who worried about her, asked about her day and expected her to participate in conversations. In her clan, she'd focused on her work and learning from Vash'an and Deshanna. Her peers had all had families of their own, so...

All excuses. You were diffident to your clan and your peers. You had no confidence in yourself. How could they?

During childhood, she'd always felt out of place, but she'd also been less shy, more willing to take chances. However, her odd relationship with her mother, working so hard with Vash'an and then being apprenticed to the Keeper had led her to be more withdrawn. Her relationship with Hanir, even before their bonding, had introduced feelings of inadequacy, and she'd folded into herself even more. Then, after the attack, she'd poured all her energy into learning to protect the clan - to do what she'd hadn't been able to do for them before. She worked hard to become the best at offensive magic she could be. She would not let them down again.

But the clan had taken her dedication as disinterest, her lack of confidence and withdrawn nature as superiority. Deshanna had understood and done her best to pave the way, but Evana knew. Clan Lavellan didn't miss her, didn't wish or hope for her return. If she were honest with herself, she was still working on coming to terms with that realization, but her growing friendships and... other relationships at the Inquisition stood in stark contrast with the years of ambivalence from her clan.

Perhaps that was why she felt such kindredship with Cullen. They had both made mistakes in their past, neglected their own lives to try to make things right. Now they both had great purpose as well as great people surrounding them. It seemed like a chance for redemption that neither of them thought they deserved but both had grabbed onto like an anchor in a storm.

With these thoughts swirling in her head, she took up a spot that would give her the best view of the Frostbacks for as long as the late evening sun would allow. Ironically, an experience that started with imprisonment had made her realize exactly what she'd been missing in her clan. Perhaps she felt homesick now because, for the first time, these people felt like a true home. And she shouldn't let her reticent nature keep her isolated from them.

As if they could understand her thoughts, she turned around to find Dorian, Varric and Bull standing just behind her. She smiled at them.

"So, Varric, tell me more about this game you've been talking about... Wicked Grace was the name, I believe?"

**

The ship docked in a port outside the small town of Velun four days later. Evana had ended up sleeping for most of the trip, the rocking of the boat mimicking the rocking of the aravels of her childhood. She would try to stay awake for longer than a few hours, but the rocking of the boat just put her right back to sleep. She hadn't felt so refreshed in ages. After gathering their waiting supplies, they headed in the direction of the forward camp. They pushed on until dusk, and she took the first watch as they set up camp. She was still wide awake, but the others collapsed as soon as they hit their bedrolls.

Alone once more with her thoughts, she found herself humming Cullen's chant to herself. She couldn't remember the words, but the gorgeous melody echoed in her thoughts along with the golden visage of her Commander.

She'd come to think of Cullen's faith as just another facet of the man, and she could see that he truly did his best to serve his Maker and Andraste. He failed at times, that much he'd told her, and she'd heard echoes of rumors, the vague whispers of other mages in the dark corners of the keep, of the things in his past he had yet to share with her. Although she'd never pressure him to speak with her about it, the fact that he had yet to open up presented an obstacle she knew they'd need to overcome. Additionally, they'd simply agreed to be open to one another's opinion on mage oversight, but they'd not truly reached an understanding. And yet she thought of all she'd learned about him in the last several months, and she couldn't help feeling that they'd come to an understanding eventually.

It was still hard to believe that he truly cared for her, but all the times he'd gone out of his way to please her or make her feel more comfortable went far beyond cursory concern. Even in Haven, before he'd let himself truly show how much he cared, she'd felt and seen his kindness. Just the fact that he'd taken time out of his day to walk and talk meant the world to her. She already missed him terribly, and it made her feel a bit like a love-sick fool.

Too bad I don't care at all.

She woke Varric at midnight for his watch and lay down to sleep. She felt like she'd only closed her eyes for a moment when a hand shook her awake.

"Come on, sleepy head, time to get up and go kill things," Dorian cooed in her ear. "It's your favorite thing, I know."

She grimaced as her body protested from sleeping on the hard ground. It was amazing how quickly a person could get used to a shemlen bed. As they rode further west, the heat and sun intensified. By the time the sun set, they were all exhausted once again. After another night on the ground, they rode into the forward camp as the late morning sun beat down upon the rows of tents and supplies marked for the Inquisition's extended stay in the Approach. Scout Harding greeted them with a wry smile.

"Inquisitor, welcome to the Western Approach. We've sighted Warden activity to the southwest, but no one's been close enough to figure out what they're doing. Between the sandstorms and the vicious wildlife, we haven't made it far out here. One of my men got too close to a poison hot spring and gave me a slightly delirious report of a high dragon flying overhead."

"A dragon!? Yeeeeessss!!"

Evana shot Bull a death look, and he shrugged. Harding paused and shot an amused look between the two of them before continuing in a faux chipper tone.

"In short, this just might be the worst place in the entire world."

Evana gave her a sympathetic look. "I assume you've got your orders to head to the oasis next?"

"Yes, your worship. I will be heading out there soon. And Captain Rylen and his company are out fighting off a group of varghest from our water supply."

"Please tell the Captain when he returns that we're going to find the Grey Wardens. I hope we can end this quickly."

"Be sure to let us know if you think you need back up. Good luck, and be careful, Inquisitor."

Evana saluted Harding and pulled out a map of the area. She found her direction, and they set off. They had to fight through a couple of rifts and multiple attacks from wildlife and Venatori before they finally approached the Grey Warden ruin several hours later. To her great relief, she saw Hawke and Stroud crouching outside the tower's entrance. The lines in Stroud's face pulled deep as he turned his agitated gaze on her.

"I'm glad you made it, Inquisitor. I'm afraid they've already started the ritual."

The green light emanating from the tower told her all she needed to know about the situation. A cold stab of fear shot through her, but she looked at the group of warriors gathered around her and shoved the fear away. Whatever lay within those walls, they would defeat it, as they had done countless times before.

As they approached, they could see a Grey Warden walking away with a rage demon following closely behind. He joined a line of other Wardens bound to various other demons standing eerily still on the tower platform. A dark-haired man in Tevinter-style dress looked up from his Warden thralls and called out to them.

"Inquisitor! What an unexpected pleasure." The man bowed, a twisted smile splitting his face. "Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium at your service."

"You are no Warden!" Stroud shouted at him across the platform.

Erimond's eyes narrowed as he looked to Stroud. "But you are. The one Clarel let slip. And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?"

Evana's blood boiled. Corypheus sure knew how to pick the most arrogant, self-important asses for his dirty work. At least if they're assholes, I don't feel as bad about setting them on fire. She pointed to the dead Warden on the ground before Erimond.

"Looks like you've already done some of my work for me."

"What? Him? We simply needed his blood. Oh... were you hoping to garner sympathy? Maybe make the Wardens feel a bit of remorse? Wardens! Hands up!"

The Wardens lining the path to where Erimond stood mechanically lifted their hands like puppets on a string.

"Hands down!"

The Wardens lowered their hands. Evana's heart plummeted to her stomach as she took in the vacant eyes staring out into nothingness. Beside her, Stroud positively radiated anger. She wondered sadly whether he knew any of the enslaved Wardens.

"Corypheus has taken their minds," Stroud choked out.

Erimond shook his head, a sick smile still twisting his lips. "They did this to themselves. You see, the Calling has the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help."

"Even Tevinter," Stroud growled.

Evana could tell Stroud wouldn't last much longer with the talking portion of this interaction. She needed more information, though. What was the plan? Why do this? Luckily, she didn't even have to ask as Erimond provided the information freely. How accommodating of him.

"Yes, and since it was my master who put the calling into their little heads, we - the Venatori - were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and together, we came up with a plan... raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake."

Evana rolled her eyes. "Ah, I was wondering when the demon army would show up."

Erimond looked a little nervous for a moment. "You... knew about it, did you? Well, then, here you are. Sadly for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They're now my master's slaves. This was a test. Once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas."

Blood magic at its worst. Leliana's words in the dark future at Redcliffe rang in her ears. And mages always wonder why people fear them... no one should have this power. Evana felt the rage inside her grow at the thought. This was why people feared them - feared her. Weak-willed fools who would try to control others with their magic. How many mages' lives had been ruined by the actions of those few who gave them all a bad name? Those who misused their power for their own personal glory or even in misguided attempts to do good?

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know," she spat out at him.

Erimond sneered and lifted his hand. It glowed red as he extended it toward her with a vicious snarl.

"Oh, please."

Suddenly, a stab of pain pierced her hand and shot up her arm. She stumbled, fell to her knees and bent over, clutching her hand to her chest in agony. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. She was too angry for that.

"The Elder One showed me how to deal with you in the event you were foolish enough to interfere again," Erimond continued, oblivious to Evana's rising temper. "That mark you bear? The anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my master. He's been forced to seek other ways to access the Fade."

Arrogant fool! Evana took several deep breaths to push back the pain, and while Erimond babbled on about his power, Evana focused as Solas had taught her. The anger became a tool, feeding her destructive force, and she stood up slowly, with purpose, raising her hand.

"When I bring him your head," Erimond finished, "his gratitude will be-"

Erimond suddenly cried out in pain as Evana used her anchor to overpower and subdue him. He flew backward a few paces and the rift the Warden had opened to summon the rage demon closed with a vicious snap. Erimond got up slowly, terror dawning on his face. In the next moment, he turned tail and ran, shouting over his shoulder.

"Kill them!"

Chaos broke loose around her as the enslaved Wardens and their demons attacked. At least all of Stroud's pent up frustration could now be put into action. A deep sadness on his behalf mixed with her fury as she worked through her forms, fighting against the men and women who once stood as heroes of Thedas. She knew the Calling had them all frightened, but this? Surely they could see they were being manipulated!?

Evana took a hard hit to her right side, forcing her to focus more fully on the battle. She called down barriers for her team as often as she could, but she mainly focused on icing out the rage demon to keep her companions from getting burned. The other mage Wardens were not difficult to kill, and finally, with one final freeze and a jolt of electricity, the rage demon exploded into a thousand pieces before her. As horrible as she felt cutting down the enslaved Wardens, the demise of that rage demon felt good.

Her blood hummed with left over adrenaline as they regrouped. She passed out a few healing potions for Varric and Hawke, who'd taken the brunt of a demon attack before she'd been able to get a barrier up for them. Dorian had been able to keep himself protected, and Iron Bull just shrugged off the damage. Hawke guzzled the potion and then shook her head.

"They refused to listen to reason."

Stroud sighed. "You were correct. Through their ritual, the mages are slaves to Corypheus."

"And the Warden warriors? What of them?" Hawke asked.

Stroud wouldn't look at Hawke, and the other mage seemed to understand. She closed her eyes and shook her head again.

"Of course, sacrificed in the ritual. What a waste."

Evana's ire was still up. She tried to be sympathetic, but surrounded by so much blood and chaos, she began to understand why Cullen might have difficulty feeling sorry for a person like Samson.

"Human sacrifice, demon summoning..." She shook her head in disgust. "Who looks at this and thinks it's a good idea?"

Hawke answered simply with, "The fearful and the foolish."

Tension arced through the air as Stroud responded. "The Wardens were wrong, Hawke, but they had their reasons."

Hawke leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her. If looks could maim, Hawke's eyes would be considered deadly weapons.

"Yes. All blood mages do. Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions... and it never matters. In the end, you are always alone with your actions."

Hawke's words pierced her anger, and all former sympathy for the Wardens flooded back to her. Evana's response was quiet but firm.

"Perhaps you're right, but a person who makes a bad decision may also still be redeemed."

Hawke looked at her curiously, but merely tilted her head in acknowledgement.

Evana's statement seemed to ease the tension, and Stroud finally spoke again.

"I believe I know where the Wardens are, Your Worship. Erimond fled in that direction." Stroud raised his hand and pointed south. "There's an abandoned Warden fortress that way - Adamant."

She nodded. "Good thinking."

"Stroud and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there," Hawke offered. "We'll meet you back at Skyhold."

Hawke took Varric aside, their heads bent together in whispered communion, and then she left with Stroud to scout the fortress. As Evana looked over her companions, her mind, still roiling from the adrenaline, swirled in several directions at once. Finally, Dorian pulled her from her thoughts.

"Uh, not to rush you, my dear, but we are standing among a bunch of dead Wardens and demons. Could we move on soon? I'm worried I'll get blood on my shoes."

Evana looked down at the other mage's blood-soaked armor and boots, then looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirking in a disbelieving smirk. "Blood on the shoes, eh? Little bit late for that." Then, turning to the others, she huffed out a long sigh. "Well, it's still light, and I'm worked up from that fight. I know it's hotter than dragon's fire out here, but... should we look for a few more rifts before heading back to camp?"

"Bianca's all in," Varric affirmed.

"Yeah, I'm up for it, Boss."

She looked at Dorian, who sighed dramatically. "Only you would ask me to trudge around in soiled armor and blazing heat to kill even more demons. Shall we practice our dancing in the sulfur pits, too?" Evana's mouth twitched with a barely suppressed smile, and Dorian's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Oh, I suppose since we're here and my boots are already ruined, we might as well."

She gave him a lopsided grin and headed off in the direction of the next rift on her map.