#he looks so bare and young without his chains and pauldron

[ruinme-please]

𝚅𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚕

𝙳𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝙵𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟾

[mudhornchronicles]

maroon | din djarin

gif posted by sledposting 

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

warnings: all the fluff, soft!din but then i said sike... angst, mentions of death and violence, also mentions of... sexual encounters?

a/n: lowkey wanna make into a series, but idk if someone has done this. if so, i do apologize. 

masterlist

“You best learn how to weave, girl. A husband wouldn’t be caught dead wearing tattered clothing, let alone a Mandalorian riduur.”

“You must wear much more layered clothing. A Mandalorian riduur wants a respectable woman at his side.”

“Learn these recipes and maybe you’ll find yourself a Mandalorian riduur.”

You’ve grown tired of hearing this every day, but you sit back and simply nod. Mandalore may have not been your birth planet, but they took care of you after your father and brother both fell valiantly in battle. You were on your own after that. Your mother was not a Mandalorian, she was originally from Naboo. When your father was called back to Mandalore to assist in the ceremonial trials, your mother decided it was time she left. She said she was promised a tranquil life with the clan of four on Naboo, but the creed had to be followed. You have not heard from her since you were 7 years old.

Now as you’ve come to an age of maturity, you were being trained to… be a wife? 

You sat back and obeyed the elders wishes, but you knew that their rants were not true - not in the slightest. Your father never depended on your mother to do anything for him. Because of that, he taught you how to defend yourself and be independent. Although your father was devoted to The Way, he did not want you to swear the creed. Not because you were incapable, but because he did not want you to go through life with the restrictions that the creed entails. Even if you wanted to rebel against your loving father’s wishes, you were not able to be properly trained nor swear the creed at such a late age. So, you were content with being a member of the Mandalorian culture as a civilian.

You sat at a table that the elders reserved for the women who taught young ladies how to sew, heal, cook, and take care of the warriors in training. Whether it was a torn cape or a sparring injury, you were there to help. You always believed you didn’t need to be there as you already knew how to do it all, but the view made up for it. The table was set up on the outer boundaries of the sand pit they called a sparring arena. You got to see young Mandalorians train their bodies and minds by lessons taught by the elders. As many Mandalorians came and went, your eyes were always set on a specific foundling you met many years ago. You sympathized with that warrior when you first noticed his colored armor. You had a crafted bracelet in a similar color – a deep red, a maroon to be precise.

All Mandalorian armor was painted, but each general color had deeper meaning. For example, blue represented the reliability of the warrior, green represented duty, black represented justice, and grey or silver represented mourning.

Red represented the honoring of a parent or leader.

You watched as the two warriors, one in green armor and yours in the maroon, sparred while the other Mandalorians watched and rallied around their fighting brothers. After 10 minutes, the maroon pinned the green down and was declared the winner. The elders at your table clapped and you can’t help but smile and cheer along.

As the noise settles down, you ask to be excused from the table and wait for their approval. Once the oldest member examines your finished shawl, she excuses you for the day. You clean up your yarn and needles, place them and your newly knitted shawl in your basket, and thank them for the day’s lesson. You turn and notice the maroon armored figure standing with his brothers as a new pair of Mandalorians prepare for their turn at combat.

You walk over and stand next to him, basket in your left hand and proceed to place your right hand on his pauldron. He looks over at you and tilts his helmet as he acknowledges you. You mouth a simple hi and a small wave, not wanting to distract him from the scene in front of him.

“Hello, cyar’ika.”

You smile as he turns and holds your right hand in his left. “How was today’s lesson?”

You shrug, rolling your eyes and letting out a small laugh. “Oh you know, learning what I already know. The usual.”

He chuckles at your visible annoyance at the uniformed program you’re practically forced to attend. “Are you finished or are the elders letting you breathe?”

You just can’t help but always smile at every word that comes out of his mouth. “I’m very much finished for the day. Are you?”

“Yes, Paz and I were just asked to demonstrate a sparring technique. Would you like to go for a walk?”

You nod excitedly. He gives your hand a light squeeze and asks you to stay where you are. You watch him as he strides over to one of the elders watching over the training session to what you assume is asking for permission to leave. The elder simply nods and goes back to observing the trainees.

Your Mandalorian leads you to an escarpment not far from the main town – not far by speeder bike that is. You both called it our place. As far as you both knew, no one had known about the place. The ground is scattered with sand and cracks, but the pair are protected from unwanted visitors by an oddly bent acacia tree and nothing beats the view. The capital can be seen far out in the distance, seeming small and faded. You looked down from the cliff to the ground below. You took notice that the ground had small traces of grass while the trees began to dry and then to your luck, you spotted a strill dragging the corpse of a fanned rawl back to its pack. 

You step back from the edge and walk back to the tree. Your beloved unclips his cape and places it on the ground for you both to sit on – despite your countless protest about getting it dirty and tears. He proceeds to take a seat in the middle of his cape and places his hands on your waist. You take the hint and take a seat on his lap. He wraps his arms around your body and lay on him and he leans back on the thick trunk of the tree.

You quietly stay like this for what feels like hours, just holding onto each other. You two rarely get alone time anymore as his training has begun to be much more advanced. More advanced means longer training hours and longer training hours mean less time with you. Mandalore has nineteen hour days and the elders now have him train for six which means you barely get to talk to him and he barely gets to breathe. 

You change positions to lay on the ground with your head on his thighs. He starts to play with your hair, but suddenly lets the strand of hair go. He leans over to grab your hand. He begins to play with your fingers and places his palm straight onto yours just to feel how different his hands are from your own. He did always say he loved your hands – soft and caring.

He loves holding your hand. He loves caressing it. He loves playing with them. He loves how they look when in his.

When you’re in the safety of your home, he blindfolds you and  loves it when you play with his hair.

When you make love, he loves when you run your hands down his chest and on his biceps as he thrusts up into you. He loves when you grip his arms while you’re riding him and he brings you close to euphoria or when his body is over yours and your hands press down on his back to beg for him to go deeper.

He’s gone a long time without having gentle hands touch him. You were the first person he let touch his bare hands since his parents died. 

His helmet tilts over to you and you look up to him. He sits and stares at you and you unsuccessfully stifle a laugh. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner kar’ta.” He says quietly. So quietly you feel as if it wasn’t meant for your ears.

You situate yourself onto your knees and cradle the side of his helmet in one hand and hold his own hand in the other. “I love you too, Din. More than anything in the entire galaxy.”

You’ve been in a romantic relationship with Din for five years and you’ve heard those words a total of seven times. You savor every time he speaks them as it sounds like utter bliss to you.

“Ner kar’ta, I- I’d like to gift something to you, but I must know something first.”

“You can ask me anything, cyare.”

“I know I don’t tend to express my feelings and you may be thinking this is going to be a negative talk, but I promise it’s not.”

“I know it isn’t, my love. Even if it was, you’re not going anywhere.”

He chuckles at this and he nods. You know this is serious when his visor isn’t on your face.

“Mesh’la… Do you wa- Are you sure you…” he stops and clears his throat. “Cyare, do you plan on wanting to be stay? With me? I know we never talked about this, but I just thought it was time to bring it up.”

“Are you asking me if I want to stay by your side for the rest of my life, Din?”

He nods.

“Din, love, of course I want to be with you. We’ve only touched the surface. There’s so much left to do. You still haven’t given me a piece of your armor, we haven’t done a riduurok, and we haven’t raised warriors! You aren’t getting rid of me!” you joke.

He stays silent and you begin to think you may have gone too far. He opens one of his pouches on his belt. Your mind is saying he pulled out the blindfold he always carries for you to kiss you, but your heart wishes it’s something else.

Your heart wins.

He offers you a necklace. It consists of a maroon colored beskar ring clinging to a chain – his beskar. Before he can say anything, you jump on him and wrap your arms around him. He laughs and gives you a squeeze.

“I had a speech prepared, but I’d be very happy if I didn’t have to read it,” he sarcastically says. You can’t stop the tears running down your cheeks as you shake your head while you tell him he doesn’t have to. You know what he’s going to say and you know he’s going to stutter and shake. You know how much he loves you. You don’t need to hear him say it as his actions spoke volumes.

“I knew you didn’t lose your buckle to Paz! You rather lose me than your armor!”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’d rather lose my sponsorship then you.”

You playfully shove him. “Di’kut.” You grab your drink from your basket and take a swig from the cold liquid.

“Cyar’ika, w- would you like to marry me? Right now?”

You almost choke. You look at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Is it too soon?”

You shake you head. “No, no it’s been five years. The elders probably think we’re crazy.” You both share a laugh. “But, if you’re ready Din, then yes. I’d love to marry you right now.”

He stands and helps you up. He grabs the chained ring and places it around your neck. You look down and the ring falls beautifully next to the other necklace you wear, a nexu signet - your father’s clan. You reach up and bring his head down to yours as you connect your foreheads together. As Mandalorian culture states, the warrior must begin the riduurok and every phrase must be said by each to be vowed.  

Din’s hands are shaking, you can feel them. He clears his voice, but it does little to stop it from cracking.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus d-dar’tome”

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome”

“M-Mhi me’dinui an”

“Mhi me’dinui an”

“mhi ba’juri ver-“

You feel his forehead leave yours and you open your eyes. You follow his gaze and your heart sinks. Far out in the distance you see imperial ships slowly coming through the clouds. You see bright red light coming from the capital and you begin to panic. You know he has to go fight. As much as you don’t want him to, there’s no debate. 

You both run to collect everything. He stops to look at you.

“Ni ceta, ner kar’ta. I promise that I-“ you stop him and bring his forehead down again.

“It is your duty to Mandalore, Din. I know you’ll protect us and you’ll come back to me. Promise me you’ll fight with everything in you. I can’t lose you too.”

“I promise.”

With that you pack the speeder and ride back into town, although as the war begins, you wished you had just taken Din away and ran.

Blaster shot after blaster shot. Dead body after another. The cries of children and the screaming of mothers trying to find their babies.

You hear a Mandalorian usher women and children into life-ships, each with two Mandalorians escorts. You get rushed closer and closer to one when you catch Din in the corner of your eye.

You run to him as you hear your name being called out by the other women. Din sees you and tackles you down. He pins you against a wall yelling at you to get into a ship and go. You put your hands on each side of his helmet. Both of you are crying wishing this was only a nightmare. 

“Din, please promise me you’ll find me. Promise me you’ll make it out of here and come back to me. I can’t live without you. Please promise me.”

His visor is trained on you as you hold onto each other tighter than ever. “I promise I’ll find you and when I do, we’ll properly marry and I’ll take you far away from here so we can start our own clan. Ner kar’ta, I promise you this with my entire being.”

A promise sealed with a keldabe kiss. He runs with you towards a ship. You both ask escorts where the ship is going. No one knows. You try running out of the ship, but Din only pushes you back in. You hear him tell you how much he loves you before he jumps off the ship right when the ramp starts to move. You sob as the ramp closes until the view of your maroon-clad love is completely gone.

Little did you know that the war zone you had just witnessed was the fall of Mandalore and the last time you’d see the love of your life for many years to come.

update (1.1.21): Part two to Maroon has been posted - Saguine

 mando’a translations:

riduur = spouse, husband, wife, partner

cyar’ika = darling, sweetheart

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum = I love you

ner kar’ta = my heart

mesh’la = beautiful

riduurok = love bond, specifically between spouses - marriage agreement

cyare = beloved

di’kut = idiot

Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde. = We are one whether we are together or apart, we will share everything and we will raise our children as warriors.

ni ceta = i’m sorry 

[embeanwrites]

Recklessly Chapter 5

Recklessly Masterlist

General Masterlist

AN: Courscant’s flag is the Jedi order symbol and here’s the Mando’a translations!

Ori’vod – big brother

Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod – Are you look for a smack in the face, mate?

Al’verde – Commander

Udesii – Take it easy!

The Princess found herself back in her room looking at herself in her very own armor. The armor felt good, it felt right. She had been measured a few times for dresses and by the glean in the armorer’s eyes, she had already had her measurements and armor ready to go. Save for a few touches the Princess requested. 

Wolffe attempted to deny her pestering, but she had a feeling Anakin had made sure armor would be ready for her by the time it was needed. The armorer also gave her a dagger and an iron shield with the royal family symbol on it, a rising sun with sun beams.

That night she got no rest and instead she had nervously reorganized her room and packed a small sack with things she may need. She really should’ve talked to Anakin about what she should bring, but she just had to trust her instincts. She knew she shouldn’t bring much, but she remembered when Anakin left. He had been wearing his crown. She walked over to her closet where she kept her tiara. She hadn’t had to wear it since before the war and even then, she hated how it felt on her head. The pins were sharp, and she had to weave her hair for it to stay without issue. She would need to make sure the tiara in place on the battlefield. 

She sat on her bed across from her mirror and began to weave her hair into a Dutch crown braid. It felt weird braiding her hair, her hands weaved quickly from muscle memory. When she was done, she sighed before taking a long look at herself in her pajamas. She knew she still had hours before Wolffe would retrieve her, but she was ready to get into her armor. She quickly undressed and begun to put herself together. 

She looked at herself in front of the floor length mirror. Underneath her armor she wore a simple brown tunic and pants which wasn’t a completely uncommon look for herself, but the armor itself was stunning. The polished silver armor fit her like a glove. The cuirass itself was very simple and light. She assumed it was because they wanted her to move quickly and freely but she was drawn towards a very small wolf face was carved into the armor near her pauldron. Which brought a smile to her face, she wondered how Wolffe got the armorer to do that. Her faulds held three layers with chain mail going several inches past the end. Her surcoat was very similar to her brothers, a deep blue with a black patch with Courscant’s flag. The armor came with greaves, but she opted for just her riding boots since they were sturdy and allowed her to move quickly. 

Any doubt she was feeling prior to wearing the armor melted. She had been training for this for some time and both her and Anakin had war tactics and medic training with their tutor Mr. Kenobi. The only difference between the two’s skills should be Anakin’s strength. But where Anakin was strong, she was faster and nimble. 

A knock at her door brought her out of her admiring. She quickly grabbed her sword and clipped its sheath to her belt. Opening the door, she’s met with Wolffe standing with his hands behind his back. He was in his full armor instead of just the chain mail he would wear around the castle. It had been a while since she had seen him in full dress, and it hammered in what was about to happen. She was going to the front lines. She was going to fight. 

“Well, Princess. Are you ready?”

Without Prince Skywalker on the front lines things had quickly gone to shit. The front lines have been chaos, more so than usual. Cody felt like he was at the end of his rope. Within one week of the prince being at the front lines he had somehow managed to break his arm and in the week without communication from Coruscant they had become more spread out. Cody feared the lack of the troops left behind opened them to a surprise attack, or worse a siege against Coruscant. 

Cody prided himself on his study of warfare and tactics, but Serenno had a habit of somehow being one step ahead of them. He was currently leaning against a tree near the middle of their temporary base camp, watching his men eating, sharping their weapons, and chatting near the campfire. The idea of their being a spy had crossed his mind a few times, but he rarely discussed plans far in advanced instead opting for having small groups initiating surprise attacks and recon missions. 

Maybe it was time for a more direct approach, but without any support from the royal family there wasn’t much he could do. Cody couldn’t just switch tactics without any Skywalker okaying the decision. He hoped that by the time the Princess got her she would be subdued by how the front lines really are and follow Cody’s lead. But Cody tended to not be very lucky these days. Cody sighed and put his face in his hands. Within the hour his brother Wolffe and the Princess would be arriving, and Cody was already beginning to dread the times to come. He had met her a couple times before the war started. She continuously made Wolffe’s life more difficult and had a habit of being hot headed. Which was the last thing he needed. The prince was ready to dive in headfirst and he could barely imagine what the Princess’ first suggestion may be. 

“Ori’vod? Are you alright?” Rex’s voice once again reminding him that now four of his six brothers were on the front lines. Leaving only Boba who was too young to fight and Echo who was a messenger. Cody got up from his seating position to look at his younger brother. Rex had decided to stay behind with Cody, much to his own dismay. Cody clapped his brother on the shoulder and nodded. 

“I’m alright, just tired.” He responded with a tired smile. 

“What are you thinking for our next move?” Rex asked worriedly. Cody knew Rex had to be anxious about not having the prince on the front lines. Rex was use to sticking by his side and protecting him and him retreating back to Coruscant without him clearly made him uneasy.

“It depends on what the royal brat decides to do.” Cody joked, making Rex frown and shift uncomfortably. 

“Royal brat huh? I wish I could say that’s a new one!” The Princess’ voice responded behind Cody. Before he could turn around, she was next to Rex, smirking. He took a moment to size her up, she was in correctly fitting armor and her hair was braided into a mock crown with her tiara sitting proudly on top. There was a thin layer of sweat covering her face as if she had run the entire way here, which there was no way it was over 100 miles. Cody held his breath and weighed his options. She didn’t seem upset, but with one command she could easily send him back to the kingdom. “At ease, Commander.” She said with a smile. “Me and you are going to have to learn to get a long!” Cody looked over at Wolffe, who for once in his life, was attempting to hide a smile. 

“Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?” He growled at his brother. 

“Al’verde! Udesii!” The Princess responded, looking him dead in the eyes. She had a wolfish smile on her face. Now, Wolffe didn’t hesitate to hold back anything, and he began chuckling at his older brother’s embarrassment. Cody felt his face pale, most royals weren’t even close to being fluent in Mando’a, but here she was. Speaking back to him as if it was her first language. “Don’t worry, Commander. We’re in this together!” The young princess smiled and leaned against Wolffe. 

“She’s got a point, Cody.” Rex mused, causing Cody to sigh. Before he got the chance to say anything else on the manner the group all jolted when they heard alarms going through the entire camp. 

“Wolffe, keep the princess protected. Rex follow me.” Cody quickly made his exit from the group as Rex followed. 

Much to Cody’s dismay he could sense the princess and Wolffe trailing behind him.

[youcancallmecirce]

Avatar AU, The Lost Firebender; Ch 3: The Avatar Returns

The Fire Nation comes calling, just as expected, and Zuko answers.

Written in collaboration with my daughter, Aya.

Ch 1 * Ch 2 * AO3 full story * AO3 this chapter

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From his vantage point above the village, Zuko watched the enormous Fire Navy ship plow  ever closer.

Below him, Sokka stood alone, holding his ground on the low ice palisade as he too watched the ship’s approach, his face painted and bone club in hand. Why was he alone? Zuko wondered.  Where were the men who should have stood at his side in defense of their people?  The rest of his people were running, screaming for him to “get back!” but Sokka didn’t move. Zuko wasn’t sure whether to applaud his bravery, or deride his stupidity.  (He ignored the niggling thought that Sokka reminded him a lot of himself in that moment.) 

The ship finally stopped just as it breached the packed ice wall, which crumbled beneath Sokka’s feet.   The boy wavered, but kept his footing on the tumbling, shifting snow and again stood his ground.

Everything was still for a moment.  The people who had sought refuge in their pitiful tents re-emerged and began to gather in a frightened cluster near the center of their village, whispering and clutching at one another.  Zuko scanned the group and realized with a shock that all of them were women and children.  Sokka, who couldn’t have been more than 16, was easily the oldest male member of the village.

The viciously pointed prow of the ship suddenly separated from the upper deck with a clank that made the whole Water Tribe jump, and it began to lower like the opening maw of a great beast.  

Zuko didn’t jump; he had been expecting it.

Sokka, still standing apart from his people, scrambled backward out of the way and fell backward into the snow.  Zuko winced.  He knew from experience how that sort of thing could sting the pride.  He decided that he sympathized with him, even if he was just a pathetic Water Tribe peasant.  There was worse to come.

Zuko shifted his attention from Sokka’s sprawling form to the three figures gathered at the top of the long metal gangway. All three wore familiar uniforms of ember red and ash grey, with tri-pointed helmets and skull-like face plates.  But not entirely familiar, he noted absently. The uniforms had changed a bit since he’d last seen them.  The ridiculous points on the pauldrons had been eliminated, but they still wore curling points on the boots.  

The men began to make their unhurried way down towards the gathered villagers, their manner insultingly dismissive, and Sokka ran up to meet them with a yell.  He never even got to swing his club.  The man in front kicked it from his hand, then kicked him off of the gangway entirely without even breaking his stride.  Sokka landed head first in the snow, his legs stuck awkwardly in the air.

Zuko actually cringed this time.  Sokka’s pride had just been obliterated, right in front of his entire village.  If he was smart, he would stay down.

The villagers shrank back as the Fire Nation men approached, then fanned out around them. Five of them.  Zuko could handle five.

The man in front, clearly the leader, tuned his head slowly as he looked over the gathered people.  “Where are you hiding him?” the man demanded.  

No one answered, and the man removed his helmet.  Zuko was too far away to see the man’s features clearly, but he looked to be the same as every other Fire Nation officer that he’d ever met: arrogant and cruel.

“Where is the airbender?” he shouted, scanning the people in front of him.  

Zuko frowned.  Airbender?   Oh.  His people must think that he’d died, and that it had passed to the next element in the cycle.  But why wouldn’t they?  It had been a hundred years.

When he still received no answer, the man grabbed one of the old women by her hood, and Zuko heard Katara cry out in alarm.  The officer dragged the woman roughly away from the rest of the group.  “He’d be about her age, by now, and master of all the elements,” he shouted, shaking the woman and sounding angry now.  “I know you’re hiding him, where is he?”

Silence answered him once more, and a blade of flame appeared in the man’s hand as he lifted it to the woman’s throat.  Gasps rose from the others, and Katara screamed.

Zuko cursed.  It was now or never.

“Stop!” he shouted, leaping down from his perch above the village and running towards the ice wall.  He scaled it and dropped easily to the other side, in full view of all of the shocked villagers, and the surprised Fire Nation men.  “Stop!” he said again.  “Let her go.  I’m the one you want.”

“You?” the man said dubiously.  He shoved the old woman back towards her people, and Katara caught the woman with a choked sob.  “You’re from the Fire Nation.  You can’t be the Avatar, you’re far too young.  An old Air Nomad, perhaps, or young water tribe, but you?  How did you even come to be here?”

Shocked gasps and murmurs had gone through the crowd at the mention of the Avatar, and Zuko gritted his teeth.  There would be no hiding it, now.  “That doesn’t matter,” he said.  “I am the Avatar, and I will not let you hurt these people.”

He sank into a defensive pose and bent fire to his hands, staring the man evenly in the face.  A yell from behind the man drew everyone attention.  Sokka had recovered and was once again charging the Fire Nation soldiers.  Their leader ducked fluidly, using Sokka’s own momentum to flip him to his back.  The bone club had gone flying, and Zuko thought that he would finally give up, but Sokka pulled another weapon from his back.  One look at the officer’s gleeful expression, and Zuko knew that he wanted Sokka to keep trying.  

“Enough,” he said, shoving Sokka back to the ground.  The boy snarled and tried to lunge, but Zuko shoved him again.  “Stay down!” he snapped.  “If you keep this up, that man is going to kill you and then who will protect your tribe?”

Sokka bared his teeth, but nodded his grudging agreement.  Zuko stepped back and Katara helped him to his feet. 

“Thank you,” she said, looking at Zuko.  Then her eyes went wide with alarm.  “Zuko!  Look out!”

Her expression had been warning enough, and he was turning to block even before she said his name.  He caught the man’s forearms with his own, and found the man staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Zuko?” he whispered.  He disengaged and took a step back.  “Prince Zuko?  How?”

Zuko only narrowed his eyes at the man, watching him warily.

“The scar,” the man muttered.  “I should have known.  I don’t know how it’s possible, but--you really are the Avatar, aren’t you?”

Zuko nodded once, curtly, and heard another murmur go through the people behind him.

The man’s face morphed into a cruel, avaricious smile.  “Remember this day, men,” he said, once more taking a combative position.  “This is the day that Captain Zhao captured the renegade Avatar prince and returned him to his people for justice.”

Zuko growled and launched himself at the man, attacking both with fire and martial skill.  The other men did not engage, as he’d expected, but maintained their perimeter around the fight.  All the better, Zuko thought.  Zhao’s arrogance will be his downfall.

He dodged Zhao’s admittedly skilled attack and went in low, hooking his foot behind the man’s ankle as he bent a crescent of fire towards the man’s head.  He succeeded in unbalancing the man, but a horrified, pained cry had him withdrawing and looking around him.

One of the children had fallen to the snow, an angry burn marring the girl’s face below her left eye, and Zuko felt time slow.  No. He felt the terror of the Agni Kai, the agonizing pain of the burn, the despair that had engulfed his younger self, and his vision went red with fury.

Not again.  He would not be a party to the maiming of children--and yet, he already had been.  He stared at the child, focusing on his breath, remembering Roku’s guidance.

“From the breath, Zuko,” hius mentor had said.  “A firebender’s power comes from the breath, and his skill comes from control.” 

And so Zuko breathed.  He sensed Zhao’s coming attack, and let it happen.  Let the man think he’d been too stunned by the child’s injury to defend himself; the more they underestimated him, the better.  He would surrender now, take the fight away from these simple people, and then he would free himself when no one else could get hurt.

Gran-gran knelt by the injured girl and her mother, trying to soothe parent and child alike.  Katara knew she should try to help, but she could only stare in frozen horror at the blistering red weal on the girl’s face.  It was just like the last time the Fire Nation had raided. Who else would be hurt before they were done?  Who would be killed?

Another crackling flare of flame had her leaping away from the combatants and then Zuko was falling, caught off guard by the attack from behind.  Zhao fell on him immediately, pinning his arms and yanking his head back with a fist around Zuko’s top knot.  

“You’re pathetic,” Zhao spat.  “Avatar or not, the histories were right in naming you a weak, honorless coward.” Zuko’s eyes flashed as he struggled in Zhao’s grip, and the man jerked back on his hair.  “Bring chains,” he called to his men, as he continued to sneer down at Zuko.  “It’s time that Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation went home.”

“No!”

Katara took a step forward, but Sokka caught her arm.  “Don’t,” he whispered hotly.  “There’s nothing you can do.”

“But--”

Sokka’s expression softened.  “Getting yourself killed now isn’t going to help him.”

Zhao’s men had bound Zuko’s hands behind his back with heavy chains and hauled him cruelly to his feet.  Zuko grunted, but gave no other outward indication that the wrenching of his shoulders had hurt.   

“It’s alright,” Zuko said, meeting her eyes.  “I’ll be fine.”

Zhao laughed.  “Sure you will,” he said.  Then he turned away and gestured towards the ship.  “Bring him,” he called over his shoulder.  “We’ll get the prince settled in his new ‘quarters’.”

The other soldiers laughed, and the one closest to him jerked Zuko around by his shoulder and shoved him forward.  “Come on, prince,” the man said, his tone derisive.

Zuko looked back at Katara one more time, then disappeared into the ship.  “They’re leaving,” she said, dazedly.  “They’re just--leaving.”

“Are you complaining?” her brother asked, bemused.

“Of course not,” she said, shaking herself.  “I’m just--”

“I know,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “Me too.”  

Behind them, Gran-gran was ushering the child and her mother back into her tent, where she could tend to the girl’s burn.  Everyone else stood with the siblings, watching the ship slowly pull itself out of the ice and back into open water.  

“This isn’t right,” Katara said.  

Sokka pursed his lips.  “I know.”

“He saved Gran-gran.  If he hadn’t--”  Katara swallowed, thickly.  She couldn’t finish that sentence.  

“I know,” Sokka repeated.

“And if he’s the Avatar?”  Katara turned at last to face her brother.  “If he’s the Avatar, Sokka, we can’t let them--”

“I know,” Sokka said again, beginning to look irritated.  “Do you want to figure out a way to go save your boyfriend, or would you rather stand around here wringing your hands all day?”

Katara’s eyes widened.  “Really, Sokka?”  He nodded and she threw her arms around his neck.  “You’re the best brother ever!  I--wait,” she stopped and pushed away from him.  “He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Whatever,” Sokka shrugged.  “I’ll start packing, you work on Gran-gran.”

Katara nodded, sobered by the thought of her grandmother.  She felt certain that the old woman wouldn’t want to let them go.  Maybe it would be better if they tried to slip away unnoticed?

She slipped into the tent where Gran-gran was tending to the child, and saw her smoothing the hair back from the girl’s face.  She was asleep, probably thanks to some of the healer’s herbs, but her pinched expression indicated that she was still in pain.  

“Will she be ok?” Katara asked quietly.

Her grandmother nodded.  “Come, Katara.  Let’s leave them in peace.”

They ducked out of the tent and moved a distance away, so as not to disturb the patient and her mother.  “Gran-gran--” Katara began, but her grandmother started speaking at the same time.

“What will you do?” she asked, her eyes bright and expression shrewd.

“Do?” Katara echoed blankly.

“You and your brother will have to go after him, of course.”  

Katara gaped at her grandmother, stunned by the woman’s insight and agreement.

“Don’t look so surprised, child” Gran-gran said wryly.  “I don’t know how you came to know that young man, but it was obvious that his appearance wasn’t a surprise to you or your brother.  Whatever happens next, your destinies have become entwined with his.”

Katara threw her arms around her grandmother.  “Thank you, Gran-gran!” she said.  “Thank you for understanding!”

“Enough of that, my dear.  How can I help?”

The next hour passed in a blur for Katara.  They gathered as many of their things as they thought they would need: bedrolls, food, Sokka’s club and boomerang, a spare change of clothes.  Katara touched her necklace, wondering if she should leave it behind.  She hadn’t taken it off since her mother’s death, but maybe it would be better to leave it where it would be safe.

“Take it,” Gran-gran said.  “It’s yours; it belongs with you.”

Katara nodded and hugged her grandmother again.  “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered as Sokka joined them.

“The canoe is ready,” Sokka said, “But I don’t know how we’re going to save anyone from the Fire Nation with a dinky little canoe.”

“Oh my,” Gran-gran said, paling.  “Is he a friend of Zuko’s?”  

Katara looked at her grandmother, then followed her gaze to the rise above the village.  There, looking down on them, was Fang.  He was a brighter red than Katara had yet seen him, and twin coils of smoke drifted from his flared nostrils.  

“Fang?” Katara said, feeling hope rise.  “Are you here to help us?”  The dragon’s head dipped in answer, and Katara grinned.

“Oh, no,” Sokka groaned.  “You just love taking me out of my comfort zone, don’t you?”

They realized quickly that they wouldn’t be able to ride Fang without some sort of harness for their gear.  Fang seemed to understand their quandary, and though Katara could sense the dragon’s growing impatience to be gone, he consented to let them strap an old polar bear dog saddle to his body.  It sat awkwardly behind his head, but it held their things securely in place.  Katara knew it wouldn’t be comfortable for him, but she also knew that they would need it.  

“Will that be alright?” she asked him anyway, stroking his side.

In answer, he lowered his head and rolled his large eyes toward her, as if inviting her to climb into the saddle.  

She smiled at him, hugged Gran-gran one last time, and then they were airborne almost before Sokka had settled himself in the saddle behind her.

“Spirits,” she gasped, and then coughed.  Fang had set out to follow the smoke trail from the ship’s engines, and she’d gotten a lungful of it.  “He really can fly!”

“I thought it was too cold,” Sokka yelled, his arms almost painfully tight around her middle.

She tugged at his hand and he loosened his grip enough to be bearable.  “I did too,” she said in answer to his question.  “But right now I’m too grateful to ask questions.”

Sokka grumbled behind her, but didn’t really argue with her.

“How long do you think it will take us to catch them?” she asked over her shoulder.  She’d been fretting over the amount of time they’d spent preparing to leave, worrying over every minute that Zuko had been a prisoner, but there had been no help for it.  Even now that they were on their way, she had no idea what they would do when they did catch the ship.  How in the world could two teenagers and a dragon do anything against a ship’s worth of fully trained Fire Nation soldiers?

Sokka, for his part, had been thinking along the same lines.  “Never mind that,” he said.  “What are we going to do when we catch them?”

Katara drooped.  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Well, figure it out fast.  There’s the ship!”

She looked up.  Sure enough, there it was, small in the distance but rapidly growing larger as they got closer.  The smoke trail had thickened dramatically, and Fang dropped lower to take them out of it.

“Look, Katara,” Sokka said, pointing.  “I think there’s something wrong down there.”

There were now three separate plumes of smoke where before there had been only one, and people roamed over the deck of the ship like a colony of disturbed turtle seals.  “He must have already freed himself,” she said, her spirits rising again.

As they watched, an explosion on one of the upper decks rocked the ship, and it began to list to one side.  

“Do you see him?” Sokka asked.

“No, not--wait, yes!  There!”  She pointed, but Fang’s eyes were apparently sharper than theirs.  He was already angling down towards the ship, losing altitude in an increasingly steep dive.  

A fireball soared past them, followed by another.  “They’ve seen us!” she said, unnecessarily.  Fang spun in the air, dodging the blasts.  Katara felt her stomach turn, and felt even more grateful for the saddle which kept them anchored to the dragon’s back.  The ship was coming closer at an alarming rate and the fireballs continued to fly past them, but Fang didn’t slow.

“Kataraaaa!” Sokka yelled, while Katara shouted at Fang.

The dragon pulled up at the last possible moment, sweeping soldiers from the deck of the ship with the undulation of his long, sinuous body.  Both Katara and Sokka panted, trying to recover their breath and their wits, when someone suddenly landed on the dragon’s head out of nowhere.  They screamed again, but it was only Zuko.

“Go!” he shouted, clinging to Fang’s scales.  “Get us out of here!”

Fang shot up into the sky, and they left the crippled Fire Navy ship behind.

[mc-dude]

The Silence Around Us (PG)

Something’s gotta give. Bull can’t. Dorian won’t.

Part 1 / 6(?)

He remembers the first time he’d seen a saarebas.

Eight years old, too old to cling to his Tama’s leg but too young to be outside the compound unescorted. She had a golden mask on her face, a collar around her neck, and a chain being led by her Arvaarad. Hunched shoulders under heavy metal pauldrons, a tired gait, and every few steps the Arvaarad would give her a sharp tug that made her stumble so hard he was sure she would fall. He remembers how small she seemed, just a head taller than himself, and already a saarebas; already serving the Qun. Something to be proud of, his Tama had said, voice firm but something he couldn’t name in her eyes– something sorrowful. She knows her place, Ashkaari. Maraas shokra, asit tal-eb.

Asit tal-eb, he had responded, automatic, dipping his head in deference. It made sense. The biggest honor one could be given is a place inside the Qun. To know one’s purpose. He would be given a purpose soon.

Privately, when he was alone with his thoughts and prying eyes, he hoped that it wouldn’t be as a saarebas.

The next time he’d seen one was on Seheron.

His unit had been called to evacuate the village. Got there too late. Ears ringing from gaatlok, blood in his eyes, and there they were– kneeling by his Avaarad. A bas this time. Elf, judging by the one ear he could see. The other was a bloody hole on the side of their head, half a mask on the ground by their feet. Their lips were sewn shut, the stitches tidy and neat. Bull had never seen one without their mask before. The Avaarad had bent down, whispered something in the bas saarebas’ ear, and they had stood, tears dripping down their face, raised their palm–

– and the fire engulfed them whole.

He failed his purpose, the Avaarad had said, later at camp while Hissrad’s hands still shook, the smell of cooking flesh still ripe in his nostrils. Ebasit kata.

He’d seen a lot of shit on Seheron, but something about the way that elf barely flinched before lighting himself on fire made his mind splinter, cracks beginning to form. It’s not right, he remembers thinking.

Nothing’s right, he emends years later, feet squelching through pools of blood calf-high, the body of the baker he’d bought bread from that morning dismembered so thoroughly he barely recognizes him. Like he exploded from the inside. ‘Vint magic.

Later when his unit found him, he shrugged them off and went straight to the re-educators.

*

It’s quiet.

Sera had given up on the usual chattering she does to fill up the silence and gone to sleep, Adaar following with one last worried glance to where Dorian is scowling at the fire, tearing pieces off of a stick and tossing them into the flames. There’s a smear of blood on the bottom of his robes, his staff charred and broken beside him, a scrap of plaideweave attempting to hold the two pieces together.

He’d chosen the spot furthest from Bull, directly opposite across the fire. The light turns Dorian’s skin a honey-coated bronze, makes the hazel of his eyes turn golden. It’s a good look, but he’s not in the mood for aesthetic appreciation. Doesn’t think Dorian is, either.

Said mage throws the last of the stick into the fire and glances up at him, opens his mouth– and then scowls even harder, reaching down for another stick. Bull considers what Dorian might need.

“You want a piece of paper?”

Dorian shoots him a look that would wither a lesser man. His eyes flick up towards Bull’s horns, and then back down at his feet, shoulders tense. He’s been doing that all day. Not hard to figure out what kind of thoughts he’s been having.

Eventually Dorian’s fingers clench in his leathers, and he finally pushes himself from the log and throws Bull one last suspicious look before slipping into his tent without a word.

That’s the problem.

It’d been all jokes at first; Dorian Pavus, a man with a complaint ready for every occasion, rendered mute by a ‘vint mage? Fucking hilarious. Sera had started a commentary on Dorian’s inner monologue that was pure poetry. Even Adaar had joined in at some point, after Dorian assured her with an elegant scrawl on Sera’s ingredient list that yes, it was reversible, an old spell, just requires some key ingredients he can get back at Skyhold. It’s rare to see her smile these days.

It’d been less funny later, when the second wave ambushed them. When Dorian, unable to call out for help, had taken the brunt of an axe clean through his staff and deep into his side. It took Adaar three lyrium potions to fix him back up. The suggestion to make camp was unanimous.

Even less funny when Bull had tried to pat Dorian’s arm in apology on the way back and Dorian had flinched away, marched off towards Sera and shot him a look that, to a guy who’s been reading people’s secrets from their faces his entire life, said every word he couldn’t speak. Suspicion. Anger, and not just at his earlier niggling.

Took him a moment to figure out why. Must be getting slow in his old age.

Bull lets out a long breath once Dorian’s tent flap settles. He lets his head fall down into his hands and rubs at the mess of scar tissue around his bum eye.

His Tama had taught him that everyone has their place. Anaan esaam Qun. That’s the truth. Those that don’t have a place must be given one. Also the truth.

Another thing that’s true: Dorian would be given two options under the Qun. Die, or serve.

Truth: if he died, it would be a fucking waste.

Another truth: if he didn’t, it would be even worse.

“Crap,” he mutters, thumb pressing into his eye patch until the nerves buried under dead skin start to burn.

Another thing that’s true, while he’s on a roll: Dorian doesn’t trust him.

A half-drunken proposal, some raunchy come-on for the lone ‘vint at the bar. A cutting response, as if he would let him. Come on, don’t you trust me? He had said blithely, leaning on his elbow with a wink.

Tell me, the Iron Bull, he had said, voice deathly quiet and furious. If, let’s say, for the sake of postulating, in the morning after our delightful affair you received a letter from one of your masters, and after you broke whatever ridiculous chain of ciphers to read it, it informed you that I had been given a new purpose, that in the name of the almighty Qun, I must be delivered to Par Vollen to be reeducated. What would you do, I wonder?

Bull had been deep enough in his drink that it had taken him a moment to respond. They wouldn’t order me to do that. You’re helping the Inquisition.

Dorian had pushed back from his seat with a noise of disgust. As I expected. Good evening. And then he was gone.

So, yeah. Dorian doesn't trust him. Knows Bull has his back in a fight, but won't let him get too close. Which.. annoys him, even though it shouldn't. He's not here to make friends.

The fire cracks, a shower of sparks flitting up into the night sky. He frowns.

It's not like Bull is going to throw him to the Avaarad at the first opportunity. Not his jurisdiction. He's here for info gathering, to assure the Qun that no, they don't have to invade Fereldan to deal with the hole in the sky. That's his job, and he does it well.

He leans his chin on his fist. Then again, he concedes, that info includes a dossier on one Dorian Pavus. Not just him, of course; he has one on the entire Inquisition, weaknesses and strengths carefully cataloged and filed away in locked chest only he knows the location of, unsent and waiting. Hell, he has twelve pages written on Adaar alone. Dorian's report barely fills a single page.

But Dorian's from Tevinter. A noble with powerful connections. A mage. That makes him interesting, in the eyes of the Ben Hassrath. Dangerous. Bull rubs at the inside of his knee, wincing at the stiffness.

What would you do, I wonder?

He thinks about it now, staring into the embers with Sera’s soft snores cushioning the oppressive silence.

What would he do, if the Avaarad got hold of Dorian?

The thought makes him nauseous. He presses his thumb against his eye socket again, jaw clenched tight.

He'd try to convince them of his worth to the Inquisition, first, because it's the truth. Dorian's discovered all kinds of terrible shit about the Venatori that's turned the tides of dozens of fights. They'd all be dead if it weren't for him and his research.

And if that failed?

Bull's fingers dig into his palm.

He'd let them take him. Because the alternative was forsaking the Qun, becoming Tal-Vashoth. That's something he can't risk.

His shoulders slump, breath he didn't realise he held forced from his lungs. The guilt hits him like a dragon tail to the gut.

Smart of Dorian, then, to keep away. Not like Bull's ever said anything against how the Qun deals with magic. Not fair for him to expect Dorian to be anything other than suspicious. He glances as the flap of Dorian's tent, stomach twisted into a knot.

He does his job well.

Somehow, the thought isn't quite as satisfying as it once was. Bull grabs a stick and nurses the fire, watching as the flames grow higher.

Dorian had done a trick a few weeks back. Surrounded a group of three templars with flame, and then sucked it inward until they were burnt to a crisp. Didn't even blink. Just waved, and the flames had gone out, as effortless as breathing. Nothing creepy about it, just a master craftsman at work. It left Bull feeling oddly adrift, and more than a little turned on.

He’s caught Dorian staring a few times, something considerate in his gaze, appreciative as he drags his eyes over the muscles of Bull's arms. He knows he's interested. But then he'll catch Bull's eye, remember who he's ogling, and his face will go carefully blank.

That's not even what disappoints him the most, though. If it was just about sex Bull wouldn't give a shit, just find some other person to fuck and get on with his life. But the thing is– he likes Dorian. He’s pretty sure they could be friends, if the Qun wasn't hanging between them like a double edged axe.

Dorian challenges him. Some of their arguments last weeks, put on pause when one of them’s away, and then picked right back up the second their within earshot of each other. Dorian’s got a big brain in that perfectly-shaped skull of his, and behind his carefully constructed veneer is a thoughtful, level-headed person. A surprisingly kind person, despite being raised in the upper echelons of Tevinter society. Bull’s pretty sure Dorian still doesn’t quite understand what trust is, but he’s getting there. He saw Sera throw a blanket over him back in Emprise and the mage only glanced suspiciously like, twice. Progress.

Bull blinks into the flames, shakes his head a little. The point is–

The point is: Dorian’s got layers. Bull likes a guy with layers. Keeps things interesting. But in all those layers, the thickest one is his self-respect. There’s not a shred of Southern thaumaturgical self-loathing in his pert body. He won’t ever apologise for who he is. Ergo, Dorian’s never going to trust him while he still follows the Qun. So there’s not a solution here.

Bull abandons the Qun, he dies. Either the Ben Hassrath kill him or the Inquisition does, after he loses his mind and turns on them all.

He shivers. Fuck.

No, he won't be going Tal-Vashoth. He's not going to be a liability, not going to hurt innocent people after he can't remember who he is. He's seen that shit before, and it's always fucking horrible.

Except, a voice from the back of his mind reminds him, Adaar is Vashoth. Adaar, with her nose deep in her pint, staring down at her gloved hand in resentment. I don't want to hurt people. Said she was a healer back in her merc group, picked up the trade growing up in Rivain. He's seen her cry over a man she just impaled with her staff. There’s something gentle in her that the world can’t quite seem to crush, no matter how hard it keeps trying.

She's Vashoth, Bull reminds himself, not Tal-Vashoth. She’s had nothing to rebel against. She's not the Tal-Vashoth who slaughter children, that torch villages. The kind that he's killed hundreds of, the kind that need to be put down like the vermin they are.

Because Qunari go mad without the Qun, he reminds himself again. He's seen it, seen the mad desperation in their eyes before he buried his axe in their neck. Seen the bloodlust in their attacks, heard their unhinged screams as they ambushed his unit in the jungle. He's seen the way they slaughtered innocent civilians, children. Something has to change in a Qunari born to the Qun who chooses to leave it, something deep inside them. It has to, it has to, because–

– because if it doesn't, then he–

The fire pops. Bull pushes to his feet despite the protests of his knee.

“Fuck,” he says once, just to break the stillness of the camp, and sets off to patrol the perimeter.

No time for thoughts like those. It is how it is. Asit tal-eb.

[nightslain]

TAGGED: @breselin ❤❤❤ TAGGING: @notte-la-lagna @lus-a-chalmain @bloodxsong @showxman

LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE.

NAME. Leon Belmont EYE COLOUR. Pale blue HAIR STYLE/COLOUR. Blonde and curled with a very soft, almost wispy texture despite its fullness, parted over to the right hand side and kept trimmed to nape length HEIGHT. 5′11″ CLOTHING STYLE. He has two distinctive modes of dress; the first is his knightly garb which most prominently features the blue and white surcoat he wears that is emblazoned with his coat of arms on its front (originally a dragon in the games, changed to the Belmont family crest in the anime.) The surcoat is held in place by a large brown belt, and he also wears a long white cloak over top. Beneath all this, he wears a brown aketon with buckles at the throat as well as his chain-mail. The  typical additions of armour that he wears include a breast and guard plate, pauldron, stop-rib, mail skirting, couters, greaves and sabatons. 

The other outfit he wears is arguably the more iconic of the two but is very different, only sharing another aketon and a breastplate in common with his former code of dress. He wears with these a sleeveless red and white garment with a large collar and long, split, flowing coat tails. This is fastened in place with two belts (sporting a chain and a hook for his whip) and is emblazoned with the design of a cross down the back. He also wears black pinstriped pants, knee high boots as well as what appears to be a type of poleyn on his right knee. The left leg only has a belt strapped at his thigh. One hand bears a glove that stretches to his elbow whereas the other wears a gauntlet of equal length and leaves his fingers bare. BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE. I’d definitely argue that it’s his bouncy, curly hair that draws the eye first.

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

YOUR FEARS. Though Leon is celebrated as fearless and clearly seems to prove it given the fact he charges head first into danger literally unarmed without a second thought, his fears are much more of the things he can’t always fight or control. Loss of his loved ones, what few he has, is a big one as well as failing to continue keeping the promise he made to Sara when she died.  YOUR GUILTY PLEASURE. Sentimental literature. While his reputation is one of undefeated ferocity on the battlefield, Leon is undeniably gentle at heart and has a penchant for romantic literature, especially poetry; the habit of reading and writing the latter especially is one he keeps rather to himself. YOUR BIGGEST PET PEEVE. Being demeaned or talked down to. He has experienced it multiple times being one of the youngest knights of his company despite eventually becoming  the most proficient of them all. He finds condescension and arrogance to be very unlikable traits in most people and strongly dislikes being spoken to like he is somehow beneath another person. YOUR AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE. Leon’s key ambition is arguably his defining trait as the patriarch of the Belmont family; and that is, but of course, to find and kill Dracula one day. Although he ultimately fails in this endeavour (for more reasons than one, especially given his relationship with Dracula), his legacy lives on in a very long line of vampire hunters who carry his work almost a millennia into the future.

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP . His duties, mostly. Whatever the verse, as soon as he wakes up, he’s beginning to think about the day ahead and what tasks need doing. THINK ABOUT MOST . The future, especially in his main-verse where such is currently very uncertain and his life has been completely ripped out from under him. He needs to start afresh and build the legacy he swore he would to Mathias, albeit still being so young and unsure of where to even begin crafting the Belmont family into a fearsome bloodline of vampire hunters. So definitely, the future plays on his mind a great deal with this huge responsibility he’s found himself with and agreed to undertake.  THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED . Mathias and Sara, mostly. When he isn’t thinking about his work or his future, he is constantly thinking of and missing those two, and his thoughts always take a turn for the sober when he prays and lays in bed before finding sleep.  WHAT THE BEST QUALITY IS . Debatable! It’s definitely a toss up between his bravery and his unshakeable compassion and purity for me. I constantly laugh at the fact he ran into a dangerous, monster infested forest to fight a vampire with nothing but a dagger and the intention to steal a dead man’s sword--but that to me definitely highlights the fact this man will walk backwards into Hell blindfolded if he has to, without even flinching. Which is quite admirable in its own right! But I do think I am most taken in by his gentle and compassionate personality, especially since it remains untainted by all the death he’s seen and experienced. He remains a humble, kind, loving man till the bitter end which is a purity I don’t often see in people that have been wronged and hurt so deeply as Leon has in his lifetime.

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

SINGLE OR GROUP DATES. Single (though that changes to group in a certain AU lmao) TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED. Loved BEAUTY OR BRAINS. Brains DOGS OR CATS. Dogs

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU…

LIE. No BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. Almost entirely. BELIEVE IN LOVE. All too much. WANT SOMEONE. Deeply.

LAYER SIX: EVER BEEN…

BEEN ON STAGE. Neither in the literal or the metaphorical DONE DRUGS. Medicinal ones, yes. CHANGED WHO YOU WERE TO FIT IN. Never.

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

FAVORITE COLOR. Red FAVORITE ANIMAL. Horses or falcons since he spent a lot of time working with them. FAVORITE MOVIE. It’s gonna blow his mind when he sees a movie for the first time in the modern AU you guys. FAVORITE GAME. Again, mindblown.

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

DAY YOUR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE. UNKNOWN. HOW OLD WILL YOU BE. 23 (at least in the present of his main verse) AGE YOU LOST YOUR VIRGINITY. He technically hasn’t. DOES AGE MATTER. For a partner, it does. For general company, not really.

LAYER NINE: IN A PERSON

BEST PERSONALITY . Leon very much enjoys intelligent and well-spoken, charismatic individuals.  Calm, worldly, knowledgeable types with a hint of ‘spice’ as it were that can still be energetic, engaging company and aren’t afraid to laugh, but share his love of enjoying the peace. Generosity and kindness never goes amiss in a person either.  BEST EYE COLOR . He likes bright, clear eyes like blues, greys and greens most of all. BEST HAIR COLOR . He absolutely likes darker hair colours on other people. He finds it very sleek and elegant looking. BEST THING TO DO WITH A PARTNER . Spending time in and of itself is precious, however its done. He could be equally as happy laying in bed at home with a partner as he could be doing something special or extravagant. One of his favourite things to do though is go on walks, especially at night when the stars are out. That, or drinking wine by the fire.

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I LOVE. Endlessly. I FEEL. Tremendously. I HIDE. Poorly. I MISS. Painfully. I WISH. Hungrily.

[wootensmith]

Arming

Abelas was pacing beside the dark eluvian when Solas arrived. “This is folly,” he barked. “So they’ve found one key. They will soon leave again. There is nothing left for them.” “Are you certain?” asked Solas. “A few ruins. Bare stones still leaning into one another. That is all.” “There is more in the Crossroads, even for the Qunari to stumble over. I cannot risk more power falling into their hands. And where they have mastered one eluvian, they will unlock more. They must not be allowed to wander the network. The way must be clear when we call our army home.” “Then why not send the forces you have? You are the only one who can undo all of this. Why are you risking yourself?” Solas fought a laugh. He had not shown them the true extent of his new power yet. He had not intended to. “I am more formidable than I appear,” was all he said, and lifted his hand to open the closed eluvian.

“We do not know how many Qunari have infiltrated the network.” “All the more reason to stop them.” Abelas sighed. “Even the strongest can be overwhelmed, Solas. Take some of us with you. Take me with you, at least.” “No. I am not unprepared for failure. The amulet is complete. If I do not return, it falls to you, Abelas, to employ it. The Veil will fall without me, and then the spell will be powerful enough.” “But the Inquisitor strengthens it—” Solas shook his head. “For a few months more. If I do not draw the power from the anchor again, she will die within the year. And the Veil will fall within five.” Abelas did not appear comforted. Solas took a step back from the mirror to face him. “You are a valued ally. If I intended to battle the Qunari, there are few others I would trust to lead our forces. But I would give them a chance to retreat and arriving in large numbers will push them to fight. There has been more than enough death. I wish to avoid more, even if I am no friend of the Qun.” “I have been out of the world for a long time. I do not know much of these Qunari, but what our people tell me is concerning. You truly think they will retreat?” “No. I do not,” said Solas. “But I must extend the offer, even so. It is— the fulfillment of a promise.” “Then— if you will not take aid, at least arm yourself.” Abelas tugged at Solas’s patched sleeve with a frown. “These people will not retreat before a lone elf in simple robes. If you wish to convince them to leave without bloodshed, you must make them believe you are capable of it.” He turned to one of the Sentinels waiting nearby and beckoned. The Sentinel bent to pick up a large chest that lay at her feet. “We searched for your old armor, but it has long been lost. And Vhemanen said when last she saw you, it was rent in many places beyond repair.” The Sentinel set the chest before him and opened the lid. “We have forged a new suit. One that will show your enemies that the Dread Wolf walks the world again,” she said, lifting the gleaming helm from inside. It was instantly recognizable, a stylized snarling wolf with long diamond vents in the conventional pattern of the Dread Wolf’s eyes. Solas doubted the Qunari would care, if they even understood it. He took the helm. It was a mask he had never wanted, but his people cared enough to shield him. He would not refuse it. “Thank you,” he said, twisting it in his hands, tracing the sturdy metal where it was etched into warding runes. It would have taken the smith weeks. “This is a mighty gift.” Abelas and the Sentinel knelt beside the chest to pull forth the gousset and the clawed sabatons. “I can—” started Solas, but Abelas shot him a warning glance. “We should be sure of the fit,” he said, lifting the gousset over Solas’s head. “Yes, thank you,” answered Solas, yielding. Someone took the helm and staff from him. The gousset rang slightly as it fell over him, a sudden weight. Someone tapped his foot and Solas lifted it, feeling the snug slide of the sabaton over his foot wrappings. The metal was cool and smooth on the inside. It was not the first time someone had insisted on arming him. Solas closed his eyes for a moment, submitting to the clang of metal and the shift of others moving around him.

What little time had remained after showing the Inquisitor what was coming, he had clung to. He’d never returned to his own bed. He’d tried to persuade himself that he was happy. That she was happy. Only enjoying the opportunity to be close. In truth, he had been terrified. The lie had caught up to him, robbed him of his peace, and he had lain awake beside her for long hours every night. She’d woken once, shifting and reaching in the dark, her hand a winking star that crept along the bedclothes until it found him leaning against the headboard. Her head had lifted from the pillow, following the hand, searching. “Solas, are you well?” she asked, still bleary. He caught her hand against his chest, hiding the light, hiding his face from her. “Yes, Vhenan,” he lied. She hadn’t believed him. “It’s almost dawn. What keeps you from sleep?” She sat up, her other hand traced his face, clumsy with sleep and darkness. “Only a bad dream. I am well, you should return to your rest.” He drew her fingers through his own even as he said it, needing the touch. “A bad dream? But it was you that showed me how to push them away. You’ve mastered the Fade, how can it be that dreams trouble you? Is it— is someone interfering?” “No. It is only my own worry that haunts me. No spirit. I find when I turn away from one disastrous thought, another crops up in its wake, a seemingly unending chain—” She folded around him. “All will be well,” she said, though he barely heard. The warmth of the sudden contact, the solid weight of her arms, her chest, the sharp press of her chin into his shoulder spoke far louder. “How?” he asked. “We’ll find a cure. Or pull the dwarves from their caverns and collapse the deep roads. Or— or figure out how Corypheus controls it and turn the method against the Blight. Drive it away. I’ll find a way. Don’t despair.” He was silent, having no answer for her. The solutions were unattainable. Fantasy. All of it was. She was. He pressed the thought away as unfair, unworthy. If she could have hope, wounded with his own magic, and so very mortal, then how much more ought he to have? “When I was young, just discovering my magic, I used to be too frightened to sleep,” she said tilting to whisper it into his ear. “I had a friend whose parents were city elves. They joined us when I was small. She was not pleased when I started my apprenticeship. She would tell me terrible stories of mages who lost their minds as they slept when she thought no one was listening. At last, I grew so exhausted that I tumbled from my mother’s aravel as we changed camps. I had fallen asleep sitting against the doorframe as we rolled along. After the entire caravan halted and a large fuss was made, I had to admit that I was scared of my dreams. The clan thought it a bad omen, but Deshanna took me into her own aravel and the caravan moved on again. She was quiet for many miles, cleaning the scrapes I’d gotten from the fall. At last, she said, ‘You are too old to be frightened of nightmares, da’len.’ I was ashamed and stayed silent. ‘The others are nervous. They worry that you will make yourself vulnerable to an unkind spirit,’ she told me. ‘I fear that too,’ I told her. ‘Do you know what a dream is?’ she asked me. ‘It is your mind practicing what your body failed. It is your will finding the path that you overlooked. If you allow it, your spirit will triumph in the battles that the waking world tells you are impossible. But you must go armed and shielded.’” She drew back to look at him, her marked hand glowing around his chin. “Will you allow me to arm you?”

The greaves were tightened around his calves, snapping carefully closed as Abelas buckled them. The cuisse next, heavier than it appeared. His fingers twitched in a mild cooling spell as the metal warmed.

“Yes,” he’d said, uncertain what to expect, but desperate enough for sleep that he did not care. She sat up, her hands moving and a slow trickle of whispered words rustled around him. Slow streams of light trailed from the windows and gathered at her fingertips. “The light of the moons to help you see clearly even in the deepest Fade. One for each eye,” she said and the pads of her fingers stroked lightly over each of his eyelids, the glow becoming a tingle beneath his skin. Her hands retreated and his eyes opened. The throb of powerful voices in song filled the room as she cast. The tune was ancient, older even than he, an echo of strength. He wondered where she had heard it. Was it something Deshanna had done? She pressed a palm to his chest and his pulse changed with a sudden wrench. It aligned with the tune, even as it faded from the air around him, thrumming, shaking his bones from within. It was a sudden jolt of energy, something he’d been long in need of. “The voice of our people,” she said, “that you may endure as long as they and their song push out any that would distract you or break your focus.”

The cuirass squeezed his torso. Abelas tugged on it, securing it and giving him space to breathe. Over it the leather straps of his cloak and the clink of the finely etched pauldrons sliding into place. “A moment more,” said Abelas. Solas tried to remain still.

There had been a spark, vibrant blue, overwhelming the faded green of the anchor. Veilfire collecting and swirling between them. It floated in a growing globe. And then another. And another. Until they appeared like a mass of stars upon the air. “A thousand times a thousand spells of protection. All my love to guard you,” she said, and it was his only warning. The veilfire slid across his skin in a thousand rune shapes, ward upon ward and he gasped as hundreds of memories flickered through him as they were completed, flickering out. A flurry of touches, hands and lips, of words, of smiles and spells and dancing whirled past him. At first he clutched at them, rocks in a flood of love. Memories he was desperate to keep. But it was too rapid and he feared missing any. He let go, plunging into a single bright moment of happiness. Of realizing how well he had loved her, of how much she loved him. It was over too quickly, when he wished for an eternity. But it left only a warm calm in its wake, a flush of reassurance and hope that he would have pushed away only minutes before. He surfaced, finding his hand wrapped around hers and her eyes still brightly reflecting the aqua runes that glimmered on his bare flesh.

He brought the gauntlet up to look as his fingers tested them. Small plates over flexible chain. They were well crafted for casting. Abelas held out the helm to him. He was severe. No more persuasion for Solas to stay. All that remained was a general arming his commander. Solas lifted the wolf’s face over his head. He felt as if he were looking out at the world from behind a bright and stifling cage. Even light breath huffed and growled through the vents as if he really were more beast than man. He raised a hand and muttered the spell to open the eluvian. “Fight well, if you must. And know that we will be there at a call,” said Abelas. “I will not be long,” said Solas, “see to the other mirrors. Do not let any pass here until I return. The Qunari have many spies.” “And if you do not return?” asked Abelas. “Then I know our people will be in your care. That gives me comfort. And it will fall to you to decide who may battle beside you. Do not fear for me. Elves are not the only creatures who guard the Crossroads. I will see you before the Dawn Lotus blooms.” He stepped through the eluvian before Abelas could protest.

“And every spare breath to sustain you wherever I cannot be,” she’d said, and pressed a kiss to his lips. No spell then, just her, and yet he thought he felt the sizzle of lightning pass from her and into him. And the scent of ozone lingered in his memory of the moment though he’d known there was no magic in it. “Are you ready, emma lath?” she murmured against his mouth. “For battle? Yes. But—” he laughed against her, his fingers gliding over the warm skin of her back, “I fear you have left me incapable of sleep for the moment.” She had pushed back, just for an instant. She’d held his face in her hands and stared at him. “It is hard not to doubt. Especially when the world seems indifferent to our fears. I seem— small to you. What can I do against an ocean of Blight that the Dread Wolf has not already tried? But a rashvine seed is no bigger than a speck of dust in the beginning, yet given time it will shatter a mountain. And there is time. I am growing. When you despair, let me hope for us both. You have named me Vhenan. As long as there is a heartbeat remaining, I will not falter.”

Nor will I, my love, he thought, emerging in the Crossroads.