#i say that last sentence with fondness birds of prey are great

[eomer]

i love how i can just sit in my backyard and watch a nature documentary unfold there. yesterday there were american robin parents feeding their fledgling, a mourning dove building its nest, a california quail hanging out on the fence, a chickadee checking one of the yard trees out. then it all gets disrupted by a sudden falcon. all in the span of at least 20 minutes.

[griffinsanddragons]

Keep on Swimming

She quite liked whales, but she didn’t want to be dragged and lured into the depths of her Mother’s end of the sea. Poor Hawke isn’t ready to be married. 

Leandra brushes her daughter's hair. #Filanders but mostly a story about a Mother and her Daughter.

Happy Fic Friday!

Her Mother never seemed to be the sentimental type— she adored her dresses, jewelry, and smartly worn shoes, but it wasn’t long before those things were discarded, forgotten, or simply lost behind much finer things. Still, Leandra owned that same silver hairbrush longer than Filia had even been alive—And it used to be so pretty.

But now, it seemed to have been forgotten as well, tucked behind ribbons, pins, and boxes of jewelry.

‘There’s power in these things,’ her mother once told her, sitting at the mirror as she brushed her long, beautiful hair: Her crowning glory. ‘Power in the things I’m teaching you—Do you understand Filia?’ And though she nodded before turning her attention to ‘the little ladies book of floral arranging’ she’d been gifted for her 9th birthday, she didn’t quite understand—not really.

As she grew older, taller, and further away from her Mother’s hip, Filia became proficient in sword fighting and power became more than just a word: it overflowed with life and meaning.

She had the power to protect her family, the power to fight, the power to decide someone’s fate; to take a life (break their bones and watch them bleed,) or let them free to live another day—and it was both thrilling and terrifying.

The power her Mother spoke of, however, had little to do with such things. Her ‘Lady Lessons,’ as Bethany called them, hadn’t made her feel anything except maybe taller (she grew fond of those cunning leather boots with little straps and short heels.)

‘By your age, I’d be wearing high heels and gold jewelry,’ Her Mother once said, pulling those unforgiving bristles through the tangles of her hair, ‘…You’d be arranged to marry the son of a Nobleman or even a Prince! Wouldn’t that have been so lovely?’

Filia didn’t have a proper answer for her then, she didn’t know any Nobleman or Princes, but now she could be certain: No—It wouldn’t have been lovely.

[Keep Reading]

She didn’t much care for the Noblemen and women of the city; they were selfish, scheming and vain. She couldn’t fathom why her Mother would be so eager to return to such a life of pettiness and rivalry.

And as she thumbed her fingers through the bristles of her Silver Hairbrush, nails catching on fallen strands of her mother’s graying hair, Filia could almost hear her voice, stern and disapproving in her ear.

Because she hadn’t found a Prince or the son of a Noble to marry, but instead found a partner who suited her perfectly, a partner who kissed her for the first time that morning.

The thought of which pulled a secret smile across her cheeks.

He said it would be a disaster, but the words seemed to melt or simply flutter away when he kissed her again and smiled. He promised to see her again that night—so long as the door was open to him.

And it was because she knew it would be open that Filia stood both nervous and giddy, thinking back on all the things she’d been taught as she stood before her Mother’s vanity—her hair damp and body dressed in nothing but a robe as the orange light of the setting sun gleamed like a halo behind her body.

She snuck into her Mother’s bedroom, pausing every few moments to ensure she wasn’t around. She was supposed to be brushing her hair, but Instead, it sat damp and forgotten against her shoulders, curling out into a crown of coils and screws.

Perhaps she’d been wrong before—this was both thrilling and terrifying (yet she still felt no more powerful than she had this morning.)

Nevertheless, Filia felt as though she were floating on the calm, even waves of an open sea.

Beside a pink tinted bottle of flowery perfume sat a comb and a jar of honey-colored oil: liquid gold, she referred to it as. It was a simple, yet expensive pleasure and one of the only things both she and her Mother could agree to enjoy.

She unscrewed the lid, dipped her fingers inside, and combed it through her hair, following the path her Mother’s brush made with a delighted hum.

She couldn’t wait to see him again. The simple thought of waiting for tonight sent her writhing in melodramatic agony.

“Filia?” She jumped at the sound of her name, swirling around and setting down the brush so fast the other trinkets rattled. “What are you doing?” Her Mother sounded more amused than anything else as she stood in the passage of the doorway.

“I just needed a brush—mine is too soft so it doesn’t…” She couldn’t tell her Mother the truth, that she had a man coming to see her—even if that man was just Anders— as these were hardly the actions of the dignified lady her Mother wanted her to be.

And suddenly, she was no longer floating—but rather slipping down beneath the endless waves of a troubled sea.

‘There’s so much I wanted you to see,’ Filia recalled her saying as they moved the last of their things into the estate. ‘And now I can show you! Teach you everything, all that I couldn’t before.’ And she looked so happy, so excited, that Filia didn’t dare speak.

Because she didn’t mind dressing up, staring at art, or eating fancy cheese—but she didn’t need those things to be happy.

All Filia wanted was for her Mother to be happy.

“Are you going somewhere, at this hour?”

“No.” She said because it wasn’t a lie, “I just needed to brush my hair.” Still, Leandra made a noise that sounded like a mix of laughter and disbelief, and in her eyes was the same look of suspicion she’d conjure when Filia came home late at night.

And she wondered if her Mother somehow knew—if she somehow acquired the ability to read minds because Leandra wore that same stern look across her face whenever her daughter began a sentence with ‘My friend Anders,’ as though she somehow knew what had been blossoming between them.

Would it be so bad if she did know? Filia asked herself, still standing awkwardly beneath her Mother’s gaze. She’d fallen for her own dashing apostate, after all, and certainly couldn’t judge her choices or taste in romantic partners.

Despite this Filia knew that her Mother could, and would, judge her tastes. Because, from the moment of her birth, Leandra wanted something different for her daughter; a high society life—a life Anders could never provide.

“Let me,” She offered, walking up to her side. “I’ve wanted to fix your hair for so long now, ever since you began to wear it long again—it suits you.” Without even waiting for her confirmation or consent, Leandra took the brush and directed Filia to sit.

She tried to protest, knowing her Mother would take too long and pull too hard on her tender scalp, but Leandra remained stern. And when Filia finally did relent, her Mother snapped her head toward the mirror and dug the stiff bristles through her hair. “That hurts!” She whined, scrunching up her face indignantly. But her mother had selective hearing and often filtered out the words she didn’t want to hear her daughter speak.

“You can wear it like this next time there’s a party and charm every fellow there.” Her Mother’s soft hands pushed down against the warm flushed skin of Filia’s neck. Though she did not reply, Leandra must have sensed her daughter rolling her eyes because she continued on persistently:

“Isn’t it time you thought about marrying? You have such a lovely face—you can find yourself a fine match with a good man.”

She felt the need to bite back her tongue, to remain quiet as she sunk deeper into the sea.

“I don’t have anything in common with those people.”

“But you do:  Amell blood runs through you the same as it does me. Your friend Aveline was married.”

“Aveline’s old,” she joked, tilting her head upward to see what it was her Mother was doing, only for her neck to be craned downward once again.

“She isn’t much older than you are. Haven’t…Haven’t you ever wanted to see the world? To live the best life? The right husband can do that for you. He can take you to see the theater in Orlais, the pyramids of Nevarra, and all sorts of wonderful things. With the right husband and enough coin—you could sail anywhere you pleased.”

Despite her more poetic of thoughts, Filia never cared much for the ocean, and absolutely hated the sea—there was no telling what manner of beasts lurked beneath the water. Once, she read about a large, monstrous creature with 8 long tentacles that wrapped around its prey, holding them still as it ate them alive.

Even the mightiest of ocean dwellers could be scarred by its sharp hooks or hidden beak; and though it’s said to soar through the water like an intelligent bird with mighty wings, Filia thought that creature was terrifying.

She always preferred the quiet, mysterious power of the great whale, but even they weren’t safe from that creature’s reach—that is, if the sailors and their old wives tales could be believed.  (After all, she was certain that creature more often found itself in the whale’s giant belly.)

Nevertheless, she sometimes felt like the Whale: powerful, strong, and great, yet not immune to her Mother’s hooked reach.

“I have enough coin to do that on my own. I’m not interested in getting married—not yet anyway.” She added as her plan to meet with Anders came to mind. It was far too soon to know if a marriage between them could be a possibility.

Regardless, any smile her Mother may have held in her voice fell and slipped away.

“Yes, I suppose you aren’t. You’d rather go out to fight criminals until you drop dead in the street. Is that what you want? For me to lose you too?” The hooked arm of her Mother’s disappointment wrapped tightly around her throat, snatching the air from her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’ve only been helping the guard,” And though that wasn’t a lie—she did help the guard occasionally—Filia and her Mother both knew that it wasn’t the only thing. Still, she didn’t have the heart to tell her what she’d really been up to: fighting Templars, Demons, and the occasional Dragon and Bloodmage.

“I-I know you worry, Mother, but I’ve been training more with Aveline. I’m good at this, so-”

“But you don’t need to do it anymore!” She put down the brush with more force than necessary and the whole vanity began to shake. “You don’t need to fight.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper, like a calm amidst the rain. “Maker knows you shouldn’t have had to before. I shouldn’t have let you. I should have kept you safe—There’s a reason I wanted this life for you, Filia. You risked too much going down to those Deep Roads, don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re capable of so much, of so much more and you deserve the best—that’s what I want for you now. After everything…” She slid a pin, and then a ribbon into her hair.

But something inside her shuttered then so she jerked away from her Mother’s hand.  ‘No!’ she wanted to scream but kept her lips pressed together tightly.

She didn’t want to be dragged and lured into the depths of her Mother’s end of the sea, a place she didn’t know or like or even cared to understand. She’d go to the balls, the concerts, and the parties—but Filia could never change for her, she wanted to be free—if only in this.

And as she turned her head up to look her Mother in the eye through the mirror, Filia thought she saw a hint of guilt in Leandra’s tired gaze. It was only after a moment she noticed her hair.

It was perfect—pinned up into a thick, charming braid that rung her head like a halo, a red ribbon strung through the loops like a cascading wave.

And that’s when Filia realized: her Mother hadn’t turned her into a Lady, not exactly, she’d turned her into the girl she used to be; the one who loved balls and dresses and lace— the girl her daughter could have been had she not run away with her dashing apostate.

Did her Mother regret the life she’d given her? Regret running away? It hadn’t been the life she expected, but they were comfortable, warm, and happy.

Filia wasn’t sure if she’d ever find the answer to that as she lowered her head to look away.

She was strong, and feared, and powerful—she could do much more than her Mother was willing to believe but Filia didn’t have the heart to keep fighting.

“…I know.” She told her, and the resignation weighed her down like the crushing force of the sea—yet she knew she’d find a way to keep swimming.

Her mother may not understand her, but she only wanted the best—to protect her now with dresses and social grace so that she may spend the rest of her life in quiet luxury, safe behind these walls with no need to put on her armor and fight.

Would she have been happy had she grown up in a Hightown Estate? Could she have lived her life without having known Aveline? Isabela? Merrill? Varric? Fenris? Anders? The thought made her heart wrench and sink deep. (She very likely would have met Sebastian, however. He was, after all, a Prince around the same age as she.)

She could hardly imagine it now: A life with carefully chosen friends, with a carefully chosen husband, with carefully bred children, with carefully chosen traits.

And if she did meet a man like Anders? Would she have fallen for him? Even considered becoming his friend? Or would she have disregarded him completely?

Questions formed and formed and formed in her mind and for a long time, the only noise between them was the sound of the brush combing through the tips of her hair.

“…There you are.” Leandra smiled, sliding in the final pin. “You’re so lovely.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You’re welcome.” The scent of her perfume lingered like a ghost as her Mother walked away.

But with the sun now completely set with no traces in the sky, Filia had no time to dwell or waste time.

She took her Mother’s brush and returned to her bedroom swiftly, closing the door behind. And as she sat before her own mirror, she pulled the pins and ribbon from her hair—it would never fit into her helmet this way and if the night went as well as she fantasized, the style wouldn’t last anyway.

She’d find a way to work this out tomorrow. Tonight, however, she’d swim free.

click here for the filanders kissing outtake