#here for the girls who love him both protecting him from orlesians

[animezinglife]

Headcanon

Once everything's said and done and the Inquisitor and Cullen finally have some time to settle, their friends get them late wedding/housewarming gifts.

One is particularly amusing: a box from Leliana labeled, "Kindling."

Cullen is not allowed to use it as such until his wife has read every single one of the ridiculous Orlesian marriage inquiries/proposals it contains. On occasion, she finds a particularly good or forward one and reads it aloud, leaving him flustered and grumbling.

[ziskandra]

Meredith Stannard Character Analysis

[originally posted on twitter last month!] A question I often get is, ‘hey, why do you love Meredith so much,’ and I’ve done my best to answer that question here! Basically, I see Meredith as the type of person who will protect her own at all cost. And that's a goal which is very understandable and human at its core. Who can’t relate to that? Unfortunately for Meredith (and, y’know, everyone in Kirkwall), the working definitions of 'her own' and 'at all cost' shift and expand over time. Slowly in some dimensions, and far more rapidly in others.

So, let’s recap! From Meredith’s childhood through to the events of DA2.

In the beginning, she's a young girl who blames herself for the death of her family, believing she failed them through her inaction, haunted by the question of if she’d turned her sister into the templars, would they all still be alive? For Meredith, becoming a templar is both penance and promise. She finds purpose in her devotion to duty and is given the tools she needs to help prevent further tragedies. Given her experiences, it's unsurprising she develops a firm belief that the Circle is the only place mages can be safe, e.g., even if an apprentice nonetheless turns into an abomination, at least they're not running amok among the general population.

Not like her sister had. During this time, she develops a close bond with Ser Wentworth, the templar who rescued her from the smouldering ruins of her family home. Heck, Ser Wentworth considers her the daughter he didn't deserve (curiously instead of the daughter he never had, but that's a thought for another meta).

And tragically he’s just yet another person she couldn't save: she still visits him all the time, caring for him, until he loses his mind completely to long-term effects of lyrium usage, until he can't even remember who she is. And she cares for him! Until the very end! He’s all the family she has left; she can’t abandon him. What can she do? She's already Knight-Captain by now, appointed by Ser Wentworth himself. She's already on lyrium. It's notoriously hard to quit. She also considers it integral to her identity as a protector, as a templar. Ever since she took her vows, ever since she saw her beloved mentor deteriorate from lyrium sickness, Mereidth has accepted that she’ll also likely die a miserable death one day. (And, oh well, that’s what she deserves. So long as she can keep everyone save in the meantime.) And then several years later in 9:21, all the shit with Viscount Threnhold reaches its boiling point. Meredith's commanding officer gets fucking hanged in the middle of the night. At least there's something she can DO about that, unlike with every other person she's failed. (And Threnhold even lives to tell the tale for a couple more years! Alas, my thoughts on whether Perrin Threnhold was a tyrant and the complexities of Kirkwall's relationship with Orlais is again a topic for another time.) And then not only is Meredith now the new Knight-Commander, the templars have just proven that they are for all intents and purposes, the city's true military strength. So now Meredith more or less accepts responsibility of everyone in Kirkwall. So it's understandable she'd want to install a figurehead viscount that's under her control, given that there's been whispers of an impending Orlesian invasion (and that the last viscount was provoking them)! Understandably, Meredith would very much like to avoid this, so goodbye tariffs, hello peace, for a little while. (but... Kirkwall.) During this time, Meredith's settling into her new role and responsibilities, learning what sort of leader she wants to be. And by the Maker, she wants to be a proactive one. Everything she's loved and lost has been due to inaction, one way or another. This whole time, she's still haunted by the thought that her sister might be alive if they'd just sent her to the Circle, instead of fearing discovery by templars. Comparatively speaking, compared to what happened to her family, the Circle's not actually that bad. The mages support each other. They don't have to live in fear. Freedom is a small sacrifice to make for safety, right? Meredith can stop others from making the same mistakes. Mercy is a sign of weakness, and weakness is how people end up dead. Most importantly, there's nobody around to seriously question her convictions. By the time Orsino becomes First Enchanter in 9:28, Meredith has virtually been operating unchecked for seven years.

There's no incentive for Grand Cleric Elthina to pay particular attention to the daily functioning of the Gallows, not if nobody's complaining, and especially not when there's no threat of war or civil unrest looming on the horizon.

Things in Kirkwall are... okay! Orsino's singing like a canary in a coalmine, but everyone's too busy trying to survive the shithole that is Kirkwall to pay attention to the plight of mages. Then the Blight happens. There's a sudden influx of refugees. At least one of them is VERY passionate about mage rights. The Qunari get stranded. Things rapidly spiral out of Meredith's control, and she's not known for her ability to reliably delegate to others in times of need.

She's having enough trouble just with the Gallows and the tensions there that she can't really spare time to worry about... everything else. (She can offload that to Cullen, right?) Of course, we know how this ends. Viscount Dumar loses his head, and the only reason he was even there in the first place was because Meredith PUT HIM THERE. She doesn't want the responsibility of appointing another Viscount, for it to change nothing, just to fail them, too. Hawke's the only real candidate, and not only does Meredith not want to ask that of them, Seneschal Bran rightly advises that it would be a political maelstrom. So the status quo ticks along. Meredith's in way over her fucking head, and she'll take whatever help she can get. Even if it's red, glowing, and extremely fucking suspicious. She's tired. She's done. She wants to rest. She's sick of fucking up, of questioning her decisions. All she wants is some certainty.

🗡️❗️ Addenda:

1) I think it's difficult to separate the mage-templar conflict from the wider geopolitical situation in Thedas (esp the tensions between the Southern Chantry, Tevinter, and the Qunari).

2) Hopefully needless disclaimer, but I do not personally believe mages (nor anyone else!) deserve to be subjugated. One of the main things I love about this series is all the moving parts and politics. No matter how reprehensible I might find a character, I can understand why they are the way they are, and how their beliefs have shaped who they are. RL is never as clear-cut, and IRL actual, real living people are being hurt by bigotry and systems of oppression. I think fiction and storytelling have an important role in examining the interplay of power, in a way that is now widely accessible. 3) On a less serious note, Seneschal Bran Cavin Post mage-ending when his city's lost its Grand Cleric, Knight-Commander, First Enchanter, and Champion in one evening:

[lesetoilesfous]

caning, forced to watch for kanders?

Fuuuuuuuuck this one killed me and was also very fun to write, thank you for the prompt!

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: Caning, Forced to Watch

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Karl Thekla, Anders, Knight-Commander Greagoir

Warnings: Corporal Punishment, Child Abuse, Implied Sexual Abuse, Public Humiliation, Systematic Abuse, Graphic Depicition of Injury

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, there's some comfort here but I can never write a happy ending when they're still in the goddamn Circle, the Circles are awful.

Word Count: 3,759

It isn’t personal. Karl knows this isn’t about him. He knows, with a very specific kind of agony, that Greagoir has no idea that any of the apprentices currently gathering to sit on the shabby wooden seats assembled in a semi-circle in their dormitory would take this personally. He, like most of the templars in Kinloch, has long since fallen under the impression that no one in this blighted tower likes the young man tied with rough hemp rope to a wooden step ladder in the middle of the circle of chairs any more than they do. And Karl knows that isn’t true: not only because he loves the thin, bruised, frightened looking teenager trying to pull a brave face so much that he thinks he might risk tranquility just to get him out of here. He also knows it isn’t true because one of the six year olds looks like she’s about to burst into tears: the one Anders would climb into bed with and read stories to until she fell asleep without waking up to screaming nightmares. Karl knows it isn’t true because Angelique looks like she’s seriously considering giving up all the Orlesian courtesies she was governed in before she found her magic and setting Greagoir on fire. Karl knows it isn’t true, because little Surana looks like they’re contemplating blood magic.

But the templars have been good at understanding their wards.

A few of the apprentices, of course, giggle. There are red cheeks and flushed faces as elves and human children try to decide whether they’re supposed to avert their eyes. A wooden stepladder (borrowed from the tranquil’s storage closet, if Karl had to guess) is set up in the middle of about a hundred wooden chairs. One for every apprentice in this dormitory. Anders’ hands are tied to either side of the top of the ladder. The apprentices are giggling because his robes have been lifted and tucked into his belt, exposing his long, skinny legs (with a scattering of small round bruises in sets of five on his thighs that Karl doesn’t want to look at.) All of them are staring at the old grey smalls covering Anders’ arse, or trying to look away from them. So the teenagers are giggling, because they’ve never seen anything like this. The older kids and young adults look as if they’re about to attend a hanging. So do the younger apprentices. The pretty ones.

Anders’ jaw is tense, and he’s staring rigidly at the dull, grey, distant wall. Karl can tell how frightened he is because of how still he is. Anders is the kind of boy who never sits still: who’s always gesticulating when he speaks, or wriggling to sit in ever more improbable ways in his chair. Now, every part of him is motionless, his bound wrists frozen beneath fingers that are half curled over the old, paint-stained wood of the stepladder.

Knight-Commander Greagoir stands up, and the giggling stops like a head cut off by a meat cleaver. In the Knight-Commander’s hands is a long, thin wooden cane. Karl is having a hard time breathing.

He’d chosen not to sit at the front. He can’t decide if it was pragmatism or cowardice. He doesn’t want to watch this. He doesn’t want anyone to watch this. He doesn’t want it to be happening at all. But Karl knows that one of the few things worse than this is the templars finding out exactly how much he and Anders have begun to mean to each other: so much so that sometimes when they’re drawn together they flinch away on instinct, too frightened of what the scope of their feelings means for the remainder of their short lives in captivity. Karl can’t let any of the twenty or so templars in attendance, standing at regular intervals behind the gathered seats, know exactly how personally he’s about to take this. So he takes a seat in the middle of the crowd, and sits with his hands folded in his lap, and forces his gaze away from Anders and the purple bruise squashing his left eye shut.

“Apprentices.” Greagoir doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It carries anyway, bouncing against the high stone walls and through the wide empty space. Karl hates him. He hates that he’s doing this here, where they sleep. He hates that when he goes to bed, when he dresses, when he needs a piss, he’s going to have to walk over this patch of floor and remember this. He hates that the smaller kids are going to have to walk over the stone that appears again and again in their dreams and nightmares. He hates that this will likely not be the worst thing he sees done, here.

“It has come to my attention that some of you believe there are no consequences for your actions.” Greagoir punctuates his sentence by slapping the cane in his hand lightly against his metal gauntlet. Several of the apprentices flinch. Karl feels his own shiver ripple through his shoulders and tenses so hard it hurts. Anders’ mouth pinches shut, so tightly his lips bleed white. “You think that you live in a land of extremes: that my men and I will either do nothing, or kill you. I would like to disabuse you of this notion.” Greagoir steps forward, towards the innermost ring of chairs around the ladder, and the apprentices who’d been unhappily forced into those seats when they found all the others filled lean back so fast their chairs creak. Greagoir’s expression doesn’t change.

“It is not our job to kill you. It is our job to protect you. From outside forces, yes. From demons, yes. But also from yourselves. You are not safe in the outside world, and the outside world can never be safe from you. We keep you here for your own good. We clothe you, feed you, educate you. We provide you with more luxury than most peasants could imagine in a lifetime.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Karl sees Samael frowning. The boy had been brought in from a family of twe in Amaranthine. He was, by all accounts, a boy from a life of deep poverty. But he rarely agrees with the templars when they weaponise it against him.

Greagoir gets closer to Anders, and Karl’s mind fills with a vivid, sudden vision of climbing onto his chair and running forward, through the crowd of apprentices, tackling the Knight-Commander to the ground and punching him until his face is bloody. But he doesn’t do that.

“In return, we ask only that you behave yourselves.” Greagoir points at Anders, so suddenly and so violently that several of the apprentices flinch again. Anders, for his part, noisily puffs a strand of hair out his face, and Karl nearly wants to cry. Greagoir’s mouth tightens in a thin, sour smile. “Anders thinks that misbehaving makes him interesting. He thinks it makes him brave, or heroic. He thinks that we are terrible villains, and he is a noble mage, and that he can make fools of myself and my men. But this is not the case. Anders, like all of you, is a child.” Greagoir gestures with the cane, and a Dalish girl who still hasn’t told them her name flinches back so fast her chair tips backward.

“He is a naughty, stupid, little boy. Not only is he a naughty, stupid, little boy - he’s a dangerous naughty, stupid, little boy. Like all of you, like all mages. He needs to be protected from himself. So I want all of you to watch this, and I want all of you to know that this is what happens to naughty children. It is not brave. It is not interesting. It is not heroic. It is foolish, and painful, and humiliating. And I will beat as many of you as I need to, to protect you and all of Fereldan from the far greater danger of mages, like Anders, who will do anything to be 'free'.”

Satisfied, Greagoir steps back and raises the cane. Karl is squeezing the wooden sides of his chair so hard he imagines he can feel it splintering. Tears prickle hotly at the backs of his eyes. Greagoir's hand falls in a swift slash of air and lands with a crack on Anders’ arse. Anders huffs a breath, but doesn’t make a sound. The cane rises again. No one is laughing now. Out of the corners of his eyes, Karl can see the way that every apprentice has become tense and still. His vision distorts like thick glass in a fishbowl. The children around him feel both very close and very far away. He feels as if he’s so close to Greagoir and Anders that he could breathe and touch them.

On the third strike, Anders makes a soft sound of pain, a bitten off grunt that they wouldn’t have heard if it wasn’t for the deathly silence that has fallen over every child in the eastern dormitory. On the fifth strike, Anders yelps - a sound so high and loud it’s almost like an animal. Karl forces himself to look at his face, then, and sees that it’s washed a furious, burning red, all the way to the tips of his ears. And Karl hates it and hates the Circle and hates Greagoir, for turning the gentle, intimate pinkness of Anders’ blush into something humiliating and awful. Karl can feel his magic roiling somewhere between his mind and the Fade like a building wave. Around him, he can feel the tension of the other apprentices' magic, too, as they try to control their fear and anger and embarrassment. It prickles over his skin like static electricity, pulling at the back of his neck.

When Greagoir strikes Anders a seventh time, Anders starts to cry. It’s a terrible, soft, huffing sound dragged from between his lips like a pulled tooth. Greagoir pants, his own cheeks beginning to flush red with exertion, and hits Anders three more times in quick succession. Anders writhes against the stepladder, and Karl notices for the first time that his ankles are tied to the base, too, with the same rough thick hemp rope, which has already begun to rub his skin red and raw. Karl drags his eyes up Anders’ bare, bruised legs and swallows hot, sour bile in the back of his throat when he notices the lines of red that are beginning to spot through the fabric of Anders’ smalls.

Greagoir hits Anders a tenth time, and Anders keens, tossing his head, his nose running, snot mixing with a mess of tears on his red cheeks. Anders' legs and arms are shaking, now, and every time Greagoir hits him he cries out, trying to flinch away from the blow. The stepladder shakes, creaking with the force of Anders’ struggling against the ropes. One of the younger children, Matthias, starts to wail. One row behind him, Karl can sees Angelique crying, silently, her face a mask of polite neutrality.

Greagoir gives Anders fifteen strikes, and by the time he’s done blood is running in droplets down his legs like a monthly bleed. Anders hangs his head, hair falling forward mercifully to cover his face, and shakes, sobbing against the ladder. Greagoir holds the cane between his hands, the wood red with Anders’ blood. “Let this be a lesson to you all.”

Then he turns, and leaves. All of the apprentices remain frozen in their chairs, unsure of whether they can move. But one of the templars - Drass, steps forward and unties Anders brusquely from the ladder. Anders slumps, crumpling to the ground and making a soft sound of pain when he lands on his arse. Drass looks up at the assembled crowd, looping the ropes neatly around his gauntlets. “I’ll need a volunteer to take this ladder back to Owain, and another to take him to the clinic.”

Angelique gets to her feet. “I’ll take the ladder. Karl, do you mind taking him to the clinic?”

Karl nearly passes out with relief. As it is, he makes a mental note to ask Anders to kiss Angelique for him, later, and stumbles forward on numb, clumsy feet to where the love of his life is curled up, bleeding on the floor. Because he couldn’t volunteer, couldn’t find the neutrality to say anything without giving himself away. But Angelique had done it for him. Karl crouches, and gently slips his hands under Anders’ arms, lifting him easily (too easily, it’s always too easy to lift him, a boy this tall shouldn’t be this light.) Anders blinks up at him, eyes red and puffy, lip bitten through, swelling and bloody for it, hair clinging haphazardly to his cheeks and chin.

“Thekla?”

Karl wants to hold him. He wants to hold him, and kiss him, and tell him nothing like this is ever going to happen again. But he can feel Drass’ eyes on him, so doesn’t do any of those things. He waits until Anders drags his feet under him, and slings his arm over his shoulders, and tugs his robes loose of his belt to cover his legs with a wave of relief so strong it nearly incapacitates him. Anders shudders as he’s fully clothed again, and Karl wants to stop, and apologise, but instead he gently tugs him towards the door. Anders limps with every step.

*

Wynne doesn’t heal him. She explains, curtly, that she’d been instructed by Greagoir not to erase a painful lesson with magical healing. Karl had explained, loudly, that Anders could hardly learn the lesson if he died of infection or blood loss. At that, Wynne had given him a pot of ointment and gauze and told him to leave. Karl had, face burning with the force of anger. Anders hadn’t said anything throughout, which was making Karl’s hurt do worried somersaults. Slowly, limping, they’d walked back downstairs towards one of the apprentice bathrooms. Hadley was on duty, at least, and gave them both an apologetic, embarrassed smile, averting his gaze to the side of the bathtub as Karl helped Anders undress and get inside. Anders had said nothing throughout, his brown eyes unfocused and his breathing shallow.

He’d only come back into himself when Karl had picked up a rag with one arm under Anders’ almost concave belly to support him, Anders’ ribs sticking sharply into his forearm. Karl had stared at the series of haphazard, angular weals and welts cut into Anders skin in deep, angry purple and red lines. His skin was more bruise than anything else, painted yellow and green, covered in dried lines of blood. Karl had suddenly found that he couldn’t move, kneeling beside the iron bathtub, rag in hand. That was when Anders had come back, hand squeezing his forearm. Karl had looked up, and realised that his chin and the stubble that kept growing there no matter how often he shaved, was damp with tears. Anders hadn’t touched his face - couldn’t, with Hadley watching, no matter how nice he was. His eyes were hollow and dark with anger and a terrible, wounded sort of fear. But his long fingers had dug deeply into Karl’s forearm, squeezing it hard.

“It’s alright.”

Karl nods. He doesn’t say, it’s not alright. He doesn’t say, it’s never going to be alright. Instead, he dips his hand in the bathwater, coaxing heat into it with his magic, and gently begins dabbing at the dried blood. Anders’ breath hitches every time he touches the cuts, and by the time Karl’s finished the water’s pink and Anders is crying almost silently in soft, coughing hiccoughs. Hadley’s mouth is turned down in an unhappy frown, but he stands ramrod straight against the wall in front of the bathtubs, watching them. Gently, Karl helps Anders get out of the bathtub, drying him off and helping him get dressed before walking him back towards his bunk bed.

Jowan is gone - probably off trailing after Surana like a lost puppy. Karl doesn’t really care, he’s just grateful there isn’t someone immediately above them to watch as helps Anders lie on his front. The apprentices in the beds nearby skitter away from them like frightened sparrows as soon as they get close, and Karl can’t find the energy to apologise to them for it. Anders’ bed smells like soap and old rags and ink, and his pillow is stained with decades of other apprentices. He lies down on the thin mattress, and Karl kneels on the stone beside the bed, gesturing to the robes over Anders’ legs.

“I need to put on the ointment.” He says, and wishes he was better with words.

Anders huffs, turning to look at him with one brown eye that’s almost yellow in the shadow of the bunk bed. “You don’t need to ask. It’s not as if everyone hasn’t seen it, anyway.”

Karl freezes, breath hitching in his throat. “Anders -”

Anders buries his head in his arms, and his voice is muffled when he speaks. “Just do it.”

Karl’s stomach flips. But he gently lifts the robe above Anders’ legs and pulls down his smalls, his mind loud with uncomfortable recollections of more precious moments - like the first time he’d undressed him, like this, and the way they’d both blushed, and the sound of Anders’ sighs when...Karl swallows, and his fingers touch the scattering of bruises dug into Anders’ thighs. He doesn’t say anything, though he looks up at the back of Anders’ head and the tangled hair there. Anders doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything, so Karl grimaces and unscrews the lid of the ointment. The salve inside is thick and white and sticky. It smells bitter and astringent, and when Karl dips his fingers inside it tingles against his skin like peppermint. He pauses, pulling the blanket in a tent over Anders’ arse and legs in an awkward attempt at preserving his dignity.

“This might hurt a bit.”

Anders grunts, fingers crushing the thin pillow beneath his head, face still buried in his arms. “I’ll live.”

Karl nods, and gently begins to dab the ointment against the deeper cuts. Some of them are so deep that the skin around them is peeling back, pulling them wider open. The ointment fills the deep red wounds, shiny against the purple and blackening skin. Occasionally, Anders flinches, and every time he does Karl stops until Anders nods, quietly murmuring, “Ok”, with a hoarse voice. When he’s done, Karl feels like he’s run a marathon, wiping his fingers clean with a rag and pulling Anders’ smalls back up and his robes down over his legs before covering him with the blanket.

The mage lights in the dormitory are darkening, heralding curfew, and a queue of some twenty or so apprentices is waiting outside the western bathrooms. Everyone is paired up. You learned quickly not to bathe on your own, no matter how nice the templar in the bathing area was. Karl knew Anders, at least, had learned that the hard away. The dormitory is full of apprentices yawning and talking quietly - a few sitting up beside candles squinting at their parchment as they try to finish their homework. But the dormitory is also strangely hushed, utterly devoid of the occasional laughter that usually peppered the evenings as everyone came back from classes. No one has forgotten Greagoir’s lesson, yet, and Karl doubts they will for a while.

He knows he only has twenty minutes or so before the apprentices in the beds around Anders’ get back from bathing. He doesn’t care. He adjusts himself on the floor, and leans as close to Anders as he dares - watching the templars that line the distant walls like living statues, or gargoyles. “I want to kill him.”

Anders startles, sitting up with a wince and looking around at the templars himself before staring at Karl with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “You can’t say that!”

Karl meets Anders’ eyes, and lets him see all the anger he’s been trying to keep hidden. “I would. I’d do it in a second. I don’t care if they make me tranquil. Send me to Aeonar, even.” Karl lifts his chin, and tries to ignore the shivering fear in his chest as he says the words. “I’d do it.”

On the bed above him, Anders' pinched, narrow features soften. “I’d never forgive you.”

Karl blinks, and isn’t sure why that makes him want to cry, suddenly. “How d’you think I feel?”

Anders slumps, pursing his lips as his brows draw up, glancing furtively to either side before moving his hand under his blankets to squeeze Karl’s fingers at the edge of the mattress. Karl shifts closer, moving so his body is hiding their joined hands. “M’sorry. Must have been shit, to watch that.”

Karl chokes. “It must have been shit to experience.”

Anders’ fingers tighten reflexively around his, and he’s quiet for a moment. “I can’t imagine, watching them do that to you. I think I’d have set this whole blighted place on fire.”

“I wanted to.” Karl admits, leaning heavily against the thin wooden frame of Anders’ bed. There’s all sorts of graffiti on it - mostly templars and mages in ever more crude positions. And initials. Something in Tevene, Nolite te bastardes carbonodorum. Karl swipes his thumb over the back of Anders’ hand, stroking it softly. “I can stay here, tonight, if you want me to.”

Anders’ mouth trembles. “No, you can’t.”

Karl swallows against the thick lump in his throat, watching the queue of apprentices dwindle by the bathing area. One of the templars at the other end of the dormitory has already begun bedtime checks - lifting open apprentice’s clothing crates for perfunctory searches and ushering students still working to bed. “I want to.”

Anders’ expression softens, and his fingers flex in Karl’s hand. “I know.” He glances at the templars - still forty feet away - and leans forward to press a quick, clumsy kiss to Karl’s temple, before letting go of his hand like he’s been burned. “Go to bed, Thekla. I’ll be fine.”

For several seconds, Karl sits there, skin burning where Anders had kissed him, hand numb with the ghost of him. Anders gives him a small, shy smile and Karl returns it despite the way his heart is trying to tear itself into pieces. He gets up, and stretches his cramped legs, and starts walking the long way back to his bed in the middle of the dormitory. He doesn’t say anything.

The words sit heavily on his tongue, anyway, unspoken. No, you won’t.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

For the OTP ask: 8, 9, 16, 53, and 91 (for this one, it could just be a song you have for them, too) :D

*rubs palms together and giggles* Oooo, I'm loving these questions! I get to show how much of a nerd am I for these two nerds! >:3

8. Who tends to worry the most?

I was going to answer this with 'both equally', but the more I think, the more I realize that Solas is the one who worries the most. XD

I mean, come on. We all know Solas is a natural worry wart. It's in the man's blood, and Fane has a tendency to make his dear wolf's blood pressure rise to fatal heights with the shit he does. PFFT!

Fane is a literal battering ram when it comes to battles (this is based on how I've specced him in-game), and he just charges in without caring if he'll get sliced, diced, or scorched. Fane's illness with magic makes it incredibly difficult for Solas to erect barriers on him, so he has to devise other ways to keep Fane in one piece (nitpicking about his armor, constantly asking, 'Are you certain you are ready?', and begging, 'Please control yourself this time, ma'isenatha.') All of that worry comes from the fact that Solas has seen Fane die, has had to guide him to it, even. Fane doesn't mean to brush off that concern and worry, but when he's embroiled in battle he...loses his senses a bit. Dragons aren't meant to fight, and fighting is what Fane does best in his new life, so he has a hard time balancing bloodlust with merciful restraint.

If Fane gets injured (which he does, but only grazes and the occasional gash), Solas won't let anyone else attend to him, fear gripping his mind, memories of blood soaked crystal and decaying scales cracking his mask and rendering him tortured. When Fane sees that, instead of just seeing the nagging, he'll go docile, go remorseful and will say, 'I'm sorry, my sky. I never meant to-- I only--hn.' Once they talk and wind down though, things get right back on track, but Solas is constantly worrying over his dragon--constantly.

Solas worries about everything with Fane--his scars, his nightmares, his battle with his identity--but battle is where he's the least reserved in it. He doesn't want Fane to have to fight, but he knows they both don't have a choice in the matter.

9. Who is more inclined to be jealous or possessive?

Dragons--naturally possessive, i.e. hoards.

Wolves--naturally protective of those within their pack, i.e. touch member of pack, you get snapped at or even bitten.

Fane and Solas are both highly protective of one another. They just go about it in different ways. Fane's more likely to snap and glower at an infringing form, making it known where they can take their 'affections'. Solas is more reserved, but most can attest that his gaze leaves them shivering and near stone with how cold it is if Fane is randomly touched by an unwanted suitor or harassed by a fawning noble. Obviously, Fane and Solas try to keep the respective beasts at bay, worried the other will think less of them for such childish behavior, but sometimes--sometimes--it's extremely hard to keep a polite mask in place due to memories of harshness and filth.

For example!

---

"You're...jealous?", Fane asked, blinking and attempting to piece together what he was feeling now. And he couldn’t. “Of who?”

Solas' eyes fell shut with a rueful chuckle. "Most here. Is that hard to believe? It is petty, I know, but eyes have been upon you since your entrance; each pair a set of daggers. You carried yourself with confidence, with pride, and every single noble within the ballroom responded to your very presence. They whispered, they sought, they undressed." The final word a mixture between a hiss and a growl that was accompanied by a small sneer of disdain before it all relaxed. "My heart knows where your own lies, my dragon, but my mind, too, is being a thorn in my side."

Fane stared down at Solas, shocked and...mesmerized. His sky had been jealous of the looks of fops and prisses? Those who had no chance of ever reaching through to his heart? To his emotions? Those who played with lives as a puppeteer did with strings?

This was...oddly amusing, but only because they were both fools.

Here they were, in the lion’s den, hunting an assassin that threatened to topple an empire, seeking answers to questions they didn’t even know yet, playing a game of macabre chess and deciding who would rise and who would fall, and they were both jealous from nattering nobles who killed for sport or an inconsequential servant girl that would be forgotten in the morn. The ridiculousness nearly made Fane cackle. Was this what court intrigue encompassed? He didn’t see the appeal.

Fane huffed out amusedly. "I love you.", he said, point blank with no room to be denied. “Ar lath ma, ma tarasyl.”, he repeated in Elvhen, lifting a hand to rub at his face and shook his head in disbelief at himself.

Solas’ eyes snapped open at his declaration, a blush stretching across his face and was apparent even in the shadows that embraced them. That swath of delicate pink nearly had Fane cracking, breathing out a steadying sigh through his nose instead. Damn anything that was holy, if poison didn’t kill him, this endearing, foolish elf would. How could he be so blind when responses like that reaffirmed where his sky’s heart lay?

“Sorry, it’s just..”, Fane started before letting out a tiny laugh, massaging his cheekbones in slow circles. “You looked so ashamed by how you felt, even though I just said I felt the same way. If anything, I should feel ashamed because I’m jealous of someone far more innocent than these Orlesian pricks.”

Solas tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “May I know who you were jealous of?”, he inquired.

Fane let out an airy laugh, kneading his brow with two fingers. “The servant girl that just left not even five minutes ago.”, he admitted, face growing hot with shame and embarrassment. He was such a fool. A pathetic, blind fool.

“The servant--?”, Solas began before letting out a quiet, breathless laugh of his own. “Ma’isenatha, you are aware that we are at court, at the heart of Orlais, yes? Appearing gentile and cordial is but a step in a very specific dance. My reactions to her were equal parts genuine and fluid, and I felt nothing beyond that.”

Fane huffed, letting his hand fall to his side. “I know, but it’s like you said, just the sight of another making reaches for someone you fought for, someone you adore and respect is infuriating. I just got you back and to have it taken away again is--”, he tried to explain, lifting his hand back up to rub at his face again. “Fenhedis lasa. A fucking smile sent my mind spiraling. Ridiculous..”

---

Halamshiral was fun! :D

16. Do they enjoy dancing?

Fane is the guy who stands in a dark corner at parties, and glares at everyone who tries to get too close, soooo...no. PFFFT!

However, if it were just he and Solas in their quarters, a light of levity possessing them, then he might be willing to let the other teach him steps that weren't able to be done by massive claws. The Winter Palace is the one time Fane takes the initiative and actively offers Solas his hand for a dance--all grace and poise unlike that of a dragon.

...The finery didn't fall fast enough that night for Solas. *is SLAPPED*

And I like to think Solas secretly yearns for such simple pleasures as a waltz or ginger circle, swaying to the music, time seeming endless once more. He misses what was before, and maybe just a tiny step can make him feel a little less lost. :3

53. Who is the better dancer?

Solas. 100%.

Fane is graceful in battle, able to shift his weight and glide with the flow of blood and chaos. But the more delicate arts--that of dancing? Yeah, no. My boy's prone to step on someone's toes and curse for them because 'A dragon? Dancing at court? Void take me..' Vivienne and Josephine had to let Solas teach Fane how to dance because he was so against the idea that he would lock himself in their quarters and refuse to entertain the two women. Solas has a hard time, but with Leliana's help, they manage to get Fane to see he does have a certain knack for the finer things. *winks*

Honestly, Solas is shocked at the Winter Palace when he sees Fane dancing with the Duchess because...he moved as if from memory, and not the one's of stumbling, cursing, and heavy sighing as legs tripped up and toes were stomped on.

Fane moved like an Evanuris--those attuned to the ancient courts with a charming smile in place to match. *sips my tea* Exquisite~

91. What is their song?

So, if I do like the implications that 'Once We Were' gives, and Solas and Fane like more gentle songs like that.

But me, personally? I adore 'Red Like Roses' from RWBY for these two. It just hits a lot of key points for me about them, but I seriously have to get a playlist together since so many songs make me thing of these two. 'Bad Habits' by Ed Sheeran is one that makes me think of them, too. Mainly Fane, but some parts fit for them together. *urge to compose a playlist intensifies*

Thank you so much for the ask, my friend! These were a lot of fun ones! But then again, all of them are! X3

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Beautiful War

-dragonswithjetpacks

Chapter Six: Appealing to Val Reous

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Read here on Ao3

The sun was just setting behind the city of Val Royeaux when they caught its glory at the top of a small hill. Agreeing that approaching the gate at dawn would be a better idea, the group made a small camp while enjoying the view. Orlais was particularly green this time of year. The ladies in the city would be wearing pastels and flowers. Not to mention, showing as much of their breasts as they possibly could get away with. It made Claira smile. She was never found of fashion. But the springtime cakes they made were always so delightful. Though their smell was more satisfying than the taste.

"You've been quiet," Varric implied as they rest.

"I'm always quiet," Claira disagreed.

"It's been an unsettling type of quiet."

"I didn't realize there were different types of quiet," she shaved off a piece of meat roasting over their fire.

"You keep looking at the city. And heaving that big sigh of yours."

"I'm finding it odd that you watch me enough to notice I have a particular sigh," she chuckled to herself before she took a bite of her meal.

"People who are easy to read are always fun to watch."

"I'm not that fun to watch," she said between bites.

"Normally you aren't," he propped his elbow atop his knee. "But you got this particular look growing on your face the closer we get to the city."

"Because I never thought I'd be going back to Orlais," she shrugged. "Let alone Val Royeaux."

"You've been to Val Royeaux before?" Cassandra was suddenly interested.

"My mother is Orlesian, so we visited on a few occasions. But I've lived in Val Royeaux. Twice in what I might consider my adulthood."

"Ah, yes, Lady Helena was from a smaller lesser known nobility," the Seeker recalled.

Claira had not spoken of her mother in so long that it was almost off-putting to hear her name. They had not made contact in some time. And the most recent letter she received was about Jordan's missing persons. There were never any pleasantries with Helena; it was always demanding and berating. The woman needed complete control.

"She hates coming here," Claira added. "I'd like to think it is because it reminds her of how fake she truly is."

"Then it must bring you bad memories," Cassandra empathized.

"Quite the opposite," Claira smiled, looking out longingly to the city. "Orlais was the beginning of my freedom."

"Do go on," Solas joined the fire at last. "I'm sure we've all been waiting for a glimpse of your youth."

"You've been locked up pretty tight, Herald," Varric agreed. "I think it's your turn for storytime."

Claira turned back to her party, all of them watching and waiting with bright eyes. It was the first time she was able to share any sort of personal information regarding herself. On the other hand, she had gotten to know them quite well, even considered them friends. Indeed, being back in Orlais brought up memories, both good and bad. As a child, she never had a chance to speak without being shut down. And as an adult, she realized that she had shut herself down as a defense. But here, in a place that had sparked her new beginning with the people she had learned to trust, she felt safe.

"I was sent to a girl's school when I was young. Around the age of fifteen."

"That late?" Cassandra seemed surprised. "And so far away?"

"I was not a compliant child," Claira laughed. "I had many house mistresses that found me unreasonable. Eventually, I was sent to Starkhaven. But the headmistress stated she couldn't help, either. Even as my wild side was gradually tamed, I was still clumsy, homely, and awkward. It didn't matter how polite or intelligent I was... I was considered a lost cause."

"How absurd," Solas appeared disgusted.

"I was sent to Orlais in hopes I would return a lady. But because of my age, the teachers were harder on me. It was almost torture. Most of them were cruel. But they allowed me to study in peace if it meant not having to deal with me. And the books in Orlais were incredible. I could have been a scholar with all the time I spent in that library."

"Why didn't they just transfer you?" Cassandra inquired.

"My mother was spending a good amount of my father's fortune making sure I didn't come back home until I was guaranteed a husband. I think eventually their goal was to find a nobleman not necessarily suitable for me, but willing to settle. I was never interested in marriage, though. I was set on becoming a warrior at a young age. So I left the school."

"By left, you mean snuck out?" Varric questioned.

"Snuck out would be putting it lightly," Claira laughed. "I planned for weeks to get out of that place. And when I did, I ran until I couldn't see the city anymore. I found a place to lay low. And that's when I met my mentor."

The party was quiet, listening to the campfire crack as she paused.

"Most have just assumed I was a typical Trevelyan Free Marcher. But I was never part of that life or the Chantry. I was never even given the option to become a Sister. Looking back, that's probably what I should have done when I left the school. Instead, I left with a strange man who told me I could achieve my dreams of becoming a warrior. It was stupid of me to trust him. But I'm glad I did. I trained under him for many years while traveling. He brought me back to Val Royeaux to the Academie in hopes I could be knighted, allowing me to live a life I had truly wanted."

"I should have known," Cassandra shook her head. "I imagined with the reputation of the Trevelyans that you were just a natural fighter. But there's no mistaking your stance is Orlesian. I always meant to ask."

"So that means all those nobles from Orlais that come by speaking their language and talking with that snooty tone... you can understand them?" Varric asked.

"Oui," Claira smirked. "Chaque mot. Every single word."

Varric let out a loud burst of laughter.

"This would have been useful information," Cassandra was still in shock.

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise," she shook her head. "Besides, if Josephine knew, she'd have me speak to the nobles more often."

"Isn't she giving you lessons?" Cassandra pressed.

Again, Varric rolled over in a fit of laughter as Claira half shrugged, half nodded. Solas remained silent, although very much enjoying the conversation in itself. And no one stopped Claria from speaking about her adventures in Orlais from that point. They only interrupted her to ask questions, much to her liking. It was the first time she had spoken about it to anyone, not that it was a secret. The more she told of her rebellious childhood and the harsh ways of her mother, the more she realized how much mental abuse she had been through. She couldn't imagine being that cruel to anyone.

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

The gates into Val Royeaux were surprisingly empty. Claira remembered merchants and travelers flooded the archway into the city. Peddlers and pickpockets loved the area, as many people stopped to linger there to admire the stone masonry. Now, only a few people were scattered through the walkway. Claira was not the only one who noticed the lack of others.

"The city still mourns," Cassandra observed.

A couple who had been speaking quietly amongst each other passed by them innocently. However, once they caught sight of Claira, their jaws dropped and their eyes widened behind their mask. They took off in a slight run toward the open gate without daring to glance back.

"Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are," Varric jested.

"Your skills of observation never fail to impress me Varric," she retorted.

"My Lady Herald!" a scout greeted them from the city.

"You’re one of Leliana’s people. What have you found?" Cassandra questioned without hesitation.

"The Chantry mothers await you, but… so do a great many templars."

"There are templars here?"

Claira felt her chest grow tight. The intention was to meet with the Chantry, not the templars. They would have eventually attempted an audience with them, but this was too soon. She was unprepared. They continued walking through the entrance as they were informed of the current situation.

"People seem to think the templars will protect them from…" he faltered."...from the Inquisition. They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you," the scout continued.

"They wish to protect the people? From us?" the Seeker was still confused.

"We expected this," Claira stated.

"From the Chantry, yes. But I didn't expect the templars to make an appearance."

"The people may just be assuming what the tempalrs will do. I've heard of no concrete plans," the scout confirmed.

"Do you think the Order’s returned to the fold, maybe? To deal with us upstarts?" Varric added his sense to things.

"I know Lord Seeker Lucius," Cassandra explained. "I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s defense, not after all that’s occurred."

"We’re doing all this to get help with the breach. Maybe this is our chance to get the templars on our side," Claira attempted to remain optimistic.

"Perhaps..." Cassandra wasn't convinced. "Return to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed."

"As you say, my lady," he placed a fist over his chest and trotted off to exit the gates.

As they progressed through the walkway, a group of guards began to observe them. They were not quiet about their conversation and there were hints of the Inquisition harboring murderers. It appeared the city was relying on the templars to protect them from their heresy the Chantry was spreading any misinformation they could. It was horrible timing, she had to admit. And it was going to be difficult to proposition both sides while they were standing next to each other. It wouldn't be as simple as uniting under one cause. This was going to be a political battle.

"Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!"

Mother Hevara, one of the Chantry members who was supposed to be greeting the Inquisition shouted on a stage in the center of the market as they approached. Standing next to her were two other sisters. And in front, a wall of templar guards. Many of the citizens had gathered before her. Claira recognized a trap when she saw one. Even if it had no teeth.

"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more! Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed," the sister preached.

The crowd of people parted as they passed. The plan was to antagonize The Herald to the point of attack. With as many people surrounded her to witness the savagery, the trial would be quick. But Claira was smarter than that. It was almost insulting how stupid they assumed she would be. If they wanted to cause a scene, she would most certainly give them one. Claira was aware of how Orlais truly operated.

"We came to you in peace, only to talk," she spoke loudly, but calmly. "But this is what you choose instead? I implore you: Let us sit down together, to deal with the real threat!"

She turned to the common people who were too intimidated to move, looking many of them in the eyes. They gazed upon her as if she were a mythical being of wonder. It was a mixture of both awe and fear. Claira seized that moment and bolstered her voice.

"Do you know everything the Maker commands? Look up in the sky! I alone survived the Breach ... and I can end it!"

"And this is how you gain favor with Orlesians... with who can put on a bigger show..." Varric muttered under his breath.

"It appears to be working," Solas whispered back.

"It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!" the Seeker added, looking to the templars for a reaction.

"It is already too late!" Mother Hevara pointed to the templars who were now taking the stage. "The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this Inquisition and the people will be safe once more!"

Claira was not prepared for her next act. However, the scene was ended abruptly when a templar approached Mother Hevara. It appeared as though he was going to escort her off stage. Though, she was quite wrong. Instead, he struck the Chantry Mother across the face, sending her to the hard stage floor. She cried out, but no one moved to help her. A templar hesitated, only to be held back as Lord Seeker Lucius entered the stage.

"Still yourself. She is beneath us."

The templar looked unsure but still did nothing. Claira moved forward, but Cassandra quickly grabbed her by the arm. Something seemed very wrong, but there was not enough time to act upon it. There was not enough information to pick a side.

"What's the meaning of this?" she questioned instead.

"Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own," he looked down on her.

"So you're here to deal with the Inquisition?"

"As if there were any reason to."

His ambiguity made Claira's skin boil. Cassandra tightened her grip.

"Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak with-"

"You will not address me," he interrupted his fellow Seeker.

He motioned to the templars and they began to shift as he walked away. Cassandra was taken aback. Her grip loosened on Claira's arm. They exchanged glances at one another, both suddenly very concerned. It was a far reach, but Claira began to hope this was some sort of play they stumbled into.

"Lord Seeker?" Cassandra was still confused.

Lucius stopped, clearly agitated. Looking into his dull eyes made his presence even more heavy and dark. This was not the man her cousins had described, nor the reasonable person Cassandra claimed him to be. Months ago, when Claira was traveling to the Temple with her cousins, she remembered hearing them discuss the discontinuing of the Nevarran Accords. Lucius inherited the role and ideas of his predecessor, but it was commonly accepted that he was more than willing to compromise.

"Creating a heretical movement, raising a puppet as Andraste’s prophet," he finally confronted them. "You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine."

The words were far more dangerous than any threat he could have given. Lucius was now a tyrannical man with a lust for power. He wanted recognition, for whatever reason. Which was fine on its own. However, he wanted to destroy his adversaries so that he may rise from their downfall. The Chantry, the mages, the Inquisition; they were all beneath him.

"If you’re not here to help the Chantry, then you just came to make speeches?" Claira retaliated.

"I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh," his voice lowered, making it all the more unsettling.

"You openly refuse the Herald?"

"You have nothing. No influence, no power, and certainly no holy purpose."

His assumptions burned at her like a hot iron. It left marks that made her clench her fists in rage. There was nothing she could do. She could say no more. She could not lash out. She could not even move without risking her good nature. This was not how she intended their meeting to be. She felt like a child once again being beaten by her mother. She felt helpless.

"But Lord Seeker…" the hesitant templar spoke ."What if she was truly sent by the Maker? What if—?"

A higher-ranked office stepped between the templar and the Lord Seeker. "You are called to a higher purpose! Do not question!"

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," Lucius drew attention from the crowd. "We deserve recognition. Independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing."

The Lord Seeker made a point to look fiercely at Claira as if it would weaken her soul. Something was reaching for her behind that stare. But it was not enough to break her. It only added more fuel to her flame. She prayed there would be a time they would cross paths again without any spectators.

"Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

The market was still, all but the sound of clanking armor as the templars left Val Royeaux. It wasn't just the Inquisition left stunned, it was quite literally everyone who had witnessed the horrifying affair. As the sound of their marching fainted, whispers began to rise from the people.

"Charming fellow, isn’t he," Varric was the first to break their silence.

"Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?" Cassandra almost shouted in frustration.

"I thought you knew the Lord Seeker?" Claira turned to her, almost angry at the information she had been fed.

"He took over the Seekers of Truth nearly a year ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to grandstanding. This is very bizarre."

"It doesn't look like he can be reasoned with."

"There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become."

"We can investigate once we return to Haven," Claira assured. "We still have the matter of the Chantry."

Mother Hevara was nearly forgotten. After the templars openly denounced the Chantry in front of everyone, no one bothered to help her off the stage. They only stared, whispering to one another and spreading the rumors even further. But now that Claira was able to get to her without being barred, she was at her side. The Sisters stepped back, still feeling threatened by the Inquisition. Despite the vile glare the Mother gave her, Claira assisted her onto her feet with gentle hands.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Hardly," the Mother replied roughly. "This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra."

"We came here seeking only to speak with The Mothers. This is not our doing, but yours," Cassandra replied.

"And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not delude yourself," the Mother's fight had returned. "Now, we have been shown up by our own templars in front of everyone. And my fellow clerics have scattered into the wind, along with their convictions."

"I understand the hardships the Chantry has faced," Claira spoke. "But you'll find no pity here."

"Just..." the Mother sighed. "Tell me one thing: Do you truly believe you are the Maker's Chosen?"

"Whether by the Maker himself or by fate, yes, I believe I was chosen."

"I suppose it is out of our hands, now. We shall see what the Maker plans in the days to come."

"Take care, Mother Hevara," Claira gave a slight nod.

The Mother nodded back, only out of common courtesy. Claira could feel her death stare watching her back as she left the stage. She made her way through the market, Cassandra and others following close behind.

"Well, at least we've been able to calm one side of the three-headed beast," Claira sighed.

"For now," Cassandra replied. "The other clerics are another matter. Either way, we should return to Haven and inform the others."

Claira opened her mouth in response, but the familiar sound of a blade cutting through the air caught her attention. he held her hand out just in time as a whistling sound brushed by her ear. An arrow from a balcony above shot straight into a small spot where the dirt was showing through the stone. There was a letter tied to it with a single red ribbon. It looked like one of the ribbons used for the Inquisition's missives. The party looked upward but saw no one.

"Not just yet," Claira grinned. "It looks like there are others to appeal to in Val Reouyx."

[pinayelf]

Cullen’s Revised Redemption - my take

This was previously an undetectable read more but decided to update it and also make it (more) public since people have asked for it. This is very wordy, so grab a bag of chips or something lmao.

Disclaimer and Request (PLEASE READ)

I am putting this above the read more because I need people to see it before they do anything with this post. The reason I had the first version of this basically invisible is I’m genuinely not here for people yelling and fighting in the notes so that being said:

I wrote out the first one so I had something to link to people in the case someone asks me why I’m romancing him with an elven mage

This is a hot button issue and I know people have feelings varying from either extreme sides or in the middle so

If you vehemently hate Cullen and find him irredeemable that is fine and valid, but please do not come onto this post and reply why. To be frank, you won’t make me dislike him considering I hated him initially

If you think his redemption is perfect that is fine and valid, but please do not come yelling at me for this post.

Let us agree to disagree NOW.

I love Cullen. If the URL wasn’t obvious I’m saying it now. But I am also allowed to feel that his redemption wasn’t fully realized and lackluster and wish it didn’t happen off-screen. 

I believe Cullen does want to change. Failing and slipping at first is realistic. What didn’t work is that it wasn’t fully realized. If you disagree that is fine.

Cullen’s PTSD is a reason for the things he did. It is a reason NOT an excuse. Mental illness is not an excuse to do bad things. You can say that while acknowledging his trauma. Said by a person who also suffers from mental illness

“Ellie why do you care so much about a white dude, he doesn’t deserve your time and energy!!!” - because he is a comfort character of mine, he is fictional so I have the ability to make him safer for me and for my OCs and I think that’s more than fair

This is NOT the only right way to write a fix-it for him you can 100% write your own, this is just mine and an example of one

Now...let’s go!

This is meant to have been a longfic, but I can never finish anything I write so you’ll get a condensed version. This is for my worldstate where Imryll (my main Cullenmance) is the Inquisitor, but I also use this same redemption in all my timelines, just tweaked a bit for whoever the characters are.

DAI starts and Cullen has just stopped taking lyrium. He wants to change, , he is full of regret and ready for it but is obviously harder than he anticipated. Especially since the Herald, Imryll, wants to ally with the mages. He and Imryll do not get along, Imryll doesn’t trust him and they have had a couple of public fights. 

Imryll allies with the mages. Cullen is worried abominations might occur. The ones from Kirkwall see Cullen and refuse to interact with him. Some hate him and look at him with disdain. He’s made an announcement saying he no longer operates under the Templar Order and denounces what Meredith did. But they still don’t trust him.

He is frustrated by this and Leliana calls out the fact that he still doesn’t trust them because he believes they’ll turn into abominations, so why should they trust him? Cullen says he’s seen it happen, like in Kinloch, especially if they’re exposed to power. Leliana points out how the same thing happened to Meredith. Cullen snaps out of his frustration, admitting he knows he’s wrong but it’s hard to accept it. Leliana tells him he must accept he is wrong if he wants to really change.

(Note: In my canon Leliana becomes his support for this rather than Cass. I love Cass but she is too static in her beliefs and will just enable or stunt Cullen from growth. They are still close friends but it’s Leliana who he confides in with about this - they both have the same faith but Leliana is more open-minded and will help him grow)

The Templars and the Mages clash at Haven and Imryll demands Cullen to do something about it. Cullen is hesitant and doesn’t do much, he doesn’t want to believe his comrades are acting this way. This sours his relationship with Imryll and the mages.

(This idea is taken from a text post that I can no longer find :c) One of the mages give birth and the others are overjoyed and crying. They need supplies and Cullen offers to help but they all refuse to speak to him until he arrives back with Josephine. Cullen wonders why they are celebrating and crying and Leliana says that most mages never stay with their family because they are separated. Another realization hits Cullen.

Cullen joins Cassandra in looking for rogue Templars and when they encounter the group, Cullen attempts to reason with them but they don’t relent. He sees his old self in the leader and realizes what he sounded like. After dealing with the Templars he and Cassandra see a group of young refugee mages starving and hiding in a small cave. They quiver in fear when they notice his Templar gauntlets and refuse to come to Haven despite them being in near-death from starvation. Luckily, Varric is there and convinces them to come. 

The encounter dawns on Cullen what the Templar Order truly looks like to mages. This haunts him. It is the same fear he had for years after Kinloch - the difference is, the order protected him but no one truly protected the mages. He finally accepts that the order he once romanticized so much is corrupt.

The next time he sees that his Templars are the ones who start the altercations. He does something about it - but at the same time angering his lieutenant. 

During the fall of Haven, the Red Templars show Cullen anyone is apt for corruption, seeing the people he once trusted become the army for a magister breaks his heart. He witnesses the mage recruits give their lives for the Inquisition. He watches Imryll sacrifice herself for the sake of the Inquisition. When have the Templars ever done this? He’s never witnessed this. He must make amends. He must. 

Upon arriving at Skyhold he requests to be judged by the mages and Fiona - the ones from Kirkwall especially. He tells them it’s time he answered for his inaction and the things he enabled. Surprised, Imryll calls Fiona to form a council of mages to judge him. 

Cullen prepares for whatever sentence they are to give him. All the while after owning up to what happened in Kirkwall, the Inquisition loses some support, including soldiers who leave due to their disillusionment in him. The day of trial comes and to Cullen’s surprise they sentence him with reparations. He is to do the Inquisition mages’ bidding and to work with Fiona along with his Inquisition duties.

Besides the loss of support, many begin to look at Cullen differently and turn cold towards him, like some staff and people who have joined the Inquisition. He helps build a mage tower and joins Fiona in doing small missions  to help the refugee mages. While some mages warm up to him, some don’t and while hard he accepts they never will.

One day a missive arrives at Skyhold stating that mages from Starkhaven are taken hostage by Red Templars for a hefty ransom. Josephine insists they pay the ransom and plans to take a loan out from an Antivan bank - however Cullen sees the situation as time sensitive. He is afraid that if they wait too long, the Red Templars will kill the mages. Josephine, and Leliana surprisingly argue against this, seeing it too risky. But Cullen has a terrible gut feeling, and after finding the location of the abandoned keep they are located in, he takes some of his troops who are willing, and mages who are looking to save their brethren.

The raid goes all right, and the troops manage to retrieve the hostages without any casualties, however at the last minute, one of the templars set off hidden explosives that begin to set the the keep ablaze. As it falls into ruin, Cullen makes sure everyone makes it to safety. But then he sees a young mage girl trapped under rubble, and in spite of his lieutenant demanding he leave her, he doesn’t. He runs to her rescue and seemingly dies as the castle crushes both of them.

The troops return to Skyhold with the news that Commander Cullen has died in the rescue. Shocked, the remaining advisors and Imryll set off to find a new Commander.

Surprisingly, Cullen and the young mage girl, who introduces herself as Lyra, survives. Lyra mustered up her remaining strength to put a barrier around them as the castle fell. Cullen and Lyra then set to Skyhold in order to get her to safety. Cullen does everything in his power to make sure she is safe, and shocks everyone at their return. 

After this event, Imryll begins to warm up to Cullen. They form a friendship as Imryll often spends late nights at the mage tower doing research. Cullen initially stayed there to make sure nothing happened to Imryll (as she was not very popular with his troops or certain Orlesians). Despite them being from separate worlds they find they have a lot in common. 

When asked how he feels about the Dalish, Cullen tells her that in the Circle, elves were not treated differently and it does not matter who you are. Imryll tells him it’s a very blind way to view discrimination, as despite her existence not revolving on her being a Dalish elf, her being a Dalish elf is how people will always view her. Cullen finally understands when he accompanies her to Val Royeaux to deal with Josephine’s assassination contract and he sees how Orlesians treated Imryll in spite of her title. He speaks to her about it, and apologizes, saying he will never understand how it feels, but he will make sure she and the other elven members of the Inquisition feels safe. 

And all the while, Cullen begins to see what protecting those who need it is truly like. 

Cullen opens up to Imryll about his withdrawals. She tells him she supports him not taking lyrium again and encourages him not to. While suffering from a terrible spell, Imryll uses a healing spell to alleviate his headache and it triggers a memory from Kinloch. He freaks out at Imryll, who he scares off. He and Imryll don’t speak for a few days until he goes up to her and explains what happened. Imryll then says that if they are to be good friends they must always remain transparent with each other and learn boundaries and communicate well. Cullen agrees.

Cullen quitting lyrium inspires some of his troops to leave the order and quit lyrium. To be able to cope and deal with it, Cullen asks if they can have a rehab clinic in Skyhold. Imryll agrees.

As Cullen’s friendship with Imryll deepens he realizes he’s falling in love with her. Unsure what to do and already assuming she will never feel the same way he tries to shove the feelings aside despite Imryll showing signs of reciprocating. 

As time goes, Imryll’s relationship with Cullen’s lieutenant worsens because of the decisions she makes as the Inquisitor. The Lieutenant and Imryll get into a fight when Imryll allows the mages to make their own separate army group, as the lieutenant feels it will make them corrupt with power. He calls Imryll slurs and tells her that she has no right being a leader because of who she is. Cullen publicly calls him out, to which the lieutenant responds he is only doing because he wants something from Imryll. Cullen tells him he is doing it because it’s the right thing to do, and that the lieutenant should not speak or Imryll or any elf or mage in the way again. When he refuses to apologize, Cullen kicks him out of the Inquisition. 

Meanwhile, Imryll struggles with learning how to be a Knight-Enchanter. She questions her self worth and her bravery. Cullen comforts her, telling her she is the best person he knows. He tells her she is brave because of how she still continues to fight and to lead the Inquisition, not in spite of who she is, but because of who she is. He offers his support.

During the Shrine of Dumat, Cullen is hurt badly after attempting to keep a Red Templar Shade from Dorian. He refuses care, saying the others need it more. Imryll insists he does and asks if she can use a healing spell to alleviate the pain of his bruised chest. He lets her. Amidst this, they share a kiss and cements their romantic relationship.

Cullen and Imryll’s romantic relationship flourish and for the first time in his life, Cullen feels he’s found someone he can have a healthy love with. He also finds he has friends - real friends, which he hasn’t had in a long time.

During Samson’s capture - memories flash back and threatens Cullen to slip. This makes him realize that his say on the matter is biased and lets Imryll and the others choose what to do with him. (Imryll conscripts him but doesn’t have Cullen handle him, she has another recovering ex-Templar work with him and spend time in the rehab they’ve built in Skyhold).

When Imryll chooses Leliana as the Divine, Cullen shocks his former colleagues when he says he approves of the choice.

After Corypheus’ defeat the idea of the rehab clinics begin to spread and open up in other places - which begins to open conversation about how the Chantry exploits their own Templars.

Following the events of Trespasser, Imryll disbands the Inquisition. With land Cullen inherited from his parents he and Imryll build another rehab clinic as well as a place for former Circle mages to find a home in, and learn how to live lives outside the Circle (this post is Cullen-centric so I’m not gonna write a long thing about it but in my canon Divine Leliana and Vivienne find a middle ground and build centers/schools where abandoned and former Circle Mages can find a home in and learn, without them being prisons)

And scene! If you reached this end thank you for reading all that. A lot of the later stuff is mainly skipped over because this focused more on how Cullen changes - the repercussions from his actions and how he actively shows the changes.

[senseandaccountability]

Fic: I have outlived the night

The prompt from @heyitsharding was “Somewhere in that library of the past”, a quote from Borges. And preferably Loghain. Title borrowed from another poem by Borges. Angst and characters and a couple of quotes from The Stolen Throne borrowed from Bioware. Ages are… estimations, I guess. Don’t come at me with numbers. And I think we’ve established by now that I emphatically do not write drabbles. If you can’t stand to read fic on tumblr, it’s also here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971537

History is a broken circle:

1.

He’s a child, then a young man, and they hide from the usurpers on the throne.

Safely tucked in between the lush trees, Loghain’s father teaches him to fight and parry, to ride and hunt. They’re outlaws but they’re not outlaws; he explains the distinction thoroughly, tirelessly.

“You do right by the people who depend on you,” he says. “There is no excuse for a man who doesn’t.” —

He’s sixty-five and hides in a deserted hovel in a town marked by the Blight and even more so by a ruler’s mistakes and betrayal of his own people.

The irony is not lost on him.

2.

He’s nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and love burns in his chest; Rowan doesn’t want it and he has no use for it so he doesn’t understand why it doesn’t go away. It seems entirely unreasonable for his body to betray him in this fashion.

And then, suddenly, she’s in his arms and he _melts _into her in a way that is anything but dignified but he cannot find it in himself to care. Her hair is a fire around them and his hands gentler than he has ever willed them to be before; when she kisses him, finally, it tastes of salt and iron. It’s broken, whatever it is that they have; it’s more than enough.

Between the desperate charges and daring strategies he feels in every duel, every narrowly won victory, that one of them will die young.

He always assumes it will be him. —

“She asked for you.” Maric’s voice is ice inside the summer warm castle. It cuts through the room that separates them. “On her deathbed. I told her you were right beside her. She… lost her eyesight towards the end.”

His voice breaks something beneath Loghain’s breastbone. He curls his hands into fists where he stands by the window in this castle of ghosts. Rowan, bold and commanding, forever a breach between them and he knew it would be this way, knew it would never cease to be this way despite Gwaren and Celia and the endless string of days and duties that has followed. Rowan, lionhearted and daring, moves around them and he wonders how many times he must lose her.

“I’m-” he says but this grief that does not belong to him is beyond words.

There’s a faint sound of Cailan and Anora playing in the garden, their child-hearts sturdier, lighter. Or perhaps they simply scar in more subtle ways.

“Come,” Maric says eventually. “I’ll show you where she rests.” —

Celia dies slowly, a pain stretched out so thin over months and months that it hollows her out.

He’s not there for all of it, useless in the face of a battle that is not his to fight.

He’s not there for most of it, cannot bear the thought of her capable body and ferocious will being tempered by sickness, her loved features marked by fate; for as long as he lives he will never forgive himself for this particular weakness. He even tells her as much.

“Oh Loghain,” Celia murmurs when he sits by her side. “You never forgive anyone for anything. But you will have to forgive me for taking my leave now, I’m afraid.”

He’s there in the end and then there’s another grave that he never visits. —

He’s fifty-one and the funeral feast they hold for Maric cuts a hole in him, bleeds him dry.

It’s the last straw, he thinks, mercifully unaware of the endless losses that will soon follow.

3.

He’s nineteen and there are thirty men answering to him where he prances around in full disguise in order to be mistaken for a prince. To be mistaken for a commander though he’s still just a commoner and though he knows the only reason anyone listens to him in the first place is because he’s tall and broad-shouldered, stern like his father before him. Erratic and stupid as far as qualifications go, but it’s what he has.

He charges the tiny army up towards a patch of land they stand a chance of defending and they win, they do. After the next attempt, however, he carries two dead knights back to their camp and the blood never really comes away from the ridiculous shirt Maric has let him borrow.

“We’ll burn it,” he states, despising his own voice and how it shakes.

— He’s fifty-five and there are thousands upon thousands of soldiers in his ranks.

Staring at the attacking horde, keeping his mind clear and his hands steady, he sacrifices a few hundred of them as he walks away from the Blight. He knows their names, their villages; he liberated their nation so they could be born free and flock around the Hero of River Dane.

He rides back to Denerim in silence, denying everyone the right to even look at him.

“You heard the teyrn,” Ser Cauthrien snaps, a horse’s length behind him, an ugly echo. “Do as he commands.”

4.

He’s five and sees his father’s face through the gaps between the narrow planks in the barn where the Orlesian soldiers have stormed in, shouting at each other in a language Loghain does not understand. But he understands terror and he understands _hide, darling, hide and keep really quiet _and even if he does not see his mother’s face he can hear her breathing. Quick, pained, muffled - then nothing.

Nothing as he crawls up to her later, when the joyless laughter and strange grunting has subsided.

Nothing as he sees the blood between her legs, the strange angle of her neck. He’s almost a grown man before he fully grasps what they had done, truly done  to her and it makes him throw up in a bush, makes his first fumbling attempts with a girl clouded by fear of accidentally doing the same, fear of invisible lines being crossed and a bright, giggling voice in his ear I won’t break, big fellow, do you want me to beg? —

He’s fifty-five, has lived so many wars that he’s lost count and Arl Howe stands in the middle of Loghain’s office, folding his hands over his stomach.

“Highever is taken care of, my lord.”

Loghain looks into the goblet of spiced wine, pressing back the flurry of regrets and doubts.

“My men were thorough, my lord. They are dead. All but the oldest son - Fergus - though the Blight will certainly take him and we killed his heir, at any rate.” A quick, sly smile. “And made the wife spread her legs.”

The goblet trashes against the stone wall once Howe is gone, leaving a terrible noise in its wake.

5.

He’s twenty-two and it rains in the little village north of the Wilds where he encounters Mother Ailis again. The war is over, has moved from the battlefields into the ones who were there, conducting it. He breathes war, dreams it. When he turns, he expects to see attacking forces; around every corner there’s a corpse.

Despite the rain she takes him by the hand and leads him to the place where she put all the bodies to rest, the garden of outlaws that she had known that no one would acknowledge once the fighting had subsided, the souls she has guarded ever since.

“Here is your father’s grave,” she says, softly, pressing his hand between her own. “He was so brave.”

And Loghain cries.

“Forgive me,” he says, mumbles the awkward confessions against the soaked chantry robes as Mother Ailis takes him in her arms and holds him like the small child he feels like he never could be. “Maker, forgive me.”

For all that he has done, for all that he has yet to do.

“There is nothing to forgive, Loghain,” she says but they both know that isn’t true. —

“I yield,” he tells Bryce Cousland’s daughter, kneeling before her with his sword flat on the floor, his neck bared in defeat.

He’s fifty-six and it’s not forgiveness he’s asking but close enough, the closest he will ever be to it now.

6.

He’s eighteen and his father sends him away to protect the rebel prince who has put them all in danger but seems to have won the loyalty of Gareth of Oswin within seconds all the same.

“Don’t ask me to just leave you,” he protests, a dread so thick he cannot breathe through it is filling his entire body. He sees his father’s face through the narrow planks of the barn again, sees him return home that afternoon, drenched in Orlesian blood, telling Loghain they need to run. “I won’t do it.”

��That’s exactly what you will do,” his father replies and in that dreadful, shivering moment Loghain can feel his entire future unravel.

“Do your best,” his father says because that’s what his father always says, the only oath he will hold his son to. —

He’s fifty-seven with darkspawn blood in his veins and on his way to Orlais.

“Do your best,” Elissa tells him in Amaranthine.

Loghain nods, like he once nodded to his father. “Of course.”

7.

He’s eighteen and defiant, his fist in Maric’s face, the loss of his father raw and painful in his throat, twisting his voice into thorns.

“You can’t knight me to make me throw my life away for you,” he spits.

He’s wrong about that; he’s wrong about so many things. —

He’s older than he thought he’d ever be and the wars are still raging inside his bones. Other people’s wars for other people’s reasons though he has stopped to think of them as such, borders so easily dissolved in the face of old gods and holes in the fabric of the sky. Humbled at long last, perhaps. It’s about time.

In a recovered Keep in the middle of the desert, he sits wedged in between the odd agents of an Inquisition he has little reason to question, though even less reason to fully grasp the scope of.

The Fereldan Commander looks at him with the gravitas of someone with a purpose to his glances and Loghain searches his memory. He remembers most lieutenants, would like to think the same goes for the soldiers though time hasn’t sharpened every sense and the details of his years of command have indeed begun to blur. He wasn’t at Ostagar, at least, that particular event has bone-hard contours at the back of his mind.

“You helped Uldric overthrow the Circle at Kinloch Hold,” the man says, finally, when they’re alone under the stars. “I served there.”

“I see,” Loghain says, because suddenly he does. “Yes, that was - unfortunate. Though it was never my intention to cause a…”

“Bloodbath?” The commander sounds grim, but there’s a softer edge to his tone, a grim sort of humour pushing through. “I wondered why you did it, back then. Now - now I have an army allied with rebel mages.”

In the distance Loghain spots the Inquisitor, a battle-scarred noble carrying an exquisite longbow and a bravery that is laced with doubt. He feels the same kind of certainty around her as he once did at the Landsmeet, though he has no desire to delve deeper into that tonight.

“Do you think she’s the Herald of Andraste then?” he asks the commander instead.

“I don’t know,” comes the reply, then a hesitant, poignant: “I don’t care. She’s the heart of this order nonetheless.”

The commander clears his throat.

”I see,” Loghain says again.

8.

He’s five, he’s eighteen, nineteen, twenty, forty-six and fifty-five, he’s fifty-six, fifty-seven and ready to die.

Instead, he lives. —

He’s sixty-five, he’s ancient, and the nightmares of the Fade taunts him, without much success.

You destroy everything you touch, it says, as though his greatest fear would be the truths spelled out in plain sight.

“Welcome to the club,” Hawke laughs harshly beside him. “We hold meetings in Kirkwall every fortnight.”

“_I _should be invited after this,” the Inquisitor grunts, firing a burning arrow into the partly corporeal body of a rage demon.

They fight their own despair, they fight the Fade itself until the inevitable end.

“Fight well,” he says, glancing sideways into the monstrous being that blocks their only escape and he’s a young man again, looking into his father’s grim determination. “You won’t die while I draw breath.”

And raising his sword one last time he thinks of Anora, thinks of Ferelden, thinks of the oath his father made him swear. Do your best.

Perhaps he has, at long last.

History is a broken circle but the Fade snaps shut around him with a soft, liberated gasp.

[allisondraste]

Temperance 32/42

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    Liss makes an important decision. 

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Highever, 9:27 Dragon

Dear Nate,

Every year I tell myself that this will be the last year I write to you, but here I am writing another hopeless letter, wondering if you’ll even read it, wondering if you even care.  I’ve started to question whether you ever cared. This is not how friends treat one another... unless they’re imaginary, of course.

Andraste’s arse.  Nate, are you imaginary?  No, no. My imaginary friends still write to me.

Kidding.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be utterly shocked to know that I miss you.  I thought I would stop eventually, but no such luck. The pain dulls each year, but I don’t think it will ever go away completely.  I pray that you are well, and far happier than I am, out on your glorious adventure. I’m envious of you, and I’m envious of those who get to be near you.  

I know I shouldn’t feel that way, that I should be angry and resentful that you’re ignoring me, but that’s not me.  The day I stop caring about you is the day I die. I just wish that weren’t such a lonely thing to feel.

Have a good year, Nate.

Love,

Liss

Liss dropped her quill, and lifted the parchment from her desk, biting her bottom lip as she reread the letter.  More and more tears welled in her eyes with each word, grasp on the page tightening, fingers crumpling the edges.  She debated wadding in up entirely and tossing it into the fireplace. Why not? It would save Nate the trouble of doing it himself. Then again, she was stubbornly devoted to not giving up on him.

Taking a deep breath, she sat the parchment down and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.  Suddenly a chill rushed up her spine as a presence appeared behind her, hot breath on her neck, hands on her arms, a trail of soft kisses from her shoulder to her ear.  

“It’s too early,” whispered a low voice, “Come back to bed.”

She couldn’t remember his name, some second son of some minor lord from some small town in the bannorn,  but he nipped at her ear again, and she bit back the urge to slap him. She’d been a little drunk—and more than a little sad— the night before, and he happened to be visiting Highever, willing and eager to distract and entertain the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Ferelden. Liss had learned that most people were, a fact of which she had taken complete, unapologetic advantage.

“Give me a moment,” she said, painting on a smile and turning around to look at the frustratingly nameless man.  Why couldn’t she have had the decency to remember it? Even without the lens of intoxication that so often made people attractive, he was beautiful.  So much so, that he should have been carved in marble and used as decoration in the home of some posh Orlesian widow. He was tall and fair, with dusty brown curls and green eyes that were perfectly symmetrical, and should definitely be painted on the cover of some risqué book like those Mother kept hidden around the castle, pretending she was discreet.  Liss should have been thrilled at his tender attention, and yet in the dim rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains, he wasn’t who she wanted him to be.

The marble statue man lingered behind her, very obviously attempting to read what she was writing. “A letter?”

“No,” Liss teased, “It’s a shopping list.”

“A shopping list that says ‘Dear Nate’ at the top?” He tilted his head and smiled at her good-naturedly.  Thank the Maker this one actually seemed nice.

Pulling the parchment in toward her chest to protect it from the nosey man Liss asked, “Do you make a habit of reading people’s postage?”

“Just when it is keeping a beautiful woman from lying beside me.” He ran his hand along the side of her face, wiping away a stray tear she’d been unable to dry herself. “And causing her to cry so early in the morning.”

“You noticed.”

“I am an observant man, my lady.”

Relaxing, Liss eased the letter down from her chest and sat it on the desk. “Don’t ever fall in love, uh—“

“Dareios.”

“How could I forget a name like that?”

“We didn’t exactly talk about it.”  Dareios smirked.

“Right,” Liss said, clearing her throat as the heat rushed to her face.  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“You’re not the first person I’ve slept with to make myself feel better,” she explained, rising from her chair and turning to face him, “But you’re the first person who’s been kind enough that I feel guilty about it.  So, I apologize. If you wish to leave, and spread horrible rumors about me, I wouldn’t blame you.

“Did it work,” Dareios asked, reaching forward and taking her hands in his.

“What?” She eyed him with confusion and he only smiled, revealing the dimples in his cheeks.

“Did it make you feel better, my lady?”

Liss met his eyes and returned his smile.  “Not really.”

“Then it seems I have not done a proper job.”  He brought her hands up to his lips and pressed a kiss to each of them. “I still have a few hours until I leave, if you’ll have me.”

She knew she should decline, send him on his way, but loneliness echoed in her chest, one name, one person over and over again.  Her heart would hear nothing else. Still, perhaps a kind stranger with a warm embrace and gentle touch could drown it all out for a few more hours, just long enough so that she might feel like herself again. She nodded and closed her eyes, allowing him to move in more closely and kiss her and lead her back to bed.

Then, there was a knock at the door, several haphazard raps followed by a, “Sis?”

Liss shot up, eyes widening and turned to Dareios.  “You have to hide,” she whispered and began to look around the room.

“Why?”

“My family will not be pleased that I slept with another of our guests.” She stood up and pointed at the floor beneath the bed. “Here, you should be able to crawl under here.”

“Are you serio—“

Liss shushed him and pressed a finger to his lips.  “Please?”

He laughed and crawled out of bed, and she realized he was wearing nothing but his smalls—even more incriminating were Fergus to find him.  He got down on the floor and slid under the bed. It was a tight squeeze, but it would only be a moment. At least, she hoped.

“Liss, I know you’re in there,” Fergus called through the door, “Open up.”

“Coming,” she shouted as she grabbed a robe, tied it around her, and rushed to answer the door.  She swung it open forcefully and glared at her brother, unable to hide her annoyance. “Can’t a girl take a bath in peace?”

Fergus grinned and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she huffed indignantly.

“The visiting Bann is looking for his son,” he said, words pointed directly at her.

“Are you suggesting that I would know where he is?”  It was a flimsy defense, and she knew it.

“ Liss. ”

“ Fergus.”

“I am only suggesting that if you happen to see him— oh, I don’t know— when he crawls out from under your bed, it might be a good idea to tell him to find his father before his father finds him,” Fergus raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice, “And before our parents find him.”

Liss nodded slowly, looking her brother directly in the eyes, and he offered her a reassuring smile as a promise her secrets were safe with him.  They always had been. “If I see him, I will certainly let him know.”

“I will do my best to make sure your future baths are not interrupted.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“Don’t mention it.”

With that, Fergus turned and walked back down the corridor leaving Liss to close the door.  Behind her she could hear Dareios crawling from under the bed and shuffling about, most likely in search of his clothes.  

“I suppose you heard that,” Liss asked giggling as she turned to face the now half-dressed man.

“I did,” he replied with a sheepish smile,  as he laced up his breeches, “My father seems to have forgotten that I am no longer a little boy.”

Liss sighed. “I know how that feels more than you know.”

Dareios pulled on his shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on his stockings and boots. “Your brother seems to be a good man.”

“He’s always had my back, even when I’m completely wrong, totally reckless, and having my back is the worst idea,” she admitted, “He’s the best.  But don’t tell him I said so.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said earnestly as he finished lacing up his last boot.  He stood and walked over to Liss, placing his hands first on her shoulders before bringing them up to cradle her face. “You are a beautiful person, Lady Elissa, inside and out. The only thing I regret about our night together is that there won’t be another.”

Liss’ breath hitched in her throat, and she fought back the tears that welled in her eyes.  He was perfect, in every single way. She should have been begging him to stay, she should have promised him another night, many other nights. Yet, she couldn’t.  She was neither worthy nor wanting of perfect. Instead, she smiled and brought one of her hands up to cover his. “Thank you for spending time with me Lord Dareios.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, kissing her forehead before taking his hands from her face and moving to exit the room. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to face her.  “I hope that ‘Nate’ of yours wakes up and realizes what a treasure he has.”

“I am no treasure, but I appreciate your words all the same,” Liss said weakly, “Thank you.”  

She waved as he left, and closed the door quietly behind him, pressing her back to it and sliding down until she sat on the ground.  She let her face fall to her hands, tears dripping from her eyes. It would be so much easier for her if she could just love someone else, but she did not know where to start, or how. Her first and only experience with love had happened so organically and subtly, it had woven itself into every part of her life that it was impossible to tell where it began or when it ended.  She could not even be bothered to consider another person, even a person as wonderful as Dareios was.

This was Nate’s fault, she thought, looking up and catching a glimpse of the bow her family had crafted for him propped up in the corner of the room.  If he could just write her back, and tell her once and for all that he didn’t love her. If he could just confirm that he found her letters annoying and unwelcome.  If he could just be blunt and honest for once in his life, then maybe, just maybe she could let him go. As it was, she knew him too well to be so certain that his silence meant rejection.  She’d seen his face light up too many times when she’d forced herself into his presence after he’d told her to go away to think that the same couldn't happen still. Sacrifice of her dignity though it may be, she knew she wouldn’t let go or move on truly until he released her.  Thus, her current agony was his doing alone, and the realization allowed for anger where before there’d been only sadness. Damn him.

Liss stood abruptly and rushed to the desk, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and penned an entirely new letter to Nate.

Dear Nate,

Every year I tell myself that it will be the last year I write a hopeless letter to you as if  you will read it. Every year, I tell myself that even if I don’t hear from you, it still matters.  It’s something I should do as your friend, and as someone who cares about you. I am writing to you this time, to tell you that I won’t be doing that anymore.  I am tired of writing letters into the void and wondering if you still care about me like I still care about you.  

This is not how friends treat one another, Nate.  You know that. I can’t even begin to understand how someone I grew up with, someone who I’ve known my whole life could ignore me.  Unless it was all a lie. Unless you were just some figment of my imagination. Andraste’s arse.  Are you imaginary?

Kidding.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be utterly shocked to know that I miss you.  I thought I would stop eventually, but no such luck. The pain dulls each year, but I don’t think it will ever go away completely.  I pray that you are well, and far happier than I am, out on your glorious adventure. I’m envious of you, and I’m envious of those who get to be near you.

If you ever decide that you care about me after all, you know how to reach me.  

I wish you all the best.

Love,

Liss

With one quick read of the letter, feeling confident in her words, Liss folded it  and placed it in an envelope for Papa to send out later. She threw on a shirt and breeches that hung so loosely she knew they must have been old clothes that Fergus had grown out of.  Good enough, since she was in no mood to be uncomfortable in some dress. Then, she trudged over to the corner of the room, picked up his bow, and headed out into the corridor.  

It took no time for her to reach Nate’s room, or at least the one that used to be his.  For so long, it had been a place of refuge and comfort for her, yet it had been so long since she’d even visited it. She couldn’t bring herself to go inside and only see ghosts of him, shadows of his smell, the dusty untouched books, the chest that still had a few of his things in it. She’d feared it would overwhelm her if she opened the door, as if a wave of sadness would burst forth from behind the wood and drown her.  She would not be scared anymore. She’d leave his bow there, with all the other disparate pieces of him and close it away, out of sight unless she wanted to see it again.

Gripping the bow so tightly her knuckles turned white, Liss entered the room.  It looked exactly as it had the last time she’d been in it. Tidy. Empty. Cobwebs collected in corners and the sconces were all flameless. She sat the bow down on the bed and grabbed a torch from the hall to light those in the room.  She walked about the space, taking everything in, remembering the times she’d spent sitting on the floor with him, talking, laughing, crying. She remembered the night they first met. She remembered all the times she’d come there to hide from the world, to just be herself.  

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, she took the bow in her hands once  more, running her fingers along the engravings in the wood, the letter “N.” Anger swelled in her chest and she tightened her grasp around the bow.  She’d done nothing but care for him, and she knew it wasn’t his choice to leave, but he couldn’t even have the decency to write her back. He left her hanging out on a limb for him and her arms were getting so tired.  She still loved him and yet she was so angry with him and it felt so much better than empty. She held the bow up and out in front of her before slamming it down against her knee. It snapped in half, and she tossed it across the floor.

Almost immediately, she regretted it, as she stared at the jagged pieces of wood, once whole, now connected only by the string attached to each piece. It could be repaired, of course.  All of the parts were still there, but it was no longer what it was, and it would never be the same again. It was oddly poetic.

This was the kind of situation where Liss would have typically cried, dropping her head and letting the sobs shake her body, but she couldn’t.  She felt numb, as if by breaking that bow, she had broken herself completely. She sat staring blankly at the stone of the floor for sometime, until there was a polite knock at the door before it swung open.  It was Fergus, again, Oren in his arms and Bear at his side.  

Bear immediately pushed past the door and sat near the bed, tilting his head and looking up at Liss.  Oren shouted “Auntie,” and Fergus let him down so that he could run to her. Smiling vacantly, she picked him up and sat him on her lap.  

“I think Bear saw you come in here.  Wouldn’t let me have any peace ‘til I let him in. Oren wanted to tag along,” Fergus said with a laugh, and then he noticed the broken bow on the ground, eyes widening before he looked back up at her. “You okay, Liss?”

“No,” she answered flatly, wrapping one arm around Oren tightly, cuddling him up close to her until he giggled.  With her free hand she reached down to pet Bear. “But I will be.”

It was not only an acknowledgement of the one-way trajectory that led from rock bottom, but also a promise to herself, to her family, that the past would be exactly what it was meant to be: the past.

[lyrium-lavellan]

OC Introduction - Velahris Lavellan

I saw the meme by @slothssassin and I just had to make one for each of my Inquisitors!

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Role: Inquisitor

Class: Mage

Specialization: Knight-Enchanter

Basics

Full Name: Velahris Lavellan

Nickname(s): Vel, Clover, Vela, ‘Ris

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Bisexual

Occupation and Titles: Inquisitor

Birthday: 12 Bloomingtide, 9:19 Dragon(21 years old at the Conclave)

Physical Description: 5’2” tall, slender and angular frame, wavy auburn hair(kept long), vibrant blue eyes, light-colored heavily freckled skin with cool tones. Blue vallaslin(Ghilan’nain design in canon). Slightly curved ears.

Clothing Style: Loose tunics and blouses with wide sleeves, Dalish leathers, no shoes. Occasionally, a fur-trimmed cloak or vibrant colored shirt. She dresses in mostly blue, green, brown and white tones.

Background

The middle child of two skilled hunters of the Lavellan Clan, Velahris had a rather uneventful life - except for the fact that her parents went missing during the Blight and were assumed to be dead. While still very young, she found herself an orphan, responsible for caring for her siblings(older brother Silvhen, and younger brother Ethelan), however that didn’t last for long. Both of her siblings left the Clan, either by choice or by force, and she was left alone and afraid. Her life with her Clan mainly consisted of tending to the Halla, which she happened to be extremely good at, and fending off the occasional wolf. Since she was arguably the most intelligent member of her Clan and had the best relations with humans, she was sent to spy on the conclave by her Keeper, whom she thought of as a mother to her. Needless to say, it didn’t turn out too well.

Vel’s life changed very quickly. Suddenly, she was the Herald of Andraste, and then the Inquisitor. She was scared, and lonely - but she found solace in a few dear friends, namely Varric, Dorian and Josephine. They helped her accept her role, and come to appreciate it and to love her people. But at the heart of her being, she was still the same timid little elf girl from the Free Marches.

After Adamant, she was never the same. Emotionally broken, she couldn’t live with herself after deciding who lived and who died in the Fade. Additionally, she was forced to grapple with her newfound magic, brought out by her experience in the Fade. Finally, when meeting Solas in Trespasser, her sense of self is completely shattered. She reinvents herself - She doesn’t believe in the elven gods. She is no longer Dalish. She doesn’t want to be. She asks Solas to remove her vallaslin, as a favor to a friend. He obliges. Though she must protect the world as it is for many reasons(two in particular), she will not hurt Solas. She won’t lose another friend.

However, she finds unconditional friendship in Varric. He cares for her, cheers her up when she’s upset, and comforts her when she has night terrors. It was only a matter of time until she fell for him. She cursed herself for it - she knew she could never have him. But she couldn’t help herself. The Heroine and The Storyteller were perfectly matched, but neither knew it. Cole helped them understand, pulled the hurt away and pushed them closer. And they did end up together after all was said and done. Varric stopped dwelling on the past and wrote his own story, with the Lady Inquisitor his beloved Clover at his side. 

She runs the Inquisition by proxy(and many, many letters) while she enjoys a comfortable life in Kirkwall, with a new face and a new name, writing a new chapter of her story(with three new, tiny characters).

Combat & Skills

Preferred Fighting Style: Picking off enemies from a distance, then coming in behind a beefier ally and shooting/casting spells from a close range while still being protected.

Favorite Weapon: Earlier - her bow. Later - Her staff/spirit blades.

Magical Abilities: Lucid dreaming early on, as well as her magical talents after she comes out of the Fade at Adamant. She’s very powerful and surprisingly capable of wielding her magic, with a little instruction from her mage allies and brother, of course.

Special Skills: She’s a deadeye shot. Her hunts never fail. Also, she has the ability to summon lightning at will. She especially likes shocking Varric when he annoys her(gently, of course).

Relationships

Family: Clan Lavellan. Her mother, Ashara, and father, Myathilen, were missing for many years before she reconnected with them(and her older brother Silvhen) at Adamant. As it turns out, the three had become Wardens. Her little brother Ethelan ended up in Kirkwall after the Starkhaven Circle burned down, and after the Chantry blew up he went into hiding in Orlais. Upon hearing about the Inquisition, and its leader, he made his way to Skyhold.

She also has three children(with Varric). Their daughter, Nadia, and their twin boys Gaten and Garrett. More about them here

Love Interest: N/A in the canon universe. But in a personal headcanon, Varric.

Best Friends: Varric, Dorian, Cole, Josephine, Blackwall, Iron Bull, Solas.

Personality

Positive Traits: Trustworthy, Compassionate, Witty

Negative Traits: Indecisive, Emotional, A Worrywart

Likes: Quiet moments in the courtyard, books, spiced and well-honeyed Tevinter teas, babies/small children.

Dislikes: Dishonesty, Ignorance, Arrogance, Shoes.

Fears: Failure, Rejection, Being Enslaved, Templars

Guilty Pleasure: Orlesian balls, walking barefoot along Skyhold’s walls, intricately designed gowns.

Hobbies: Reading, embroidery, talking about boys(and girls) with Josephine and Leliana, Varric.

[cvusland]

Doomed

an alternate to a cousland/cullen fic I am currently writing called A Softer World (here on my ao3), in which Alistair is very much alive, and his warden left him to protect him.  At least thats what she told herself.

“But you don’t know me anymore, you know nothing of the monster that took over the girl I used to be” She snapped back, all teeth, and malice.

“I’ll always know you” He hissed right in her face “Because you are broken, and tired, and angry all the same as me, and that makes you mine.  War built two monsters, not just one.”

Seeing her across the room on the arm of another man hurt.   Even after all these years of being separated, it hurt.

It hurt when he saw her dancing with Nathaniel Howe (of all the Maker Damned people she could be with it had to be the son of the man who murdered her family).

It hurt when he saw her with Garrett Hawke, but of course he was the Champion of Kirkwall, and a Fereldan.  It only made sense it seemed.  The Hero, and The Champion.

It hurt now seeing her on the arm of the Commander of the Inquisition.

But this was the first time of all those time that they locked eye from across the room.

She turned away immediately leaving the Commander behind, and disappeared into the crowds of Halamshiral.

Of course the Inquisition would be here tonight.

Of course she would be here tonight.  She was as responsible for as many of their victories as the Inquisitor, and Rutherford were.

Damned war hero’s all of them.

He found her again later that evening.  Sipping a drink, and leaning against a wall looking all for all the world irritated, and bored all at once.

This time when he came near her, she did not run.

“Falin.”

“Alistair.”

“You look beautiful tonight” He looked at her, and hoped that she would make eye contact.

She did.

“And you look dashing.  A proper King, yeah?”

She was drunk.  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes squinted, and that fucking smirk on her face.

“How… are you?” He asked, not quite sure where to go.  He couldn’t just go straight into ‘Why did you fucking leave me, and not speak to me for almost ten years?’

“Rubbing elbows with fucking Orlesians, and telling Hawke to fuck off every five minutes cause he can’t take no for an answer.”

Alistair laughed at that.  He couldn’t help it.

“What about you?”

“Oh you know.  Rubbing elbows with fucking Orlesians.”

Falin snorted.

“There’s worse things I suppose” She shrugged finishing what was in her glass, and signaling the server for another.  A young elven girl came by, and Falin placed her empty glass on the tray, and took another full one.

“Yeah? How so?”

“You could be not here.  That wouldn’t be fun I suppose” She smiled at him.

He wanted to smile back, to act like there wasn’t this chasm between them.  Maker he wanted nothing more than to take the love of his life in his arms, and just hold her.

“Falin…”

“Look Al, I’m drunk right now alright? I saw Morrigan earlier, and so I got drunk cause I don’t want to deal with that either.  I’m saying, and thinking, and feeling shit that I’ve been covering up for years.”

“I just want to know why you left me.  You engaged yourself to me, and left me.” Alistairs voice was hard with hurt, and pain.  He just wanted his answer.  Falin turned to look at him fully, and Maker he thought he fell in love with her right then, and there again.  She was gorgeous in her dress, and her drunkenness, and radiant in her anger.

There was nothing about this woman that he didn’t love.  And that was dangerous.

“Why did I leave?” She asked staring at him hard “You really want to know?”

“Yes” He asked, the desperation in his voice clear “Its all I’ve ever wanted to know.”

Falin looked away for a moment, shaking her head, and tossed back her drink. She looked at him again, brilliant red hair askew from running her hands through it in frustration all night.

“I left because I can’t give you what you deserve.”

“What?” Alistair demanded.

“That’s why I left.  I can’t give you an heir, I can’t give you a soft, and easy to deal with wife, I can’t give you a Queen Fereldan would be proud of.  I can’t give you love that doesn’t hurt because this love between us… it has always had that cloud looming over it.  Our love was born from anguish, and tragedy, and war –”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Alistair snapped grabbing her wrist, and pulling her in closer.

“Because what if you didn’t love me after the war.  What if I stayed the same woman that war made? What if I couldn’t go back to being a teryns daughter, perfect, and soft, and fit to be a Queen?”

“Why would that matter? I fell in love with you, as you were, Maker Damn you woman I still fucking love you!”

“But you don’t know me anymore, you know nothing of the monster that took over the girl I used to be” She snapped back, all teeth, and malice.

“I’ll always know you” He hissed right in her face “Because you are broken, and tired, and angry all the same as me, and that makes you mine.  War built two monsters, not just one.”

“Falin?”

They broke apart, watching as Cullen slowly approached them.  He eyed Alistair wearily, having seen how Alistair had been holding the small woman so close, how anger had burned in both their eyes.

“Excuse me” Alistair took a step back as he, and Falin eyed each other “I must go find Teagan.  Have a good night Commanders.”

Cullen waited until the King was out of eyesight before he looked to Falin.

“Are you alright?”

“Just fine” She said, but her voice was tense.

“You don’t sound fine.”

She turned a truly scathing look at him.

“I said, that I am fine.”

“The Inquisitor is looking for you.  He has information on Morrigan he said that you would like to hear.”

“Wonderful” She huffed, shaking her head.  “If I’m not black out drunk by the time we leave this damned place I better be dead.”

Cullen chuckled, and placed a hand on the small of Falins back as he led her towards the main ball room.

“What was that about, between you, and the King?”

He wanted it to seem like a simple question, but Falin knew better.

“Don’t go getting jealous Cullen.  There’s nothing to worry about with Alistair… even if I wanted him back it could never happen at this point.  That life, and that me is too far gone.”

Cullen nodded.

“You aren’t a monster you know” He said.

Falin stopped dead, and looked at Cullen betraying no emotion.

“How much of mine, and Alistairs conversation did you hear?”

“Enough to be worried of where your heart lays.”

“There is no heart to worry about Cullen, get that straight right now.  What you, and I have is a physical relationship, and nothing more.  If you want that to continue, by all means it can.  But if you think I have anything more to offer than that; then I’m sorry because I must not have made myself clear enough from the start.”

“Falin –”

“There is no heart left here Commander.  It has been gone, and unfeeling for a very long time.”

“I don’t think that’s true” He said “Otherwise your argument with the King would not have been quite so passionate.”

“And what do you know of passion? What do you know of love?” Falin snapped narrowing her eyes at Cullen.

“I know enough of you to know that you aren’t as cold, and unfeeling as you would like to be.  I know you hide behind the anger, and the alcohol like a child holding their mothers skirts.”

“If you think I have anything more to offer you Cullen, then you’re going to be very disappointed” She said.  She stormed away from him, the train of her dress trailing behind her as she went.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed in frustration.

That damned woman, and this damned place were getting to him.

[thenugking]

Would you ever be interested in talking about your Marquises of Serault?

Of course, I love my de Seraults!! I am sorry it took me so long to get round to posting this, I suck at the writing thing. Technically only Arnauld, my scholar is Marquis, and my huntress, Roselle, is his sister but I’ve done a playthrough of Last Court with her as Marquis too.

Arnauld and Roselle are twins and both developed magic when they were ten, within a week of each other. Their mother looked at her options, sighed, and hired an apostate to teach them magic secretly because welp, at least Serault is full of apostates. The tutor is the Plainspoken Seneschal, because of course Arnauld wants to keep the person who advised him most as a child on as his adviser. Other than their parents and the tutor, the only person who knows is the Cheery Baron, because their mother told him almost immediately. He dislikes magic a lot and would never acknowledge to either of them that he knows, but he’s never going to betray his best friend’s children over this. I just really like the idea that Serault is full of mages though, since we already know it’s full of magic.

Anyway, Arnauld, being the Scholar, is a nerd. He grows up spending his time inside as much as he can and searches out his great grandfather’s books on magic and studies them excitedly. He’s the Responsible Sibling, and it’s clear growing up that he’s the one their mother will choose to be Marquis after her. Which doesn’t stop him being a sarcastic little shit a lot of the time. Roselle meanwhile, spends her childhood begging their mother and the Cheery Baron to let her go hunting with them, and when not watched closely, regularly attempts to run off to play in the Applewoods. They both enjoy learning magic. Roselle will wait until Arnauld has found and perfected a new spell and then copy what he’s doing, finding it easier and a lot less time consuming than reading about herself. Arnauld is incredibly bitter that she can become as good as he is really quickly, when it’s him who put all the work in. They squabble constantly, but they’re best friends who forever have each other’s backs.

Their mother dies when they’re 20, leaving Arnauld as her heir. She arranges for Roselle to be married to His Dour Lordship, the Marquis of Alyons, so her son has a new alliance to start him off. Roselle, who is very much the Rebellious Princess trope at this point is Not Thrilled. But she goes through with her arranged marriage and she grudgingly helps her husband to govern, and she discovers that in a marquisate that isn’t ignored and avoided by the rest of Orlais, there’s a lot more playing of the Game. And the Game is fun. Hunting remains her real passion, but the Game isn’t too different. You hunt your prey carefully and subtly, and if you’re doing it well they won’t notice until it’s too late, and then you strike and destroy them. Roselle becomes an expert and ruthless player and settles in happily to ruling Alyons with His Dour Lordship, sometimes helping him in the Game and sometimes working against him for her own benefit.

Arnauld, meanwhile, has Serault to rule, and he loves his marquisate but it is kind of the most disastrous place in all Thedas, and ruling Serault, you can never get a fucking break. He becomes more and more of a snarky little shit as time goes on and gives up on acting like a Proper orlesian noble. It’s not like that’ll get him anywhere anyway when Serault’s as despised as it is, and he’d rather help his people. In game, he tends to have high freedom and low dignity. Which he’s happy with, because his people are happy. Even if he’d like them to stop being such ungrateful bastards most of the time.

Roselle visits Serault with His Dour Lordship mid-game, by which point Arnauld and Roselle don’t see each other often, and have almost given up writing to each other. Roselle’s changed a lot since she lived in Serault, and Arnauld feels like he doesn’t know her anymore. He would never have expected his rebellious sister to be lecturing him on how to better play the Game. She helps him take down the wyvern to cure the Acerbic Dowager, and mocks him for his failure at hunting and it’s almost like the old days again, but the rest of the time, their relationship is a little strained. After locking His Dour Lordship in his dungeons, Arnauld asks Roselle how much she knew about her husband’s plot. She just smiles at him and tells him she’s glad at how he’s improving at the Game.

In the game, Arnauld has the Smiling Guildmistress as his adviser, the Wayward Bard as his lover, the Dashing Outlaw as his accomplice and the Silent Hunter as his bodyguard. Storywise, I’m not sure about the Silent Hunter, I just can’t find anything to do with him, and Arnauld doesn’t seem to connect with him at all? Possibly the Dashing Outlaw does some bodyguarding stuff too, and then I guess the Wayward Bard likes jumping in front of knives for Arnauld. Like I really enjoy the “someone tries to assassinate you and the Bard jumps in front of you, and then complains that he doesn’t want to be healed because scars make him look rakish” card. And it comes up so often that I feel like the Bard just employs people to pretend to stab Arnauld, so he can save him and look dashing and heroic. And then Arnauld patrons like five scholars who got thrown out of the University of Orlais to make him jealous. They flirt in fun ways.

The Dashing Outlaw is a close friend of both Arnauld and Roselle. Her outlaw-ing sometimes takes her all the way to Alyons, and during the start of Roselle’s time there, when she often runs away to the woods, she confides in the Outlaw a lot. Neither of the twins are entirely sure how the Outlaw first discovered they’re apostates, but she knows and she’s cool with it, and that means she’s one of the very few people they can actually talk to about it. Arnauld also tells the Bard, after they start dating, which looking back when not slightly tipsy he realises was not the Best idea, but the Bard thinks it’s sexy, so it all worked out.

The Outlaw was Arnauld’s accomplice a while before the start of the game and he started sleeping with the Bard either shortly before or after the start. Until finding out about the Divine though, Arnauld was happy with the Plainspoken Seneschal as his adviser. He only went looking for a “better” one during the stress of trying to get Serault sorted out ready for the Divine’s visit, but never wanted to actually get rid of his Seneschal. It does create a rift between the two of them for a while though. (When I played Roselle as Marquis, she took the Acerbic Dowager as her adviser, the Elegant Abbess as her lover, the Purveyor of Teas as her accomplice and the Dashing Outlaw as her bodyguard.)

Anyway, apart from replacing his seneschal as his adviser, Arnauld starts becoming more willing to play the Game. When the Divine arrives, he happily puts on the ridiculously impractical and uncomfortable glass mask that he wants to roll his eyes at, and he overlooks his morals about blackmail being unacceptable to play every secret he’s gathered for everything it’s worth. After the ceremony is over and Serault’s reputation is restored again, Arnauld sits by himself and takes off his mask and cries because he hates what he’s become. And it doesn’t help that he’s incredibly lonely after dumping and exiling his boyfriend.

Arnauld was Not Happy about the Wayward Bard cheating on him with the serving girl. Their relationship was Definitely Just Casual, Haha, No Feelings Here, but as time went on, it started getting more serious and it got harder for them both to ignore the feelings that Totally weren’t there. I see the Bard’s cheating as him getting scared, and not feeling good enough, and wanting to show that he wasn’t good enough. Which Arnauld kind of got, but he was mad and hurt. He dropped everything to go riding into the forest to rescue the Bard and cut his way through the maze to him, injuries be damned, but afterwards he yelled that he never cared anyway, it was just a bit of fun, but he’s angry at the Bard for risking his reputation like this, and the Bard yells back asking when Arnauld’s ever cared about his reputation and things escalate, and Arnauld ends up exiling the Bard from Serault. Later, the Dashing Outlaw turns up to see if Arnauld’s okay and he insists, with his make up ruined by tears and half way through his sixth glass of wine that he’s fine. She doesn’t exactly buy it.

I have a continuing plot after the end of the game, which I don’t want to get too into detail with because with, but might maybe one day write a fic about. Maybe. Anyway, the main plot points of it are:

Arnauld spends a bunch of time angsting about What Has He Become, and missing the Bard a lot, and getting close to giving up everything he’s got for Serault.

The Anchoress, who Arnauld of course invited back to live with him, gets caught doing magic, and Arnauld magics to protect her, in front of a massive audience, so, welp, there’s everything lost, but a part of him feels free now.

The Dashing Outlaw helps him escape the wrath of a whole bunch of nobles and disguises him as just an Ordinary Citizen who no one will notice.

While no one’s really ruling Serault and everything is a disaster, His Dour Lordship is freed from the dungeons. He is later killed by an apostate. Roselle, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with it, and is totally cut up about inheriting her husband’s marquisate and getting to rule it.

Meanwhile, the Chantry is in a shambles after the Breach opened up and the templar order really aren’t sure what to do with their lives. When they hear about the massive amount of apostacy and bullshit going on in Serault, a group of templars upset about not being able to slaughter mages as often anymore perk up and declare an exalted march on serault. (It’s not a Proper exalted march, since there’s no divine and their authorisation is “well this one grand cleric Somewhere said it was okay”, but they’re able to stir up a lot of people against Serault so it’s definitely a big Threat.)

The Bard spies on their plans and then comes back to Serault to warn Arnauld about what’s happening

Arnauld convinces his people to let him lead a fight against the exalted march and makes a speech about magic being good and serault being perfect however much the world is always against them and all that good shit

The Horned Knight and his people turn up to help fight because he and Arnauld can put all differences aside for the good of Serault

Except they’re still really outnumbered and even if they win, so many people will die oh no

Arnauld and the Bard talk stuff out and kiss since welp, they’re facing almost certain death now.

And then Alyons’ army turns up to help because fuck the Game, as if Roselle is going to let her home be destroyed or her brother be murdered.

Arnauld and Roselle talk, and Roselle apologises for how distant she’s been in the past few years. She’s glad of how she changed, but her heart will always lie here. And then the twins do magic. Half of Serault does magic. A very small number of the Alyons army do magic too. They win.

Arnauld announces that the rest of the world can fuck off, Serault is staying here, and it’s staying full of apostates, and if you’re going to ignore and hate us all again, so what? Serault’s not selling out to you.

(There’s a maybe-plot where Arnauld gives up being Marquis, because the Elusive Iconoclast wasn’t wrong, there is no reason being noble-born means he should get to rule, and Arnauld’s desperation to hang onto being In Charge because he Knows Best is a definite character flaw, but idk quite where to go with that, so we will See.)

Also, I have a Thing where Roselle and Arnauld always take off their masks when doing magic. They spend their whole lives pretending to be people they’re not, and they’re only their real selves when maskless.

[shannaraisles]

A Rose By Any Name - Chapter 5

In which King Alistair learns a few interesting things about the ladies he must choose from, and something about himself. Banner created by the superb @kagetsukai.

[Read on AO3] OR [Read from the beginning]

Denerim market was bustling. The first market day after Wintersend was always a busy affair, packed with merchants and vendors eager to capitalize on the arrival of spring, and with it, a fresh influx of nobles newly returned to the city after wintering on their own estates across the country. Despite the chill that still clung in the air, the market was doing brisk business, with humans of all social levels mingling with elves and dwarves about their errands. The new College of Magi was even represented; mages and Tranquil manning a stall, as well as encouraging shoppers to visit The Wonders of Thedas, an amazing store stocked with enchanted good and rare volumes, once owned by the Circle and, through them, the Chantry.

Gossip was also in generous supply, an entire winter's worth of news to be shared between friends and rivals alike. There was plenty to do and to see ... yet most eyes turned with curious frequency to a small gaggle of guards traversing the stalls. Or rather, to the people those guards were guarding.

"Oh, what a darling petit marché!"

King Alistair groaned inwardly, hoping his distinct discomfort wasn't too visible on his face. Lady Delphine of Orlais, with her eager youth and obvious ... assets ... had not been more than five steps from his side since he'd joined the ladies for their outing today.

Not all had chosen to come to the market - Rosamunde of Gwaren had declared it a waste of her time, and Leona of Starkhaven had already stated her preference to spend the day in the Chantry with the sisters. That, at least, cut down on the sheer number of women gathered around him, but Alistair was beginning to think that perhaps Eamon had been right about his plan for the day. Perhaps taking noble ladies - and one royal - from other lands to market day had not been such a well-considered idea. Still, most of the remaining seven who had agreed to come had, at least, allowed the servants to dress them appropriately for their outing. Most, but not all. Delphine had outright refused to be garbed as a merchant, and was flouncing around the marketplace in velvet and pearls; Ceridwyn of Kirkwall had produced her own hard-wearing leather pants and wool tunic, fitting into the mass of people far better than anyone else. Even Alistair's "disguise" was not so seamless as he might have liked; it was too clean and too finely made for him to be mistaken for a merchant or visitor to the city, and his face was too well known for anyone around him not to know he was the king. Even without the guards, they would have stood out like a sore thumb.

And then there was the behavior of the ladies. True, the majority of them were quiet and calm. He hadn't seen the princess or little Lady Maria since they'd entered the market, nor Ceridwyn or Ciara, but he wasn't too worried about them. Demelza had attached herself to Princess Felicita and her party, dragging Fergus Cousland along with her, and both were openly armed. Alistair was definitely jealous of his friends for that. He would much rather have been in the company of the calmer ladies himself, but Delphine had made that all but impossible. Her attire declared her to be a noblewoman, her accent declared her to be Orlesian, and as the king, he couldn't really leave her side in case certain prejudices made themselves known. A suspicious man might have considered that to be her reasoning behind disobeying his request that she blend in. He didn't like to be a suspicious man, but ... Well, she wasn't making the day particularly enjoyable for him.

She seemed determined to find everything around her both "charming" and "quaint", exclaiming with ridiculous enthusiasm over the simple necessities of life. Every other sentence was laced with suggestive innuendo aimed squarely at the contents of his pants. Had she confined such comments to private statements, that eagerness to bed him might have had the desired effect; as it was, Alistair was simply embarrassed, both by and for her. Thankfully, however - and he still wasn't sure that was an accurate assessment of how he felt about this development - Delphine seemed to be in direct competition with Callista of Nevarra, who was also amply blessed when it came to her figure but was apparently not so much interested in him today as she was enjoying very much annoying Delphine with constant interruptions. If he hadn't been stuck in the middle, Alistair might even have found something to smile at in the near permanent flicker of impotent frustration marring the Orlesian girl's expression.

Take right now, for example ...

"Darling Delphine, your Orlesian manners are showing again," the Nevarran woman was saying, neatly separating Delphine from the king's arm by wrapping her own about the younger woman's elbow in a grip that actually looked painful to try and break free from. "Do try to remember you are in Ferelden, dear. It is customary to speak the local tongue, unless you are hoping to mobbed by offended merchants in front of our illustrious escort."

The look Delphine gave her was pure poison for a split second, before she recovered herself enough to produce her suggestive smile once more. She did, however, go slightly pale in her attempt to free herself from Callista's grasp, turning wide, pleading eyes to Alistair.

"I am sure I can be forgiven," she declared breathlessly, batting her lashes. "Distracted as I am by our handsome companion."

"Do you have something in your eye, darling?" Callista asked her, seeming to delight in misunderstanding the clumsy attempt to flirt past her. "Come, we will wash your face in that fountain. The kohl you have used on your eyes must be flaking."

As the Nevarran lady bore her protesting Orlesian companion away toward the communal fountain, Alistair took the opportunity to look away from them, his lips twitching as he fought not to smile along with the guards that were strategically placed around him. It did not seem as though those particular ladies were anything more than enemies, albeit perfectly behaved ones, but he couldn't help a surge of gratitude toward Lady Callista for rescuing him from the unnecessary attentions of Lady Delphine. No doubt Dem would have enjoyed watching how noblewomen dealt with one another, but she was nowhere to be seen in the crush of bodies around him. Neither was Fergus in sight. Still, at least Alistair could be confident that the ladies from Antiva, Rivain, Kirkwall, and Amaranthine would be well protected in the market under the watchful eyes of the Warden-Commander and the Teryn of Highever.

With a moment to breathe, he turned away from the sound of spluttering and splashing that signified Delphine being given an unwilling wash in public, only to find the rather charming sight of Lady Amandine of Tantervale laughing behind her hand at the spectacle he was trying to ignore. Maker, but she really is lovely.

In daylight, away from the flattering flicker of torchlight and shadow, Amandine's natural charms were displayed to their best effect, from the slenderness of her figure to the intelligent sparkle in her dark eyes. She had not forced her company on him, either, apparently preferring to let the ladies from Orlais and Nevarra battle themselves to a standstill without her interference. Alistair could appreciate that; was grateful for it, even. It was something of a relief to feel several of the guards detach from his presence to keep an eye on Callista and Delphine, allowing him the near-luxury of attempting to converse with a pretty woman without the painful addition of an armored audience.

"How do you like the market, my lady?" he asked, rather proud of himself for managing to greet her with an unstudied pleasantry, rather than tortured flattery. The floor of his study had been littered with written attempts to prepare some complimentary comments for his noble party in advance. He was very grateful to the servants who had cleared them away before he woke up.

Amandine's laughter faded into a warm smile as he moved toward her, though he felt a vague sense of unease at the way she seemed to automatically curtsy to him. That wasn't helping them to blend in, if it was at all possible anymore.

"I like it very much, your - my lord," she assured him, correcting her address before she could draw too much attention to them. Her hand twitched toward his arm, but no more than that - a subtle reminder that, had they been alone, he should have offered her his arm as a gentleman. "It is bracing to be among the common people of the realm."

Alistair felt his brow rise at her phrasing. "You mentioned visiting a cattle market in Tantervale," he commented. "I would have thought an occasion like that would necessitate mixing with all levels of society."

"Oh, forgive me, my lord, but I am not permitted to visit the cattle market," Amandine corrected him mildly. "I simply watch from my window. No noblewoman would ever set foot in a common market-place in Tantervale."

I knew there had to be something wrong with her. "You don't mix, then, in the Free Marches?"

"Not in Tantervale," she told him. "I understand that Kirkwall is a very different sort of place, where noble and commoner alike mix freely, but they are not the model for the Marches. Or rather, not the model for the places I have visited. Ostwick, Wycombe, Starkhaven, and Tantervale are very segregated places. Rather like your city and alienage."

A confused frown touched Alistair's expression as he looked down at her. "Perhaps as Denerim used to be, my lady," he said, a prickle of defensive pride making itself known in his voice. "But, as you can see, we encourage the free mingling of all people here in Denerim, and in the farther reaches of the country, too."

"A most progressive attitude, my lord." Amandine seemed to have realized her misstep there, offering an apologetic smile along with her encouraging answer. "It is your own policy?"

Mollified by her unspoken apology, and by the interest she then showed, a faint grin lit up his face as he glanced around the market.

"I am rather pleased to say it is," he admitted. "This was an awfully dull sort of place when I first came here - everyone tucked away in their own neat little holes, never even looking at each other if they could help it. It's a terrible way to make friends, you know."

"But, as I understand it, the city was operating smoothly under such conditions," the lady from Tantervale mused in a curious tone. "The integration caused some problems, I believe?"

Another frown touched his face. Was that disapproval he could hear in her voice? He'd always thought the Free Marches were a progressive sort of place, though his only experience of them had been a brief visit to Kirkwall a decade before. Could it be that this otherwise delightful young woman had opinions on the segregation of the races that were averse to his own?

"It was a time of great upheaval," he told her. "The battle with the archdemon and the darkspawn had destroyed much of the city. I like to think that the struggle to rebuild our home here helped to smooth the way for the integration policy. And, as you can see, it is a success, for the most part."

He gestured to the crowd around them - a crowd in which human noble and commoner mixed as easily as human and elf, or elf and dwarf. Alistair was proud of how multicultural his city had become since he'd reluctantly taken on the crown, and though he'd definitely made more than a few mistakes in the last ten years or so, market day in Denerim was always a sight to lift his spirits. He tilted his eyes to look at Amandine's face as she followed the line of his gesture ... and yes, there was a hint of distaste in those lovely eyes of hers, centered on the sight of a nobleman haggling with comfortable ease over the wares at an elven merchant's stall. The elf was clearly a fine craftsman, and was just as clearly appreciated as such, as evidenced by the healthy look of his family manning the stall with him. But the sight of a human nobleman giving the time of day to an elf seemed to disquiet Lady Amandine.

Alistair sighed to himself. He owed Dem a silver crown. His elven friend had insisted that the lady from Tantervale was not what he needed, but he'd argued that she had all the requisite attributes to make a fine queen. And no doubt she would make a fine queen, but he would rather not have to share a bed and a life with someone who thought elves and dwarves were somehow less worthy of the basic decencies than those born human. He dreaded to think what her opinions on mages were.

"Oh, there is no doubt that your city is one of the friendliest I have ever entered," Amandine hastened to say. It seemed as though his frown had been noted. "I am simply ... overwhelmed ... by how easy it is to speak with elves and dwarves as equals here. It is not an experience I have encountered in my lifetime."

Unfortunately for Amandine, despite her pretty words, the damage had been done. She had not spoken the apology he had accepted, and even now she was quick to try mollifying his feelings without stating any kind of agreement or approval of the one policy he had fought for right from the start and was exceedingly proud of. Alistair simply nodded to her, mentally revising the list that had become very short indeed in just two days.

So ... Marguerite had left in high dudgeon yesterday morning. Delphine was not even to be considered, being so offensively Orlesian as she was. Rosamunde, quite frankly, terrified him; she clearly worshiped Loghain as a misused hero, which would make conversation with her something of a battlefield. Ceridwyn was not interested in being a queen; she wanted Fergus and Highever, and was working on that in her own time. Amandine had just talked herself out of being a serious contender, which was a shame in a way; she was the first lady from the ball who had allowed him to think that perhaps this humiliating month of bride-finding wouldn't be so awful. Maria was ten years old, and besides, he was waiting on news from Rivain, hoping to adopt her as a ward of the Ferelden crown rather than send her back to what sounded like an awful childhood in Dairsmuid. That left Callista, Leona, Ciara, and Felicita ... a shortlist of four, cut down from ten. Despite his misgivings, Alistair was actually rather pleased with that. He would have to talk to Cormac this evening and rearrange the various activities. There was no point subjecting himself to a full day in the company of a woman he had already decided not to marry, after all.

"Fine dwarven crafts! Direct from Orzammar!"

The familiar cry drew the king out of his thoughts, his head turning automatically to seek out the owner of that voice - a dwarf he had met first when he was nothing more than a Grey Warden visiting the city for the first time. The dwarf was leaning on his stall, his cry rising above the crowd to draw attention to his wares. It wasn't a surprise to see Demelza inspecting those wares, the Warden-Commander's presence doing more for his business than any amount of yelling might do.

Alistair felt a moment of alarm on seeing his friend, though. Where were the princess and Maria? Dem had been with them when they'd walked away into the crowd; he had expected that she would remain with them. Alarm was beginning to turn to panic as he looked around, too wildly to take in any actual detail of the jostling crowd around him. Then a warm arm inserted itself between him and Amandine, and Callista of Nevarra offered him a beaming smile.

"I am very sorry to relate, my lord, that dearest Delphine has returned to the palace," she informed him, her arm now wrapped firmly about Amandine's waist, looking for all the world like the two of them were close friends. It would have been more convincing if Amandine had not been glaring at her discreetly. "I fear her powder did not survive washing the kohl from her eyes."

"Perhaps she did not enjoy being treated like a child in public," Amandine suggested archly.

Even in his concerned state, Alistair could spot a mistake like that one. His head snapped back just in time to see Callista's jaw clench behind her warm smile. Not even I would have said that.

"Then perhaps she should not behave like an entitled brat in public," the Nevarran woman answered, every word a warning to the Tantervale lady not to push her luck. "Simple courtesy does not cost anything, does it, Lady Amandine?"

Amandine seemed to have realized her mistake, but alas, not in time to prevent Alistair from hastily clearing his throat to avoid laughing at the hunted look in her eyes. She had, after all, witnessed what Callista had done to Delphine for monopolizing his time. I wonder what she'd do to Amandine for being so obviously racist, he wondered, taking the opportunity to step away from them both. A quick glance to the guard captain ensured that the ladies would be properly guarded, and Alistair was quick to join Demelza at the dwarven stall.

Gorim nodded to him as soon as he reached the stall. "Majesty."

"Master Dwarf whose name I have forgotten, and I will apologise for that later," the king responded, already prodding the elven Warden's shoulder pointedly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be looking after Maria and the princess? Anything could happen in this crowd!"

"This crowd that you told Eamon was safe enough to take seven ladies into in the first place?" Dem asked with a grin, raising her eyes to her friend as the dwarf snorted with laughter at the king's greeting. "Cool your heels, Longshanks, I know exactly where they are."

"And that is?"

The redheaded elf rolled her eyes at him. "Look directly over my head, your majesty."

Lifting his panic-touched gaze from the familiar contours of the friendliest face he knew, Alistair focused his eyes above her head, and felt relief ripple through him in a warm wave. There was Maria, standing up on a barrel with Princess Felicita supporting her, both of them watching the toymaker at his work with apparently rapt attention. Maria was pointing something out, her small face animated with smiling delight as the princess answered her with a smile of her own, not even objecting when the little girl wrapped her arm about Felicita's neck to continue watching the toy being made.

It was utterly charming to see. They didn't look out of place in the busy marketplace, both garbed in the rather drab brown wools and off-white linens that were the mainstay of the working merchant classes here in the city, and if the toymaker knew he was in the presence of royalty, he had clearly been put at his ease by his captivated audience. As he watched, a lock of black hair fell from the princess' simple braid to curl against her cheek, caught by Maria's little fingers to twist it around her thumb as she absently stroked her new friend's face. No noblewoman he had ever met would have allowed a child - even their own - to be so openly affectionate in a public place, yet Felicita simply laid her head on Maria's shoulder, as though offering more affection rather than chastising the child for it. It was a sight that made his heart ache, though what for, he couldn't yet say. Was he mourning his own lost childhood, or hoping to be a part of the picture presented himself? If he'd realized he was staring, Alistair might have made an attempt to draw his gaze away, but he was as captivated by the warm little tableau they made as they were by the toymaker and his tools.

"If you start dribbling, I'm going to walk away," a voice inserted itself into his consciousness, heavy with rich amusement.

With a start, he jerked back to himself, snapping his gaze away from the princess and the child to meet Demelza's grinning eyes. I'm not going to blush, I'm not ... Maker, I am blushing. He could feel the heat rising up his neck, raising a hand to rub his fingers over his brow as he cleared his throat.

"What about Lady Ciara and Ceri?" he asked, in what he thought was a laudable attempt to take the attention away from his moment of unthinking admiration.

Dem just let out a quick laugh, jerking her head back toward the princess and Maria. "Did you look past the princess and the pea?"

Well, there was no halting the blush now. She was right, of course - he'd been so enamored of the sight of Maria and the princess cuddling in front of the toymaker, he had completely missed the fact that Ciara was right beside them, talking just as animatedly to Felicita as Maria was. And just beyond them was Lady Ceridwyn ... and Fergus Cousland, looking very fetching in a lady's bonnet that the cheeky Marcher had set on his head. The heat faded from Alistair's face as he grinned at his noble friend's laughter, glad to see a smile on Fergus' face. The man had been through enough, lost enough, to last him a lifetime. Lady Ceri would be very good for him, if they could just convince him to accept that she was not interested in the king at all.

"Oh."

"I see you got away from the Busty Beauty of Orlais," Dem said then, which did nothing to help the blush recede.

"With a little help, yes," Alistair agreed, clearing his throat once again. "Maybe Eamon was right about this being a bad idea."

"Longshanks, Eamon is never right," the elven Warden informed him. "Why don't you go and talk to the ones you want to talk to?"

He gave her something of a terrified grimace in answer. "Because I don't know how to talk to pretty girls?"

Demelza rolled her eyes yet again. "So maybe stop think of them as just pretty girls?" she suggested. "One of them is going to be your wife, you know. Oh, good grief ..."

She caught his elbow as the blood drained from his face. My wife. I'm standing in the marketplace, and somewhere in this crowd is the woman I'm going to marry. He hadn't really absorbed that fact until this moment. Perhaps it was unfortunate that he hadn't; with all the bullying from the Landsmeet and his advisors, he had managed to avoid actually putting together the fact of the ladies' arrival and his imminent marriage to one of them. Trust Dem to be the one to make it absolutely plain.

"Alistair, breathe."

There was a cup of something being pushed into his hand - he sipped it, grimacing at the taste of bitter tea as his senses began to return to him. Quite where they had gone for a few moments was anyone's guess. He just had to hope that no one had noticed the king pale and swaying in the middle of the city square.

Demelza was studying him as she took the cup away, the frown on her face pulling at an old scar that decorated her cheekbone.

"Better?" she asked.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath. "Better. Sorry, I -"

"You really didn't think this through, did you?" Her voice was gentle, a tone he'd only ever heard from her when she spoke to someone she loved. It was rather nice to realize that she did love him, albeit in an idiot big brother sort of way.

He sighed, shaking his head. "It isn't that I didn't think about it, I just ..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping toward the merry little group by the toymaker's stall. "I'm just a bastard Warden who got politics by mistake, Dem. What do I possibly have to offer any of them?"

He wasn't expecting the slap his little friend delivered to his cheek for saying that out loud. It was sharp and swift, startling him out of his slump into self-pity with a vaguely wounded protest.

"Don't you ever say that again," Dem growled up at him as he cupped his hand to his stinging cheek. "You're worth ten of any human, noble or otherwise, and if none of these women can see past the crown you have to wear, then they're not worth worrying over. I won't let you marry someone who doesn't want you, Alistair, so pull up your big boy knickers and play nice with the ones that are worth it."

The suggestion of well-oiled steel being drawn behind him dragged his wide eyes from his surprisingly angry friend to find the captain of his guard standing close by, looking decidedly uncomfortable with his sword half-drawn. After all, who wants to be the one responsible for arresting the Hero of Ferelden in public for committing a technical act of treason?

"Sir, the law states -" he began, but Alistair was, for once, there ahead of him.

"- that the indictment of treason is at the king's discretion, and this was not treason," he assured the guard captain, tempted to laugh at the look of supreme relief that crossed the man's face.

He didn't need to look to know that Dem was smiling sweetly at the man, too - a smile that usually meant one wrong move and there would be blood on the ceiling. And we're outside. She'd have to try pretty hard to get blood on a ceiling from out here. Not that he didn't think she could do it. Demelza Tabris was, quite frankly, the single most terrifying example of fury harnessed with martial skill when she drew her blades. Alistair would just rather not see her unleash that on his generally well-intentioned guards.

"Thank you, captain, but this was ..." He sighed, glancing at his friend as he let his hand drop from his cheek. "This was a foolish man being reminded that he has more to offer than fancy headgear."

"Exactly," Dem agreed, wrapping a hand about his elbow to give him a shove toward the toymaker's stall. "So go and be your adorably idiotic self for the little girl, and I bet you ten gold you'll get a smile out of the princess for it."

"I always lose bets with you," he whined, ignoring the amusement on the face of the captain as he allowed himself to be nudged toward the little group nearby.

You are the king of Ferelden. You are not beneath their notice. You can do this. If Dem can sleep with the Divine, you can definitely talk to a pretty princess ... Oh, who are you kidding? If she looks you in the eye, you're going to start burbling like a mabari taking a swim.

Alistair swallowed a groan as he came to a halt a few steps from the calm trio watching the toymaker work. Even his own inner monologue was against him today, it seemed. Not that his inner monologue was often on his side, but this was extreme, even for him. But the thoughts trailed off as he let his eyes focus on the little group, unaware of the watchful curiosity aimed in his direction by several of those passing by.

"... like a sword?" He hadn't caught the beginning of Maria's question, but the sheer enthusiasm in her voice made him smile.

"And who told you that ladies cannot have pretty things that are also weapons?" Felicita answered, her Antivan accent rich with amusement at the assumption so many people made about noblewomen. "I have daggers myself. My father had them made for my eighteenth birthday, set with opals. They are very pretty, Maria."

The little girl stared at her, wide-eyed and almost grinning with delight at this idea. "And, and you can use them and everything?"

The princess laughed, hugging the child fondly for a moment. "Yes, little one, I know how to use them as well," she confirmed. "Everyone should know how to use a weapon. I am sure Ciara does, too."

Alistair's gaze slid to the younger woman as she became the focus of the conversation. Ciara seemed a little unsettled by the attention from her companions, but infinitely less nervous than she had been two nights ago. Obviously it's me. I make women nervous, or bold. That was an unsettling thought in itself. He didn't want to have a nervous wife, or a bold wife. He'd quite like to have a wife who was confident enough in herself not to be either.

"Do you, Ciara?" Maria pressed, leaning over toward the young Ferelden woman.

"I do, little lady," the honey-blonde girl told her, seemingly a little embarrassed to admit it. "Not daggers, but I-I know a little of how to use a sword and shield in battle."

"Have you been in a battle?" The little girl from Rivain was instantly awestruck just by the thought of that. "Was it smelly and messy and fun?"

"I-I ..." Ciara stumbled for some response, her gaze flickering from the eagerness on the child's face only to discover the king eavesdropping nearby. "Oh! Y-your ... I mean, my lord, I ..."

As Ciara descended into crimson-hued silence, held where she was only by the gentle touch of the princess' hand on hers, Maria turned fully about on her barrel to offer Alistair a bright smile.

"Mr Kingness, have you been in a battle?" she demanded, lifting her hands toward him in a very recognizable demand.

A demand Alistair found himself acceding to without thinking, lifting her from her perch to settle her comfortably on his hip.

"I have indeed, little lady," he told her, strangely far more at ease with a child than with the women she had chosen to attach herself to. Far more at ease with the sensation of having a child in his arms than he had expected himself to be, too. "I have been in several battles, as a matter of fact, but the one most people talk about was only the second proper battle I ever fought in."

"Is that the one with the dragon and the Warden with ears?"

He blinked, a little surprised to hear Demelza described this way. "Yes, that was the battle with the archdemon," he assured her, hoisting her a little higher on his hip. "What makes you think other Wardens don't have ears?"

Maria shrugged. "The rug on the wall."

"You've lost me there. What rug are we talking about?"

"I believe Maria is referring to the tapestry of the Battle of Denerim, that hangs in the common room you provided for our stay here," Felicita offered from his side. "The Warden-Commander seems to have been depicted as human. Lady Ciara was good enough to explain why."

Despite his urge to drop a curtsy to the first real royal he'd ever actually met, Alistair controlled his knees, issuing only a weary sigh. "Oh, that rug," was his comment. "It was made by the Chantry sisters, here in Denerim. It's awful, isn't it?"

This was given to Maria with a playful grimace that set the little girl to giggling in his arms, sparking a warm grin of his own as Felicita, too, bit down on her own laughter.

"It is a shame that her heritage can so easily be swept away," the princess agreed, and to his surprise, he actually believed she meant it. "But the Chantry is not kind to the elves that shaped its own history, and far less to those that are shaping the future."

"The new Divine will see that it changes," Alistair told her with absolute confidence. "She has views on inequality."

For a moment, Felicita seemed bemused, before comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, of course! You know Divine Victoria, don't you?" she asked, her expression lighting up with intelligent interest that somehow made her prettier. "I have heard only stories of her - the beautiful bard, the Left Hand of the Divine, the spymaster of the Inquisition. You are fortunate in your friends, my lord."

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. "My greatest good fortune was meeting Dem," he told them. "Without her, I don't want to think of the state the world would be in. I would probably be dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Is she a real hero, Mr. Kingness?" Maria asked hopefully. "Did she really kill a dragon?"

"Yes, little lady, Dem is a real hero," he answered, feeling himself relax as the expected idiocy failed to make itself known on his tongue. Perhaps he should keep Maria close during all his interviews with the ladies; clearly she had a calming influence on his inability to string three words together. "And she's actually killed two dragons. Not as many as the Inquisitor, but she was a little pressed for time when we were traveling to the dragon lairs."

"Two?" The Rivaini girl was in instant awe, her head turning to seek out the diminutive elf they were talking about. "All by herself?"

"Well, no," Alistair admitted, embarrassed to have to make this part clear. "I helped. And Divine Victoria helped, but we only knew her as Leliana back then. And ... well, there was an apostate mage who helped us, but I have no idea where she is now. Maybe you should ask Dem about it, if you'd like to know more. She's better at telling stories than I am."

"Will you teach me how to use a sword?" Maria suddenly burst out, startling him a little with the unexpected enthusiasm for weaponry.

"Uh ... if you stay here in Ferelden, then of course I will," he promised. "Everyone should know how to use a weapon, even if it's just for fun."

"Do you know many people who use weapons for fun?" Felicita asked him then, the dimple in her cheek betraying a smile that had not quite reached her lips but shone in her eyes.

Alistair's mouth went dry as he met her eyes. Sweet Maker ... how is she more beautiful dressed like a merchant in broad daylight? But perhaps it wasn't her looks that had quite suddenly stuttered his mind to a halt as it was the relaxed way she smiled at him; the ease with which she had entered his conversation with Maria and how comfortable it felt to just speak with her. He could feel an urge to lick her cheek, just to tease the tip of his tongue into that dimple on the left side and hear her laugh to escape him. And she hasn't even encouraged me to think about her that way. I'm doomed.

"Uh, ah ... I know an assassin who does," he blurted out. "Although it isn't so much fun as it is work for him, and I'm not sure he would say it is fun, exactly. More like satisfying, I think. He's a little odd."

"He sounds like a Crow." The princess laughed, and Alistair found himself smiling along to the sound, even as his mouth blurted a little more than he really should have been sharing.

"He is a Crow - a very good one, so I hear. Not good enough to kill Dem, though." He absently hoisted Maria a little higher onto his hip. "That's how I met him, actually. He ambushed us, and Dem pounded him into the ground for a while before offering him a job."

Felicita's smile faded, but her expression was not unpleasant. Indeed, it was amazingly pleasant to witness surprised admiration illuminating her features as a fresh smile made itself known.

"You are talking about Zevran Arainai," she said, and it was not a question. "I did not realize that story was true; he is a legend in his own lifetime in Antiva."

Alistair winced, realizing a little late that he might have given away a little too much to the princess of Antiva. "I had heard something about him being rather busy over there," he offered, careful not to mention that Zev visited Denerim fairly regularly to look over the spy network he had created on behalf of the clueless king on the throne.

"He is close to being the only remaining member of House Arainai, so I hear," Felicita agreed in a warm tone, tilting her head at the bewilderment on Maria's face. "What is it, little one?"

"What's a assassin?"

To his delight, Alistair realized that Felicita was uncertain how to answer that question. It was marvelous to see that she wasn't quite as composed at all times as she first appeared. Of course, he didn't know how to answer the question either, so it was probably just as well that Lady Ciara decided to do it for them.

"An assassin is someone who is paid to kill people," the Ferelden girl explained to Maria, offering this from behind the princess. "And the best assassins in the world are the Antivan Crows."

"Are they birds with big swords?" Maria asked, turning her eyes to Felicita.

The princess' smile recovered from her moment of uncertainty. "No, little one, they are men and women," she said. "I think, if anyone ever managed to train a bird to fight with a sword, I would have to hide under the bed until it was stopped."

Maria laughed; Ciara laughed; Alistair laughed with them, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted how smoothly Felicita had steered them away from thoughts of death. And he wondered, too, how much she knew of the Crows of her homeland. She was royalty; Zevran had spoken of jobs he had taken to kill off princes and princesses in Antiva. Was Felicita's life in danger, just because of who she had been born to be? Was that why she said she walked armed, why her father had given her daggers? Was that why she was here in the first place - to find a way to separate herself from the dangers of being born royal in Antiva and thus save her own life?

They were sobering thoughts, ones he didn't want to entertain too much. It would be nice to think that perhaps she was here because she wanted to get to know him a little before he decided who he was going to marry, but he wasn't naive enough to think that was the driving force behind any of them accepting the invitation. Still, it was worth a little quiet investigation. Perhaps he could get a raven to Zevran, wherever that blasted elf had disappeared to now, and find out a little more about Princess Felicita.

A small hand tugging at his collar dragged him out of his thoughts, pulling his gaze back to Maria's eager face.

"Mmm?"

"You said we could see the puppets," she reminded him.

"Ah! Of course! Puppets cannot be missed in favor of pretty company and good conversation," he agreed with her, inclining his head to the ladies before glancing about. "Shall we go and find out what story they're planning to tell today?"

Maria nodded excitedly, little fingers gripping the fur on his collar. "Yes please, Mr. Kingness!"

"Then off we go! Dear ladies, do excuse us."

With Maria of Rivain on his hip, the king of Ferelden strode off through the crowd, the sobering thoughts that had filtered through his mind forgotten at the prospect of a puppet show with someone who seemed more than happy to share in his indulgence for such things. All right, so she was ten years old; he definitely couldn't marry her. But he hoped she would be allowed to stay in Ferelden. He could stomach marrying any of the ladies, if he could enjoy Maria's company. Maybe he should thank that Grand Cleric in Dairsmuid for inadvertently sending him someone he could be childish with, without shame.

And maybe keeping Maria close would offer more opportunities to discover a little more about the brides he was supposed to be vetting ... and more about one in particular.

[mutantenfisch]

1 & 7

1. What is your Inquisitor’s name and race? (and small characterisation/backstory because I won’t shut up about my OCs)

Duuuude, I have like 17 Inquisitors by now… XDBut anyway, here they are, as ordered as possible.

The Dwarves:

Meret, Craeg, Arno and Eguzkia Cadash. Zelma Aeducan.

Related only by name, Eguzkia bears the maiden name of her mother, who originally was a baker in Orzammar and ran away to the surface with a member of House Helmi who loves his wife and daughter deeply, despite them being lower caste. She and her mother were hired to provide their culinary arts to some nobles at the Conclave and it was only due to a chain of coincidence, that the young dwarf ends up being Herald of Andraste.

Meret’s mother, on the other hand, was indeed a branded casteless who worked for the Carta. Her surface-born son followed her path due to having to provide her medicine for her chronic cough. One of his heist targets, a Tevinter mage and scholar in exile, sees the young dwarf’s intellectual potential and hires him and his mother as apprentice/bodyguard and housekeeper. A decade later, the trio’s interest in the Conclave is only marginal; the Tevinter, Lydus Maro, had planned to make the pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for religious reasons only and by chance, all three of them survive the Conclave, mostly thanks to the distance Lydus and Ama have kept to the temple. Of course, the following scandal with a dwarf of all people being the Herald of Andraste, and with him having a Tevinter “magister” advanced in years as a friend and lover does not help the fledgling Inquisition gaining approval or attention in its first days.

Azelma was the second child of King Endrin Aeducan but after being framed for the murder of Trian, she was exiled to the deep roads. Unfortunately, she never managed to reach the Grey Wardens in time and instead joined the Legion of the Dead, to give her exile and death-in-name a meaningful purpose. A darkspawn emissary’s fire bolt nearly killed her and left one half of her face disfigured and the corresponding eye blinded and ear tingling. She follows some suspicious darkspawn activities to Haven and tries to warn the Divine. Her amnesia is worse than with any other Inquisitor in their respective time-line, for she can remember almost nothing about what happened in the two weeks before the Conclave. 

Craeg is a surfacer who’s never been to Orzammar in his entire life, but as the resident bouncer at his favourite tavern, he had to deal with so many Carta dwarves who were, in fact, real casteless dwarves from the streets of Dust-Town which left for a better (if criminal) life, he decides one day to get one of those infamous face tattoos on his cheek as well. He was probably drunk when that happened. His reason to be at the Conclave was, as with most of my characters, purely business-related but since he has a talent for stumbling right into trouble, it was almost no coincidence that he picked up the orb. 

Arno left his family the moment they declared he’d be married to a member of the Smith Caste and used the anonymity of the Surface to embrace his real identity and change his name from Nora to Arno. He picked the last name Cadash for he knew it was a quite common name among Carta-members and he was sure this would sound believable enough. He loves hitting stuff and wearing armour that conceals some parts of his physique. Smuggling Lyrium as a quick, if dangerous, source of income was good enough for him and especially after the downfall of the Circles, Templars were way too eager to keep their line of supply working, so he did’t ask many questions.

The Elves:

Ilargian, Meretari and Udane Ibaiguren.

They were taken in by clan Lavellan when the Ibaiguren were destroyed during events of the “Three-Queens” era in 9:17 Dragon. Only few clan members survived. 

Ilargian is the oldest of the trio. In the worldstate where he becomes Inquisitor, he and his Starkhaven-born wife Maeve Ameslari, n elf-blooded healer and secretly self-taught hedge-mage, are on the run from the Mage-Templar War. They met a few years earlier when she was in temporary, contract-bound slavery for a Tevinter slave hunter company and escaped together. Now, he tries to get first-hand information about the outcome of the Conclave and decides to go there as a spy for his small, growing family. Being separated from his loved ones really tears on his nerves and sanity and sometimes only the companionship of the mysterious spirit boy can ease his pain and calm his fears, so he can sleep soundly at least during some nights.

Meretari and Udane are half-sisters with a ten-year age-gap and while the older, Meretari, has a few childhood memories of her mother, two dads and twin-brother, the younger is named after Meretari’s mother who, in this worldstate, did not survive the flight to clan Lavellan but is kept in dear and loving memory by her husbands. Udane the Elder was also a cousin of Merrill’s mother and for Varric, the resemblance between Meretari and Hawke’s Dalish companion in Kirkwall is almost too uncanny to bear.

Ondras and Oroilora Lavellan

Again, these two are only related by their clan’s name, but are neither siblings nor cousins. Instead, O was sent to Clan Lavellan after her magic manifested, for Clan Sabrae already had Merrill as Marethari’s first.

Ondras could be the epitome of a bratty teenager who is more interested in partying and flirting, if he didn’t also show a deep care towards others and their daily struggles. For most people, he makes the first impression of a very flamboyant youth who neither hides his good looks nor sexuality and some smell a scandal just waiting to happen. Despite his young age - he barely got his vallaslin before he volunteered to spy on the Conclave - he is an excellent marksman and caring and patient companion to those he grows friends with. 

Oroilora is the keeper’s First and takes her elven pride and distrust towards humans a bit too seriously, but then again, she can’t be blamed for this. A few months before she got her vallaslin, the young mage encountered a troupe of noble-born hunters, who decided to declare the elf their “special” prey. She barely survived this encounter and chose Elgar’nan as her vallaslin and swore to hunt down and kill the humans who hurt and humiliated her. This hunt lead her to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  

Manon Vallon

Manon is one of the few survivors of Celene’s purge of Halamshiral’s Alienage. She was hired as a guard by an Orlesian hedge-knight who bears little love for the Empress’s actions during that night but also needs cheap muscle to protect his estate in the Dales from the brooding civil war. He watched her slaughter some of Celene’s soldiers in the streets outside the Alienage and that settled the deal for him.Manon was his bodyguard at the Conclave, even though she rather wanted to stay behind at her new home to protect her fellow servants, but had little say in the matter, which made her furious at first, but upon her return to the estate, she was glad her fortune turned out like this. She immediately put the whole remaining household under the Inquisition’s protection and retaliated upon the marauders for what they’ve done there.

The Humans:

Maxim, Irene, Roxana, Sebastien, Henry and Jean-Luc Trevelyan.

While Roxana and Jean-Luc both have only little memories of their family and spent most of their lives in the Circle, both have different approaches towards magic and the ongoing war.

Jean-Luc, who was certain he would die of old age in his Senior Enchanter bed, is afraid of the open and of rain and enjoys staying by the fireplace, neck deep in his studies, now wields a green glowing thing on his hand, has to venture through mud and snow and what not and the only light at the end of the day is having conversation with his fellow researcher Minaeve or the heart-warmingly charming Ambassador Montilyet. 

Roxana on the other hand thinks the war has been inevitable and considers it her duty to fight in it, to make mages’ lives safer. She holds no grudge against Templars in general, but then again, not every Circle was like Ostwick’s and not all Templars are nice people. 

Irene served as a Templar for most of her life and while she takes her duties very seriously, and disagreed with Meredith’s leadership when she was stationed in Kirkwall, she can’t bring herself to fully trust mages, after having seen them being possessed or killing her friends with blood magic. She and Cullen know each other since their days in the Kinloch Hold Circle and even though she is a woman beyond her forties and at least for a while was above him in rank, she highly respects him and often speaks back with him when things have to be decided. 

Sebastien is the illegitimate child of an Orlesian servant girl and one of the Trevelyans when this branch of the family resided in Ferelden around 9:15-9:20 Dragon. As a child, he was bullied by his peers for his parents, his accent, his protruding ears and his weight. That he searched solace in comfort-food, such as cookies, did not really help. Especially not, when the Hero of Ferelden and their entourage stopped at their village and the intimidating Qunari companion of the Grey Warden took the little boy’s cookies and told him he didn’t need more. What did help, was seeing the Hero and their friends in action and learning about Alistair becoming king of Ferelden. After this, the boy decided to become like his new idol and after a decade of fiercely practising the way of the sword, he has become a buff, towering young lad, who still loves cookies and has a thing for those pagan giants from the north. 

Maxim, Max for short, is the youngest of four children, and while his mother was incredibly happy that at least her youngest was a girl, the following years showed that this was indeed not the case with young Max. While his father tolerates his personality and his interest in learning how to ride and fight and his older brothers accept him, his relationship to his mother is rather cold and strained by this circumstance. 

Henry is the least person he himself would have thought becoming a hero of some sorts. The calm, quiet man might be a noble and might be quite proficient with a bow or his dual blades, but never had any ambition to actually do noble or heroic deeds. And after all, isn’t the Grey Warden or the Champion of Kirkwall what a real hero has to look or act like? No, for this orange haired man, this whole Herald business is just one big misunderstanding.

The Qunari

Zdravkos, Shura, Artemia and Ireth (though I’m not sure whether I will actually play the latter, due to her being already part of an Elder Scrolls crossover, where she is Dragonborn)

Zdravkos is the son of Vashoth mercenaries who serve as regular guards for a quite unimportant Orlesian nobleman and his family. The boy, even though he always knew he was treated a little different than the other servants’ children, grew up to be a kind and gentle, soft-spoken young lad who would, in his teen years, often impress guests of the house with his skill as both a painter and a dancer, despite his height and “savage” origin. When his magic manifested, at the rather high age of nineteen,  his family’s patron arranged for him being taken to the Circle of Montsimmard, where Kos showed quite some talent for both frost and healing magic and successfully completed his Harrowing only a few years after coming to the Circle and months before the Civil War started. While he is no eager player of the Game, he has a talent for it and uses this to his own benefit after becoming Inquisitor.

Shura is again a vashoth and also a true mercenary. She convinces with her intimidating height - and strange beauty - as much as with her broadaxe. Then again, her abilities as a leader, or at least second-in-command, weren’t just valued by her former company, but also by her fellow Inquisition members. 

Artemia, Temi for her friends, grew up near the Antivan border and as a child, always hoped her horns would curve in a way that’d make it possible for her to use them to swing on them.In the end, she grew faster than her horns and the early death of her Tal-Vashoth parents made it necessary for her to take on any kind of work that would make it possible for her and her younger siblings to survive on their own. She joins the Valo-Kas mercenaries when her siblings are old enough to look after themselves and loses both her horns to enemies’ axes. She’s furious on the battlefield and a whirlwind with her long knives. But as soon as children are in danger she turns into something the Qun would have called a Tamassran, like her mother once was, and fights like a dragon to defend them.

2. Who is your Inquisitor’s best friend?This is indeed not easy to ask. In means of approval, most of my Inquisitors get along well with Varric - Eguzkia Cadash and Henry Trevelyan are declared fans of his work as well. Then again, depending on the character and background, my Inquis have different views and values and since some of them have accompanying NPC OCs, those count, too.For Meret, his lover Lydus is also his best friend - much to the delight of his mum, who is happy her boy is happy. He also becomes friends with Minaeve and both Bram Kenric and Frederic of Serault, the latter eventually engaging in a polyamory relationship with Meret and Lydus.Ilargian would probably be lost without Cole’s presence. The boy knows when to say the right things to the elf and he is the first person he can share his burden of worrying about his family with, while not having to give away too much verbal information about them. He also gets along very well with Blackwall and, to his own surprise, with Dorian.Meretari often sticks to herself, but becomes good friends with Scout Harding, while Udane befriends the Chargers, as does Max.Zdravkos, now that he has the chance, bonds with Vivienne over their similar views towards magic and mages, Jean-Luc and Oroilora become friends with Solas.Irene sticks somewhat to her habits and hangs around with the (ex-)Templars a lot but also becomes friends with Blackwall and Cassandra.For Shura, no-one, not even herself can tell whether she was first friends, then lovers with Sera or if it was the other way around. Fact is, when they can, they plunder the kitchen larder together or prank those who understand fun. Eguzkia gets along with Sera very good, too, but without the romance part. And she sometimes slows Sera down, when a prank seems harmful to her.Pfhhhew, that was a lot. Thank you very much for asking!

[shift-shaping]

THE LIONESS AND THE WOLF - VI - HON HON

This work is also available on Ao3. If you enjoy my work, please reblog, leave a comment, or donate to my Ko-Fi. Thank you!

Rating: Mature

Genre: General, Okay I Guess It’s a Slow Burn Now

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warning: Bad singing, mild gore, More OCs

Part six of The Lioness and the Wolf.

previous <> next

This wasn’t right. Usually when Eirwen awoke in an unfamiliar place, the hangover that hit her seconds later would tell her what happened. She felt dehydrated and worn, but as a true hangover connoisseur she knew when she wasn’t experiencing one. 

She shifted, her body sore as she moved for the first time in hours. Across the room she heard the floor creak, and the sudden noise wrested her from her drowsiness so fast she felt her hip crack as she turned. Flickering candlelight met her eyes, dancing against the pale face of a middle-aged woman with a crooked smile. “Ah. So you are awake.”

The woman had an Orlesian accent, but not one so thick Eirwen had trouble understanding. Forcing herself to ignore the bitter taste of sleep in her mouth, Eirwen cleared her throat and spoke. “Where am I?”

Again the floor creaked, and with a sigh the woman stood and strode into the light. She was tall and square-faced, her short hair emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheeks and jaw. “Fort Revasan. You are in no danger, Warden.”

Eirwen’s gaze fell to the bright, blood-red symbol on the woman’s chest, peeking out from beneath her cloak. “Why does Gaspard need Templars?”

“There are apostates everywhere. One never knows when a specific skill set may be required.”

“He must have several,” Eirwen said, thinking out loud. “I am no apostate.”

“I did not mean to suggest that you were.” The Templar shrugged. “But after seeing what you are capable of, is it so strange that we would have you guarded?”

Eirwen said nothing, having heard this line of thinking more than enough times to know where it led. “How did you know I was a Warden?”

The crooked smile on the Templar’s face tilted even more, a true smirk now. “A question of mathematics. A Rivaini elf with shapeshifting abilities of the expected age and dimensions? You are not so hard to figure out.”

“For the educated, I suppose.”

“There is a painting of you in Kinloch Hold. Do you know this?”

Eirwen snorted and shook her head. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me.” She sat up and grimaced at her sore muscles. “When did you go to Kinloch?”

“I have been many places.” The Templar held out her gauntlet-bound hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Eirwen reached out and shook it. “Knight-Captain Lezare.”

“Eirwen.” She sat up, frowning. “You didn’t capture me alone.”

“We did not capture you at all, Warden.” Lazare gestured to the door. “You may leave if you wish.”

“That explains your presence...” She wasn’t stupid. They wouldn’t put a Templar so close if they actually meant her to leave on her whim.

“As I said.” Lezare smiled slightly again. “There is no harm in being careful.”

“You found me with someone else. Where is he?”

“We could not catch him. He left you as bait to protect himself.”

Eirwen rolled her eyes. “Unlikely.” She drew her legs toward her, sitting cross-legged now on her bed. “I want to see him.”

“I will not stop you from leaving, Warden. But... perhaps you would meet with our leader, before you go?”

“Gaspard? Oh, yes, as an elven mage that sounds fantastic.”

“You degrade yourself.” Lezare’s voice took on a note of offense, and Eirwen watched her quietly. “You are much more than a mere elf or mage. Duke Gaspard recognizes your accomplishments. He believes a conversation would be... fruitful.”

“I’m not interested.” Eirwen had nothing to gain from such a meeting. She had no interest in following politics, much less being part of them; she’d had plenty of that during the Blight. Her purpose here needed to be leaving, preferably as soon as possible. The longer she spent wallowing in her own exhaustion and having worthless conversations, the worse off her men would be. 

Her fingers toyed with the blanket and she tried not to think of them, locked up somewhere, suffering at the hands of the Freemen because no one knew where they were. Perhaps Adaar had learned of the mishap, perhaps not. 

She looked up at Lezare again, her brows furrowed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“I would say... twenty-six hours or so, by my count?”

Eirwen’s eyes widened. “Liar.”

Lezare shrugged noncommittally. “It may not be exact, but about as much. After your spell, you slept heavy. We could not rouse you, even as we fixed your wounds.”

That’s right. Eirwen touched her side and felt thin, clean bandages under her fingers. There was nothing wrapped around her head either, and the only pain she felt was from dehydration. “A mage did this.”

“That would be absurd.” But the glint in Lezare’s eyes told Eirwen she was right. Clearly Gaspard had no problem keeping both rogue Templars and runaway mages in his employ. 

She shook her head and looked away, frustrated with herself and afraid of what the consequences for this were. Solas, her men, they were all in danger because she couldn’t handle the recovery of her own spell. If Solas was still alive, if they were ever stuck together again, she’d make him promise to keep her from turning into a dragon while intoxicated. 

There was, however, a way out. She looked at Lezare again and nodded to the pile of clothing in the corner that looked like her things. “Give me my clothes and my flask. I’ll speak with the Duke.”

...

“And my girl she wore such lovely things, such lovely pearls and flowers. She’d have you in her palm all night, so long as you pay for the hour, ooh!”

Solas cringed and pressed his fingers harder into his ears, trying desperately to block out the ear-splitting sound of his cellmate’s singing. The dwarf danced about and yelled every line, much to the chagrin of everyone else in the fort’s prison. Every once in a while something heavy would smack into the cell bars, causing the dwarf to yelp and sing louder over the men cursing him to shut up. 

So far Solas had gathered the dwarf, and many of the other prisoners, were part of a lyrium-smuggling ring that Gaspard’s troops broke as they tried to find a way to the fighting in the west. They were selling to anyone that would buy, but the Venatori were naturally their biggest customers. Yet despite their ambiguous morality, the smugglers’ coin still held sway and they’d managed to get the guard to largely leave them alone --and to make their most irritating comrade bunk with the “weird egg-headed knife-ear.”

The dwarf’s name was Sam, allegedly, but that seemed very fake. One of the other smugglers had called him “Belherav,” which seemed a bit far from Sam to Solas’s admittedly un-Dwarven ears. 

When Sam wasn’t singing, he was coming up with remarkably stupid escape plans. One particular highlight involved training a rat to summon his rat friends, attack the guard, and bring him the key. He also seemed convinced that Solas could turn him into a frog and was holding out on him. 

“I know what you magic-y people can do --you can do anything! See, if you just turn me into a frog then I can hop right out, open the door, and we could both go free!”

“I was not aware frogs had the dexterity necessary for lock-picking. Or even using a key.”

“Well you’d turn me back once I got of the cell, obviously.”

“...would I?”

And so on. For hours Sam sang or talked or farted and worked every other smuggler into a frothing rage. At first Solas had assumed Eirwen’s absence was due to her being a woman, that she was being held elsewhere, but he’d heard plenty of female smugglers screaming at Sam since he arrived. She must have been put somewhere else because of her celebrity, an irony which did not go unnoticed. 

Solas tried to ignore his cellmate as best he could, but the incessant noise wore his patience thin. Eirwen had probably slept through all of his suffering somewhere much more comfortable, though he knew it wasn’t her choice. Had it been up to her, he knew she’d have wanted them both in relative comfort.

He considered escaping by using his magic, but one of the Templars Gaspard employed wandered through the cells at inopportune times. The mere existence of Templars upset Solas’s stomach, but that they were here, in the Dirth, was case for even greater concern. He knew of no fighting between mages and Templars here, but the Dalish came through frequently and many of them were fairly relaxed about their mages. That some of them disposed of excess mages was even worse: there were apostate elves wandering the fens and prairies, easy pickings for cruel Templars. 

A loud, sudden crash tore Solas from his thoughts and he looked up to see the guard leaning against the iron bars of his cell. Sam stood directly opposite the guard, holding all four feet of himself tall and proud. The guard spoke in rapid, angry Orlesian to the dwarf, but Sam obviously had no idea what he was saying. 

“Er, hon hon I am, how you say, so Orleeeziian, I cannot speak that, erm, detestable common tongue, as you call it,” Sam said, affecting a very bad Orlesian accent. The guard slammed his fist into the bars, making Sam jump. 

“Shut up! I will beat you!”

“I’d like to see you try! I’m two-thirds your height and still have about a hundred pounds on you!” That was blatantly untrue, but Sam was a rather rotund man. He leaned into the bars, getting uncomfortably close to the guard. “But if you’d like a singing contest, I’d be happy to oblige.”

The guard jabbed his finger through the bars, poking Sam hard enough in the eye that the dwarf reeled backward. “That is what you get, dwarf--” 

Sam cut him off. He reached through the bars, grasped the guard by the collar, and brought him hard into the cold, solid iron again and again. The guard screamed and tried to fight back, but Sam’s grip was too strong as he pounded the guard’s face into a bloody pulp. 

With the ease of a man who had just finished an excellent musical performance, Sam bent down and fished the guard’s keys from his belt loop. He unlocked the cell door and it swung open with a loud creak.

Solas watched him, astonished and silent. Sam met his gaze, paused for a moment, then shrugged. “He didn’t need that. His face, that is. Wasn’t doing anything important with it.”

“I...”

“Well, come on then.” Sam gestured to the door. “You want out of here, then help me. Could use a mage to back me up.” He blinked a few times and rubbed at his eye. “Fuckin’ cheese-eating bastard.”

Solas stood and frowned as he followed Sam into the hallway. The other smugglers yelled and cursed and threw what little they had. “You aren’t going to release them?”

Sam shook his head and raised his voice above the din. “Nah, fuck these guys. Never liked my singing!”

They found the closet where Solas’s staff and Sam’s giant metal fist was stored. Solas eyed it wearily for a moment, then looked at Sam’s face. He had a scraggy, greasy beard with unkempt black wires for hair and pale skin poking out beneath. In the right light, Solas thought he could see dark freckles along Sam’s cheeks and nose. “How did you discover that I am a mage? I never mentioned it.”

Sam fixed his weapon to his arm and shrugged. “You aren’t Dalish, and city elves aren’t that pompous unless they have magic, a giant cock, or both.” Solas raised his brows, and Sam just winked. “Anyway.” The dwarf grinned as he finished strapping his gauntlet on. He let out a slow, relieved breath. “Good to get my hand back. Now let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m itching for a good fight.”

[cedarmoons]

Director's Cut Meme: that scene in beloved where Solas totally draws her like a French (Orlesian???) Girl

AAAHH!! was hoping someone would pick this scene, even if you didn’t specify some 500 words. ;) 

SO. “French Girls” (as I so lovingly nicknamed that scene) was the #1 reason I wanted to write this fic. I was inspired by the knowledge that a Dalish clan is supposed to kill their Keeper if the Keeper becomes possessed (the doc name is still “Keeper Hunt”, even though that plot point didn’t end up happening) - but the image of Solas drawing Ariala’s naked back is what made beloved a 52,000+ smol book, rather than a 500-word drabble that would forever be confined to my “DRABBLES” doc.

I knew beloved was going to be a fic, while ultimately focused on Ariala, that would also include Solavellan reconciliation of some kind. But how? What would start them on that path to reconciliation? Solas is stubborn, Ariala doesn’t like to talk about her problems, it’s a giant recipe for disaster. How would I get the kids to Behave™?

The answer… was French Girls.

With that said, let’s get started! Also, listen to this on repeat, because that’s what I did while writing it. I will try to do it justice, since it’s my favorite scene in the entire fic. This is a long ass post, even though I decided to just do the first half of french girls. :)

“You’re awake,” he says, blinking again before sitting up. “You’ve been resting the whole day.” His brow furrows, mouth opening, then closing. “How are you feeling?”

Ariala wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “Fine,” she lies.

So when Solas says “You’ve been resting all day,” he means “I’ve been coming in to check on you since the vigil and you have literally been asleep all day, I’m worried about you.” Deshanna’s death is a really low point for Ariala, to the extent that it actually triggers depression. I’m modeling her depression on my own - i.e., she’s not sad so much as uninterested or uncaring about basic life things, such as getting out of bed or bathing, she becomes emotionally disconnected from things (the scientific term is “she’s empty inside”) and she sleeps a heckin’ lot.

I’ve been hinting at her depression for a while, both in chapter three and the other chapters, but it hasn’t kept her from fulfilling basic tasks like this bout will. The most explicit reference is after she’s bathed in chapter three, when she says:

The cold water is bracing against her skin, enough to drive the tiredness from her eyes, but not enough to expunge the heaviness from her limbs. When she moves, she feels as if she is wearing plate armor, not a simple tunic and leathers.

All she wants to do is sleep.

Solas knows that she’s depressed, he knows she’s the opposite of fine, but he has no idea how to help or try to stop it. And it turns out, neither will anyone else at Skyhold except two people, which will be covered in chapter 4 when I post it in ten a few years. Fun stuff!

His expression falls, as if he can sense her lie, but he swallows and nods anyway.

Ariala’s a bad liar, lol, but Solas doesn’t have the heart to try and push the issue. I mean, he just held the love of his life while she wept for her grandmother, he knows she’s not fine, but some part of him is thinking “it’s not my place.” So, he can’t really do anything but observe, and help when/if she asks. 

Basically, this is him internally:

He wants to reach for her, he wants to comfort her, but ultimately he holds himself back, and keeps himself distant.

He glances down at the bed he sits on, pushing back a corner of a skewed blanket, revealing his sketchbook and a leather drawing kit. When he opens the kit’s flap, several sharpened sticks of charcoal glint in the light. A muscle twinges in Solas’s jaw as he looks up. “I am ready to draw the vallaslin when you are,” he tells her.

She exhales. “Thank you,” she says. He nods, but his gaze slides away, over the warm red tones of the aravel interior. Ariala shifts forward, moving until her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Solas gets himself comfortable, opening his journal and setting out his tools. Ariala watches as he takes a small knife and begins to sharpen a stick of charcoal.

“What do you want to draw first?” she asks.

“Your preference,” he says, not looking at her.

He still really, truly hates the idea of drawing her vallaslin, because her intention is to give it to other clans so that they can copy the pattern, thus potentially allowing for more elves to be marked with vallaslin, which is the last thing he wants, no matter what he told her in Crestwood.

I think Solas understands why Ariala chose to keep the vallaslin; but I also think that as time goes on he still cannot help but wish she’d chosen to discard her vallaslin. He might’ve told her that she’s perfect exactly as she is, but he can’t let go of what they meant in Arlathan. That’s just how Solas is: he understands other people’s points, but his mind is rarely changed. He is very set in his ways, which is why Ariala gets so frustrated with him sometimes.

At some point, actually, I had him arguing with Deshanna about the Dalish (something he does not really do in the fic), and Ariala gets mad at him. Here’s the deleted scene, set during a vigil, after Deshanna discusses Ellowen, a member of the clan, and Sarah, her human love in Wycome:

“I am surprised a Dalish elf could bring themselves to love a human,” Solas says, his nose wrinkling slightly.

“Why?” Deshanna asks.

He is not expecting her question. “Ah. Well, it seems only natural for elves to desire other elves. And one would think the Dalish to be protective of that custom most of all, considering their poor history with humans.”

“Solas,” Ariala says, sharply.

“Why would we blame an innocent girl for the actions of people half a continent away and a hundred hundred years dead?” Deshanna asks, her tone just as caustic.

“Because of the shape of her ears, perhaps,” Solas replies, mouth twitching. “Your people certainly have no qualms doing the same thing to city elves. Tell me, Keeper, would you have been equally supportive if Sarah had been a flat-ear?”

“Solas!” she snaps.

Every time. Every single time she thinks they’d moved past this, he shows that he is still stuck in this stupid rut.

I decided ultimately to use Solas’s comment from the Blackwall romance, not the Sera romance, because I thought him picking a fight in the middle of their vigil would be a little jarring from the rest of the atmosphere. My beta agreed, and the scene was cut, replaced with the one we have now.

Solas is also, conveniently, using his disgruntlement at doing this as a way to distract himself from dwelling on the fact that his ex, who he is definitely 100% still in love with, needs like… a thousand hugs, some blankets, and hot chocolate.

And he TOTALLY WOULD give her all those things, if, you know, he hadn’t broken up with her like two weeks before her clan was murdered.

“Face, then,” she says, and he nods.

“Let down your hair, please,” he instructs, still not looking at her. She does, staring at him as she reaches up and undoes the leather tie that keeps her haphazard bun in place. She sighs in relief as her damp hair tumbles down her shoulders, running her hands through it to smooth back the baby hairs. She massages her scalp and the back of her skull, wincing at the protests of sore muscles. Once her hair is arranged how she likes, she sets her hands at her sides, fingers knotting in the blanket she’s wrapped around herself.

When he has readied his supplies, he looks up. After a moment, he frowns, and with a flick of his hand summons magelights, which instantly flock to her face. They are bright, but not harsh; the glow is just as soft and warm as candlelight. “Tilt your chin up,” he requests. “Toward the light.”

She does, lifting her head just a little as her eyes fall shut, until the backs of her eyelids are painted golden instead of orange. There is no sound for a moment, before Solas sighs, and the bed across from her rustles, and his fingers brush ever so gently under her chin. Ariala inhales, stiffening, and opens her eyes. Solas does nothing but lift her chin higher, until her neck is arched. He swallows, and his hand drags across her cheek, fingertips gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch lingers.

Ariala’s breath catches.

If this seems sad somehow to you, it’s because Whispers was doing that sad instrumental part near the end of the song, and it hurts me. Two lines from that song I thought were particularly resonant:

In whispers, in whispers, you saylet it go, let it go — home.

and

Oh, I have seen your beauty growWhere others fade, you shine in gold

Ariala, it should be noted, is literally surrounded by golden light, whether candlelight or magelight. I am really proud of my imagery writing (I try to describe everything so that it’s as cinematic as possible) and I think it really came through in this moment— the scene as a whole, not just Ariala being bathed in golden light.

Shout-out for cinematographic writing! 

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ 

So, they’ve both been circling around each other, having little intimate moments (think when Ariala wrapped Solas’s hands, and him carrying her out of the aravel after Deshanna passes), and this is where that all comes to a head. Solas has a perfect opportunity to touch her (in lifting her chin) but he just can’t help himself from doing more — brushing her hair back behind her ear. It’s a very intimate gesture, which he knows damn well, but he can’t! help! it!

Solas: ok, this is a favor for her, I am a professional. The lighting isn’t good enough to get the details, so, ask her to lift her chin. Excellent, okay, now I can get back to business —

Solas to Solas: caress her cheek like you did when you were together and then tell her she’s perfect

They stare at each other in silence for several moments before Solas drops his hand. “Perfect,” he whispers. Her chest tightens. “Hold there, please.”

this was the moment of where I just

and then stay like that writing the entire rest of the chapter. i’m not joking, my own writing was killing me. fun fact: this was originally supposed to take place in a tent, but I like the aravel setting much better.

“Okay,” she murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. But Solas returns to his position across from her, and after forcing herself to relax, Ariala takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

She does not know how long they stay, but at some point it begins to rain. She listens to the patter of it against the window, against the roof, and all the while the scratch of Solas’s strokes fill the silence of the aravel.

“How did you become an artist?” she asks. “Josephine told me an art scholar said it was an ancient style of the elves, dating back to Arlathan.”

Solas’s pause is only a moment long, but it is long enough. “The scholar was correct,” he says. “It was an art style of ancient Arlathan, one that took centuries to master. A spirit of Creativity taught me, and I practiced the technique when I could. My work is nothing compared to the masters of the craft.”

Now that she knows the truth, a dozen different questions come to mind, each one doing their part to undermine his excuse. If the art took centuries to master, how could he—supposedly mortal—be so good at it? How had he found a spirit of Creativity, rather than a spirit of Vanity or Pride?

How could she have ever missed the holes in his story?  

She opens her eyes and watches him, very carefully. “You use the Fade as an excuse for everything,” she says. He goes very still, staring down at the drawing, fingers tightening on the charcoal stick. Ariala watches him in silence before she says, gently, “Whatever it is, Solas, I want you to know that you can tell me.”

Solas:

Does she know? Does she know?? Her grandmother was acting weird a few days ago, maybe she figured something out and told her, but, no, she doesn’t know, because if she did know, she definitely would’ve tried to … I don’t know, kill me, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t know how she’d react but this is too cryptic and — okay, I think she doesn’t know. She shouldn’t know? But if she didn’t know, then she wouldn’t say that thing about the Fade, because that is a very specific and not incorrect accusation and if she did actually know —

Repeat for like… five minutes. He’s trying to figure out what she’s getting at, while also not giving away the fact that she got to him, which is why he just doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t want to give away her suspicion just yet. Unlikely as it is, he might take her words for the genuine invitation they are.

Ariala hasn’t confronted Solas about being an ancient elf yet because she knows it’s his secret, so she’s waiting to see if he would trust her enough to reveal it on his own. It’s 100% a test. Is it what she should be doing? No. Is Solas going to come to her on his own? No. Does she know that? No, which is why she’s letting herself hope here.

Damn it, Solas.

She does not know how long she stays like that, listening to their quiet breaths and the sound of Solas sketching. But eventually, the stillness soothes the ragged parts of her, and her breaths deepen and slow.

“Done,” Solas says, much later. Ariala blinks herself awake, realizing she’d been half-asleep. She leans forward, and Solas turns the journal so she may see his work. Their fingers brush as she takes the journal from him.

The charcoal lines are thick, but careful, and graphite is substituted for the smaller lines. He’d drawn her with her eyes closed, and her hair isn’t crimped from the bun. Instead, her hair falls around her in loose waves, framing her face. The vallaslin is intricately drawn, branching across her forehead and down her temples, and he had drawn a larger replica of the pattern on the opposite page. Her nose is not so crooked, and her ears don’t stick out as much.

He’d drawn her to be beautiful.

Dove has a really beautiful video where an artist comes in and draws a variety of women; one drawing based on how the women describe themselves, and then one drawing based on how others describe those women. That video is what the third paragraph was inspired by. We all seem to be hyperaware of our own perceived flaws. Also, in that last line, @playwithdinos​ said “CONTROL YOUR THIRST, SOLAS.”

Other gems from dino:

“Let down your hair, please,” he instructs, still not looking at her. [I like how she’s not “isn’t it easier for you to see if it’s up” like come on Solas. COME ON.]

[…]

He swallows, and his hand drags across her cheek, fingertips gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch lingers. [Solas you are fooling no one.]

I am very lucky to have her. :)

Ariala lowers her hand, fingertips hovering over the page but not quite touching.

“Well?” Solas asks, just as quietly as he’d spoken before, but there is a note of—something in his voice. Uncertainty, maybe?

Ariala looks up and swallows hard. “It’s beautiful,” is all she says. His wariness softens, and he looks down at the floor, one of his hands crossing to clasp his opposite wrist. A muscle in his jaw twinges.

Remember, Solas has only shown her his journal once before, and she accidentally stumbled upon his everyday drawings of her. She reacted well last time, but he’s still nervous about showing her his art. and it’s adorable ;__;

So French Girls, as a whole, was an exercise in balance, above all things. I needed to balance Ariala’s emotional state after Deshanna’s death, Solas’s inner conflict about the woman he loves, the fragility of the dance between them, and how this moment would (or if it would) lead to an eventual reconciliation. I’m pretty proud of how I wrote the scene, and its aftermath, and I hope readers enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)

Thanks for asking, anon!

[faejilly]

Still Waters

so, as previously mentioned I was doing some fic/archive maintenance today, and pulled a bunch of things, and re-worked a few, and turned them into something different than what they used to be, by lining them all up together. So it’s kind of new, and kind of not, but I wanted to share this collection of ficlets that unexpectedly turned into a rather decent character study of Bethany Hawke. (on AO3)

don’t leave me

She remembered when it had been safe to laugh, to jump and play and shout and snarl.

Remembered her mother yelling "WALK!" every time she and Carver thumped through the house and out the door.

Mother never had to yell now. It was easy to walk, to keep her voice a whisper, her movements slow, her hair dark and heavy before her eyes, between her and anyone who might look too closely.

She was afraid.

After her magic came, Bethany was always afraid. But she could not bear to tell her father of her fears, sure he would worry, would turn away; convinced he could not love her if she stumbled. Could not risk it, could not risk the rest of the family, Mother and Garrett and Carver.

Not for her. She couldn't bear it if they risked anything, just for her.

But still she was afraid. She could not stand to sleep alone at night, to risk the voices in her nightmares being more than dreams. Could not tell a soul what she feared, as if that would make it real.

But Carver knew. Carver always knew, just as she could read every awkward shift of his shoulders, every roll of his eyes. He knew, and he carried the weight of her fears, breathed them with her in the dark, and put himself between her and the whispers, every night.

green

Bethany loved the sound of the Chant. She wasn't sure what she thought of the words, most of the time, unsure if she owed penance or forgiveness or mortification for being born a mage, but it seemed to be promising peace, someday, and that sounded nice.

It was one of the few places her brothers stopped hovering right behind her shoulder all the time. She loved them dearly, but it was nice to have a moment to herself, wandering the gardens in the Chantry's courtyard. Most of them were practical, herbs for flavor and healing and teas and incense, but not all, oh no. There was one wall of roses, pink and red and blushing peach, surrounding a twisty thorny bush that she'd never seen bloom, not in their past few years here in Lothering.

Not that even the regular roses were blooming yet, too early in the year, too cool, the green of the grass almost damp beneath her feet.

"And aren't you a beautiful bud. Won't you be stunning when you blossom."

Bethany froze, a shot of instant terror, someone's here, someone I didn't see, thought I was alone, musn't get caught, before her brain kicked back in and remembered she wasn't doing anything suspicious, nothing wrong with wandering the gardens. It took just an instant more to recognize the soft Orlesian accent of one of the lay sisters, to find the smooth lines of her robes just past the lone apple tree beside her.

"Good morning!" The redhead smiled, her accent soft and sweet. "Miss Hawke, yes?"

"Yes, thank you." Bethany hated the whisper of her own voice when confronted with people who knew her name. Too familiar means they've seen too much. "I just came, to, that is." She couldn't remember why she'd come, hopes of Chant and redemption and freedom too fragile to put into words, especially to a stranger. She gave up and nodded at the brown rose bushes, too early to have more than a flush of green along their branches.

"Ah, they're lovely flowers, aren't they? I keep hoping for that last one to finally show what she's been growing in her thorns, don't you?"

Bethany blinked, startled to hear the monstrous bush in the middle spoken of so fondly. "I ... suppose. But, I have to," she gestured vaguely back towards the Chantry proper. "My family will be expecting me."

"Of course, my dear." The woman leaned forward, a sudden soft brush of lips against Bethany's cheek almost enough to make her tremble. Though not with fear, no, it was warmer, sweet and smooth and kind and hopeful, somehow. Bethany managed a smile, couldn't quite form the words for good-bye or thank you, and walked back the way she'd come.

what should have been 

The ogre hadn’t killed him.

Quite.

They had to carry him out of the Wilds though, awkwardly balanced between his brother and sister. Carver always had been the tallest.

Bethany couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but wait by his side. Carver was supposed to be the hands to her heart, the heart to her head, the spine behind her smile.

He wasn’t supposed to be half broken and pale, each breath a whistle she could hear in her sleep, as he desperately fought for each heartbeat in the hold of the ship from Gwaren.

Mother nursed him, kept him clean and fed despite Lowtown’s slime and Gamlen’s dirt. Bethany wanted to, but she had a debt to pay, servitude to Meeran for the privilege of their new life of back-breaking drudgery.

He yelled at her, every morning after she’d staggered back home, for wasting her magic on him.

It was such a relief to hear him grumble though, she always laughed, the familiar tug of magic swirling around her hands to settle in his chest a comfort and a delight, no matter how sore her shoulders and feet from a night spent fighting.

It meant they were both still here, still strong.

Still together.

It only took a few months to get him back on his feet. Garrett took them both out to the Wounded Coast every other day, gave Carver enough room to swing a sword, to start getting himself back in shape again.

At the rate he was going, he’d be free to join them when they went freelance, after their year of service was up. There were rumours already building about the Tethras expedition. If they were lucky, (and the eldest Hawke was very good at making luck), they might be able to get in on it.

“Maker preserve the Deep Roads then,” Carver joked, a rasp still hiding behind his laugh, though it got fainter every day. “They won’t know what hit them, not with three Hawkes on the rampage.”

what is instead 

Some days she hates Garrett.

Too short.  Eyes too dark.  Laugh too loud.

He’s not the one she looks for, every time she turns around, and yet he is the one who is always, always, always there.

For that she loves him, even as her breath catches and her stomach curdles and everything hurts more than she can stand and part of her wants to make him bleed so he’ll know her pain and just. stop. smiling.

Sometimes, in the brightest light of noon, when no hand reaches out to tug her hair, no foot slides ‘accidentally’ too close so as to trip her, no shoulder bumps against her, no tongue sticks out at her, no thoughts mirror her own so closely as to finish her every sentence, she wishes Garrett had died instead, and she had her twin back.

Those are the days she gets very quiet, and listens to every word he says, and is desperately thankful he’s not as close to her as Carver was, or he’d know what she was thinking.

He doesn’t deserve that.

Those are the nights she wishes she had a proper house again, so she could cry to herself in her room and no one else would hear.

No one besides Carver has seen her cry in years.  She cannot bear to change that now.  Instead she turns her head into her pillow, and counts her breaths, and pretends her heart still beats a steady rhythm on its own.

elegance 

Some days she loved Hawke.

Hawke.

A title now, more than anything else. Because for all Bethany was a Hawke, and Mother was still a Hawke, even as she looked back at her old home, and Carver…

Bethany swallowed.

Hawke, like that, larger than life, not just a name, but a job, a duty … there was only one Hawke.

Who worried so much. Too much.

Especially, Bethany knew, about the sister that always needed to be protected.

It ought to have been easy to walk across the warehouse, to talk to the herbalist, to agree to stay behind working on potions and tinctures and maybe even sneak in a conversation or two with Tomwise about poisons. She’d be safer, here, than out fighting, and it wasn’t as if she wanted to fight anyways?

But there was something intimidating about the beautiful blonde woman, so poised, so, well, elegant.

Bethany felt every inch the country bumpkin, every time Elegant said hello, and could never quite seem to manage much in the way of words in response.

Just to emphasize how well she fit her name, Elegant kept saying good morning, or good evening, every single time they met, no matter how likely it was that Bethany would fail to be gracious back, and would mumble something incoherent in the general direction of her toes.

She’d started to hate her boots, from staring at the scuffs on them so often.

Today will be different.

For Hawke, even if she couldn’t do it for herself.

She would talk to Elegant, and they could crush elfroot together, and she would be helpful, and, for Hawke’s sake, and Mother’s, and Carver’s, she would be safe.

Though she almost lost her nerve when Elegant lifted her head, her eyes as warm and steady as always.

Found it again, when instead of her usual practiced smile, Elegant lifted one slim eyebrow in challenge.

Perhaps Bethany didn't have to settle for safe, at all.

Sunshine 

(Isabela Wonders)

Varric called her Sunshine.  

The first time Isabela met Hawke’s younger sister, she wasn’t quite sure why; the girl was quiet and shy, and if Isabela was just a touch less observant of the people around her, she might have missed seeing Bethany at all before the mage slid gracefully behind her elder brother.

But Isabela did see her move, noticed the grace, and the swing of dark hair, and made sure to catch the girl’s eyes.

And then Bethany smiled.

Oh.

Sunshine indeed.  And definitely not a girl.  A woman’s curves, a woman’s skin, a woman’s interest warming soft brown eyes.

Isabela smiled back.

(Bethany Resolves)

She was tired.

Tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of finding shadows and never standing tall in the sun.

Tired of everyone always being so damned careful.

She wasn’t made of glass.

She wasn’t going to break.

She was a grown woman, not an infant in need of protection.

"Sunshine, just give Hawke a moment to," Varric’s voice was low and rumbling, and he patted her hand, like she was some kind of idiot, and she couldn’t bloody take it a moment longer.  She slapped his hand away, and seriously considered flame to emphasize her point, even as his eyes widened and he spread his arms in some half-arsed wordless apology.

"Now, Kitten," Isabela started, and Bethany spun around on her toes, something in her face finally getting through to someone, because Isabela’s voice trailed off, even before Bethany threw her hands up into the air and snarled at the both of them.  

"I am not a child, or a pet, and I do not need either of you to coddle me."

"Hawke asked," Isabela tried again, soothing and slow, as if Hawke solved everything.

Bethany stepped in close and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in to kiss her, a hard press of lips and a low growl in her chest.  "Doesn’t it matter more what I can do, rather than what Hawke thinks?"

Isabela smiled, slow and warm and pleased.  "Yes, yes it does."

nightmare: taint 

It didn’t hurt as much as she had thought it would.  Not like normal pain, anyways, not like a bruise or a cut or a broken bone.

The inside of her mouth tasted bad, her throat alternately burned and tightened and eased just to start over again.  Her skin didn’t feel like hers anymore, didn’t feel, really, not in the same way, everything oddly distant and too sharp, both at once, and she was hungry and yet never wanted to eat again, she was thirsty and slow dribbles of too warm water from their stores didn’t help.

She was cold, despite the heavy thick air and the glow of lava through the vents in the floors and the walls of the dwarven Roads.

Her knuckles ached, when she flexed her hands, and her toes curled too tightly in her boots, but all in all, she didn’t hurt.

Dying should hurt, shouldn’t it?

But all she could manage was a heavy sort of ache low in her back when she stood or sat or stretched, and the occasional twist in her chest when she took too quick a breath, or she tried to figure out what to say …

She had a chance, unlike Father, unlike Carver, just now, an opportunity to say goodbye before she was gone, and she couldn’t seem to find the words.

Couldn’t make herself say anything at all.

One last failure, before the end.

reality: mother

she died

she died

and then at last

she died again

her favorite laugh silenced, strong hands gone beyond the Fade,  never to hold be held

again

brown eyes empty body broken no pyre no farewell

abandoned to the monsters

never forgive

pain

proof of life this is not life

relief, release, respite

gratitude

and yet

someone else with that laugh

those eyes

left behind 

alone

the flip of a coin: Warden Alistair

(heads: unrequited)

He hadn’t thought he’d ever fall in love again.

Certainly not with another Warden, not again, not after watching Lenya and Zevran.  Especially not after watching her die, with no idea what to do with his own grief in the shadow of the stark loss in Zevran’s eyes.

And yet.

He’d tried to keep the unexpected feelings to himself.  He knew Bethany Hawke wasn’t one who was proud of being ‘chosen’, didn’t think she’d appreciate overtures from someone who, despite it all, still was.

Maybe because of it all.  The only thing I have left, Wardens and duty.

And love.

Because he was an idiot sometimes. Oh yes. Definitely an idiot.

Sometimes she spent a night with another Warden, or let herself be ‘seduced’ by an awestruck or grateful civilian when they stopped on their patrols, and every time, he had one more drink than usual, fingers tight around his mug, trying not to imagine the sounds she might make, skin to skin and lips to lips.

But it wasn’t so bad, because he knew it was casual, a way to warm her nights and distract herself from her fate.  And they’d managed to become friends, at least, conversations on watch, a good morning smile over tea.

That would just have to be enough.  He thought it was, too.  Until it wasn’t.

Nathaniel came back from Ansberg, and he was not afraid to sit too close, to murmur something more than just a morning greeting in the dawn light, to promise her being a Warden wasn’t all bad.

She started smiling more, slow and sweet and hot.  Refrained from her occasional dalliances.

And there he was, watching the woman he loved fall in love with someone else.  Second best.  Again.

(tails: without words)

Bethany Hawke had a tendency to stand with her hands behind her back.  Back straight, shoulders steady, her face always calm, no matter what news you gave her, what new horror she had to deal with, what attempt at sympathy she would disdain to accept.

And yet.  Alistair could never see her hands.

And he wondered.

She so very clearly didn’t want to talk, not to him, not to anyone, not about anything more important than passing the salt or repairing her armor.

She burnt the letters her family sent, and never wrote them back, not past that first note Stroud had made her sign, to tell them she had survived the Joining.

He wondered what she was really thinking, and how calm she really was, or how miserable, and if there was some sort of help he could offer.

Or that anyone could offer, really, his ego did not require that he be the only one who could ease her way, but there were good things about being a Warden, good times that could be had in this life, and he hated to see someone so strong, so young, so beautiful, alright, yes, I’m a horrible man and she’s gorgeous and this line of thought is not helping, have eyes so dark and lost.

Her eyes reminded him of The Warden.  

His warden, the best friend he’d ever had, a man of principle and compassion both. Though it might have done him a bit of good to have a bit more bend in his spine; he might still be alive, then.

Not that there was anything wrong with death by Archdemon; he had saved the world, and if anything was worth dying for, it was that. 

But it nagged, a bit, to wonder if he could have saved him.  His reasoning had been so logical, splitting up the three Grey Wardens, just in case, but Alistair would always regret that he hadn’t been there on Fort Drakon to help.  To say good-bye, even if he didn’t manage to take the blow himself.

Alistair didn’t want to regret the life of another Amell.  And that’s where she was going, it was clear, a little less care each and every day, the vicious edge to her spells growing darker each time she fought.  She was going to let herself die in the Deeps, if something didn’t change.

But he didn’t know what to say.

Well.

That was clearly the problem.  He didn’t need to figure out what to say, he needed to figure out what to do.

Not that he was any good at that either.

But he had to try.

So he dragged her to the infirmary, and put her in the way until she sighed and helped the medics.

He heard tell she started going back, all on her own, once a week or so.

He did the same in the kitchens, and smiled every time cinnamon wheat bread showed up at dinner, because he recognized it as her mother’s recipe.

He hunted down everything of Daylen’s he had, or Oghren had, sent messages to Wynne and Leliana and Zevran and Shale, considered Zevran, but thought he was unlikely to be willing to part with anything he’d managed to save, considering.

And yet it wasn’t all that surprising when Zevran brought a box for him personally, with a few letters and keepsakes from everyone, disappearing back out the window (the window, really, you couldn’t come in through a door and say hello and have some dinner?) with a small wink before Alistair could do more than gape at him.

Alistair passed it along to Bethany the next morning, as next of kin.  Her eyes lifted, for once, wide and startled, and he grinned in delight at his success.

She even almost smiled back before she retreated back to her room, her fingers gripped tightly around the corners of her present.

It got a little easier, after that.  

He invited her to be a guard for a rebuilding crew, so she could see the people who were around after the Wardens killed the darkspawn.  Her chin was up that night at dinner, rather than her face ducked down to avoid the rest of them.

He hunted down books whenever he was on a salvage crew and made sure to save them for her, once he realized how much she enjoyed trying to piece the tattered pages back together.

He caught her laughing in the library, having managed to combine several different volumes into one nonsensical bedtime story, which Sigrun read aloud, with plenty of sound effects and silly voices.

Her laugh was quite possibly the most gorgeous sound he’d ever heard.

They worked together a lot, now, and he stood behind her when others spoke, and watched her, always her, as the years passed, and what had once been a white-knuckled tangle of fingers at the small of her back eased into a loose clasp of hands.  

What had once been a face still as stone relaxed, just a little; quiet still, but attentive, and whenever the conversation was over she’d glance over her shoulder at him, and smile, and his heart would stop for just a breath before he could manage to smile back.

He knew he’d reached the point he needed to tell her … something.  A hint of how she made his heart lift and his skin flush and his thoughts come to a stuttering halt, but he’d spent so long not talking, he wasn’t sure how to start.

But he tried, her hand small and strong in his as he looked her in the eyes.  Before he managed more than her name, Bethany, she put a finger to his lips, and smiled, and he sighed, a warm shudder of air as her hand slid along his chin.  She leaned in close, and her eyes slowly closed, and kissing her was better than he’d ever imagined.

duende: King Alistair

He wasn’t technically a Warden anymore.

Wardens and politics didn’t mix well, not outside the Anderfels.

Most especially not in Ferelden.

But for all the official story, it wasn’t as if there was a way to stop the dreams, the tug in his chest each time they came across another remnant of the Taint that needed to be burned out of the soil. 

There was no way to clean his blood, to make him simply Alistair again.

A fact Arl Eamon refused to acknowledge, especially every time the question of a Theirin heir came up again.

Escaping to the Keep was his favorite refuge from everything he had to do, had to be, as King.

Even before Stroud sent them new recruits to train.

Even before he met Bethany.

Who hid her face behind the dark fall of her hair, and whose mouth turned, sharp and bitter, whenever she thought no one was looking. Who didn’t talk much, and smiled less, and yet.

And yet, sometimes she would lift her face, and the sun would catch in her eyes, and he would forget to breathe because there was something there, such strength and steel and beauty, and he found himself trying to remember some of the Chantry’s quieter prayers, at night, words to express how very much he hoped someday she would let that light in her eyes free.

And that he would be there, to witness it.

***

The first time she kisses him, he smells of steel and leather, and his lips part in surprise, and her heart twists, and she can feel the gasp of his breath in the space between them when she leans back.

The second time he kisses her, her eyes close and her shoulders ease beneath his hands, and the firelight warms his side, and when her fingertips brush against his cheeks he knows nothing will ever be the same.

The third time she kisses him there is blood and mud, and sweat, and the stench of dog and death around them, thick enough to cover even the chill of the stone, and she doesn’t care, because he is hot against her skin, scalding her lips and hands, and he is alive, and he is whole, and he is hers. 

***

It is a question she can only ask in the middle of the night, when the shadows hide the walls of the suite, his suite, never her room, not in Denerim, not at Vigil’s Keep, appearances to keep, even there, surrounded by a sea of blue and steel, when she can imagine they both lived a different sort of life.

Or, at least, when she can wonder what it might be like, if they could.

She only finds the words when she wakes during that in between moment, no longer night, not yet morning, the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his breath against her hair the loudest thing in the room.

She only finds them because he’d asked her, in the same indistinct twilight during the last time they were together, what she thought of being a Warden now, years past that first bitter Joining, and there’d been a note of … something, not quite wistful, behind the words.

She’d been startled enough by the realization that she was content, at last, with her duties, with her life, even beyond the fleeting joy of their shared nights, that she’d forgotten to follow the trail his words had left her, and had laughed instead, and kissed him, and his hand had slid down her sides, between her legs, the tantalizing contradiction of smooth skin and rough callouses, and his breath hot against her skin as his fingers pushed just so, and her back had arched and she’d lost herself in the heat of him, as she loved to lose herself, every time she had the chance, accompanied by the rough sweet whisper of his voice saying her name into the hollow of her throat, a breath before his lips found her skin, before their bodies were pressed so close she could feel the rhythm of his heart beating against her skin.

She only finds them this time because she wants to know, needs to know that there is some joy in his life, as well, beyond what little she can grant him.  

What little he can share with her.

He deserves better than such a shadow life, she knows, especially now that she realizes she left her own shadow life behind, some-when between the day she started to die and now.

Everyone’s dying, after all.  At least she’s found a place to do some good in the meanwhile.

Love helps too, but she’s no longer young enough to imagine it’s enough all on its own.

Isn’t quite lost enough in appreciation of the broad expanse of his chest to imagine it’s quite enough for him all on its own, either.

So she makes herself ask, if he’s happy, if he regrets.

Places a fingertip against his lips, for just a breath, when he tries to make a joke instead of answering.

I was not a very good Warden, Bethany.  I did not want to do what had to be done.  I’m not sure I would have learned better, at Vigil’s Keep, or Weisshaupt.  I think I am, at last, a decent King. How could I regret that? 

He kisses her, and it is soft, and long, and she is breathless when he is done, and he shifts, and the long line of his body presses up against hers, and he whispers, again, so soft she can barely hear him.

And I do not know, if it was my duty, if I could be the one to send you back into the Deep when you needed to go.  If it was my word that could make it happen, I would keep you by my side always.

They both know that would have been good for neither of them, and yet, her heart aches at the thought; it is a sweet one, a dream to savor for a heartbeat or two, before she lets her fingers find the line of his jaw, and she lifts her chin to kiss him again, and again, for as long as the shadows keep them safe.