#ic. Faith Trevelyan | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

magneticmage · 3 years

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Unwritten Fic Excerpts

Tooootally not procrastinating on properly writing.

Under cut for length

Ransley Trevelyan stared at the map of Skyhold in front of him. This fortress was....huge. and well-built to have lasted through so many Ages and hands. He had the faintest feeling that the Inquisition would only be one of the many rulers to stay here for a time, not the last.

Still, there was still much work to be done.

"The gardens would be lovely for a Chantry chapel," He remarked, fingers skimming that section of the map.

"Don't we have enough Chantry idolatry everywhere?" Paeriel Lavellan remarked. Her temper was rather sour towards him on the best of days it seemed, and the various discussions of how to rebuild the fortress were quickly proving to be drawing towards yet another face-off between them.

Lucky for them, Armashok Adaar and Naranka Cadash held more level heads.

Naranka set her tankard of dwarven ale down, "Look, we need to get something done today. It's been four hours of the two of you bickering back and forth. I'm tired of it."

Armashok sighed and scratched the chipped base of his right horn. The scars along his neck and face made his already towering physique even more intimidating. His voice was calm and collected, "Paeriel has a point though. Not all follow the Chantry's teachings nor that if their Maker and his Bride, Andraste. The Dalish have their Creators, the Avvar their gods, the Dwarves their Stone, and my people have the Qun."

"The Qun that brainwashed people." Ransley scowled, "That attacked Kirkwall and Ostwick not too long ago."

"How long ago was the last time the elves were killed by humans?" Paeriel's green eyes flashed towards the human noble faster than her arrows, "Oh, wait, it hasn't even been a year."

Naranka sighed and let her chin slump into her hand, "Can we get past the whole 'your people killed my people in whatever conflict in whatever year slash event', please? The Inquisition is supposed to be a show of unity against Cory-piss-pants and if we can't all pretend to agree agree get along, how are we going to expect our people to? Haven taught us to expect disaster. Skyhold is a chance to show that preparation and strength. Let's not squander it."

The human and elf fell silent and looked away from each other, appropriately chagrined. Damn Carta thug had a point. Ex-Carta, Ransley tried to remind himself. She was right. Theda was falling apart because of old grudges and they would need to put their own aside in order to do what was needed for the good of everyone.

He scrubbed at his face, trying to scrape off the frown that has etched itself into his brow the past few days, "Okay. What do you suggest?"

"We expand the eastern gardens and their greenhouses a bit to allow a greater number of plants. In addition to the amount we all keep in our rooms and have hanging around the halls, it should be enough for whatever we need. It might cut into our supplies for the kitchen but I'm fairly sure we can make the revenue up in some other way," Naranka remarked. Her dark eyes turned to Paeriel, "That satisfies your garden request, yes?"

"I suppose." She remarked, "It's smaller than the western area, but it is closer to my rooms so that should be enough."

"As for Ransley wanting a Chantry chapel, I can't say I'm enthused about it either." Naranka paused and took a long draught of her drink and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, "But it does pacify quite a few complaints we've already had, I suppose."

"And raises others." Ransley rolled his eyes to the stack of letters to the left. All demands for equal representation. It wasn't that he didn't approve of all the changes. It was just...so very different from what he was used to that it made him uncomfortable. Perhaps...that was why the others acted the way they did? They all missed home as much as he did and wanted to bring a piece of it with them. He would need to think harder on this. Perhaps Naranka's initial assessment that he was used to the world making way for him had some merit.

"We could make it a multi-faith chapel of sorts. A place for religious debate and ethics and philosophy. We could put a lyrium-infused statue of a Paragon or two in the garden main path, alongside the statue of Andraste that I saw someone bringing in the other day. We could have some trees and wayshrines and such for the Qunari and Dalish. It might take some work getting everything to fit and flow together but I'm sure Josephine could find a group of people to handle it. She's not failed us yet. " Armashok pressed his thumb into the soft center of his palm and rubbed small circles. The Anchor on their hands flared irritably under the abrupt pressure before it settled. "Will that do?"

"Yes." Ransley combed his fingers through his hair, "So, what say we take a lunch break and then move on to the next section? The outer walls, right?"

"No. No more breaks." Naranka slammed her hands down on the war table. Armashok's drink fell of the table and shattered, scattering glass across the floor. Luckily Ransley managed to save both the Dwarf and his own drinks from ruining the maps and papers with their contents. A quick glance across saw Paeriel setting down her tea on a nearby seat.

"Bit much, don't you think?"He quipped.

That earned him a frustrated glare, "I'm sorry, Lord Trevelyan, but don't you think running off to smooch Cassandra every four hours is a 'bit much'?"

He felt heat fold across his cheeks and stammered out a protest that sounded weak even to his own ears. Armashok rubbed his temple, "We can break after we get this last section done for today. Now the outer walls or the aqueducts? What do we repair first?"

"The aqueducts will provide fresh water for us through its use of fire runes and the ice run off from melting the snow banks. I'm not sure if the indoor plumbing has held up all these years, though," Naranka said, pulling out the relevant files.

"It has in most places. We'll still need to bring in either a dwarven or Tevinter architect to double check the quality though," Ransley said. He gestured at one of the areas marked in red, "It'll be more costly to repair and it will delay us fixing the outer walls on time if we are attacked during then, though."

Paeriel grimaced, her own hand reaching for the Anchor as another minor pulse raced through them, "Honestly, I would much rather have clean drinking water with working plumbing than working outer walls at the moment."

"Even after what happened at Haven?" Naranka's brow rose, "You have to be kidding me, Pae! You don't let the spawn in through a crackand the wonder why you have an ogre breathing down your neck!"

Armashok scratched at his horns again, "Safety is more important right now. We can fix the water issue once we get more established. For now, we need to make sure our people feel safe after Haven's destruction."

Paeriel sighed and leaned forward on her hands, "If I can call in a few favors and have someone work on it so long as they get food and shelter, it should be fine, right?"

Ransley arched a brow, "What kind of contacts do you have, Lavellan?"

"Not exactly my favorite people," She looked away as if ashamed. One more mystery to this woman. No wonder her and Solas got along so well. The two of them seemed wrapped up in their own world of ancient secrets and old ties. How someone so young managed to have so many secrets was beyond him.

"These people...any rules for hiring them? What's the catch?" Naranka folded her arms.

Paeriel tossed her head back and laughed, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

She sighed and spread her hands to either side, "I ran with a group of vengeance hunters called the Knives of Plenty for a time."

"Isn't that the group of former city elves that used the sewers and alleys and other dark places to attack and kill human nobles for abusing their servants?" Armashok asked, "Their services could be bought, but only if you could prove that they were hurting their people. Really worth the coin for some info they could get, though. If memory serves me right."

Paeriel nodded, "Yes. They were primarily city elves, but there were disillusioned Dalish and elven mages seeking Refuge. They even took in elf-blooded humans who shared their cause, as they as as much elven as they are human."

Ransley held up his hands, "Wait a second here! You want us to enlist terrorists to fix our plumbing? And you were one of them? They killed people like us!"

The three of nonhumans exchanged a look between themselves, as if silently daring each other. Naranka cleared her throat, "I should point out, they only targeted human people like you. But you haven't harmed any elves, have you, Ransley?"

"Of course not!" He frowned at them, "This still doesn't explain how they are going to fix the pipes, though."

Paeriel rolled her eyes, "Many of them used to have regular jobs before they were pushed too far. More than half of them worked in tight quarters and bad conditions. This will be a lot safer than their old jobs, they get food and shelter, and a place to feel accepted. We get our pipes and our walls fixed. It's a win-win."

"Plus, we get some good PR for 'reforming crimminals'," Armashok chuckled with his hands making gestures of sarcasm, "How does this go bad?"

"Let's just say I had a rough break with their leader when I left and they will need a lot of convincing to join up." Paeriel leaned forward into her knuckles and looked at the table.

Naranka scratched her head, but nodded her agreement, "Who here doesn't have a dark history of some kind?"

Ransley sighed and looked over at the Dalish. Perhaps, it was time to put grudges aside and try and open up the sheltered walls he had lived in. These three could help him move past the echo chamber he had grown up in. He cleared his throat and set the cups in his hands down, "Tell us about it."

#dragon age things #my writing things #Naranka Cadash #Paeriel Lavellan #Armashok Adaar #Ransley Trevelyan

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pathofcomet · 4 years

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bride of ice (6)

fandom: dragon age: inquisition

pairing: female trevelyan / iron bull

summary: After the war is won, there’s always the next one. He’s seen her bleeding. In her delirious mutterings, half frozen to death, she was more human than all. (AO3)

It’s unnerving, that some people would turn to worshipping a rift, building a cult around the soft glowing of that hole in the sky, even if no demon is dropping through just yet. Fear can do many things, it can make one believe many impossibilities, but to adore and dedicate yourself to what might as well bring the end of the world is something she will never be able to understand.

“Even if it’s done in the hopes of appeasing it…” she murmurs, mainly to Solas, mostly to herself.

These people are on their knees, praying to the source of her nightmares. It scares her more to stay the night between them than between the wild animals in the mountains. She finds agents for the Inquisition in their rank; purposeless as she imagines she might have been, if their fates were reversed.

She has no way of knowing if, without the Mark bestowed upon her, she would have picked anything different but this place, or the immense grief of those separated from their most loved. Some days, she finds it difficult to move on even when she has the faith of Thedas as incentive.

The Herald closes their rift too, eventually. And their reverent, desperate eyes and pleas turn towards her.

“This will never get any easier, will it?” she asks once away, blissfully happy in the companion of her own party.

“Probably not,” Varric agrees, and she’s grateful it’s the truth even if it’s not what she would have liked to hear.

She closes rifts, yes – but this young woman is doing way more than that, in her days-long walks through the Hinterlands. Really, for someone with a glowing green hand, there’s really not much of it at all, Bull thinks. They gather supplies, return family heirlooms to desperate survivors, hunt so they can feed their ranks.

Even as she is one of the highest standing people in the ranks of the Inquisition, she goes out of her way, time and time again, just so she can help random people that they encounter, or to bring peace to people whose loved ones they just got killed in the middle of a fight. Most are nice and grateful, but there are enough times when she’s met with contempt or outright hate, and yet no matter which one it is, she seems unaffected. She takes it all as it is, and just pushes forward, even if she lets herself slip by her body stiffening, or a tighter hold on her weapons, a strain in her expression. It’s little things, but he has no doubt that he, or Varric even, can pick it up easily enough.

She gets better every day, though. Maybe because she allows herself a break from it from time to time, in late evenings when they pull their tents out and have a fire warming up. He makes hot chocolate – and blows their socks off, though he thinks Solas will never agree to calling `good` anything coming from a Qunari. He compliments Varric’s books, which he read on too long voyages. Trevelyan, blushing and unable to look at him, asks him all prettily to borrow some volumes to read in the evening, and he has to bite his mouth from inviting her to re-enact some of the… smutty scenes.

He has noticed, though he knows she didn’t quite yet. That whenever she’s overwhelmed, she looks at him for support in a battle. That she checks him out always afterwards, seeking wounds. That something in her eyes changes sometimes, when she catches herself staring at him when she certainly shouldn’t.

Bull doubts a noble from a house with religion as tradition knows how to recognize lust. Which makes it all the more fun to see it bloom all over her, as time passes. He will allow her all the time she needs, he will even let her bad innuendos and terrible attempts at flirting pass. He has messengers to catch behind tents for a quickie, and lost servant ladies showing off their teats for him – all burning with the need and curiosity for someone big and exotic.

He gives in to them, and not to the Herald for one simple reason: he hasn’t yet quite figured out what to give in exchange to her, because he knows with her, the sex is just not it. For her, the sex is just the means, not the purpose – and so he moans and grunts and spills himself in other bodies, teases and bites and licks against other skins, sated and satisfied. And all the while, she ends up more and more wound up, taut like a rope, beautiful and scared, exhausted and giving.

Who gives her… well, anything?

Most people everywhere have a system that works best for them. From what he gathered, even her old system wasn’t really working for her; and now she’s left looking around her, piecing together something new, but not quite whole. He should probably despise her for it, for the aimless conduct of her being, and yet he can’t help but be at least a little bit impressed for the fierceness with which she pushes forward, even if it’s desperate.

Desperate people can achieve many, many things. So he watches, silent.

There are some things that hit her more than others. The note in the Carta hideout makes her dizzy; she has to hold on to the table and urge her head to calm down.

Some rich Marcher they’re claiming was sent by Andraste. Zealous nugshit, if you ask me. Just a brat wanting a new title so she can win the noble pissing match back at home.

She fights almost in hysterics, sticking her daggers in darkspawn, continuing stabbing long after they stop moving, rushing ahead down stairs and already panting and heaving with effort against the enemies by the time the others turn the corner.

She’s not rich; she hasn’t seen a coin since taken by the Inquisition, and she wear a dead man’s breastplate. She’s been refusing the Andraste rumours since she first woke up after the Conclave, and yet each day is just another one of her against divinity. She’s never even been taken serious in the noble politics of her home, and she’s been nothing more than a womb pushed around between houses at her father’s request. And she’s so incredibly hurt that, despite the truth of her life, she’s nothing but what that piece of paper said in the eyes of anyone else but those already by her side.

On the way, she picks up Blackwall, because of course she does, and because Red especially asked. The man is good enough with a sword, and his words are pretty – good enough that the Herald is fooled, but Bull is not so convinced. But she picked Sera this time around, and so there’s no somewhat-spy Varric to confirm it with, and Blackwall joins their ranks.

Trevelyan actually likes him, because he offers her thanks and apologies, and calls her wonderful things and he holds himself with an elegance and self-confidence that she hasn’t seen since Ostwick, mostly because most here has been too young and too exhausted. Blackwall comes with the fame of his order, and the respect and kindness she gives him comes as natural extension of that.

“You didn’t have to, yet you took the time and effort to help me,” he says, and she’s already smiling.

“Anything to further the Inquisition’s power.”

“You are a formidable woman, my lady. I hope to never cross you. Perhaps it’s safer to show admiration from afar.”

She blushes, stares at her shoes unsure of what exactly she should say, hand pushing her hair behind her ear. She cannot even remember the last time someone acknowledged her as a lady; and Blackwall is probably the first person to actually… believe she’s also a good fighter, not just a great symbol, or promising potential. He seems to see her as good enough as she already is, not only as what she can be.

“Leliana makes sure to keep the sordid secrets away from the public eye.”

She only half-jokes. Besides her name, there’s not been much reaching the rumours mill, or anyway, nothing they didn’t want there in the first place.

“Well then. I won’t pry. I prefer to go on believing only good things about you.”

Ah, she thinks, there it is. Just because she’s not an amazing deity-like figure, doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist as someone better than she is inside his head; it’s just that he sees her as a woman, instead of a herald. Even like that, she is lacking and knowing that he can’t notice it makes her feel the so-familiar hole in her stomach, that makes her so uncomfortable when people push to touch her robes in reverence.

Bull notices her pass by, takes in the stiff shoulders and the sour face, and doesn’t stop her.

The next morning, they’re gone again. She manages to secure the horses for their Inquisition quickly enough, doing some good in the meantime as well. She also takes part in the races set up by Dennet’s daughter, and it’s the most alive Trevelyan looked ever since they met.

Sera, next to him, whistles. The Herald’s braid came undone in the middle of the race, and she’s not just smiling, but outright laughing whenever a turn is just an inch close to failure. She’s riding without a saddle, just her thighs tensed against the horse’s strong muscles, and her fingers are tangled in its hair. Her face is flushed with excitement – and he has to admit, her behind looks particularly nice like this, in her leather pants, body bent so low.

“Shit, where did you learn to ride like that?” Sera asks, once all courses are cleared, donations to the Inquisition are secured, and Dennet already started his travel to Haven.

“I’d also like to know that,” Jeanna adds, looking both proud and sad at having her courses defeated.

“Home,” Trevelyan answers, though the word seems foreign on her tongue, and home is a place that no longer serves that purpose, that no longer can offer her the comfort or the lessons. “From my family,” she corrects.

Because horse riding is the one thing she learnt directly from her mother, no teacher involved in the process, none of her father’s comments passed on this topic. Since lady Trevelyan was such a good rider herself, there was no real point in having anyone else pass the skill forward, and it remains one of her favourite things in the whole world.

She didn’t imagine she’d feel the thrill of it again; not like this anyway. Back at home, it was merchants and children and dogs she had to bypass on her rides through the city, and she’s raced with all nobles her age for years on most important celebrations. It’s a far-away memory, and yet it was so precious just a few minutes away.

“You looked really good, Boss,” Bull says, and she smiles.

“Race me back to Haven?”

***

For her, it’s not really a choice she mulls over. She picks the Templars, despite the Val Royeaux incident, in the memory of her brother, following the tradition of her house, because Cullen would approve, because she’s terrified down to her bones to walk in a negotiation with someone she knows nothing about, and so she chooses the over-familiar instead.

She takes Vivienne, because she would be able to handle the Orlesian nobles, in case things go south. She trusts Varric and all he’s seen, and he’s been in the middle of a Templar Order falling apart once before, so he’d be able to at least point out the signs if it comes to that. And she wants Bull with her, simply because she learnt to rely too much on him in the midst of a battle, because she feels like she can’t lose if he has her back.

Her reasoning is almost like a mantra, like a prayer that you mutter even if you know it won’t become reality, because you want hope to trump reality. And she needs this to go right, so she keeps reassuring herself of her picks.

Their nobles are doing a great job though, throwing jabs and threats with the sweetest voice, hidden behind the politest of words. She is lucky they are on their side, because sometimes phrases tied together can make or undo the destiny of the world, and she feels like this point in history where they’re all at, is one of those. Knight-Templar Barris seems to share that belief.

“Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

The Herald sighs. “Wish me luck. I have a feeling the Lord Seeker will take some convincing.”

“We’ve been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

“Hey, that sounds familiar,” Varric comments, though Barris has no idea what he is referring to exactly. It’s enough that it makes his own party more apprehensive pushing forward.

The standards rite – she doesn’t want to do it. Already just at the start of it all, and she’s already not succeeding in convincing the Lord Seeker of anything, but asking her to do something that is reserved usually solely to the Templars… It seems unfair and wrong, and there’s no real point or honour in her doing it.

“The Lord Seeker changed everything to meet you. Not the Inquisition – you. By name.”

“Why?” That is certainly strange, because there are many stronger and more capable in the ranks of the Inquisition, so to have this much intended focus directly on her makes her uncomfortable.

She still refuses the rite. She knows there’s no correct answer to it anyway, just a display of who she is and what she values. Which is why it feels so necessary that she doesn’t do it, now that she knows how much the Lord Seeker wants her.

Plus, she already knows the order inside her heart, and she hopes she proves it with every choice she makes, this one included.

However, nothing seems to come easy to the Inquisition. Lord Seeker sends his Knight-Captain instead, and he’s certainly unwell. They fight Templars gone mad, which is more difficult than their usual battles, because these are people trained their whole life to fight, going berserk in closed chambers.

“Like no Templars I’ve ever seen,” Varric remarks, one of his arrows hitting one between the eyes, just as he was about to strike down Vivienne – and he falls.

“Is that really important right now?” Bull grunts, taking a hit in place of Trevelyan.

“If it’s weird and I haven’t seen it, that’s worrying.”

She’d rather agree. This is already tiring and they’ve only just gotten started; when all have fallen, Denam is still alive and breathing, and even if he doesn’t deserve the mercy or the correct judgement, he’ll get them anyway. There’s no honour in killing a mad and already defeated man either.

From the notes and letters they find around the castle; these are Red Templars, but worse than Kirkwall’s ever seen, because they’ve been ingesting the stuff. It makes her skin crawl, and for the first time, she is grateful her brother is dead, if only not to see or experience this horror. If only she won’t have to wonder if he’s one of the tainted or one of the questioning ones in the Order.

Prepare them. Guide them to me.

“Was that the Lord Seeker?” she asks, the voice loud and clear in her ears.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Bull says, and he looks at her somewhat weirdly, maybe because he hates demons, maybe because he thinks she went insane too.

She stops in the middle of the hallway, shivering and trembling, unable to make herself move forward.

Show me what you are. I would know you.

She doesn’t ask this time around, already knows that whatever she’s hearing, she’s the only one hearing it. She wants to ask Vivienne about it, because she would recognize whatever magic’s at play. She wants to hear Varric mocking her over it. She wants to have Bull push gently at her back to get her moving again… But she’s afraid, too afraid that maybe this is really nothing but her mind playing tricks on her.

Fear catching up with her sense. She takes a deep breath, starts running ahead. Forcing her sense to follow her through. And then the Lord Seeker – no, the Envy demon – touches her.

She feels violated in ways she didn’t know were possible, her mind the playground of somebody else, her body sluggish. Her nightmares made real, walking around burning bodies once again, the worst part of her life relived over and over again, with each step.

She knows it doesn’t make any sense, she knows it’s not real. And she tries to stay brave, out of spite if not anything else, yet she can’t stop the shiver running down the spine when, in her mind, Cullen falls dead to the floor.

Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You’ll see.

Images fall and rise before her. The worst one of all is seeing her own face, but hearing a demon’s voice out of its mouth.

Tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you feel. Tell me what you see.

She dies, betrayed and betraying. She kills, glorious and ruthless and merciless. The Inquisition’s reach widens, the wars grow, the reputation alone strikes fear. She dies, alone and mad.

A future that she doesn’t want, that she knows she doesn’t want – and yet one which is building up right inside her own mind and she’s helpless and can do nothing to stop it. She must see her own body fall, she must hear her own friends and companions throw insults at her, at a version of herself that she tries, hard and painfully, not to become. In her mind, just one word, no, repeated over and over again, like it makes any difference when the fade slips so close to her, when everything around her is seeped green.

Then, another voice, softer this time around.

“Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy.”

She almost sobbed and crashed when the demon conjured the face of her brother, by her side, two rulers like they were supposed to be from the dawn of time, ever since they were born. But if this was truly something that was meant to be, it wouldn’t have hurt so much to see it.

She trusts Cole because his is the only face that doesn’t pain her, that doesn’t seem to exist to torment her, or to get some truth out of her.

“All right, Cole. If you really want to help, how do I get out?”

“It’s your head. I hoped you’d know how to stop it.”

If she knew her own mind and her own feelings so well, maybe she wouldn’t have been here in the first place. But her head never looked like the wasteland Envy shows her, so it’s all just as new and foreign for her, as it is for Cole. This is not where she belongs anymore, but rather a demon’s playground.

She only has to move forward, that’s easy enough. That’s what she’s been doing for days and weeks, maybe even more, maybe from the very beginning, as a lady in a land that seems too far-away. It doesn’t make it any easier to see all those familiar faces paired with all those terrible words, doomed images.

You will bring blood and ruin and fear!

She does, gods, she does already, doesn’t she, even as the Herald?

“Unless you don’t. You don’t have to. None of this is real unless you let it be,” Cole says, voice close and near, even if his body is not – and she is instantly comforted, less disturbed at what Envy is showing her. She can guard herself better, with more ease, knowing that she is not all alone, knowing that there’s someone (something?) rebuffing all her doubts.

And with each step, the demon’s scenarios seem to make less sense, warped by its own ambitions and seemingly not at all connected with what Trevelyan actually wants. She’s not so afraid anymore, even when guards seal the fates of her advisors, seemingly at her own words – because she trusts the world more than believing it would fall in the hands of a tyrant.

And just because Envy would take her form, that doesn’t mean other demons would just follow its lead – and Orlais means nothing to her, or her forces, their purposes.

“You’re letting the Herald see more to sketch her shapes, but what she sees makes her stronger.”

Does it? It makes her believe less, which might actually be the same thing. Still, walking through a battlefield, in her own mind, followed by the shadows of demons, is the most unnerving thing she’s experienced, and she survived the Conclave. It’s an eerie feeling, like she’s not that much connected to the real world anymore.

“You’re making it hard for Envy to think. It’ll probably come out soon. It’s angry. But that’s okay. So are you.”

Weird, until Cole said it, she didn’t really realize that’s what she was feeling in the first place. But now that she has a word for it, yes, anger it is. She rolls the word around her thoughts, wills it her – as she pushes forward. She’s angry that she has to live through so many scenarios, tired of death and of intrigues. She’s angry that she is in the situation in the first place, because she for sure as hell didn’t agree to a fucking demon slipping inside her head, fucking her up even more.

She embraces the burning rage in her heart, she claims it as hers, the only thing she can have and keep from this whole mess. She nurtures it, with each figure she kills, and she’s heaving with it as she faces the demonic version of herself.

She’s angry even as she’s getting chocked, angry even as the demon promises more pain this time.

“What could you gain from being me?”

It’s the one question that the anger wants the answer to, a why me? hidden in more words, because even in her anger, she cannot comprehend what is so incredible and special about herself, that a demon would go through all of that trying to take over her. And yet she gets only a mocking, and just as little as Envy understands her, she equally as little understands it.

And she’s so fucking tired of this play-pretend inside her mind. She pushes, as hard as she can, against this fake, cheap version of herself.

“Get out of-!”

Her voice is loud – and she comes back to herself, just a breath away from the moment when that hand touched her skin, though she feels several years older and weaker on her feet than before. Bull’s hand at her back grounds her back to this, as she explains what’s been going on.

She’s still so upset, unjustly dragged in this mess as she’s already doing her best to stop the holes in the sky – and everything about her own body and thoughts feels foreign. She doesn’t feel safe inside her own skin anymore. She whimpers a bit, just the lowest of sounds, when they’re made to fight some more.

“Are you good?” Bull asks.

She just shakes her head, but says nothing; unsheathes her daggers instead, as she plans to do exactly what Ser Barris asked her to: show no mercy.

Something inside her snapped while stuck in there with a demon and the dark visions of a future. She fights like she’s fulfilling a personal revenge, calculated and cold and leaving nothing standing between her and her purpose.

I touched so much of you. But you are selfish with your glory. Now I’m no one.

She’s selfish only with herself. If she is to be a figure of so many people, then she wants to belong to herself too. Killing the Envy demon could not come sooner. And just because one threat is gone, doesn’t mean there aren’t many, bigger ones to come.

Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste looks up at the sky, pats the pocket at her breast, knowing it to contain the note about the assassination of the Empress, and decides to call the Templars her allies. If the Inquisition is to close the Breach, then it needs willing people helping them out, risking their lives for the cause. There’s no point in shaming them for their failure, when it was so close to being hers as well.

“If Templars still stand against ruinous magic, this is the moment to fulfil your pledge.”

Were her brother still alive, he would be here next to her, fighting for the same cause. She wants to believe that, from wherever his spirit is now, he is proud of his little sister.

***

Her advisors though are not as pleased with her, or her choice. They’re all raising their voices around her, and she hasn’t even been allowed to wash away the grim from the fight and the road back, immediately pulled into the council room by Leliana. Her head hurts and she doesn’t even have it in her to defend herself in front of them. Defeated, she sighs.

“We still need to prepare for them. Regular lyrium.”

For a second, she thinks she’s back inside her mind, haunted by something from before, remains of a demon tied to her head forever. But no, everyone else can also see Cole – and her advisors are back to screaming and fighting again.

Cole’s voice is like cold, soothing water over her aches.

“You help people. You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help.”

Trevelyan knows that – he has helped her back at Therinfal Redoubt, help without which she would not have been able to fight off Envy. And he has made her feel safe in the midst of her most terrible nightmares, and she breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that he’s next to her, again.

She wants him here; she knows that with a certainty that she doesn’t always possess. And she’s ready to fight everyone to keep him. She can’t even explain her reasoning, but if Cole was really a monster wanting to hurt the Inquisition, he already had several opportunities to do so.

“Cole saved my life in Therinfal. I couldn’t have defeated Envy without him.”

She remembers how lost she’s felt, when she asked about him after coming back to her own time and place, and yet no one was able to tell her anything. She’s relieved to see him, even if for such a short time. And Cole remains, on their side. Her side, first, she believes, but it’s better than not having him at all.

***

First thing she does after the council is check on her people. Well, actually, first she takes a bath and changes her clothes, and only then does she start moving around Haven – questioning, needing the support she didn’t seem to get from her advisors.

Josephine grabs her aside first, to ask about her holiness. She can’t escape it even in the middle of what she is supposed to consider her own home, and she is already tired of it. Cole talks in riddles that she barely understands, scratching at deep thoughts and buried feelings and her skin tingles whenever in his presence, yet his lack of filter is what consoles her most in him. There’s no hiding near Cole, and she wants to drop to the ground with the relief of not having to pretend anymore, not having to hold her back straight anymore. Hell, Cole walked through her mind and came back wanting to help her. It makes her feel worthy of what she is.

Vivienne is the one that understands her reasoning: with the Fade broken and so thin, the obvious choice is to rely on Templars to put some resemblance of order back together. They’re already walking towards a future that no Envy managed to envision, and she’s not sure how many destinies she’s forging with her choices, but it’s good that she has people disapproving and agreeing with her both, because it helps from going insane.

Cullen’s training the Templars, to the best of his abilities, and even if he doesn’t agree with Cole being here, Trevelyan won’t forget that one of the few people the spirit praised was the commander. Cullen’s a better man than most, and if he can somehow lead by example, spark the flame of change in the others, it’s more than she could hope for.

Cassandra deals with everything, continuously. That’s why she likes her so much, because they fulfil pretty much the same role, even if their battlefields tend to be quite a bit different. In time, the Templars will learn to come to terms with the idea that mages are just people, and too many of the Inquisition’s people owe their lives to magic and those wielding it.

“Still, I don’t disapprove. In fact, you did well. You made a decision when it needed to be made,” Cassandra says, looking earnestly at the Herald, like she didn’t just finish arguing over this exact topic just an hour before.

She likes Cassandra. She wishes she would have her determination and her power, both of spirit and body.

“Is that all it takes?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

That’s a depressing thought, hopeful too.

Varric’s been there with her, he knows exactly the kind of shit that they had to deal with out there. The Elder One seemed to take everyone’s worst nightmares and creating something even worse, and somehow their small organization is the one thing standing against his plans. It’s the kind of responsibility and weight that makes it impossible for her to rest properly at night, that brings waves of guilt whenever she’s not in the midst of doing something for someone else.

“Maybe you should relax while you can,” Varric says, passing her a cup of cider. “Things should be calm around here for at least the next hour. Take a moment to enjoy it. If the world’s about to end, I’m sure the Seeker will let us know.”

She laughs at his last sentence, and thanks him. Varric is, after all, a magician in his own sense, and words are his best weapon – and he’s incredibly charming and comforting. She sits next to him, sharing his alcohol and feels better than she’s done the whole entire day. He fills her cup again, over and over again, as they share stories of anything else but red lyrium and battles and the future.

She finds Solas next, when she finds the courage to get up and seek him out, so she leans on the walls of his hut, looks up at the sky, where alongside the dying sun, the gap of the breach is also glowing. Sometimes, the colour is so bright that through her window, she cannot tell if it’s day or night.

“Solas?” she tries, and her voice sounds unsure, but her purpose is nothing like it. She has seen the future, and the future is bleak and terrible and she wants nothing to do with it, but the future is not set in stone just yet.

“Yes, Herald?”

He’s always polite. He never chides her when she recklessly throws herself into a battle, or uses up too much of her energy on closing up a rift, just silently passing her a potion, reaching out with his healing magic. She never thought she’d become familiar so fast with something that she was supposed to fear, but especially Solas’ has become her pillar in a battle as much as Varric’s arrows or Bull’s axe. He’s not upset even as she picked the Templars, even as she brought mage-hunters in the same camp as him. She gulps, thoughts stumbling together in her head – and she feels more in control, drunk and unsure on her feet, than she was just a few hours ago, sober.

“Will it kill me? Closing the Breach, I mean.”

“I am afraid that’s an answer we can know only when it’ll happen. It shouldn’t, but you’re also not a mage, so wielding that much power at once might affect you in ways we simply can’t know, because you’re the first and only one of your kind.”

“That’s… less comforting than I was hoping for.”

She sighs, gathering her jacket closer to her body. She recently followed Cullen’s example and had fur sown on the inside of it, and it warms her up well. It doesn’t stop the chill running up her spine, just from the thought of a timeline in which she’s the one to bring forward an end. Solas is looking at her, alternating between her face and her hand, so she forces herself to smile faintly at him.

“Whatever you saw back in Therinfal, Herald, it hasn’t happened yet, and it says nothing about who you are right now.”

A well-needed reminder. She still has a second drinking session planned in her room later on, part washing away the nightmare, part catching up on years having gone without the comfort of a bottle instead of the dullness of her own thoughts. But she can’t deny she’ll walk towards the tavern with an easier heart.

“Thank you, Solas.”

Bull’s hate towards demons mirrors her own; the disgust and fear and anger too. But she’s drunk, which is why she is fumbling with flirting, asking questions about Seheron and its people – and maybe because she’s drunk, he answers it all and even walks her back to her room afterwards, glaring at any soldier brave enough to look their way.

***

The Herald of Andraste closes the Breach – quite easily too, when coupled with the Templar forces. The skies calm and the Inquisition proves that alliances work and forge a better future ahead, or at least work to stop destruction.

But nothing comes easy to Trevelyan. Nothing comes easy to the Inquisition. And just several hours after they close the Breach, Haven is under attack by forces under no banner. Dorian Pavus comes to warn them, and she has no time to mull as to why the name or his face are so familiar, as Cullen’s shouting out orders for the battle.

“Burn all the things you have to burn. Save all the people you have to save, but don’t let them get to us,” he says, the first order he gives her directly.

She mans and fires the trebuchets, and yet whatever time she earns through it all is eaten up by the appearance of a dragon. She tries to help out as many people as she can on her way to the Chantry; asks Bull to smash down walls, sends Cole ahead to aid Minaeve, while she climbs for Segritt, Sera helps Flissa. They fight mages on the way, all the while under the shrieks of a dragon, accompanying each hit of her weapons.

Much of being the Herald is listening to other people argue and fight over what to do. And she knows this Elder One is after her, simply out of ego at having stopped his plans so many times before, but she’s angry at him for existing in the first place, so she has no intention of giving in and dying for him. She cares only about how to stop him.

“Pavus!” she exclaims, just at the same time that the handsome moustached young man claps his hands together and says “Trevelyan!”, in the brief respite that the Chantry brings them.

And then, because Varric is also a dwarf prince from the Free Marches, he clears his throat.

“You can’t throw a nug in a tavern without hitting someone with a bit of Trevelyan in them,” he says from her side, and both her and Dorian snicker at the same time. It’s a funnier saying for those that are not, in fact, having any of the Trevelyan blood in them, but after so long away from their respective families, the two of them find it extremely funny to have found a far-away relative in the midst of an international crisis of gigantic proportions.

He grins and she smiles. The laughter, almost idiotically given the situation, almost bursts out of her, at this simple display of normalcy. According to the records that the noble houses keep on these kind of things, they’re some type of cousins so far removed that it’d be almost forgotten, if each of their houses wouldn’t like boasting the connection so much whenever the other one would achieve something.

“You are the Herald of Andraste?”

“Well, I believe I am a bit more apt than back when I was five, yeah.”

“Then, don’t suppose you want to die so young, no?”

Surprisingly, Roderick proves himself useful. There is a way out; maybe not for her, but for those who survived until now.

“If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I will pray for you.”

She fears she’ll need more than his prayers to survive this time around. And she feels sorrier for her party, that she forces out there with her instead of allowing them a head start at retreat like the rest. But she can’t do this alone.

“I’m sorry,” she says – chocked and afraid. Cole grabs her hand, squeezes hard. She squeezes back.

“Oh, come on. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to get an asshole’s attention,” Varric says, readying his bow.

***

She might know less than the Elder One, but she knows and understands more than at the start of this battle. And yet, her last breath, as she falls through cracks, boulders and stone and fire following her, is a sigh of relief.

She wants to cry when she wakes, despite it all. Her head is spinning and her entire body aches. One of her thighs has a spike run through, and her ribs are at least bruised, if not outright broken, because breathing hurts. She wonders if she should lay here until the cold or a wild animal takes her, until life runs out of her body.

It’ll take the Inquisition’s forces probably days to return here safely and scavenge for bodies and survivors, and by then she’ll be dead for sure. It wouldn’t be so bad, to die just like this: a sacrifice done after a great win, balancing out the happiness with pain.

But slowly, she starts moving. She drags at the spike in her body, ripping her shirt apart to tie the material around her wound, though it immediately turns red with her blood. She feels lightheaded, her heart pumping faintly at her wrists, at the sight, her stomach churning finally realizing that she is bleeding out. Panic surges in her throat.

She shouts, the sound echoing around the tunnels, a frustrated, wounded wail, more animal than human. She doesn’t want to keep moving, she doesn’t want to find her way out of here, but she’s buried under rubble and stone and if she’s not getting out, then nobody’ll get in.

And fuck, she wants to live. She doesn’t want to end it here, when she’s done so little of the things she wanted to. She doesn’t want to just die, after decades of biting her tongue and nodding her head. She promised stories to Dorian, a sparring session to Cassandra. She promised herself a new dress and she promised Sera a picnic. She wants the normalcy too, not just the religion or the red lyrium or the cold nights.

She wants to be: more of herself, on more of this world. There are tears running down her face now, sad and desperate, and even if her entire body flares with pain, she starts walking. She’s angry at her fate, for making her go through all of this. She’s angry at herself, for not surviving better.

When she drops out in the snow, she sinks in it up to her knees. The wind howls all around her, carrying the sound of wolves too. Even she can feel the smell of iron coming from her wound, and there’s no doubt the scent will be picked up soon enough. She tries to hurry, though her entire body shivers and she pants with each movement of her legs. She leaves big, dark marks behind her in the snow.

She finds embers, and she believes they’re recent, warm to the touch, though she can’t be sure. There’s sweat on her forehead and she’s started seeing double, fever taking over her body in the cold and she can’t even feel the pain anymore, overwritten by the freezing of her limbs.

The lights at the horizon must be a mirage, then. Just like a man in the dessert sees the oasis of water, a dying woman in a snow storm sees the comfort of fire. She collapses in the snow, face forward.

***

Bull sits somewhat on the side, sharpening his axe, the blood caking on his arms. Krem has the self-preservation not to bother him, even as he positively seems the image of calm and peace. They’ve been helping the refugees evacuate and settle, find each other between the aftermath of that chaos, tending to the wounded, helping carry those left behind, identifying the bodies they could still reach from this side of the mountain, people fallen on the way, from their wounds, exhaustion or famish.

But now, with the fight dying down, the stone settling into its new place, there’s an eerie silence all across the valley, and between the members of the Inquisition. In the midst of their duties, they all seem to sneak glances at the hills of the mountain, looking for someone to prove something to them. It’s unnerving not to have the glow of the Breach above them, too.

Iron Bull throws his tools to the side, sheathing his axe.

“This is ridiculous. We have to go after her.”

And just like that, it’s like the spell is broken; Cullen is shouting for volunteer scouts, Cassandra getting up in an instant and coming by his side. Solas’ magic flares for a brief second at his fingertips, his eyes lost in the sky, where there’s no more gap, no brilliant colour. They put together a group of a couple healers too, and with Cullen opening up their party, they start scouting for Trevelyan.

Or her body, though he doesn’t accept this idea.

***

It’s a bit impressive how far she’s come, considering they find her quite close to their camp. It’s Cullen’s voice that raises a cry out of everyone else, and yet no one knows how to properly approach her. Bull shoves forward.

She’s delirious, limbs bent and broken in angles that he doesn’t want to remember a human body can turn to and there’s puddle of blood beneath her body. But, behind her whispered pleas – a prayer. He can’t feel the pity and relief, that at her darkest moments, she still turns to her best known comfort, but she’s still breathing and that’s all that matters. If she’s still alive, that means she can still make it. A potion is shoved down her throat by Cassandra, his hands shake too much to hold it steady against her lips, and she’s not powerful enough to strain against it, even as he imagines it burns against her throat and lungs.

When he picks her up, she screams and shrieks, struggling against his hold even as it makes the pain more blinding, even as her energy deflates with each push against his muscles, even as fresh blood surges from her cuts, even as tears form at the corner of her eyes. It’s instinctual, because in her haze, she cannot make out who he is, or what is happening, the edge of her dreams and reality too blurred, her memories brought forward in her mind, the actual present just a distant figment of her imagination.

Iron Bull knows to recognize the state and not take it personal. There’s a soft, blue glow around her body, as magic pulls together what’s been broken, soothing what’s unbearable. Her cries turn to whimpers, her forehead creasing in pain.

She’s not one for being carried, despite her background. She mutters her brother’s name in Bull’s chest, reverence and despair mingled in one single breath, and she cannot feel the cold of the falling snow, and she cannot see the darkness around the bright lamp that a scout is holding – but wherever her mind is stuck in, she’s just a girl in her teens, picked up by her devious brother to be dunked fully clothed in the water basin in the stables.

“Come on, Boss, you can’t die over this,” he says, hurries his steps, throws ugly stares at the mages accompanying them, their healing magic clearly not working fast enough, as she’s edging between feverish mutterings and unconsciousness. “You are meaner than this.”

Boss? she thinks at the back of her mind, and her memory dissipates, the world re-centres itself around the sound of his voice, around the strangeness of that single nickname in the picture that her brain is trying to have her stuck in. Then, slowly, things start making sense again: the familiar smell of leather, her armour and his strap both, the aching hurt in her hand where her mark still rests, the throbbing pain of her entire body, the taste of iron in her mouth and her unfocused vision, the silent reverence of her companions as she drifts away in and out of consciousness.

She’s muttering nonsense now, fractured names, begging, promises. He hushes her, softly and kindly, unlike she has ever known him, but once aware of her surroundings, she’ll believe it a figment of her imagination too, and not the comfort that it is, at her lowest.

He doesn’t really want to let her go, but the mages are quick in ushering him away once she’s set on a makeshift bed, knife cutting away at her shirt, magic strong in the air all around her body. She cries out in her sleep, struggles against the hands keeping her still at her shoulder – and he can tell the hold is not gentle.

Bull settles just a distance away, leaning on a tent pillar, closing his eyes, seemingly asleep. But he’s aware of the sounds around him, as Trevelyan slowly succumbs to sleep, as the mages finish their job on her, as Mother Giselle takes a sit next to her, as the advisors start arguing.

To wake to their uncertainty and their screams, after all she’s been through; he can’t imagine it’s the most welcoming of sights. They are all tired and defeated.

She wants to take back the good opinion she had on Mother Giselle. She makes mistakes, more often than she’d like to admit, and to rely on this old woman was simply one of them. Because now, as her entire body aches, skin dyed in purple, green and yellow, where her insides have been put back together again through magic not strong enough to leave her without the marks or the pain, the last thing she wants to even think about is how holy she might seem in the eyes of others.

Trying to recover after dying, again, she feels like nothing but one lucky bastard.

“Mother Giselle, I just don’t see how what I believe matters. Lies or not, Corypheus is a real, physical threat. We can’t match that with hope alone.”

And their army has been blown to pieces, their fighters have been wounded and their entire organization blown to pieces, all in just one night. A war that ended just as quickly as it began. She can’t believe others can’t seem to grasp how grave and serious the situation is.

“An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause.”

Her chest is still heaving, on the made-up bed holding up together her battle-worn body, as the people start singing her praise, a chorus of chants and unyielding belief.

For anyone just glancing in her direction, it might look like her wounds are still bothering her, and she’s trying to catch her breathe. Iron Bull, sitting in the darkness behind her, knows that the lady Trevelyan is having a panic attack. He is unwelcome by default, his faith in other things and his life somewhere far-away from the Andraste – but she is unequally unwelcome in the midst of those people, a figure so bright and so great that she’s above humans.

He’s seen her bleeding. In her delirious mutterings, half frozen to death, she was more human than all.

The first choked sob surprises even him – a first crack. And then her breathing quickens more and more, and she can’t catch all that air fast enough. She cries and wails, sound covered by the camp celebrating life, and eventually, wincing, she moves her arm enough so she can bite down on the leather of her armour. Silent, suddenly. Her body keeps shacking, until eventually she calms down.

She never seemed to understand the difference between sacrifice and self-slaughter. Until now, bruised and beaten, unheard and spoken over.

The Iron Bull gets close to her because no one else would. He waited, watching, but the Herald of Andraste remained all alone in her corner, with no one checking up on her beyond the state of her body. And yet, she’s been breaking apart for the better part of an hour, and nobody seems to care.

He sits down next to her bed, and she looks at him, surprised but not afraid. Her eyes red with her tears, her lips turned in an upset pout. She looks so much younger, closer to her actual age, now like this. Slowly, her eyes following his movement all along, he raises his arm, resting his hand on top of her, fingers knotting around her wrist, just above where her Mark rests.

Her breath hitches in her throat, and she stares at his much larger hand, holding hers. Just as slow, she moves her other hand, though wincing with the effort, to hold on to his. She keeps crying, tears silently falling down her cheeks, but she keeps holding on, so that something might feel human in the midst of all around her.

“You could have died, eaten by wolves, frozen to death,” he murmurs, and it’s chiding, but spoken so kindly, so low that it doesn’t feel like it.

He moves, ever closer. His other hand wiping her tears away, tangling in her hair once she calms down.

“We would have come for you.”

He sits there even after she falls asleep, so that she can get a bit of a rest without a soldier or zealot interrupting her. He allows Solas, because he knows she would. Whatever healing potions and spells they used, seems to work, because as she walks away with the elf, she’s already looking healthier than just an hour before.

No one sleeps that night, preparing for the trek through the mountains. All the way, she walks at the front of the people, Solas at her side, showing her the path.

“By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… grow…”

She looks at the horizon, stone growing out of clouds.

Skyhold, the one place that holds the skies. Isn’t the Inquisition doing the same?

#dragon age #the iron bull #female trevelyan #the inquisitor #DA: Inquisition #da fanfic #iron bull x inquisitor #iron bull x trevelyan #Iron Bull x female inquisitor #I LOVE THIS FIC SO MUCH there is so much blood sweat and tears in here #my writing

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bitchesofostwick · 5 years

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oc profile: ellinor trevelyan

tagged by @aeducanka (thank you karolina!!) i’m going to do ellinor of course. some of this will be canon and some will pull from modern au. tagging (it’s a long one so don’t feel pressured!) @caffeinated-mabari @dickeybbqpit @daydreamingdragonage @gingerbreton @laurelsofhighever @free-the-mages

physical

name: ellinor aria trevelyan

nickname: “ell” to her twin brother avery, “ellie” to the rest of her family and to sera (since sera knew ellinor’s sister, lyssa, before she met ellinor), “swift” to varric, and “lin” to cullen

age: twenty-six when she becomes herald of andraste

species: human

morality: neutral good. she didn’t ask for things in her life to go the way they have, but she wants to do the right thing and bring justice to those who deserve it.

personal

religion: she’s more or less agnostic at the start of the inquisition. she grew up in a strict andrastian family who’s very invested in the chantry, which is disillusioning for her. being with cullen and understanding that he keeps his faith while growing apart from the chantry actually helps to restore her faith a little.

sins: greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / PRIDE / envy / wrath

ellinor’s pride would be the death of her, i swear. it’s by far her worst trait. but she’s known to be quite wrathful if she’s angry enough, and if the receiving party deserves it.

virtues: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice

i actually think some of the others here (kindness, charity) are also fitting, but it really does depend on the other person. for example, ellinor did everything she possibly could to help the refugees in the hinterlands. but she’s not as giving (or forgiving) to those on her bad side

known languages: common tongue, as well as orlesian, tevene, conversational antivan, and some very rusty nevarran

build: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / plus size / average

height: 5′3″ smol bean!!!

scars/birthmarks: old burn scars on her forearms from fire magic when she was 12 (from her brother, a complete accident that landed him in the circle and led him to pursue healing studies) and a scar across her ribs/stomach area from corypheus’ dragon in haven

abilities/powers

knives!! ellinor is a true knife rogue. at first, it was kind of because daggers were easier to carry hide. but her short, slim stature makes her very quick with them (and earned her the nickname “Swift” from varric)

the game. ellinor was born a noble, and old habits die hard. words were her first weapons, and she hasn’t forgotten how to use them

horseback riding! idk if i’d go as far as to say ellinor was a horse girl, but uh, jaime trevelyan really did keep a ton of horses on his estate. and he did give her one for her tenth birthday. so it’s not much of a surprise that she’s among the best riders in skyhold.

music. in her teenage/young adult years, she practiced and played harp for ostwick’s chantry services. once she joins the inquisition, she asks maryden to teach her lute.

non-magical alchemy. ellinor may be hopeless with cooking, but she’s excellent with herbs and plants, drying and keeping much of what she picks on her adventures in her bedroom and using them for potions, poisons, and teas.

restrictions

hypocrisy. she’s very proud, and she’s not always willing to own up to her flaws. she has a tendency to condemn things in others that she fails to see in herself.

she’s extremely unforgiving and holds awful grudges. this is obvious in her initial distain towards cullen but especially prevalent in her feelings toward her sister, lyssa.

she can definitely be too serious. her friendship with sera helps loosen her up a bit, which is good.

she’s easily and quickly angered, most notably by cullen or sometimes leliana in the war room.

less serious than the above: ellinor is a massive lightweight. a few drinks in and it’s all over. she gets the thedas equivalent of asian glow, too.

favorites (college!ellinor time)

food: pad thai, gyros, ice cream, and the most important food group: coffee

pizza topping: mushooms and banana peppers. this is already written into the au lol (and tbh i have had this in real life and it was delicious)

color: maroon!

music genre: indie/alt

movie genre: dramas. but we all know that above all, college!ellinor is a huge star wars nerd.

curse words: fuck

scents: pumpkin and apple candles, post-thunderstorm air, pine, basil, cullen

fun stuff

bottom or top: i’m just saying she’s gonna be over cullen more than she’s under him if you know what i mean

sings in the shower: ONLY if she’s ABSOLUTELY sure that NO ONE is home and could possibly hear her

likes puns: only if cullen says them

#tag game #this was funnnnn #ellinor

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forthelulzy · 5 years

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Heaven By Violence: Chapter 5

How can a tree stand tall If a rain won’t fall To wash it’s branches down? And how can the heart survive Can it stay alive If it’s love’s denied for long? — “Lift the Wings”, Bill Whelan (Riverdance)

Irene returns to Haven utterly exhausted. Julien is alive, but it is somehow worse to be so close and unable to talk than it was when she had no idea where he was. Envy’s attempted hostile takeover leaves her with a pounding in her temples even days later, and she’s still trying to wrap her head around what that boy… spirit… thing… said. The templars had no idea what she was talking about, either.

Then she arrives back in the mountain village and has to endure a war meeting when all she wants to do is crawl into her bed and sleep.

Or drink… but no. She won’t. Sleep it is.

“You did not see what I saw, Commander,” she snaps. “The templars are too far gone. I never wanted to go to them in the first place, but now that I have, they’d damn well better help me close that Breach.” Her voice is straining, but she doesn’t care.

“Cassandra wrote that you found your brother,” Josephine says delicately.

She knows what the Ambassador means, though. They always think she’s stupid. “Yes. He is included in the conscription. He is too injured to help, but I will not be accused of favoritism. After the Breach is dealt with, I would support granting the templars more freedoms. For now, they are on thin ice.”

Cullen grits his teeth but doesn’t argue further. Leliana says, “We have a few dozen veterans on their way ahead of the rest. They should arrive—”

And then Cole is there on the war table, crouched just so that he doesn’t step on any of the flags. He picks one up, ignoring Josephine’s scream and Cullen’s shout of alarm, and says, “Soon. Templars don’t like to be late.”

Cassandra and Cullen draw their swords, and Leliana has a dagger out faster than a blink. Irene waves them down, but no one moves. “Cole,” she says, “what are you doing—”

“You know this creature?” Cassandra snarls, stepping forward to put her sword between Irene and Cole. He tilts his head at her, something in those watery blue eyes that makes Irene grab Cassandra’s wrist and squeeze.

The sword drops with a clatter. Cassandra yanks her wrist back, but Irene holds tight and says, “Stop it. He wants to help.” She lets go, turns to Cole and says, “Come on, off the war table.” She needs to control this situation before someone gets hurt — and it won’t be Cole. She has seen him fight, after all.

Cullen looks between her and Cassandra. His swordpoint drops a few inches.

Cole slips off the table, murmuring something about ‘not being a war’. He is literal-minded, and she is reminded of herself when she was young.

“I, for one, am interested in why he came,” Leliana says, folding her hands behind her back. Her dagger is undoubtedly still palmed there.

“You,” he says to Irene. “You help people. I saw. I want to help too. Help you help them.” He ducks his head and peers at her from under his lashes and the brim of his ridiculous hat. “I won’t get in the way. I won’t need any of your supplies. I just want to help.”

His voice sounds almost plaintive on the last sentence, and if she had not already decided, that does. “Cullen. Cassandra. He saved my life in Therinfal. I’m not turning him away. Or killing him.”

“Then…?” Cole says, blinking. Blue eyes. Her husband had blue eyes. Not nearly so big and watery, though.

She takes a deep breath, wills her chest to stop aching. “You can stay and help, Cole.”

He tilts his head at her again. “Tiny. No trouble. No notice taken unless you want them to.”

Cullen finally sheathes his sword with a frustrated sigh. “Fine, but you’re not honestly suggesting he can run around doing as he pleases?”

Irene turns to him and scowls. “He is currently in higher standing than the templars. He has not once tried to kill me.”

“That’s not—”

“Or blithely ignored others trying to kill me.” She is being petty, but she also doesn’t care. She needs to sleep, but undoubtedly something else will come up before she can. It always does.

“I don’t think anyone is suggesting he be left alone,” Josephine says, looking thoughtful — and neatly skipping over Irene’s point. “Perhaps we could— oh! Where did he go?”

Cole is gone again, the map marker he picked up right back where it is supposed to be. Irene sighs, rubs her temples. “He… does that. But he isn’t the main concern right now. If the templars are almost here, we need to prepare.” She barely waits for them to agree before turning on her heel and leaving the war room.

Colm has rubbed off on her, she thinks. Her husband was kindhearted, sometimes to the point of folly. A few years ago she would have killed Cole on sight, but now she’s a different person. She just hopes she’s different enough, and that her faith is justified.

“Oh, I see it now. It was hidden before. Hiding or running. It can never be both. You didn’t kill him, but you did kill him. Bare fists, bloody face. Eyes like yours.”

Her breath catches in her lungs as she freezes in the hall. Cole is half-hidden in the shadow of a pillar, but his voice is loud in the quiet Chantry, and the hushed conversation between Mother Giselle and Vivienne stops as both women look over curiously. Irene’s stomach feels heavy, but her heart is hammering away at her chest. There it is. You never truly thought you could run far enough to escape this, did you?

Footfalls behind her, but she won’t run, not again.

“Herald? What is he talking about?” Cullen. Irene cannot appreciate the irony of him taking Cole’s word for it now, after drawing a blade on him earlier.

She turns slowly, finds them all behind her. She knows her expression isn’t helping matters, but she never could control her face. She’s so tired, so tired of everything.

“Irene,” Cassandra says, like she’s just dredged up a memory long buried. “That day, you said you thought you must have done something, and only realized you hadn’t when you saw the Breach. Tell me. What made you think you could have destroyed the Conclave?”

Oh. Had she said that? Everything between waking up and waking up again is a terrifying blur. She gets that way, when she’s angry. Rage would have a fine time with her. “I—”

Cole starts, eyes going wide. “Oh no. I said the wrong thing. They’ll hurt you. I won’t let them!” He reaches for his daggers, but Irene steps between him and the advisors, hands out to placate. She doesn’t have the energy for anger.

“They’re not going to hurt me, Cole. Why don’t you go find someone else to help? I’ll be fine.”

Cole stills, staring at her. “You have the mark but you don’t need to lead. Locked up, trotted out only to seal Rifts then shoved back in. Or they could find another way. Too risky. You’re lying.”

“I… yes, Cole.” Shit. She should have thought about bringing home someone who could read minds. “I am. But sometimes hurt is inevitable, necessary. Sometimes hurt is justice.”

“Justice…? You’re not that person anymore. You never were.”

She can’t think under so much pressure, but maybe that’s for the best. “Please go, Cole. Whatever will be, will be.” Her voice comes out strangled, quoting one of Julien’s favorite lines to soothe her when she got angry. If only he were here, but he’s in the infirmary. He woke up once, but was delirious from pain and too many healing potions. What will happen to him, if she can’t explain this? If the others bring down the judgment that should have been brought to bear years ago?

Cole nods jerkily and disappears again. She can only hope he’s gone farther than a few steps this time.

“Now. Herald. What’s going on?” Cassandra asks, voice hard. It pains her, to see the woman she had formed a tentative alliance with so hostile, but it is no less than she deserves.

Irene glances to the side of the hall, where Vivienne and Mother Giselle are both looking on. The First Enchanter is fanning herself while she leans against the wall, face unreadable, while Giselle has stepped forward a few paces, showing concern. Concern for Irene? It is a strange thing, to know another has so much faith in her.

Either way, she doesn’t want an audience for this. Let them gossip, but it will be difficult enough to explain to just four people. “I’ll tell you everything. Just. Not here.”

Josephine turns back toward the war room, but Irene remembers her first time approaching that room, hearing Chancellor Roderick’s raised voice from within. She knows where this must happen. She strides toward the door leading to the dungeons before she loses her nerve. It is where she has always belonged, after all, and there won’t be a walk of shame if they condemn her. When they condemn her.

She leads them down the stairs, startles the single guard on duty. Knight-Captain Denam is supposed to arrive with the main force of templars, behind the veterans who will help seal the Breach, so the cells are empty. The citizens who tried to kill her before she was the Herald were released two days ago, according to Cassandra. Still, she marches all the way to the last cell. The door isn’t locked.

“Herald, what are you—” Cullen starts, but she cuts him off because if he asks it, she will think about it.

“I am Irene Stellana Trevelyan,” she begins, standing in the middle of the chilly cell with her hands clasped in front of her. Her breathing is shaky, but she has to do this. “Eight years ago I was a Templar recruit in Ostwick when I murdered one of my charges, Maxwell. Maxwell Trevelyan. My— my eldest brother.” She nearly chokes on her words. The advisors are staring at her, waiting for her to continue. Cullen shifts his weight, opens his mouth, closes it again. “I started drinking young. I couldn’t handle— I can’t handle it. Any of it.” She swallows, forces her eyes to remain open though her vision is blurring at the edges. “We were celebrating our graduation to full templars, and the other recruits had a flask of whiskey. I drank the whole thing. I knew it was dangerous.” Deep breath. Just the facts, don’t shift the blame.

“I woke up later, on the ground, face to face with my brother’s corpse. I had beaten him to death. Blood, everywhere. I…” She shakes her head, presses her fist to her mouth so she won’t get sick. Cullen no longer looks like he wants to say anything. Josephine’s lovely brown skin is green-tinged in the dim light of the dungeon. “I couldn’t remember a thing, but I knew I had killed him. My knuckles were skinned down to the bone.” She flexes her fingers, showing them the scars that will be there the rest of her life.

There’s still more to tell, and she barrels on. “I turned myself in to the Knight-Commander. I thought I would be expelled at the least, imprisoned, maybe even executed. Maxwell had been heir to the Trevelyan name once, before his magic showed. But my father intervened on my behalf. Said I was too talented to waste on a mage. The Knight-Commander was a good man, but my father… He threatened to withdraw his financial support, even get the Grand Cleric to demote him. Of course he bowed. I was sent back to watching mages the next day. The day after that, before I would get my first draught of lyrium, I ran.”

“Why… why would you kill him? Do you know?” Leliana is floundering, caught off guard as she rarely is. Irene is not surprised the spymaster didn’t find this out — Bann Trevelyan is well-practiced in cleaning up.

“I don’t know. The other recruits were terrified, refused to talk to me about it. Then they all were silenced, one way or another. Some with money, a few more with blackmail. And the remainder were sent out to hunt apostates and never came back.” Yet more lives, ruined by her. She only found this out years later, when others made inquiries on her behalf. “I had no plan, when I fled the city. I just wanted out. Away from my family. I had known he cared little for Maxwell, but…” She shakes her head, trying to banish the memory that comes to her mind, as clear as it was all those years ago: Maxwell’s face, inches from her own, a bloody pulp except for his eyes. Brown like hers, like their father’s, staring into her forever, accusing where the Bann wasn’t.

There are many reasons why she doesn’t sleep until she has to.

“I can’t… I’m sorry, everyone. For acting like someone I wasn’t. For giving you false hope. For creating this mess and leaving you all to try lessening the damage.” She’s done. She takes a deep steadying breath, and holds it.

To her dull surprise, Cullen steps forward. “Irene. You didn’t know what you were doing.” A beat later and he rubs the back of his neck, evidently nervous to be so close to a murderer. But he doesn’t take the words back, or shy away. “Maker’s breath, you were drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse,” she says quietly.

“Not an… Irene. You had no idea drinking that whiskey would affect you so much. You have torn yourself apart over this.” There is something gentle and understanding in his eyes when he says that. “I’m not saying you were wrong to feel guilty. But I will not condemn you for something that was not your fault.” He glances back at the women, but she can’t bear to. She fixates on Cullen, fascinated by his defense. She doesn’t believe him, but she could.

“Josie?” Leliana says.

The Ambassador taps her quill against her chin before scribbling something down. “It could be difficult to mitigate the scandal if this gets out. I could manage it, however. We may even play it to our advantage — that the mark proves Andraste has forgiven you.” A pause. “As for what I think, it would have helped to know this from the beginning. But this is by no means a crippling blow to the Inquisition.”

Josephine is being kind, she thinks. But, Irene is no diplomat. A tiny swell of hope rises in her chest — not that she will be wholly absolved, but that the Inquisition may avoid the fallout of her mistakes.

“The Maker chose you,” Cassandra says abruptly. “I do not like the dishonesty, but even if He had not…” She sighs. “Even if He had not saved you, I think you have suffered enough.” Her posture is stiff, as if she does not like what she is saying. But Cassandra is not the kind to lie about something like this.

“Then we are in agreement,” says Leliana lightly. “Irene, I understand why you didn’t want us to know, but now that we do… Was there anything else?”

Irene huffs a disbelieving laugh, and Cullen jumps. “No. Tevinter husband, blackouts, Maxwell’s murder. That’s it from me.”

“Very well,” Cullen says. “We still have to close the Breach. Let’s worry about our immediate survival for the moment. Get some rest, Irene. If we fail at this…”

“We won’t,” she says, reeling. It’s uplifting, their faith in her. Even if she still thinks it foolish, she will bask in their kindness for as long as she can.

***

The next two days are spent in a flurry of activity, before the work runs out and they return to the dreadful waiting. A storm in the mountains just east of Haven delays the veterans, Leliana tells them. The Spymaster’s plan to stop the rumors before they start is mostly successful, but there is still a whisper that some issue has divided the Inquisition’s leaders. Which isn’t strictly true, but it is the best Irene could hope for.

Cole makes himself scarce, but there are signs he is still around: she finds a sprig of prophet’s laurel in a vase by Julien’s bedside, and the infirmary healers have no idea where it came from. She doesn’t know where he could have gotten the rare herb, either.

Her brother is healing steadily. The surgeon claims he will make a full recovery, even be able to fight again, though it will take time. They had to make sure he didn’t have any red lyrium in his body, and an infection took hold early on, which is why it’s taking so long. Now, with him laying there, unnaturally pale, she just wants to hear his voice again. She tucks his hair — a darker blonde than hers — behind his ears and studies his face. Same strong jawline; it looks better on him, even if it is half-hidden behind a scruffy beard. His nose was healed properly after it was broken, unlike hers. Broad of body, with a little paunch around the middle, visible even under the bandages. She’s a little surprised it has remained, given that he isn’t eating any food. Just thin broth.

Whoever his mother was, she also gave him noticeably darker skin than the rest of the family, and dark green eyes. She was envious of those eyes, when she was younger. A far step up from her own muddy brown. Hers are the same as her father’s, and Maxwell’s.

She can’t sit by his bedside forever; she tells herself it’s because she’s restless, not because she’s afraid of ruining everything she touches. She lurches up with a groan and stalks off toward the gates, grinding her jaw when the healers’ whispers follow her.

The Breach is still in the sky, and while they may be close to closing it, it won’t matter if they can’t find this Elder One Cole and Envy spoke of. Cole also mentioned Empress Celene of Orlais; she may be their best lead. Envy boasted of a demon army, too, but Irene isn’t sure whether that was posturing or a promise. Probably both. Either way, ‘army of demons’ is yet another phrase she would like to never hear again.

She steps out of Haven, nodding to the gate guards when they salute. Maker, but she will never get used to that.

Commander Cullen is taking a break from drills to oversee the construction of… something. Siege equipment? Just the base is done, but people are building more parts nearby. She comes closer, standing next to him while the workers hammer away at a long arm-like piece of wood. “What’s all this?” she says.

Cullen flinches. “Maker’s breath! I apologize, Irene, I did not see you there.” She tries to smile at him — he must have been really distracted, not to have heard her lumbering up — and though she knows it comes out as a grimace at best, he continues, “Haven is no fortress, but we need some kind of defense. These are to be trebuchets. I pray we never have to use them.” He won’t look at her for more than a second at a time. Well, it’s not as if she expected everything to be perfect after her confession.

“Me too,” she says. He’s nervous, with her there, so she shifts her weight and turns away. “I shouldn’t be distracting you.”

“Ah, you— you aren’t distracting me,” Cullen says, voice tinged with a note of panic, and she stops. When she looks at him he’s rubbing the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up to his ears. “I would welcome your company. Unless you have other plans?”

Irene remembers why she left Haven’s walls in the first place. “I was going to visit the overlook again,” she murmurs. His blush is throwing her, and she considers that the nervousness may be born of something other than fear. Cullen is almost unfairly handsome. She doesn’t think he’s truly interested in her — she knows she’s not a good-looking woman, and to have this man be falling for her personality is laughable — and in any case, her heart still aches. Someday, she will move on, but she can’t imagine it now.

“Oh.” His hand drops to hang listlessly at his side. “I… apologize, Herald.” He wants to say something else, she can tell, but he decides against it.

‘Oh’, indeed. “There is nothing to apologize for, Commander. Good luck with the defenses — may we never use them.” Irene moves on, the weight on her chest that’s been suffocating her for weeks pressing that much more. She feels him following her with his eyes, but she keeps going.

The land’s been cleared halfway around the lake, in preparation for the templars to come, but the overlook is safe, and her little shrine remains. There’s something lying in the snow in front of it, something that wasn’t there before. She stops a few paces away, wary. She hadn’t thought about it, but a thin layer of snow fell since she was here last. There are footprints leading up, fresh ones, and the rock’s edges has been dusted off. A cut flower — embrium — sticks up out of the pile of snow.

Who would have been here? Who would violate her husband’s empty grave? The white-hot rage that steals her breath and blurs her vision is familiar, at least. It is better than feeling lost, as she has mostly felt since waking up in the Chantry months ago.

She marches over, intent on ripping out the embrium, and throwing whatever is lying in front over the edge to shatter on the lake ice below.

It’s… a staff. It’s Colm’s staff. Still in two pieces, still charred from the explosion, but instantly recognizable from the iron crescent on top. Someone retrieved it. Someone went up to the Temple and found it, brought it back down to put at the shrine she thought only she — and Cullen — knew about.

She falls to her knees, now out of breath for a different reason altogether. She won’t cry. She won’t.

But why—?

Her hands ghost over the splintered wood, and she sobs.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #dragon age fic #dragon age fanfiction #heaven by violence #lulzy writes

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gaymage · 5 years

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Malik Trevelyan, human Mage Inquisitor

- 27 at the beginning of DAI

- Grew up as the youngest of 4, has three older sisters

- Sent to the Circle of Ostwick after discovering he was a mage, his family making the least amount of effort to make contact after he is sent there

- Was a bit of a troublemaker at the Circle, believing if he was a nuisance they’d send him back

- none of his letters to his family get any answers back

- Eventually grows in to his role, effectively proving his worth as a mage at the circle, moving up through the enchanter ranks

- with the mage-templar war brewing , his family sends him a letter asking him to represent their house at a conclave regarding peace talks, malik wanting nothing more than to please his family does so without question, leading to the events of DAI

- got his scar over his left eye during his harrowing while trying to fight off a demon

- specialized in winter/ice magic

- questions his faith in the Maker a lot

- attention starved, dumb as hell sometimes

- wants to make something of himself to make House Trevelyan proud of him and deep down wanting an apology or explanation for throwing him in the Circle and completely ignoring his letters

- obtaining the Mark initially terrifies Malik to the core thinking it’ll kill him right away, but upon realizing it’s true powers to be able to seal the rifts, thinks of it as a blessing

- gladly takes on the title of Andraste’s Herald wanting his name to become renown in all of Thedas

- starts sword training at Haven to impress Cullen

#malik trevelyan

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somevirtualnolife · 6 years

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In the Case of Children

1683 Words

Rating: G Pairing: Mage Trevelyan x Cassandra Summary: Reagan and Cassandra broach a much danced around subject. Previous Chapter: In Memory Author’s Notes: WOO. Another story that I left for far too long. I'm sorry it took so long to update this. Sometimes life just gets to ya. But hopefully my writer's block and life has eased up a bit. I rushed the ending a bit... I had a bit of a tough time trying to wrap up the ending for some reason!Apologies for any types. Happy reading!

What was it again?

A sides-weep then a thrust? Or perhaps it’s better to pivot from the other side?

Cassandra tapped her practice sword against the training dummy and frowned. She had the combination down before, now she felt slightly off balance whenever she attempted a final blow. If they were going to fight Corypheus face to face, her technique had to be immaculate. No room for error when they were so close to victory.

“You’re very strong,” Cassandra heard behind her. She gripped her sword tightly and quickly turned around, only to see a young boy with brown hair.

There were a fair amount of children at Skyhold. The fortress was large enough for some to bring their families if needed. And Morrigan’s son was quite easy to point out among them. The way he carried himself and spoke wasn’t quite like that of a typical child; in some ways, he had a knowledge that surpassed even that of the adults around him. As for how that was possible, she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to find out. His mother was a Witch of the Wilds, so who knew what she was teaching her son behind closed doors. She still felt that Reagan had made a mistake, letting her join the Inquisition. The woman was almost the textbook definition of a suspicious apostate. Which was saying a lot, considering the rest of the mages that wandered around here.

“Kieran, was it?” Cassandra said as she sheathed her sword. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people when they have a weapon. It’s dangerous,”

“I’m sorry. It’s just interesting to see someone who was asleep for so long with such skill,” he replied, his big eyes looking up at her.

“Thank you. I suppose,” A compliment wrapped around in mystery. How did this child know of the Rite of Tranquility? More importantly, how did he know that she had once been made Tranquil?

“Where’s your mother?” she asked, not wishing to discuss it further. Morrigan didn’t seem the type to let her son wander around too far from her sight, especially with so many templars about.

“She’s still in the room the with the large map,” he responded. Another meeting in the war room most likely.

“Your mum’s just about wrapped up actually,”

Approaching them from the stairs of the grand hall was Reagan, looking like his usual cheerful self. He ruffled Kieran’s hair playfully, to which the boy simply patted it back down again. He didn’t seem particularly fussed about it though.

“Seeker Cassandra is quite the warrior, isn’t she?” he continued, a large grin on his face. “She can talk one twenty darkspawn at once without breaking a sweat,”

“Really?” for the first time since she’d met the boy, Kieran’s eyes widened and he had a boyish wonder to him.

“Oh yes,” Reagan nodded. “And she chases after dragons for fun,”

“Don’t fill his head with ridiculous ideas,” Cassandra rolled her eyes. He really had to stop overexaggerating her skills, especially in front of the children. They took everything so literally.

“Can I come with you on a mission and watch?” Kieran looked at the both of them.

“Oh, I don’t think your mother would be too pleased with that,” Reagan crouched down. “Speaking of which, I have a feeling she’s looking around for you, so it’s best you head back to the garden, okay? But Cassandra I will come and see you later. I can show you a few new magic tricks,”

Kieran frowned, but nodded. Unlike most other children, he very rarely whined or protested. That did make him very easy to take care of at least. An odd child, but easy to handle it seemed. Once the boy left, Reagan stood up straight again, brushing off his trousers.

“He’s a bit of a peculiar child,” Cassandra couldn’t help but say once the boy was out of earshot.

“In my experience, most children are peculiar,” Reagan replied.

“As odd as him, though?”

“I once taught a girl who tried to lick a nug that wandered into the circle’s courtyard. Well, tried and succeeded. And then all the other children cried because they weren’t allowed to lick the nug as well. It took them forever to focus them back on the class. So yes, as odd as him, I’d say,”

“Ah right. You were the head enchanter for the children in Ostwick, weren’t you?” He had mentioned it a few times in passing. Perhaps working with several little booger-nosed children flinging fire and ice at each other would change one’s idea of odd behaviour.

“Three years,” he replied. He sat on one of the stone ledges nearby, stretching out his neck.

Strangely enough, between the two of them, Reagan was the one who rarely spoke of his past. He always said it wasn’t particularly exciting or particularly interesting in comparison to hers. He was the youngest of four children from a pious noble family who had a fairly tame life in the Circle, according to him. Boring or not however, that didn’t matter much to Cassandra by this point. They’d been together for quite some time now. Getting to truly know each other was what mattered. Besides, it wasn’t as though her life was exciting all the time.

“Do you miss it?” Cassandra asked, sitting beside him.

“Sometimes,” he laughed. “Teaching children is always good fun. Inquisitive, curious… far less surly than adolescents. I’d also say less pressure than having to lead an entire military to victory against a crazed darkspawn magister. Just by a little,”

They fell silent for a moment. Not because they had nothing to say, but because they were beginning to realize just where this conversation was headed. Another subject that they had always danced around which made sense for a time. They were off saving the world, uncertain of just what was going to happen. But now that there was a possible end in sight to Corypheus, there were other parts of their future together that they needed to think about.

“So… children, huh?” Reagan was the one break the hesitation. “Was it ever something on your mind?”

Cassandra snorted. “Do I seem like someone with motherhood on the brain?”

“Well, you never know. I didn’t peg you for a romance reader either, so it wouldn’t be the first incorrect assumption I’ve made,”

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brows. There was maybe a brief moment, when she was younger and had been with Gaylan. If things settled down. If the Circle had ever changed it’s rules. If there was a window of rest in her life as a Seeker. But time seemed to move quickly after 25, and before she knew it, it . At least, she felt it did. She wasn’t dissatisfied about it. Faith guided her to be a Seeker of Truth rather than juggle both and she had no regrets about that.

“I thought about it a few times and that was as far as I went,” she finally replied with a slight, self-assured nod. That’s all there really was to it in the end. And honestly, she didn’t see herself being the sort of ‘kind and nurturing’ mother that one would normally picture.

“I guess we’re sort of the same in that regard then,” Reagan laughed, crossing his arms. “With the Circle’s rules, I had sort of accepted that I wasn’t going to have children,”

Cassandra carefully observed the mage’s expression. He was smiling, but his smiles were sometimes unreadable. It was a smile to hide what bothered him, a way to get him from talking about the sadder things when he didn’t want to. But still, she wanted to press forward. She wanted to know him more.

“You say you couldn’t, but… did you want to?” she asked softly.

A long sigh escaped his lips as he crossed his arms and looked up. “…Yeah, I did. But even at Ostwick, there were still things that were… tough. It’s hard enough being a child separated from your parents. Might be even more so if you’re the parent in that situation. And I didn’t want that,”

Of course. That should’ve been obvious to her. Even with her alliance and duties to the Chantry, that didn’t mean she felt that the treatment of mages was always fair or reasonable.

It wasn’t just that. Even if that were to change after the Inquisition, if the Circle was reinstated with new rules, he was now with a woman who had no real intentions parenthood. She just couldn’t picture herself being a mother now, even with the most caring and supportive partner.

It was almost he were reading her mind, for he looked back at her. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. Normally she hated when he was even the slightest bit romantic in public with her, but there weren’t too many people around. And…well, if she was being quite honest, she quick loved being in his arms. It was one of the few times that she felt vulnerable in a good way.

“But I make a pretty great uncle, if I do say myself,” he said, brightly. “Half a dozen nieces and nephews. I had a chance to meet a few of them when my siblings offered me temporary asylum after the Circle fell. Pretty sure I’m their favorite. I mean, none of other uncles can conjure up a fire bunny with the snap of their fingers,”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Cassandra chuckled. “And… I’m glad. I don’t want you missing out on what you want due to… any circumstance,”

His nose brushed against her cheek before he lightly kissed it. It was soft, and comforting.

“Right now, I everyone that I want in my life, so don’t you worry about me,”

She cracked a small smile. A genuine one. He was so corny sometimes, but… she liked it.

“I feel the same way,” she responded, tilting her head so that she could return his kiss, planting one on his lips.

“Excellent. Now then… what’s your opinion on mabari?”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i fanfic #inquisitor x cassandra #cassandra x trevelyan #Cassandra Pentaghast

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sakurabunnie · 6 years

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30 Day Dragon Age OC Challenge

Day 23: Childhood

What was their childhood like? Who was their childhood best friend? What’s their best memory? Worst memory?

For the first several years of Maxwell’s life, he lived a comfortable life at his family’s estate in Ostiwck. As the youngest child and the one most resembling their mother, he was doted upon by his parents and brothers. He was given the best tutors money can buy and learned the teachings of the Andrastian faith as was typical to the son of the Trevelyan family who has had close ties to the Chantry for generations. He spent his days learning various lessons and playing with his two older brothers Vincent and Marcus along with other children in the estate. Marcus being closer in age was his dearest friend as a child. His favorite memories are playing with his brothers and learning to ride a horse with them.

However, everything changed in a single moment when he was nine years old with what would become his worst memories and leave a lasting emotional scar on his life. Maxwell began to dream great storms with lightning that lit up the sky so bright it could blind you began to suffer from static shock often. Something no one paid much attention to considering it was storm season in Ostwick and they’ve had several rainstorms. When roughhousing with his brother Marcus several days later lightning shot from his hands and electrocuted Marcus leaving him with a permanent scar on his arm. The sound of Marcus’s scream had caused their mother to come running and with dawning horror of realizing what happened she called for the guards and had them lock the terrified young Maxwell in his room.

There he waited alone without contact from anyone until the Templars arrived. Once they Templars arrived he was dragged in front of his family for final goodbyes. Maxwell cried for his parents only to be met by the ice cold glare of his father and a look of disgust and loathing on his mother’s. Too shocked by the complete change in his parents he didn’t notice the sorrow on Vincent’s face as he struggled to hold back a desperate Marcus knowing what would happen if they tried to interfere. The last words Maxwell heard before being torn away from his family was his mother telling the Templars to get that “thing” out of her house.

Maxwell fought several times on the way to the Circle of Ostwick trying to escape causing the Templars to place him in magic suppressing chains. Though once he was there he slowly learned to accept his fate and adapted to surviving in the Circle. He became a favored student of many of the Senior Enchanters and was popular amongst his fellow apprentices. For the most part, his family’s reputation and his favored status among his teachers allowed him an unharmed life in the Circle though it never stopped his desire for freedom. He even developed a deep friendship with another young boy named Callum. As they grew older something other than friendship began to bloom though neither of them realized the feeling for the love that it was before Callum was taken during the night for his Harrowing never to be seen again.

The events of Maxwell’s childhood helped shaped him into the man he would one day become.

#my characters #maxwell trevelyan #30dayDAchallenge #child abuse

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veridium · 6 years

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Thank You 300 Followers - Here’s Some Heartache!

Thank you for enabling me, everyone

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is not a chronological part of my #Theiaphine romance arc. This story takes place a year after Inquisitor Theia Trevelyan disbands the Inquisition, marries, and moves her sights to the incoming conflict threatening all of Thedas and the world. It is also a very emotional and tumultuous moment in the lives of Theia and her wife, and as such I will warn you: it is some sad shit. Also, if you don’t want to spoil the chronology of their romance, maybe don’t read this...and I’m sorry (lol).

The Inquisition had been disbanded for a year now, and yet for Theia her work never truly ended. She still felt the pressure to perform, to represent something greater than her own identity. Even with all she had sacrificed to save Thedas, she felt spurred to give more – as if her body and spirit had finally resigned to her greater purpose. Still, the concerns of her life did not waver from her heart. She still stood at the side of the woman she loved in a time of war, and now a time of preparation. She still pushed herself to be a better Mage, even with the loss of her hand and forearm. And now, she was preparing for perhaps the most complicating eventuality of her life: becoming a Mother while one of the leaders of a covert operation to stop the destruction of the entire world at the hands of a former ally and friend.

The ocean air laced with salt, easygoing and in no hurry. It was a calm morning for the ports and for the halls of the apartments House Montilyet owned along Rialto Bay. Her healer had recommended remaining near the water for the first few months, in order to relax her nerves and keep her mind preoccupied with the business of the surrounding city life.

She gazed absent-mindedly in the floor-length mirroring metal that stood in their bedchamber, as a servant helped secure her tunic dress from behind. Her hair in wavy curls and tied up into a ponytail, a beautiful façade to a busy mind. Among her thoughts, reports from Leliana – though Thedas called her Divine Victoria – letters from the Seeker’s hideout in the mountains, and intel gathering from various agents scattered across the landscape. She did not need one for the Imperium, however; she had a direct voice from the heart in a dear friend whose voice echoed through a messenger crystal at every chance he got.

Once she was fully ready, she turned and departed her room, single-mindedly heading for her office. Well, their office. The thought of two important and busy women sharing one work space would puzzle some people, but once they were invited into the large room, it was understood why. In two corners were each of their workspaces: one corner, an illustrious library of tomes, papers, and scrolls, along with a fireplace and a bearskin run reminiscent of the décor of the Free Marches. On the other end of the rectangular room was another desk and chair, ornamentally designed, and matching the large window overlooking the sea ports. The window was rarely closed. Framing it were bookshelves, statuettes, and artwork.

Theia entered into the middle of the room, which was bordered by a long and thin balcony which overlooked the small garden courtyard. The sun was bearing down on the rustic stone of the architecture, facilitating a warm and dry atmosphere. That kind of weather did well for Theia’s pale skin, but she grew only slightly darker than she had been in their days at Skyhold; the phenotypes of her heritage were hard to shake off.

Her eyes went immediately to the leather-bound booklet of papers that rested in the middle of her desk. She grabbed it and unbound it from the leather string, opening and searching for the bottom line in all the jargon. It was from the Divine: more detected movements of elves departing their posts and homes and retreating somewhere rural, some place hard to pinpoint. Meanwhile, “special emissaries” – the Divine’s word for her spies – had been monitoring the Qunari advancement on the Imperium with grim conclusions. Her friend and now Magistrate Dorian Pavus was working under ever-increasing pressure, and his faction proved rigorous in the face of not only political opposition, but decreasing time.

With all this in mind, anyone who knew Theia during the early days of the Inquisition would say they felt a shift in her soul, as if she had aged ten years in the span of three. Perhaps it was the betrayal of her friend that hardened her heart and drew the line in the sand. Or, maybe, the loss of her arm that left her permanently jaded to a degree. The core of who she was managed to survive, if in more episodic expressions. The main thing that changed was that she was careful who witnessed it – who still got to see Theia for who she was, and not merely what she must do.

Her quiet time alone with the reports was interrupted by the sound of her partner entering with a courier, who was feverishly taking notes per dictation.

“Tell my brother to take count of all the masts we have left-over from the renovation, and see if we cannot find some use for the fabrics elsewhere. Particularly if we can experiment with designs for the several ships I need built,” Josephine ordered as she walked with determination to her desk.

“Yes, My Lady,” the courier nodded, before departing quickly back out the door.

From across the vast room, Josephine sensed her presence, and couldn’t help but grin smartly as she, too, got her eyes lost in some important documents.

“Mi amor, you brood with increased intensity these days,” she said out loud.

“Funny, and I thought the servants were merely joking when they got caught calling me Mistress Ice Dragon,” Theia mused, finishing up a sentence she was writing on the correspondence in front of her.

“You know they were drunk, do not take it personally. Besides, there is something…magnetic about such a title,” Josephine’s playfulness had an ultimate goal: avoid Theia’s now heightened temper at all costs, if it could be out-maneuvered. Such a task proved only possible for the most capable, such as herself.

“Yes, of course, I much prefer it to all the rest. In fact we should combine them all into an ultimate title: The Herald of the Ice Dragon Inquisition? It’s catchy,” her words were laced with a saltiness, as much as she tried to have a sense of humor, she could not help but have low patience these days.

With that, Josephine chuckled, and withdrew from her end of the room in order to arrive at her woman’s side. She came around to her side of the desk, sitting on the edge to her right, her eyes glimmering in the abundant daylight.

“What is the latest from the Divine? She sent me a letter a few days ago, but it was more personal in nature.”

“Nothing I didn’t already expect, unfortunately. More elves retreating to somewhere, the Qunari are not backing down from the Imperium’s borders. Solas was right, with their defeat in the Deep Roads, they are now striking at Tevinter with the vengeance of a wounded animal.”

“It was imperative that we defeat them. The Exalted Council’s destruction would have been more disastrous than the Conclave.”

“Yes, but now I fear we have won the battle only to lose the war.”

“Surely not. With the ships my brother is working on in the yard, we can have a sustainable fleet to support our forces if they need it.”

Theia pursed her lips. Josephine spoke of their months-long project they began shortly after she got the Montilyet trading fleet back on its feet. Using some of the smaller ships as conduits, they began transferring correspondences, agreements, and acquisitions in an underground, transactional process. Eventually, they even dispatched explorers to secure new raw materials for their eventual plans of a security fleet that could withstand evacuation, maritime battle, and even land-based natural disasters. A smaller, more maneuverable fleet to stand by should land become too dangerous to undergo operations.

“You still sound the way you did when we were in Skyhold. So full of hope and promise. I wonder how you did it,” Theia admitted with a vulnerability in her tone, now

“I watched the woman I thought would be lost to me forever, come back to me, from a most impossible battle. Now, she and I live the life I thought was foolish to daydream. I have an endless reservoir of foolish resolve,” Josephine played.

At that, Theia smirked. “I am sorry I’ve been so distant. Between the sickness and the affairs we have going on, there are times when I feel like I am more of the kind of person Varric said I’d be: this embodiment of intimidating ideas, and not a human being.”

“You have managed to be both for this long, mi amor, and will continue to. Just take care of yourself, please, for both your sakes,” Josephine referred to the child that was now growing inside of her, the child that would be their heir and their shining beacon of faith in a time of great duress.

“I will. I’m trying. It doesn’t help that no one else knows besides you and Dorian. I’m surprised Dorian has kept it to himself this long, it surely is a sign he has more vital matters to concern himself with. I will need to tell Cassandra and Lelia—Divine Victoria, before rumors or spies gets the information to them first. They would not be pleased with me,” she stood from her chair and took hold of the letter she had finished. Folding it up precisely, she reached for her small bottle of parchment wax, and began warming it over the one candle she had lit for such purposes.

It would only be a month or so before her abdomen would start swelling, and become noticeable even other the shapelessness of her tunic gowns. She had to devise the best and most covert way of letting her closest allies know of this recent development. Surely they would understand if she could just use the right words, or provide the most accurate context.

No matter what, though, she knew it would not be smooth sailing.

The Seeker was anxiously awaiting word from the former Inquisitor, seeing as how she had dispatched pages of updates and time-sensitive information for her feedback. The Seekers had been rebuilding and training intensively for months in the mountains, free from the momentum of politics and everyday debauchery of Orlais. She was personally overseeing the reformation, and with that came great power and great nerve. One of the few sources of solace, as well as connection to the outside world, was her frequent communications with Lady Trevelyan and the Divine.

She paced along the floor runner of the foyer, waiting for the courier to arrive with the morning letters. When he finally did so, breathing rather heavily from having ran up the flights of stairs to her wing of the fortress, her eyes sparked with impatience. He handed her a stack about an inch thick; surely one of them would be from Theia.

There were two. One that was more plain, probably of logistical reports and the status of the ship fleet. Then a second, with personal parchment, sealed with her own emblem.

Curious, Cassandra thought. Why the need for two? Has something happened?

Stepping into her private study, first she opened the plainer letter. It was official business, nothing out of the ordinary – a confirmation of support here, a comment in the margins there. So, why a need for a personal note? Typically, when Theia wished to say something personal, she snuck it in at the end of reports.

Her fingers nervously opened the second letter, the wax snapping as it broke open. Her eyes went immediately to the first line:

“Dear friend,

I would have included this in the reports, but, I did not wish for something so private to be shuffled into affairs of business. I know you will react strongly to this, but, it is something I won’t be able to hide from you much longer. I am with child, due 7 months from now. I am well, and well-cared for. Rest assured, I will not shirk my duties or correspondences during the remainder of my pregnancy. I have sent a letter to the Divine relaying this news, so do not feel bound to secrecy with her. After all, who could dare keep a secret from our beloved friend?

Sending well wishes your way,

T”

The Seeker’s heart sank deeper into her ribs as she read the note. How could she do this? Now, of all times? Her body filled with fearful dread. It was not that a child wasn’t a blessing from the Maker, it was the timing of it. Surely, she had thought Theia would remain focused on the responsibilities she had to the forces under her control and advisement, not do something that would require so much of her energy. And what of the child of the Inquisitor? Would such an identity ever promise safety in the face of war?

Cassandra sat down at her chair, pondering how to react to this news in a way that would not alienate a friend she valued so highly. Throughout all the years they had worked together, she trusted Theia to have fair judgment, and to understand the brevity of her choices. Now, something had changed.

Just as she was about to put her hand to paper, and write her response, another courier staffer barged into her study. Her face, annoyed with such a gesture, looked up with tense eyes and posture.

“Yes?” she huffed.

The man stepped forward, holding another letter, one that looked eerily familiar. It was the same parchment that Theia had used, only with a purple seal. It was Ambassador Montilyet’s emblem.

“My Lady, this came expedited from Antiva. Lady Montilyet sent it with most urgent orders to get it to your hand as quick as possible. The rider looked as if he hadn’t slept in two days.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed; she was exasperated with the apparent bureaucracy of the situation. Just how many personal letters would she receive from the same location? Could the two women not collaborate their message into one letter? For Maker’s sake—

As she stared down at the open letter, her heart experienced whiplash.

“Lady Cassandra,

It is with urgency and pain that I write to you to inform of that my wife, and your friend, suffered a miscarriage this morning. She is recuperating, but is under acute distress and pain, as you can imagine. I write to you not as a colleague or ally, but as the partner to your closest friend, and woman: come to Antiva to see her. She needs all the motivation she can get to recover. It would mean the world to me.

Kindest and most astute regards,

Lady Josephine Montilyet”

“Maker,” Cassandra said out loud, to the dismay of the courier standing before her. Her voice was sad, emotional, feeling, a sound that her men did not witness often.

“Have my horse prepared, and get me two guards to accompany me. I must go to Antiva immediately,” she ordered, hardening her resolve for the sake of saving face. As the man departed, she gathered the two letters, folding them into one another.

She rose from her chair and made her way to her fireplace. Without so much as a word or a sentimental expression, she tossed the papers into the fire. No one would know of her friend’s tragedy, lest they be acquainted with her blade or her fist.

The heat of the Antivan sky bore down on the back of the Seeker’s neck – this temperate weather was not her choice, nor was it what she was used to after about half a year in the mountains. The roads were hills, and the cobblestone under her horse’s feet was hot to the touch. The two guards that flanked her eyed the scenery with awe: being out of the desolate area they had been in was a much-needed retreat of sorts.

Finally, the Seeker had found the entryway to the Montilyet home. It was a tall stone façade with a gate that gave way into a courtyard, with a large double-door entryway with Antivan rounded columns. Although, the place felt eerily quiet and still, as if something very devastating had engulfed it, making it feel dimmer than the surrounding buildings.

Coming out of the opened doors was Josephine herself, wearing a dark purple gown and silver strands of ornamentation in her hair. In Antiva, mourning was marked by conservative dress and retiring from public social life temporarily – a grim choice indeed in the opulent grandeur of Rialto bay. The Seeker dismounted and immediately approached Lady Montilyet.

“Seeker, it is so good to see you,” she greeted, her hands collected in front of her, a ring being toyed with nervously between an index finger and thumb.

“Lady Montilyet,” Cassandra bowed her head in respect, “I came as soon as I got word. Where is she? How is her health?”

“Come with me, I will take you to her at once,” Josephine reached out a hand, beckoning her forward. Soon, they were walking side by side down a spacious corridor, servants stopping to look at the honorable guest that had come to see one of the Mistresses of the household.

“She bled for two days, so much so she went unconscious for several hours. The Healers were able to stem the bleeding, but, there was no salvaging the…” Josephine’s breath ran out as she blinked, trying to hold herself together. “She is still weak, but her prognosis is good. They cannot tell yet whether or not the damage has been done permanently.”

Cassandra was quiet with reverence towards the loss. “I have been praying for you both, Lady Josephine. I hope you know just how apologetic I am for this travesty.”

“Thank you. It has been…most difficult. Her pain has made her expectantly tumultuous in demeanor. I have been trying everything the Healers suggest to distract her, but, she is very stubborn as you well know.”

“If I may ask, what…was she doing, when it happened?”

Lady Montilyet was quiet, the footfalls of their walking being the only sound to remind them of where they were. Her eyes glazed a bit as she put together her response in her mind.

“We are not exactly sure. She had been preoccupied for many days, but, earlier this week she woke up screaming from a nightmare. When I awoke to the sound, I saw her crying there, hunched over, her night dress doused in blood. All I can hear is her screaming, even still. She will not tell me what the nightmare was of, nor will she sleep for more than two hours at a time, mostly out of sheer exhaustion.”

The Seeker had to hold back her own pang of emotion now, as they made their way up a flight of stairs into a wing with bedchambers.

“I must warn you, Seeker Cassandra, she is not herself. She may say hurtful, ambivalent comments to you. She does not mean them,” Josephine’s words were laced with hurt; her warning came from personal experience, and that made Cassandra feel even more sympathetic to her.

“Lady Montilyet, I…I do not know what to say to make this any easier on you, only that you of all people – both of you – deserve so much happiness for all you have endured.”

“Yes, well,” Josephine looked away, her eyes shifting as she kept hold of composure, “I have heard that many a time, Seeker, so forgive me if I come off as…unaffected. Her recovery room is just down this hall, fourth door to the left. Please tell her that I love her and I will see her tonight,” Josephine nodded solemnly and retreated back down the stairs, leaving Cassandra to stare down the hallway and feel the nerves in her chest dance. It had been many months since she last saw her friend in person, when she came to visit the fortress. Now, as much as she would be happy to see her, she almost with she could fast-forward in time and be visiting several more months from now, perhaps when Theia would feel better.

Making her way into the fourth doorway, the air was thick with incense – what she could only assume was supposed to be a sedative effect, as she felt slightly drowsy the more she inhaled. The room was dark, only lit by the reflection of the sunlight on the tile and mosaic-lined stone. The tapestries lining the balcony lightly shifted in the breeze, but otherwise it felt as though time had frozen them in place here.

There was a large bed, sheets disheveled, but covered a thin-framed figure. She then saw her messy and long blonde waves of hair. It looked as if she was sleeping, no longer able to fight the exhaustion.

Cassandra’s boots made ample noise on the floor, and soon Theia’s figure moved slightly, her legs curling and bending as they stretched. The Seeker came to a stop, several feet from the side of the bed, her eyes overburdened with sadness seeing her friend, a woman she had seen stand so tall, so resolutely against forces of peril, now facing something so much more destructive to her spirit.

Her stare was broken when Theia’s face looked back at her, her eyes slowly blinking awake.

“…C-Cassandra?” she groaned, the depth in her voice lingering from the days of crying she endured. Her face looked pale, as did her lips. The deep, dark circles under her eyes only comparable to the ones she had when she was in the prison, all those years ago, waiting to be questioned for her part in the Conclave disaster. That forlorn memory made the Seeker’s chest ache.

“Yes, my friend, it is me. I have come to see you,” Cassandra stepped forward, pivoting on her hip as she sat on the foot of the bed, an arm stretching out over the Inquisitor’s legs. Theia rubbed her face softly with the back of her hand, her brow furrowing as the surprise sank in. She pulled herself up, her abdomen still sore as she did so, but she managed. She adjusted her pillow against her back as she lay in place once more, taking pressure off of her stomach.

“I…assume, someone in particular wrote to you. And it was either our blessed Divine, or my wife,” she muttered, a hand resting instinctively on her stomach, the other falling to rest at her side.

Cassandra grinned. “Yes, Josephine wrote that I must come as soon as possible. Surely, you must not think you have to fight every antagonist without me at your side.”

“It is not a battle I face this time, Seeker, unless you wish to disembowel me and remove my ability to bear children. And that, I fear, has been taken care of already.”

Cassandra held her breath, hearing the roughness in her voice as she discussed something so horrific.

“My friend, you do not have to discuss it if you do not wish to. I came here to be of solace to you, in whatever capacity you need.”

“I do not need solace, Seeker, I need my child. Since I have lost her, I am rather satiated with the disappointment of life,” her words stung with resentment, and suddenly Cassandra saw the demeanor that Josephine had undoubtedly been exposed to for several days.

“How did you know it was…” her thinking out loud would be the death of her, but she said it, and now she was at the mercy of Theia’s answer, whatever it was.

Theia paused and looked out at the balcony, her eyes narrowed as they reacted to the contrast in light. “I felt it, it was…just a hunch, I suppose, but. I just knew. They say mothers always know, that they feel things others cannot possibly fathom. I felt her.”

“My Lady, I am so—“

“Do not apologize. I am so tired of hearing the processionals of ‘I am sorry.’ If everyone is so sorry, why can’t they find some way to return to me what was mine?” she seethed, but was too tired to fully express it. The soreness of her abdominal region curbed her fury.

Cassandra felt like weeping, watching her friend be reduced to such carnal emotions of grief. Then, as she saw the absence of her friend’s left arm, she was reminded of just how much more risky it was for Theia to remain enveloped in herself.

“Friend, are you sure you are taking adequate care of yourself, considering your special circumstances?” she asked with careful intrepedation.

Theia picked up on the intent rather easily. She was considerably not herself, but she still had her intellect and intuition in spades.

“Oh, now you fear I’ll be consumed by a despair demon, Seeker? Is this what is supposed to comfort me, my own friend looking at me as a possible target for her blade?”

“I did not say that, but you know as well as I do what the reality is of your existence.”

“I am a mother with no child, Seeker, that is the reality of my existence.”

“I know, I just wish—“

“Get out.”

Cassandra stopped herself, caught off guard by the sharp order she had been given. She had come all this way, dropping everything in order to do so, and she was being sent off as if she were a menial servant. It riled her ego viscerally, but she battled within herself to have compassion for her friend.

“My Lady, with all due respect,”

“No. Get out of my sight. You wish to scold me like everyone else. I want to sit here in my silence and grieve like I deserve. I never asked for you to come here,” she growled. From the narrowness of her gaze, her purple irises began stirring with color.

“Theia, I am not leaving.” She used her first name now, a unique and alarming urgency.

“If you do not leave you will be tossed out on the top of an ice sheet, Cassandra, I am warning you one last time,” Theia hissed back, her hand collecting into a fist that gripped onto her bedsheets.

“No. I have never abandoned your side when you needed it, and I will not do it—“

“GET. OUT.” She yelled now, in the most animalistic tone Cassandra had ever heard come from a woman. The pain almost felt like daggers shooting at her. But, if it was one thing the Seeker was always trained to do, it was to stare down the roaring fire from a dragon’s throat and continue forward, to do what must be done.

“You do not scare me, my friend,” she said calmly, stepping forward and dragging a knee across the bed as she sat close to Theia, who was now lurching away from her.

“Theia! Theia, stop,” she said low, putting her arms out and trying to wrap around Theia’s shoulders. She felt several punches against her chestplate as she slowly pulled the violent embrace of the woman she trusted with her life into her.

“Get off! I do not need to be coddled!” Theia yelled.

Some more resistance, but then she relented, one last fruitless punch against her friend’s armor. From her chest, Cassandra could hear and feel her friend sobbing, the deep, guttural sound of her voice sending sorrow through her.

Stillness, even if in agony, is still stillness.

Protectively, Cassandra stroked the back of Theia’s head, feeling the slight friction between her hair and her riding glove.

“It is alright. I promise,” she muttered as her friend now held onto her for dear life. They stayed like this for a while, while Theia’s crying seemed to be bottomless, as if the sea itself wished to be the source of her tears.

The remainder of the day passed into a night of armistice, and it was not until the following morning that the Seeker saw some reason to hope. While sitting in the courtyard and eating a modest breakfast alone at one of the tables, out walked Theia, slowly, unescorted, but tall. She wore a black dress, a purple sash tied multiple loops around her waist to gather the light fabric into some shape. Her hair was not decorated, but it looked washed, which was more than what she could say yesterday. It was the fifth night she had slept alone, reclusive.

Cassandra flinched as she saw her friend, and her eyes shined with pleasant surprise.

“My Lady, you are walking! Come, sit with me, do not rush,” she said as she chewed through a mouthful of food, standing to beckon her over.

Theia’s face was stoic, but cordial. She nodded once, accepting the offer as she made her way, fingers lightly grasping on the skirt of her gown as she stepped down some shallow stairs. She sat beside her friend, grunting under her breath as she did so.

“Cassandra, I wish to—“

“There is no need,” Cassandra interrupted, sitting down once more and anchoring her elbows on the table. “I understand that you are in a most difficult moment of your life, and I know the woman you are, underneath it all.”

Theia sighed shallowly, her eyes staring off blankly into space.

“Cassandra, that is just the thing, though – this is the woman I am. I cannot reverse what has happened, as much as I wish I could. I can never be the woman I was in the days of the Inquisition again. I haven’t been her for some time now.”

“Everyone has foundations to who they are, no matter what life’s changes do to impact their outlook. You are still the brave, kind, and strong person I befriended in war. Even if you do not find humor in the things you used to, you hold true to those virtues.”

A silence fell over them as they both sat, straight-backed and contemplative.

“Did you ever have a moment in your life when something was before you. A chance, to make your life about something you could have for yourself. Something that did not have to abide by outside rules or customs, that you nourished, and protected?” Theia’s tone almost sounded like dutiful sobbing the way it as so melodic.

“Yes, I have.”

“What then?”

“I…when I fell in love with a Mage, when I was young. I felt as though all of the rules I had held myself to no longer applied. I loved him, and he loved me, and that was the most sacred truth of us. When he died, I mourned him in private, because I did not wish to share my pain with anyone. I felt as though no one was worthy of such vulnerability. As if, such raw power of emotion could level entire buildings.”

Theia’s eyes flickered to her friend’s face as she spoke; Cassandra never discussed the Mage she once had as a lover, except that once. It was years ago. Theia never pressed her about it since, knowing just how important of a pivot it was in her life.

“That is how I feel about this. I do not want anyone near me. I feel like I have lost myself, and I’m wandering alone in in this spiral of a pathway, one side of it being some form of stability, the other the heart of my devastation. I keep trying to move forward, but I find it’s just the same twisting path, in and out of my despair. I do not know where it leads, or when I hope to stop and rest, my feet just…keep going.”

“But each time you re-enter your grief, you do so having survived it time and time again. You will continue to do so, until it feels like you have more control over just how close it gets to your heart. Trust me, my friend, you are the kind of person who can survive this.”

“I have survived everything, I am getting quite bored of it.”

“The dead would disagree with such a sentiment.”

“Spoken like someone who would know, Nevarran.”

Cassandra couldn’t help but grin in surprise. In a flash of seconds, her friend’s wit had made an appearance. She looked at her, and nodded in concession.

“Theia, I know I cannot possibly relate to your loss. But, I do know what it is to lose someone you love when a piece of your happiness relies upon them staying alive. You are anything but alone.”

Theia sighed, coupling her hands in her lap. “I understand that, but you must also concede just how lonely it is to be recognized as a heroine, someone who has done impossible things, and yet fail at what is supposed to come natural to you. It all feels backwards. I can hardly keep track of the illogical nature of my life.”

“A great deal of things come naturally to a woman, my friend. We are capable of most anything we invest our will into.”

“Yes, but that does not mean it does not bite us back for trying. If I may ask, would you walk with me? The healers say I must get some air, and distract myself,” her voice was half breath as she hoisted herself up from her seat. Cassandra agreed readily.

The gardens were lush but reverent in their stillness for Lady Trevelyan’s sorrow. Cassandra couldn’t help but notice just how lively and beautiful the scene would have been if only the fountains were spouting water, and the birds would come to visit on the disbursed seeds and nuts the servants would dish out every morning. Even the walls and facades of the building felt as though it had humbled itself to the concerns of its fair-haired occupant.

“I have had one of my assistants tend to the letters and dispatch responsibilities. I trust her to do so competently, and I will return to the duties myself very soon. I do not have a real choice,” Theia remarked as they walked.

“Theia, no one is doubting your dedication or fitness for your role. Do not race an enemy horse that does not exist,” the Seeker advised, hands behind her back.

“I know. Still, I cannot sit by and know that Divine Victoria must make up for the work of another person whilst she does the job of several. And you, my friend, cannot make such excursions to Antiva lightly.”

“We all make sacrifices for the needs of our allies. You have done more than enough to deserve such measures.”

“We all have, that doesn’t mean the world stops hurling towards disaster with each passing night.”

They came to a balcony view, one of many that overlooked the ports. They could see some of the Montilyet ships at port, secured and ready for whatever they were tasked with transporting. Somewhere nearby, surely Josephine was working, keeping herself busy whilst her mind fought off worrying about her wife, and the desire to go to her at every other minute.

“They are beautiful ships,” Cassandra complimented as they both peered down.

“Yes, Josephine was always one to combine style with pragmatism. They are fast and durable. Just like the ones we’re building for our forces, but those will be better, and well-armed.”

“Tell me, how has it been between you and Lady Montilyet? She seemed quite careful when she greeted me the other day.”

Theia let a moment of silence pass as she overlooked the shore, her throat stiffening with nervous feelings.

“Josephine and I…don’t quite know what to make of each other because of this. I am afraid I have hurt her badly. In the days after the incident I was very angry, and even malicious. I wanted to fight everyone around me. When I looked at her, when I heard her speak, it was as if every bone in my body felt this mixture of shame and resentment. I still resist the feeling that I’ve failed her,” Theia’s candidness was hard to swallow, but it felt good to speak truth to the feelings that had permeated the air.

“I am sorry to hear that. When is the last time you spoke to her?”

“She comes and bids me goodnight every night before she goes to sleep, and comes to bid good morning with breakfast. She sleeps in our room while I have recovered in the guest wing. I feel so out of my element, not having the ego to be the protective one anymore,” Theia leaned over the stone rail, elbows holding her chest up as she walked the people walk up and down the port.

“I am sure she is just as unnerved to see you be so defenseless.”

“Agh, she knows what I look like when I am at the end of my rope. She’s always been the voice inside my head, and in front of my face, inspiring me to find one more foot of it to hold onto. But, I think she is torn between grieving her own loss and being strong for me. And I have made it very hard for her to want to be strong,” Theia could admit when she was wrong, but she hadn’t the time or energy to do so whilst recovering both physically and psychologically. Indeed, she couldn’t even promise that this moment of reflection would resonate with her; perhaps in an hour she would be back to being distraught and mean.

“I have always told you, honesty is the best way to protect what is important to you.”

Theia patted Cassandra on the shoulder as she took a step back from the railing. “This is true, if inconvenient,” she replied. “Come, I wish to show you the rest of the place. Maybe you’ll get some sunburn, if I keep exposing you to the daylight.”

“We can all hope, friend.”

The rest of their walk was slow and sentimental, keeping to Theia’s determined pace of exertion. When she needed a break, they would sit at a bench, or stand in front of a fountain. Soon, the midday brightness dimmed into early evening twilight, and Cassandra’s attention turned towards the expectations of dinner and socialization.

“The Antivan people are always ready to share food and drink and spur you out of your grief. They hardly rest for such trivial matters such as depression or sorrow. It is most invigorating up until you suffer a personal tragedy,” a smirk had managed to appear on Theia’s tired face as she described her experience.

“They sound like the opposite society to Nevarra. There, a party is not considered worth it unless several people cry, another brings the tokens of their dead relative to pass around the dinner table, and an hour-long toast to the departed has been recognized.”

“Perhaps I should get a summer home there, so I can stop eclipsing the jovial sun here with my sulking.”

They returned to Theia’s temporary room, which had been cleaned well in her absence. The servants had taken the opportunity to change linens, freshen the flowers, and pull the tapestries back to air out the room; clearly, her leaving the space for longer than an hour had been rare.

“I should go see Josephine. Maker knows she is already aware that I have arisen from my sickbed, and is trying to conjure up the right reaction, the right words, the right tone…” Theia sighed, playing with the pyrophite bracelet on her wrist.

“Is that such a bad thing? You do know what your temper is like, surely.”

“No, but I know once we do collide, it will be as it was when we were at Skyhold: a battle of wits, then of tempers, then of wills.”

“Ah, yes. Now, those are fond memories.”

“Some things change, others remain with their heels dug in, you could say.”

“Then I will go to dinner and then to bed. I can stay one more day, but after that I must return to the mountains. Thank you for spending this day with me, it is good to see you out and about once more.”

“Thank you, friend, for everything. I shall see you tomorrow. Perhaps we can walk by the pier, and I can show you the ships up close.” Theia smiled softly as her friend bid her goodnight, and withdrew from her room. Inhaling slow, she turned and around at the room she had been confined to for days. It was so cold, so desolate to feel it around her. She could feel the energy of her cries, her wailing, her groaning in pain, almost as if it had seeped into the walls. This would haunt her mind for a while.

Josephine stood at the foot of their bed, a chalice of wine in hand and held close to her face as she stared at the freshly made sheets. Only one side of the bed had been used for the last week, and even though she tried to sleep, she would jolt awake from the resonating anxiety at hearing her wife cry in alarm.

They had not slept apart unless separated by miles since Corypheus was slain. She had believed that sleeping alone would be impossible. Surely, even in all of her foresight, Josephine had not expected such trials to drive so deep of a wedge between them. They had always been shoulder-to-shoulder, at least, when it was not a battlefield in front of them.

It gnawed at her nerves, worrying that Theia felt so alone in her pain, that she must sequester herself.

So, when her wife stood in the entryway of their chambers, she had to do a double-take to be sure it was her. When it was confirmed, suddenly so many emotions took hold. Defensiveness, sadness, relief…and so much more that couldn’t be named, for it all bled into one another.

“Josephine.” Theia said, before walking towards her. The very sight of her walking, up on her feet, like she had been before…the color in her face now reappearing. It was enough to make her fall to her knees and start crying, if she had felt safe enough to.

“Theia, you are well, and walking?” she said, setting her wine down at the nearest end table, before meeting her halfway. As they stood in front of each other, the palpable awkwardness of being in the aftermath of so much trauma took hold.

“Uh, yes. I got up this morning, and Seeker Cassandra walked with me all day. I feel my strength is returning, which is…relieving.”

“Yes, to say the least. How are you doing besides…besides your energy?”

“Good. I wanted to…to thank you, for inviting Cassandra to be here. It has helped a lot. She…is a very wise and loyal friend.”

“I know, which is why when I thought of who to turn to, she came to mind first and foremost. Are you beginning to feel like yourself, even just slightly?”

“I…am trying my best. I…agh, Josephine, let’s stop this,” Theia took hold of one of her wife’s hands, holding it to her chest as she looked at her. “We are talking like strangers.”

“Forgive me, mi amor, if I prefer speaking like strangers after these days of you speaking to me like an enemy,” Josephine pulled away, turning around and walking further into the room. The act of turning away from her hurt her on the inside, but so did the lingering sting of her words that she yelled and growled at her.

“What do you wish me to say, Josephine? That I regret feeling the pain of losing our child? That I am sorry I could not better prepare myself for the devastation of it all?”

“Theia, we were both underprepared! You forget that this was a joint venture, we did this together, like we have done everything. You turned away from me. I had to grieve alone, away from your vitriol!” Josephine turned around to face her for this argument.

“I cannot control how this affects my body, Josephine. Every hour I feel a whole different emotion, I am not myself, and you know this,” Theia came closer, but only slightly, testing the waters of just how close she could get without Josephine retreating further into the room. This was the room, after all, where it happened, and the memory of it still consumed her senses, even as she tried so hard to remain present.

“I know that well enough! Why do you think I came to you even after all had been said and done. Every morning, every night, I’d come to see you, to be met with your shoulder and indignant words. I felt like my wife had been lost along with…” she stopped herself, still unable to speak it out loud. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, turning away as tears began to form in her eyes.

“My Love, I know how you hurt from this. I want to be here for you, I want to be that protective person you married, the person who would put her body between you and anything coming for you. But I am so…” the tears were evolving for Theia now as she choked out her last words.

“I can’t, I can’t do this, not here. Not with this…this right in front of me..” she motioned towards the bed, the bed where she had woken up to the disaster.

Josephine turned around immediately, and realizing what she was referring to, suddenly the screams began in her head again. The memory of her, screaming as if she was dying, the fear in her voice.

“Neither can I…” she breathed, and she quickly found her way to Theia’s side. Wrapping an arm around the back of her waist, she escorted her out of the room, Theia leaning on her as they walked to somewhere, anywhere, but there.

Eventually they found their study, the room where they had always sought congress with each other for the most important of matters and discussions. Some of their most heated arguments, and some of their best reconciliations. Now, as they held each other on the floor, having pulled the ghastly bearskin rug into the middle of the expansive stone floor, the quiet comforted them as they comforted each other.

“I will arrange to have the bed replaced in the morning,” Josephine muttered as she let Theia lay her head in her lap, looking outward towards the balcony. Slowly, she started playing with her blonde strands of hair, another hand resting on her shoulder. Her face was soaked with tears, making her cheeks feel slightly sticky.

“Thank you,” Theia whispered, resting her hands underneath her cheek, feeling calmer now to be close to her wife, her partner, her ally in life.

Josephine’s night dress slipped off her shoulder as they remained there, graceless and fallen apart.

“You know what is going to haunt me forever? The fact that I will never get to meet her. The fact that I will never know what she sounds like, what her voice sounds like, what her hair feels like in my fingers…”

“Theia, darling…”

“No, let me get this out. It’s been resting on my chest like a boulder, I can’t breathe anymore. I…I listened every time they warned me how much it would hurt. How much…how much childbirth would hurt. But, feeling the pain and the agony of losing…all I could think was that I would endure three times whatever pain it was to have my child in my arms, and the pain of losing my arm, all in the same moment.”

A couple of tears streamed down Josephine’s face without notice as she listened to her wife mourn out loud.

“I just want to see her. Just once. Just to see what her eyes were like, if they were purple like mine. If her hair would be dark like yours. How beautiful she would be, the product of us.”

“Between your temper and my will, she would have been a force to be reckoned with. Dorian would have his work cut out for him,” Josephine said through her tears. This made Theia swallow hard, choking back the urge to break down.

“Yes, she would have driven him crazy. There would have been so much laughter….so much…” she closed her eyes harshly, letting the tears overflow and escape her eyelids.

“Shhh, mi amor, it is alright,” Josephine cooed, stroking her hair. She heard Theia inhale sharply, congestion in her nose.

“I am so sorry, my Love. I failed you. I failed us.”

“Theia Sofia, you did no such thing,” Josephine interrupted her, a hand guiding Theia’s gaze forefully up to make eye contact with hers. “Do not even begin to tell yourself you let anyone down. This is not your failure, this is not your fault.”

“You trusted me. I was entrusted with this life, and I lost it. I failed to protect the one thing that could only ever depend on me.”

“Theia, come here,” Josephine pushed her wife’s shoulders up so she would sit up, right in front of her, so their eyes made level eye-contact. Gently, she held Theia’s face between her hands, the glimmer off fresh tears under the moonlight.

“It will take time for us to recover from this loss, and I know each day will be different for you. Some will be harder than others, and I know you will need distance as much as closeness in the coming days. But, I never want you to feel as though you must shut yourself away to atone for something you need not be punished for.”

“Josephine, I have no idea what this will do to me before it’s all over. I cannot promise you I won’t be the wounded person I was these past few days. You deserve to have your wife be there for you through this.”

“I deserve nothing more than you do. We may not have the path written out for us, but we will move forward. When has the lack of precedent ever stopped us from doing so?”

Theia put her hand to Josephine’s, the end of her tears clearing her vision.

“Do you remember our vows? How we made up our own because I refused to have a fully Andrastian ceremony,” Theia chuckled under her breath.

Josephine smiled. “Yes, and everyone cried and cried,” she pulled her wife into her chest, wrapping her arms around her.

“You Mother almost fainted when we told her we would not swear only to the Maker. I thought surely she would pin me to one of the tapestries.”

“She still hasn’t forgiven you, you know. She swears you are provoking Andraste to take back more than just your hand.”

“Maybe I am. But she can try take this away from me all she wants, this…you, you are the one part I refuse to let go.”

Josephine put her lips to the top of Theia’s head. “I am not going anywhere, mi amor.”

#oc stuff #Theia Trevelyan #Non-Chronological Chapter #Post-Tresspasser #ARC SPOILERS #Inquisitor x Josephine

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oh-my-chevalier-blog · 6 years

Text

Tagged by @historian-in-pearls and @itsallwearecalledtodo. Thanks guys!

1. Coke or Pepsi: I...dislike soda

2. Disney or DreamWorks: Disney

3. Coffee or tea: Coffee, preferably iced.

4. Books or movies: Do I have to choose??

5. Windows or Mac: Windows

6. DC or Marvel: Not super into either, but I liked Wonder Woman.

7. Xbox or Playstation: Xbox I guess?

8. Dragon Age or Mass Effect: Hi yes, what are these

9. Night owl or early riser: I wish I was an early riser but my brain always gets productive at night :/

10. Cards or chess: Cards. I’m so crap at strategy games, chess is a nightmare for me.

11. Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate

12. Vans or converse: Keds

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, or Adaar: The heck??

14. Fluff or angst: Fluff

15. Beach or forest: Forest

16. Dogs or cats: Dogs, but I love cats too.

17. Clear skies or rain: Clear skies--I can’t help but feel sorry for people stuck outside when it rains.

18. Cooking or eating out: Cooking, and by cooking, I mean microwave meals or eating lunch meat straight out of the container. I don’t often have energy or money for eating out.

19. Spicy or mild food: Mildly spicy

20. Halloween/Samhain or solstice/yule/Christmas: Christmas all the way, though I love costumes.

21. Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot: Cold, definitely.

22. If you could have a superpower, what would it be: Teleporting, or maybe the ability to change my appearance.

23. Animation or live action: Animation, for sure.

24. Paragon or renegade: wha?

25. Bath or shower: Shower

26. Team Cap or Team Iron Man: ehehehe

27. Fantasy or sci-fi: Fantasy

28. Do you have 3 or 4 favorite quotes if so what are they:

“If the devil tells you something is too fearful to look at, look at it. If he says something is too terrible to hear, hear it. If you think some truth unbearable, bear it.” --G.K. Chesterton

“I believe that the desire to please You does, in fact, please You...I hope I never do anything apart from that desire.” --Thomas Merton

“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” --Flannery O’Connor

29. YouTube or Netflix: Netflix

30. Harry Potter or Percy Jackson: Harry Potter

31. When you feel accomplished: When I clean something or work out

32. Star Wars or Star Trek: Star Wars

33. Paperback books or hardcover books: Paperback if I had to pick.

34. Fantastic Beasts or Cursed Child: Fantastic Beasts. I haven’t read Cursed Child and I hope to keep it that way.

35. Rock or pop music: Rock if I had to choose, but I don’t particularly like either.

36. What is the most important thing in your life: My faith

37. Mountains or sea/ocean: Ocean. Mountains freak me out.

38) Name a couple of songs you’ve been really into recently.

“A Couple Acres Greener,” Mipso

“Columbia River,” Lomelda

“Dusty Eyes,” Bedouine

I tag @m1m1-jean @monstrousgourmandizingcats @prowadz @proudliteraryaddict @malamysz @myvinyllove @inthearmsofourlady if they want to do it!

#tag

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alleiradayne · 6 years

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Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 97

Catch up on the previous part - part 96 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

The final day of the trial.

The minutes ticked by as Amodisia stared at the same spot on the floor of the courtroom, a darkened knot in the wood that mimicked the blooming petals of a rose. Alistair had never joined them at breakfast, choosing instead to continue working in the quiet solitude of Cullen’s empty office. But Amodisia never imagined him missing the final day of proceedings. And with each passing minute, her nerves crawled along her spine and buried in the base of her skull where a dull ache blossomed. Between her worry and discomfort, Amodisia heard little and less of the proceedings, caring not for the outcome of the trial at that point. And though Anaphorah dismantled every witness that Rendon called to the stand, she dared not let her hopes return.

A shame, she thought, that the defense had not called Loghain himself to the stand. Given Rendon's apparent hubris, Amodisia assumed he would call the defendant. Not his first witness, to be sure. But at some point during the trial, she had imagined Loghain sitting in the interviewing chair. And yet, Rendon had not called him. To their benefit, Anaphorah Hawke would have torn him to shreds without him ever knowing. Rendon, as she had witnessed in this trial, had proved smarter than that. While he may have lost two clients their livelihoods in the Redcliffe police department, his true client had always been Loghain.

From her left, a soft chime sounded from Cullen’s pocket, drawing Amodisia’s gaze. She stared at it, wondering, worrying.

“No more questions, your honor,” Anaphorah finished with a defeated sigh.

His pocket chimed again as Judge De Fer turned to Rendon. “Do you have anything else, Mr. Howe?”

Rendon stood, buttoning his jacket, then folded his hands. “I do not, ma’am. Defense rests.”

A third chime. On Cullen’s left, Amallia hissed as she prodded him in the thigh with a pointed finger. But Cullen paid her no mind, enraptured by the trial. Exasperated, Amallia conceded and returned her attention to the proceedings.

Judge De Fer nodded with a flat purse of her lips. “And you, Serah Hawke?”

A fourth chime.

Anaphorah stood, rising with a slow straightening of her back. Her partner followed, a reassuring smile finding her lush lips, but her eyes remained cold as stone.

As Anaphorah opened her mouth to speak, the door to the courtroom burst open and time stopped, gripped by the hand of fate. Every head whipped to the door, eager to find the source of the disruption. Every head but Amodisia’s. The last to look, she turned with a lazy loll over her shoulder, not an ounce of interest remaining in her body.

Until she saw him.

There, tall and snarling like a Mabari about to strike, stood Alistair. She shivered at the sight, a rare, infuriated glare contorting his face. And then, in the blink of an eye, he towered over her, shoulders and massive arms wrapping her in a tight hug, the visage of his anger vanished. With a quick kiss on her cheek, the last of her apathy washed away into what would become a long-forgotten memory.

“Sorry I’m so late,” he muttered. “Something came up.”

Amodisia hummed a short laugh through her nose. “You’re here, now,” she whispered. “That's all that matters.”

Anaphorah cleared her throat with an expectant sound as she leaned over the railing. “Please tell me you’ve got something, so I don’t have to explain you kicking the door in.”

It was then that Amodisia noticed Alistair clutched a thick packet envelope. He regarded it with such reverence, Amodisia failed to fathom its contents. After a second’s hesitation, Alistair handed it to Anaphorah and she snatched it out of his hand.

“Serah Hawke, I will not delay this trial any longer,” Judge De Fer interrupted.

As if she had not heard Judge De Fer's words, Anaphorah flipped open the envelope and withdrew the document. “Your Honor, I just need one minute…” she stated as she scanned the page.

“No,” Judge De Fer snapped as she gripped her gavel. “I have had enough of the both of you running this trial like a damned circus. I should have you both held in contempt for…”

Her words trailed away, unheard. Amodisia gaped as she watched the grey-green of Anaphorah’s eyes scan page after page of tiny text, the pulse at her throat quickening as her mouth fell open in shock.

“… and I should have you disbarred for your abhorrent—”

“Your Honor!” Anaphorah interrupted and Judge De Fer’s berating cut off with a sharp click of her teeth. Eyes wide and lips pursed to naught but a thin line, she glared at Anaphorah as though she might freeze her in a solid block of ice.

“This had better be worth it, Serah Hawke.”

In that interstitial space between thoughts, every nerve, every concern, every subconscious worry Amodisia clutched with desperate need evaporated in a plume of smoke as if they had never existed. And where absolute failure shadowed her faith before, a glimmer of hope, faint and fragile, wavered in the darkness.

And then Anaphorah spoke.

“The state of Ferelden drops all charges against Loghain Mac Tir.”

The courtroom spun, pitching and rolling in sickening confusion as Amodisia struggled to comprehend Anaphorah’s statement. She gripped the banister before her, breath shallow and ragged as Alistair wrapped a supportive arm about her shoulders.

That same confusion swallowed the courtroom, and those not already on their feet stood to voice their anger. For a moment, Judge De Fer blinked, frozen in her chair. Then she stood on her dais, gaveling the room into a fragile silence, though trepid whispers seeped through the cracks. With her attention returned to Anaphorah, the corner of one eye twitched as she leaned over the edge of her dais. “Andraste help me, Serah Hawke, you had better have a good explanation for this.”

With trembling hands, Anaphorah set the stack of paper on the table before her, steadying herself on the sturdy wood. A deep breath expanded her chest as her spine straightened, and she stood tall, proud, jaw set and shoulders square. At his table, Amodisia spotted Loghain, his wide, terrified eyes flicking between the judge, his lawyer, then coming to rest on Anaphorah. Behind Loghain, Anora teetered, a hand covering her mouth, the other gripping the banister and appearing as though she might faint.

When Rendon opened his mouth to speak, Anaphorah bowled right over him.

“Loghain Mac Tir, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Amodisia Theirin.”

#dai #fanfic #fanfiction #cullenrutherford #alistairtheirin #amalliatrevelyan #amodisiatheirin #modernau

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jentrevellan · 4 years

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Believe Again: Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Relationships: Cullen Rutherford x Female Trevelyan Tags: slow burn, slow build, slow romance, mage/templar dynamics, family drama, templars, mages, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, lyrium withdrawal, crisis of faith, loss of faith, The Chantry, sexual tension, innuendo MASTERPOST A/N: Tags to be updated. Chapters posted on the 1st Thursday of the month.

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ->

CHAPTER TWO - Cullen

The journey across the Waking Sea and back to my homeland of Ferelden is one I’m trying to quickly forget. I neglected to even look at this journal as the words on the page had swirled around with the motion of the ship on what I was told, were relatively calm waters. On the little of what I remember about the journey, I quickly came to three key decisions:

No food - nothing - helps with seasickness. Or maybe that’s because there is nothing left inside to throw up.

Staying above deck does help with the nausea somewhat. That is unless a certain Mr Tethras insists on keeping you company just to spite you.

As it’s abundantly clear I will never get my sea legs, I can safely say that I am never, ever going on a ship again. Even if a Blight hits Ferelden. I’ll accept my fate.

- An extract from Commander Cullen Rutherford’s personal journal

2. Cullen

A table. A chair. A trunk. A half-empty goblet of water. The smell of campfires. The melody of the early morning birdsong.

Cullen woke in his cot inside the small tent on the outskirts of Haven. Once more his dreams had been… uncomfortable, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Here, in Ferelden. I’m from Ferelden. I haven’t been here for almost ten years, he thought.

It was still very early but he preferred to begin his day when others were still sleeping - less disturbances that way, and there was something invigorating about getting work done when others were still wondering the fade, oblivious that a new day has started. So after a splash of cool water of his face and neck, he put on each piece of his armour - inspecting them in turn, still getting accustomed to his new attire that was not the Templar uniform he had been so familiar with, like an extension of his body; an extra limb, perhaps. Finally he pulled on his fur mantle - his very Ferelden fur mantle - and checked the small looking glass by his bedside. He ran a hand through his hair, ensuring his curls were neatly flattened to a smart wave and nodded to himself. As always, before leaving the tent, he hesitated and stood by the flap, took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. Today was another new day. And he was here, alive.

The early morning sun greeted him pleasantly and he paused for a moment to drink it in as it peered over the mountain tops. Looking around the small camp outside the village, most of his troops were still asleep, with their first drill not for another hour or so. A couple of messengers chatted quietly by the gates, their voices a low hum underneath the birdsong.

With a confident gait, he strode through the gates, fresh snow crunching under his boots. The village would be filling up fast as the last of the travellers arrived today before heading up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the start of the Conclave. He took the path up to the Chantry, avoiding the inn, and soon found himself in the cool and sparse interior, empty save for a few Chantry sisters sleeping on bedrolls in alcoves. Later that day the Chantry would be completely empty, save for one or two lay sisters. Honestly, he couldn’t wait for the small little village to be as sleepy as it was when he arrived a few weeks ago.

Pushing open the council chamber door, he paused as he spotted the ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet chatting to a dwarf by her office. The dwarf in question had dark skin and a stamp of the Carta on her cheek, along with a strange pair of spectacles on her head. She caught him staring and nodded to the ambassador, taking her leave.

Josephine Montilyet looked after the dwarf before approaching Cullen with a sigh. “I had hoped nobody would see that,” she admitted.

“What are the Carta doing here?” he asked, holding the door open for her.

The Antivan woman sighed again, tapping her quill on her ledger. “It’s… complicated Commander. The Carta and the dwarves in general have shown a great interest in the Conclave, knowing that decisions made could and probably will affect them.”

“And they’re working with the Chantry?”

“Not precisely,” Josephine said, avoiding his gaze. “If things turn sour, we may need a separate source of lyrium for any recruits who may wish to potentially join us.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Even hearing the word ‘lyrium’ sent a small shock through him, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water all over him. He hoped the ambassador did not notice. Instead he cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

She nodded. “Let us hope.”

They worked in silence until Leliana joined them a little later and shared some reports with them. Cassandra appeared an hour or so after with a book clutched to her chest.

“The Divine is heading up to the Temple now,” she announced. “Although the talks don’t start until this afternoon, she wants to be one of the first there.”

Cullen looked between Cassandra and Leliana. “And you’re to remain here?”

“We’ll go up later today, once most of the mages and Templars have arrived,” Leliana explained.

“Has the Divine already left? I can send some of my recruits with her as an honour guard.”

“No need,” Leliana interjected before Cassandra could reply. “Some of my agents are with her now, but dressed as soldiers.”

Cullen bristled at not being informed but let it slide and simply nodded. Leliana had been used to working solo, using her own initiative and making her own plans without the need of discussion before. He exchanged a look with Josephine who raised a brow, and appeared to be thinking the same thing. In order for them to work together, they couldn't keep each other in the dark, despite their different roles.

Around noon, they took a break for lunch, and with a bunch of reports in his hands, Cullen headed through the village and back towards his tent. He took the longer path back to ensure he avoided the tavern, which would no doubt be overflowing with patrons seeking a bite to eat and drink before heading up to the Temple. He wound his way through the growing crowds and finally saw his tent, but his path was blocked by his second-in-command, Rylen.

“Ah Cullen, been looking for you,” he said, his Starkhaven accent so strong, Cullen had to repeat the sentence over in his mind before he could answer.

“Well I’m here; what is it?” Cullen asked, glancing impatiently at his tent and the solitude it will no doubt offer away from the crowds that swarmed around him.

“Message from Harritt - he says your commission is ready...?”

Instantly his mood lifted and he made his way to the Blacksmithy, where the moustached smith welcomed him.

“Commander!” Harritt greeted. “Come, come…”

He guided Cullen to the workroom where a few assistants were busy finishing weapon requisitions. By Harrit’s desk sat a large shield with the Inquisition insignia.

“Made from silverite and the same spec as Seeker Pentaghast’s,” Harritt explained, handing the shield to him. “Size has been tailored from the Templar shields, but the leather straps on the back make it much lighter and versatile.”

Cullen took the shield in his hands and placed it on his left arm, fiddling with the straps. He held it up, then down, feeling the weight - it was certainly different than his old Templar issue, but it’s not an unwelcome change.

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” he commented.

Harritt shrugged. “That’s the truth. Here, try the sword”

He passed Cullen the long-sword who inspected it closely. For the first time ever, he would have a sword which was his own, not a standard issue. He held it aloft, feeling the balance and noted the same Inquisition insignia. Where as the shield felt new and heavy, the sword instantly felt right - a true extension of his arm. He could almost feel a rare smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“A fine blade,” Harritt stated and Cullen nodded.

“You’ve outdone yourself.”

The blacksmith waved a hand. “It was nothing. To improve a Templar issue sword wasn’t a difficult challenge - those old swords couldn’t cut butter half the time.”

Cullen stayed and politely chatted with the man for as long as was necessary, even though he was itching to be away from the swelling crowds and find a straw dummy to practice on with his new sword and shield. Finally, another customer arrived to see Harritt, and Cullen excused himself, strapping his shield to his back, noting how light and secure it felt, and sheathed his sword in the new scabbard at his hip and carefully rested his hand on the pommel, satisfied with the security that little nuance gave him.

He lifted his eyes to the training field, hoping to spot Rylen or someone else to perhaps train with until later that afternoon when he would make his way up to the Temple with the remainder of his men and women. But the throngs of people had grown considerably and Cullen was reminded of the bustling market square in Kirkwall's Hightown or-

"Oof!"

Somebody had collided with him but unfortunately for them, they had bounced off his armour and fallen to the ground. Initially angry, it was replaced by a wave of guilt when he saw that the person on the receiving end of his armour's ricochet was a young Chantry Sister.

“Forgive me, Sister,” he apologised, holding out his hand to help her up. “I did not see you.”

“Nor I you,” she replied, brushing her robes down once she stood. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Well, I was trying to but there are so many people here and I can’t find my sister - my real sister that is, not a Chantry Sister…” she trailed off and Cullen noted how young she was, perhaps around the same age as his youngest sister, Rosalie.

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” she said, laughing nervously. “My mother always told me to slow down and not chat so much, but… um… yes anyway, sorry again…”

“Wait, Sister…?”

She paused and finally looked up at him. “Cecelia. Sister Cecelia.”

“Sister Cecelia,” he repeated, offering her a small smile. “You said you were looking for someone?”

Cecelia smiled nervously in return and Cullen had to wonder at her hesitance. That was until he saw her looking at his vambrace, where the flaming Templar insignia was engraved.

“Err, yes I was, I mean I am,” she stammered. “My sister, my real sister.”

“Alright, well let me help you find this ‘real sister’ of yours.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh! Oh no, you don’t have to do that, Ser… umm…?”

“Cullen,” he supplied. “And I’m the one that just knocked over a Chantry Sister - the least I can do to apologise for it is to help her,” he said, hoping his attempts to ease her had worked.

“I… Well, thank you. I don’t want to attend the conclave without her, especially as we come all this way together.”

They started walking slowly towards the gates of Haven, going against the flow of people who were now heading out of the village to head to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He peered down at the young woman next to him and noted her buck teeth, her round face etched in apprehension as she scanned each person they passed. Truly, she was remarkably similar to how he imagined his younger sister who he hadn’t seen in…

Maker, how many years? He thought, almost stopping in his tracks to count. But the peeling of the Chantry bells noting the mid-afternoon convinced him otherwise, and that he should probably make haste in helping Cecelia find her sister and then head on up to the conclave himself.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, also looking at the faces they passed, although not knowing the face of the person they were looking for.

Sister Cecelia slumped her shoulders. “No, she’s not where I thought she would be.”

Cullen rubbed his chin and then pointed to the tavern. “Perhaps she went to freshen up, or get some food?”

The Sister looked doubtful but nodded politely. “I suppose she could have…”

They made their way to The Singing Maiden and once inside it was surprisingly quiet, as most people had now made their way up the mountain to the conclave. Cullen pointed to the inn keep Flissa, and suggested Cecelia ask her. As she did, Cullen spotted a small group of recruits grinning and joking over a few tankards of ale.

He glared at them, knowing full well that they were under orders to prepare to depart. Soon, one of the soldier’s sixth sense kicked in and she looked up, her face paling when she saw him staring at them with what he could imagine was a look of utter contempt. He didn’t even need to say anything as the soldier stood abruptly, saluted to him, then hurried out, the other doing the exact same and following in her wake.

Satisfied, Cullen turned to see Cecelia next to him, looking wary. She had obviously seen the whole exchange.

“Any luck?” he asked, deciding to ignore her trepidation.

Another sign. “She may have seen her. She’s usually good with faces, she was telling me, but it’s been so busy that my sister could’ve passed through almost unseen.”

“But she’s not here now. Perhaps the Chantry?” he suggested. “She could very well be looking for you and when I was in the Chantry this morning, it was full of Sisters and Clerics.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cecelia eyed his vambraces again and then back at the empty table where the slacking soldiers had sat moments before. “But I mustn’t take up any more of your time, Ser Cullen. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to,” she said. It was such a polite way of saying she didn’t want his help or company anymore, that Cullen was sure that she must’ve come from some noble family. In his experience, only nobles skirted around the truth in such an ambiguously polite way.

He decided to ignore the slight. “I’m heading up to the Chantry anyway,” he lied, thinking he could perhaps check in with Cassandra whilst he was up there.

Once again, Sister Cecelia’s green eyes refused to meet his own and she nodded meekly. “Oh, sure, of course. You’re very kind, Ser.”

He knew it was insincere, but again she had been polite about it anyway. He was young, so he tried not to take offence.

During the short time they had been in the tavern, the village had emptied considerably. “You don’t suppose your sister might’ve gone with everyone else?” he suggested.

A vicious shake of her head let loose a few strands of auburn hair fall from her hood. “She promised we would go together and my sister always keeps her promises,” he replied in such a voice and tone that warranted no further discussion.

They walked the rest of the way in silence until Cecelia gasped: “There! By the doors! That’s her, my sister!” she pointed.

Cullen followed her pointed finger and saw a tall woman, perhaps only an inch or so shorter than him, leaning against the stone by the Chantry doors. Her arms were folded across her chest and her ankles crossed in a very relaxed fashion. Her clothes were worn, her boots and breeches crusted with mud and slightly damp from what Cullen guessed was from trudging through the snow. Her face was tilted towards the low winter sun, a wry smile on her lips and her olive skin glowing. He wasn’t sure why he found himself studying her so closely, but perhaps with everyone usually rushing around with no time to spare, to see someone look fairly relaxed despite it all was perhaps what he found most and usual, and perhaps it also helped that she was quite pleasing on the eye; what with her chestnut hair shining in the sun, her curiously long neck and -

Her eyes snapped to his - misty grey surrounded by dark, thick lashes. Her frank look almost left him breathless but then he saw the staff slung over her back and her eyes had rested on his Templar vambraces.

“Elsie! Elsie! Over here!” Sister Cecelia called from beside him, obviously unaware that her elder sister had already clocked him. The faint, wry smile that had touched her lips had all but disappeared and the look she was giving him now was so plain and expressionless that Cullen had to wonder if he had imagined it. Finally she looked at Cecelia.

“There you are,” she said in a warm, almost melodic voice.” I thought perhaps you had found Evelyn and gone up without me.”

“Is Evelyn another sister you’re looking for?” Cullen jokes aloud, but his smile faltered under Cecelia’s sister’s steely cool gaze, when she replied: “Yes, actually.”

Cecelia looked between them and coughed. “Elsie, this is Ser Cullen - he was kind enough to help me look for you.”

Cullen held out his hand to shake hers. “It’s Commander Cullen, actually,” he said lightly, trying to ease the strange tension between them. “It’s nice to finally meet you, my lady.”

Elsie looked down at his outstretched hand and then back to his face, making no move to shake it. Finally she said; “I was not aware that ‘commander’ was indeed a rank within the Templars,” she said casually, examining her gloved fingertips. “But then I am merely a mage and not privy to the details of Templar hierarchy.”

Cullen started at her with his mouth open. Not since he’d met a particular Champion of Kirkwall had someone spoken to him in such a… condescending way. He bit back a retort, refusing to take her bait.

“Ordinarily, you would be right,” he ground out as calmly as he could. “But I am not a Templar anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Indeed,” she said. “I may not be part of a Circle anymore, but that doesn’t stop me being a mage now, does it?”

He opened his mouth then quickly shut it, unusually at a loss for words. She has an excellent point, he thought to himself.

She took his silence as confirmation. “As I thought.” Elsie kicked herself off the wall and wrapped an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “Well, as enlightening as this has been, we really ought to be off. We’re going to be late.”

Sister Cecelia nodded and once again glanced between her elder sister and Cullen. “Thank you again for your help, Commander Cullen.”

He inclined his head. “The least I could do,” he replied, earning himself a glare from the mage. Cecelia noticed and decided to avoid another tense conversation, so steered herself out of her sister’s grip and headed down the path, leaving Elsie no choice but to follow, without another word to him.

“A pleasure to meet you too, Lady Elsie,” he said, loud enough for the mage to hear, but not for Sister Cecelia. Elsie paused in her step then continued without sparing him a backward glance - something that Cullen couldn’t help but grin smugly about. He always loved having the last word.

Around two hours later, he and Cassandra rounded up any stragglers and began to make their way up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, bringing up the rear.

And then the sky exploded.

It’s funny how one remembers the small details when the world is ending.

The smell of the air on a crisp spring morning. The taste of freshly picked summer strawberries. The sound of silence. The piercing look of those misty grey eyes.

Those very eyes that slid to meet Cullen’s over the next wave of demons that spawned from the rift. He had little time to acknowledge her, as he swung his sword into the limb of a sprouting demon. It screeched in anger so he swung again, successfully decapitating it. After three solid days of fighting the blighted things, he had to bitterly admit that he was becoming well versed in how to kill the demons so once they were down, they stayed down.

Cullen was vaguely aware of Cassandra fighting beside him, her swordsmanship techniques similar to his own, so they made quite a deadly duo when working in unison against their common enemy. They ducked and slashed together and then he felt hot fire obscure his senses.

“Watch out Curly!” Varric Tethras called, and Cullen spun to see a looming terror demon grab his ankle and pull him down to the ground. He fell squarely on his chin, making his jaw jut. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, his grip on his sword still tight despite his fall. He swung it in an arch above him, but the demon dodged, and he barely made a mark on it and only seemed to antagonise it further.

There was a sudden wave of heat, and a roar of an inferno that made him blink and squint at the intensity around him. The fire avoided him, and instead channelled around him, like water around a rock in a river. Instead the intense flames licked up the demon, wrapping it in a blazing embrace. It perished above him and Cullen stared at the now empty space where the demon had leered over him moments ago and saw an outstretched hand. He looked up to see her - the mage from Haven - holding her gloved hand out to him, her eyes darting around to ensure no demons would attack them unaware.

He hesitated only for a moment but then grasped her wrist and let her help him to his feet. And in that moment that they touched, Cullen could feel an electric heat course through his veins. What terrified him was that he knew isn’t wasn’t just because of her magic. There was something more. But he had no time to process the peculiar feeling and sensation.

“You can thank me later,” she muttered before spinning her staff in her other hand and channelling through it to hit another demon with a ball of fire that was approaching Cassandra a few feet away. Without a backwards glance, she cast a ward over him.

He pushed their encounter from his mind as another blasted wave of demons poured through the rift. This time he did not let his guard down and fought with renewed vigour. He realised that he felt stronger, possibly because of a rejuvenating spell she had cast. The irony of it was not lost on him.

"The rift is sealed! The conclave rift is sealed!" A soldier ran past, crying the words through the mountains, his face bright with joy, sharing the news with all who he passed. Those who heard him turned to one another and shared hugs and words of encouragement. For the first time since the explosion three days prior, people were starting to smile.

Cullen was crouched by an injured soldier when he finally saw the runner. He stood abruptly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword out of habit.

"Soldier!" he called out. Reluctantly, the young man skidded to a halt before Cullen and saluted.

"Commander!" he panted, his eyes wide, but still smiling.

"Report," Cullen ordered.

"Yes Ser," the young man replied, composing himself. "It’s true - I've come from the Temple myself - she - that is the mage prisoner - sealed the rift and slew the demon inside - with minimal casualties."

"And where is the prisoner now?"

"She collapsed when the rift was sealed: she used the magic on her hand - I saw it with my own eyes, Ser. It was incredible." He grinned from ear to ear, wanting to be the hero of the moment, to deliver the news to all. Cullen waited a moment, trying not to fall for the infectious joy of the soldier.

"The others who were there - are they injured?" Cullen finally asked, thinking of Cassandra and Varric.

"No Ser. Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast are well and unscathed, and are personally carrying the stretcher of the Herald, who has not awoken."

"Herald?" he repeated, blinking.

"The Herald of Andraste, Ser - she saved us all by closing the rift, thanks to Andraste's blessing."

"Maker preserve us," Cullen mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Very well, you're dismissed to… spread the news."

The soldier saluted and ran off before Cullen could change his mind.

The Herald who has not woken. Cullen repeated the messenger’s words in his mind. A strange sensation washed over him, which he assumed was simply relief. Relief that this ordeal was over for the moment and that no more lives would be lost. And if she has saved us all, then she will surely become a martyr if she dies.

A pit opened in his gut at the thought of her dying, after all that. He shook his head and blamed his peculiar feelings on the withdrawal of lyrium or perhaps the anxiety of what would come next. Unsure, Cullen looked up - there was still a hole in the sky but the demons were no longer spawning and the Breach seemed stable. The worst was over, for the moment at least.

As Cullen stared into the open void, he quietly hoped that she would survive, this Herald of Andraste… Elsie.

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#Fic: Believe Again #Believe Again #Cullen #cullen rutherford #my writing #long post #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction

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