#inspired by varric asking you when the last time you slept was.

[anderfels]

rook qotd: how long does your rook usually sleep for? are they a light sleeper? how long does it usually take them to fall asleep? do they sleep with anything? ...anyone?

[shivunin]

A Gravity Assist

For @greypetrel for Christmas/New Year's c: I was inspired by the piece you wrote about Aisling and Maria in the Western Approach. Here are our girls doing more questionable science! Happy new year, and I am very glad to know you 💗

(Maria Hawke & Aisling Lavellan | 3,042 Words | No Warnings)

Gravity Assist: A maneuver done in space in which a vessel is pulled partially into the gravity of a celestial body in order to alter its trajectory or speed (sometimes called a slingshot maneuver)

“You like her?” Varric said, peering down at the sheet of parchment before him. 

It was late. Most of the Great Hall’s occupants had wandered off or gone on to other duties, and Skyhold slept quietly around them. Hawke swirled the liquor in her glass for a moment, considering her answer. She didn’t need to ask who he meant, of course. There was only one “her” that really counted around here. 

“I do,” she said at last, and searched for the right words to explain why. 

While she’d been trying to become truly anonymous in the Ferelden countryside, Varric had been here and in Haven, helping to build the organization she sought help from now. Obviously, she’d come here with half an intention to stage a rescue. If Varric had actually been held here against his will, she rather thought she would have pulled it off, too. She’d been surprised to find that he was here entirely of his own volition, and even more surprised to find that it…suited him. 

Hawke had arrived at Skyhold wary, though not actually planning to act against the Inquisition. She’d intended to help to the extent that she could—with Carver’s life on the line, how could she do anything else?—but she hadn’t expected to enjoy it very much. She certainly hadn’t expected to find the much-lauded Herald of Andraste…earnest. Kind. Damn good company. 

“You didn’t want to,” Varric went on, plainly following her own thoughts, and Maria laughed. 

“No, I can’t say I did. I was expecting someone more…Oh, self-important, I suppose. Like the nobility back home. I’d heard she was an elf, of course, but I heard just as many say she was any number of other things. It didn’t occur to me that she would be so good at…” she paused, gesturing with the glass while she thought, “experiments.”

“She is that,” Varric said, tapping his quill into the inkwell and scrawling a single line onto the next page before setting it aside to dry. “Couldn’t stop her if we tried, and Curly certainly wanted to try.” 

“Did he now?” Hawke asked, and Varric laughed. 

“Leave it, Hawke. They’re both in one piece, aren’t they? She doesn’t need someone to defend her. She’s got plenty. And, ah—” he laughed, one of the knowing chuckles that’d driven her mad when they’d first begun to know each other, “—I don’t think you need to defend Aisling from the Commander.”

Maria hummed and lifted her glass again. For a time, they were quiet. The fire was plenty engrossing to watch, and the soft scribble of Varric’s quill on parchment was a familiar sort of accompaniment to her thoughts. The whiskey was warm on her tongue when she sipped it, and it was all rather cozy. 

She didn’t like the comfort of  it. Time was running perilously short, there were a thousand things she’d left undone at home, and she was spending her time here attending fetes and trying to keep herself too busy to think. It didn’t feel right to be kicking her heels here when there was so much that’d gone horribly wrong in the world. It didn’t seem—

“Cham—Hawke!” she hardly heard the Inquisitor before the elf sat hard on the bench beside her. “I was looking for you. I had a question, you see. Oh—was I interrupting?”

“Not at all, Lucky,” Varric said, setting the page aside and shifting another closer to him. “Hawke here was just telling me she thought the Inquisitor would be self-important.” 

Maria smiled and kicked him under the table. Varric grunted. 

“What I said,” she informed the Inquisitor, looping her arm through the other woman’s, “was that you have exceeded my every expectation. Don’t listen to him; he’s dreadful at paraphrasing. You’ve no idea the amount of things he left out of that dreadful book.”

“Dreadful,” Varric scoffed. “Dreadful! I’ll have you know I was interrogated over that book, Hawke. For days. Weeks, even.”

“I remember it quite well,” she informed him, for she’d neither forgotten nor forgiven the Seeker for it. 

It had been worth sneaking into the woman’s quarters, she decided, for the clear discomfort the woman had felt without access to any undergarments. Good riddance; may the hares and foxes in the valley below enjoy them well. 

“Did you want to say something, dear?” she added, nudging Aisling. “You seemed excited.”

Aisling, who’d been holding herself very still with visible effort, brightened. 

“Oh—yes, I almost forgot. I had a question to ask you, if you don’t mind the asking, about those force spells you showed me the other day…”

They sat before the fire for some time, discussing magical theory and the likely velocity of a given object if one tried to use a telekinetic spell to hurl it into a gravitic ring. It was pleasant to think about, actually—good exercise for a mind that had taken to pacing itself in circles. Hawke found herself awake long after she’d intended to be, more comfortable than she’d managed these last restless weeks at Skyhold, and relieved to remember that there’d been a life before all this fear. Magical theory existed rather completely beyond the question of Wardens and Callings and would-be gods who ought to have been long dead.

She’d been honest when she told Varric she liked the Inquisitor, but it was more than that. There’d been a horrible, niggling guilt at the back of her mind: she’d known that the Chantry was looking for her, known that she’d been wanted at the Conclave. When the sky had been ripped open, when Varric had told her all that had happened, her first thought was that she should have been there. Corypheus was her responsibility. He was a Hawke’s burden to carry and she had failed. 

If she had been at the Conclave…

No, no; leave that to think about after she got into the bedroom. It would do no good to consider it here and now. 

“Goodnight,” she told the Inquisitor some time later, and relished the comfort of being able to actually hug somebody else for once. Varric, for all his familiarity, had always had a rather low tolerance for her long goodbyes. Aisling allowed them for far longer, to Hawke’s infinite relief. 

It was difficult to realize how much one had come to rely on consistent physical contact until one had lost the opportunity to have any at all.

“Goodnight,” the elf said, squeezing her in return. “Tomorrow morning, maybe later in the week—do you think you have time to test it out? I do think it could be helpful for a variety of applications.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Maria said. “When someone is falling, for example, or perhaps we can find a way to sort of slingshot things using it…or we could use it if you need to fight a dragon again. Dreadful creatures. I was almost eaten by one, you know.”

“Varric told me,” Aisling said, and they unfolded themselves from each other at last. “I am hoping we might use the two in combination to lower goods into the valley and bring them up more easily than the road allows. But—tomorrow!” 

“Tomorrow,” Maria agreed, smiling—genuinely for once, and turned to leave for her quarters

“Goodnight,” the elf said again and bounced away, already patting her pockets for something. 

A notebook, Hawke supposed, or something to write with. When she slipped into her own room at last, she locked the door behind her and tapped into the wards she’d left here when she’d gone away for the day. 

All was well. This annoyed her; if there’d been an issue, it would have been nice to solve something for once.

When she’d finished changing, Hawke slipped beneath the covers and rested a hand over her eyes. She’d thought they would be gone from here by now, had thought they’d already set out for the Western Approach and whatever waited for them there. But—amassing an army and getting it to move took a great deal more time than she’d expected. They would leave within the week, certainly, but it still didn’t feel soon enough. 

No; no. There was nothing she could do about the Inquisition right now. 

Gravitic rings and telekinetic bursts. These, she knew. She turned her mind to the experiment the Inquisitor had proposed until she was too tired to think. When she dropped off to sleep at last, she did so occupied with the thought of experiments and logic, not the pressure of time.

For the first time in days, she actually slept through the night.

|

“What’s happening over here?” Varric asked some time later, and the three mages peered down from the upper level of the ruins. 

It was hot in the Western Approach, to say the least. They’d been up here long enough that the pale Inquisitor was noticeably pink about the cheeks. They probably ought to find shelter from the sun soon, it was only—well. It’d been ages since Maria had worked magic in tandem with someone else, and it was invigorating. She almost hadn’t noticed the time passing at all, but the angle of the sun indicated they’d been up here far too long. 

“Varric!” Aisling called, waving. “Stay right there. We’ll show you!” 

When she nodded to Hawke, the two of them gestured and called forth their respective magics. Dorian, who’d taken more than one turn in either of their places by now, took a long-dry carafe and hurled it into the stream of the first spell. For a moment, it flew through the air, cartwheeling end over end as it was caught in the force of the telekinetic spell. Then, while Maria held the gravitic ring steady, the carafe hit the perimeter of her spell and slowed noticeably. 

Varric, who’d taken several steps back when Dorian threw the carafe, approached slowly. 

“Huh,” he said, and caught the pottery when Maria released the spell. 

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said, clapping twice. “Can you imagine if we’d figured this out sooner? The things I could’ve thrown in my foyer at the manor. But wait—there’s more. We started toying with the rotation of the ring and—”

“—if we are careful about how we aim it—” Aisling interjected, and Maria gestured in agreement. 

“—it can even be used to redirect objects already in motion, so long as there was sufficient force behind it to begin with,” Maria finished in a rush, rocking from foot to foot in excitement. 

“Perhaps you’d better stand back,” Dorian told Varric. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t especially enjoy having a rock thrown at my head.”

“Oh, it was a complete accident—you’re fine now,” Maria said, waving a hand, and he cast her a sidelong glance. 

“Yes, I rather find that healing magic has that effect,” he said drily. “Well, then. Ready, all?” 

“Yes,” the other two mages echoed, and this time Dorian tossed a rock into the force of the first spell. Hawke adjusted the second, concentrating on the way it spun, and they all watched the rock turn in midair and shoot off over the dunes. After a moment, there was a distant thud, and the three mages cheered. 

“Hang on,” Maria called to Varric. “We’re coming down. It’s time for a break, I think.” 

They made their way down the ladder one at a time and Maria drank from her waterskin while she waited for the others. Obviously, she’d known that this would be a desert. She’d known it would be hot, but she hadn’t figured on the air itself being so dry. It felt like she was forever reaching for water to wet her parched throat. 

“Drink,” she told the Inquisitor when the other woman reached the ground. Aisling took her waterskin and drank while the two of them moved into the shade. 

“There a purpose for this trick of yours?” Varric asked, ducking under the other side of the ruins. 

“Always best to keep busy,” Maria told him. “Also, Cullen has banned us from playing with the trebuchet and this is a nice substitute.” 

“Well, perhaps part of the problem is that you continue to call it playing with the trebuchet,” Dorian informed her, capping his own waterskin. “Somehow, he found that less charming than the rest of us.”

“Fie,” Hawke said, flicking her braid back over her shoulder. “The man must have a sense of humor somewhere. I’ve just got to dig a little deeper.”

“Well, they are very difficult to manage,” Aisling said absently, examining a patch of reddened skin on her forearm. “They each take a whole team of bronto to move, you see, and calibrating them properly can be very time-consuming.” 

Hmm, Maria thought. Varric’s comment about the Commander not meaning the Inquisitor harm came to mind again. The woman was friendly enough that it could mean nothing, but…well. She chose to keep her thoughts to herself. 

“In any case,” Hawke said, “this is a suitable substitute. It might even be helpful in the battle to come, I suppose, if your mages can learn it in time.” 

They spoke more as they made their way back to the camp, though the latent exhaustion from standing in the sun and working magic for hours gradually slowed the talk to a crawl. The four of them separated as they neared the camp, each stepping away to clean up. When Maria had finally changed into lighter clothing, she heard a soft sound outside her tent. 

“Inquisitor?” she called, nudging the mess of clothes under her cot and out of the way. 

“Yes,” Aisling replied, “do you have a moment?” 

“Of course; come in,” Maria said. 

Aisling entered, carrying a small, familiar pot of ointment. Maria would have known it from the smell even if she hadn’t already become very acquainted with it. 

“Sunburn?” she asked, holding out a hand, and the Inquisitor nodded miserably. There were already streaks of green over her arms, the skin beneath a bright pink in contrast. 

“If you can do your weather trick, I’ll get whatever you can’t reach,” Hawke told her, “or heal any of the blistered pieces, if you’d like.”

“Just the ointment is fine,” Aisling said, sketching runes in the air. The air in the tent cooled gradually, filled by a fresh breeze from nowhere at all. Hawke sighed in relief and took the little jar of ointment from Aisling. 

“I should’ve worn longer sleeves,” the elf murmured, sitting on the edge of the cot and tipping her head forward. Maria sat beside her and removed the lid from the jar. 

“Probably,” Hawke agreed, carefully smoothing a swathe of elfroot ointment over the back of Aisling’s shoulder. “We’ll have you right as rain soon enough, and it was time well spent nevertheless.”

“Hmm,” Aisling said, and added after a moment. “Are you…feeling better?”

There was a hesitance to the question that Maria understood at once. Do we know each other enough for me to ask? she was saying. 

“Yes, somewhat,” Maria admitted, and gathered more sharp-smelling salve. “Thank you—for all the distractions. I am grateful, truly. You’ve been a—a good friend to me.”

“Oh!” Aisling said, glancing back at her. “I’m glad you think so.”

There was a moment of silence. It would have been easy to fill—both of them were fond of talking—but Maria let the silence rest for a moment instead. Sometimes thoughts had to be given space to breathe before they could be spoken aloud. This seemed like one such occasion. 

“Before you came,” Aisling said at last, her voice very quiet, “I did not think we would like each other. Everyone—so many of them wanted you instead. Before I became the Inquisitor, I mean. I was so sure you’d know what to do where I don’t. I thought, if you’d been at the Conclave instead…”

“I would have died,” Maria told her, for she’d thought about the same thing many times. “Truly. It had to be you. The Chantry was more than half-convinced that I was personally responsible for what happened in Kirkwall. Can you imagine if I’d been the only one left standing after the death of the Divine? They would’ve killed me outright, even if I’d actually survived the destruction at the Conclave.” 

She sighed, setting the little jar aside, and nudged Aisling. The elf turned to look at her, her usual expression replaced by one far more somber. 

“When I told you before that you’re doing great, I meant it,” Hawke said, patting the Inquisitor’s hand. “Really. How could anybody look at all you’ve achieved and think otherwise? And that’s just on the surface. Knowing more—knowing some of what happened in Redcliffe—you’ve a great deal to be proud of.”

“Yes,” Aisling said, squeezing her hand in turn. “I was going to say—I was relieved when you didn’t agree with them. I’m glad you came.”

“Me, too,” Hawke said, smiling. “How else would I have thought to put a fully dressed skeleton in a trebuchet? Who else would have painted targets on boulders with me so we could use them for magical experiments?” 

Aisling laughed. Some of the serious air dissipated, and their conversation turned to other topics. The time for the battle drew very near—only one more day, perhaps two before they would need to make their assault on the keep. There wouldn’t be much more time for this sort of camaraderie. They couldn’t know what would come next; perhaps much of the world’s brokenness would be fixed after the battle. Perhaps it would grow worse. Either way, she was grateful she’d be facing it down amongst friends. 

For months, Hawke had wondered if the rift in the sky was somehow her own fault. Maybe it was. But—now that she’d met the Inquisitor, now that she knew Aisling herself, it was easier to set some of the regret aside. If there was somebody she trusted with the weight of all this, it had to be Lavellan. She had a good head on her shoulders and an earnest interest in understanding how the world worked. If somebody was going to have power over a large swathe of Thedas, Maria’d rather it be someone who wanted to understand why things were the way they were. Also—and this was crucial—she gave excellent hugs.

[for-the-dales]

Chapter 6: Solas

Chapter 1 (Leliana): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/185692342364/the-path-forward-chapter-1-leliana

           Solas dreamt of home. Of great palaces floating in the sky. He dreamt of grand and decadent parties that lasted for years. The sort of dances that would make a chantry mother faint. The food that would make a magister scream in envy. Solas lost himself in his own memory in this dream. It was a celebration Mythal had thrown, ostensibly to celebrate the work of an artist she admired. Solas wove through the crowd of moving bodies covered scantily in silks that seemed to have minds of their own. The music created by instruments no human had ever heard flowed through the room and tasted exciting. The music and the dancing had reached a crescendo. Solas closed his eyes and smelled the perfumes and delicacies. He could almost fool himself into thinking it was all real, and that everything that would happen after this had all been a bad dream. A nightmare. He opened his eyes however, and he could see the haze that hung over everything. The slightly blurred faces, the fabrics that couldn’t quite remember what design they were supposed to have.

           It was all a dream.

           Still, he could dream a little while longer. He could allow himself that.

           He reached the edge of crowd and wanted to weep. As blurry as everything else was, she was clear as day. Mythal stood on the balcony overlooking everything with a maternal smile on her face. He knew that she was always happy to make her children happy. She had dark hair that hung simply down to her hips and her deeply tanned face had only the slightest alteration from paints. Her red gown was simple too. The only thing she wore that suggested her status was a multitude of golden rings on her fingers and in her ears. The largest ring was her wedding band, which was made of intricately woven gold and was weighed down by more diamonds than most people could count quickly. Her husband was not in attendance tonight. They had fought recently. That happens when you’ve been together since the beginning of the world. She was the least extravagantly dressed person in attendance. But it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a person for miles around that couldn’t feel the power radiating from her.

           Solas caught her eye and her smile widened as she motioned for him to join her. As Solas walked up the steps to her small sanctuary he heard her voice as if she were standing next to him, whispering in his ear, “I need your help, I cannot do this alone.”

           Solas pulled aside the curtain at the top of steps and looked into Ellana Lavellan’s eyes.

           Solas shot awake as if someone had stabbed him. It felt like he had been wounded. He wanted to scream. He was sweating so much he wanted to throw himself into the snow outside his hut. It had been a long time since he had dreamt without being in control. He had decided he didn’t care for it. He would have to consult with Wisdom when he slept next. It would have to be tomorrow since he certainly wasn’t going back to sleep tonight. He laid back down and tried to slow his breathing. It was still dark outside, but Solas could hear the rumblings of people starting work. The sun would be rising soon. Solas rose with it.

           As Solas left his hut a few people nodded to him, but he knew no one in the camp really knew what to make of him. A free elvhen mage that didn’t seem to be frightened of humans or their Templars. Solas briefly considered acting more scared at the beginning, but ultimately couldn’t suffer the humiliation. He had spent enough of his life bowing to people who didn’t deserve to be bowed to. He walked over to a fire where some people were preparing breakfast and stopped dead in his tracks. Ellana Lavellan sat in the middle of a group huddled around the fire as she added a sprinkle of herbs to a soup she was making. Someone asked her a question and she laughed lightly before answering. Her laugh wasn’t condescending, and the woman who had asked the question smiled with her while she explained. She hadn’t tied her hair back yet, and it floated around her head and down her back like a dark cloud. She wore Dalish armor, but it wasn’t showy. The most elaborate parts of her were her vallaslin. It had been a long time since Solas had seen vallaslin that extensive. Of all of his people’s ancient traditions, why did this one have to be the one they carried down?

           “Chuckles! Come grab some food!”

           Solas shook himself out of his thoughts and turned to Varric. He sat to the left of Ellana and motioned for the others to move down so that Solas could come sit next to him. Everyone had turned to look at him now, including Ellana. She was smiling her benevolent and kind smile, and it worried Solas greatly. She did remind him of his old friend when she smiled like that. It put him on edge because he knew that kind of smile could be as dangerous a weapon as any knife. It was the kind of smile that inspired friendship and devotion.

           Even worship.

           Yes, the smile unnerved Solas, but he couldn’t just walk away now. Everyone was staring. He took the offered spot and bowl of the soup Ellana had apparently made. It was good, with spices designed to wake up the eater. Still, after his dream and remembering food before, it was dirt. He listened to the people around him discuss what needed to be done today. He noticed that the majority of those seated were elves. There were a few humans, but they wore the old and worn clothes of common laborers. The great Herald of Andraste ate among the common folk, it would seem. Even cooked for them. She was playing a very clever long game. He looked over at the woman in question and saw her listening attentively, asking questions here and there. The meal passed amicably and eventually everyone got up and went their separate ways. Everyone except Solas and Ellana.

           Ellana. What a ridiculous name. She said it with such confidence and elegance, as if it were not as meaningless as her religion.

           “Something you’d like to discuss with me?”

           Solas looked up from his empty bowl at the woman. She was looking at him with her large green eyes and unnerving smile.

           “Why would you think that?” Solas asked, setting his bowl into a pile of dishes to be cleaned.

           “You’ve been watching me since you walked up, but you haven’t said anything. I figured there was something you wanted to discuss with me in private.”

           She stood gracefully and extended her hand towards the gate of Haven and asked, “Shall we?”

          Solas did not bother to contradict her, instead he stood and followed her out of Haven and past the soldiers training just outside the gates. They walked in silence until they reached a short pier on the opposite side of the large pond in front of Haven. Ellana sat on the end of the pier with her feet swinging below. Solas elected to stand next to her, his hands folded behind his back. She leaned back on her hands so she could look up at him better, not commenting on his refusal to sit next to her.

           “You said you came from a Dalish temple.” Solas stated.

           “I did.”

           “I was not aware the Dalish had temples.”

           “I’m not surprised.”

           Solas tried not to let his hackles rise.

           “I should like to see one. Where would I find one?”

           “You can’t.”

           Solas did bristle some this time, “Excuse me?”

           Ellana sighed and looked forward, “They can only be found by believers. You have made it abundantly clear you don’t believe in my gods, so you can’t find it.”

           This made Solas pause, “That sounds like a strong enchantment.”

           Ellana nodded, “It is, it was a safety precaution put in place by our gods before The Fall.”

           “How do you know that they are the ones who cast the enchantment?”

           “That’s what all the stories say. Also logic. The enchantment has been in place since The Fall so it makes sense that the gods whose temples the protection is placed upon are the ones who put the spell in place.”

           “How do you know the enchantment has been in place that long?”

           “Written records that survive.”

           Solas felt his forehead crease and his eyes darted down to look at Ellana. He did not think any records survived from his people.

           “Did your people find them with temple?”

           Ellana laughed, “No, my people recorded it.”

           Solas sat slowly and carefully next to the woman. Finally he asked, “What?”

           “My people have inhabited the temples since before The Fall. It hasbeen thousands of years since then so obviously not all the records survive. That, in addition to the hardship we have dealt with, years of loss, flood, and fires. Much has been lost. Still, we preserve and learn from what we can. My temple doesn’t actually have many records on hand. Most writings and artifacts are taken to the temple of Falon’Din, the history keepers. They evaluate everything and present findings to the other temples every few years.”

           Solas’s head was reeling. How much exactlydid she know? How could he ask without giving too much away?

           Could she know everything and be messing with him?

           “Wait,” Solas’s train of thought suddenly skidded to a stop , “I’ve met Dalish tribes. They never told me about any of this. I seemed to know more from my dreaming than they did. Do you not tell them any of this?”

           “So, you assume because you walked into a Dalish camp and demanded information, they would tell you everything they know about their sacred history and religion?”

           Ellana looked at him as if she were talking to a child. Solas scoffed, “Why do you assume I was demanding?”

           The woman rolled her eyes, “Because I’ve had a conversation with you before, Solas.”

           “Still, with all of this apparent knowledge, why haven’t you used it to create more permanent settlements and civilization?”

           “We did once,” Ellana said quietly, “Just ask the Empress in Halamshiral.”

           Both were quiet for a moment. Ellana broke the silence and said, “The humans outnumber us, easily. They have more resources, more land, and more bodies to throw around. If we ever try to reassert ourselves again publicly, it would have to be a very delicate process. The humans are unnerved by people in power who aren’t exactly like them.”

           Solas was silent, she spoke truth and it frustrated him. Ellana wasn’t done yet though and turned to him, “Why do you even care?”

           Solas started a bit at that, “What do you mean?”

           “I mean why do you care. Ever since I’ve met you, you’ve only ever spoken about the Dalish with disdain. You even lift your nose up at the elvhen who live in alienages. You don’t seem to like your own people very much so I will repeat myself before we continue any further. Why do you care?”

           Solas turned to stare at Ellana and wanted immediately to defend himself, but she had shared much with him and he would do her the courtesy of considering her question.

           “I… have not lived much among other elves,” Not recently anyway, “and the few I have interacted with have not treated me with an abundant amount of kindness.”

           Ellana nodded, “I can see how that would color your perception, but have you considered why they would treat you in such a way?”

           “Like everyone else, they are afraid of what they do not know.”

           Ellana nodded again and turned back towards the pond, “That could be part of it. Have you also considered it was because they have had to be afraid? Have had to treat all outsiders with suspicion? The world is a dangerous place for elves. Surely even living separately you must still know this.”

           “I do. Still, it is frustrating.”

           “I can see how it would be. If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry you were not treated kindly, you didn’t deserve that.”

           Solas was quiet for a moment while he regarded the woman next to him, “Thank you.”

           Ellana looked back over to Solas, “When all this is over, would you like to see a temple?”

           Solas thought for a moment. If what she said was true, and it really was a temple of Mythal, it was very likely he had been there before. He didn’t know if he could go. Knowing that she wasn’t there. That she never would be again. He had purposefully kept himself away from elvhen ruins since he had awoken. He didn’t want to see his home like that. Ruins.

           “I think you might actually like it there,” Ellana said, still looking forward, “plenty of people to debate with. The priests of Mythal are rather known for that talent.”

           Solas chuckled, that much at least had stayed the same, “Maybe I will.”

           Ellana smiled at him again, and Solas found it just a little less unnerving.

           “So, were you raised in the temple or in a clan?”

           The light atmosphere shifted suddenly and Ellana looked forward again, “Neither.”

           Ellana tugged on a pendant he had noticed her wearing before. It was a carving of a dragon’s head, an old piece of leather was tied around one horn, and the bottom of the carving was smoother than rest after years of rubbing at it.

           “My mother was raised in a clan, I think.”

           Solas felt a pit in his stomach, but forced himself to continue, “You think?”

           She nodded, “Yes, this was hers, and I remember that she had vallaslin like mine.”

           “What happened to her?”

           “I don’t know. I was taken from her when I was five.”

           Solas didn’t say anything. It was the most emotional he had ever seen Ellana. She didn’t cry, but it looked like she had plenty of times before. After a moment she gathered herself and smiled. It was the smile that had unnerved him before, but now he saw it for what it was. She got up, bid him goodbye, and walked away.

           Solas spent the rest of the day helping the healers to stock pile salves, help those injured by rifts, and continuing his study of the Breach. He found it difficult to focus however. The People had fallen so far. The suffering they have endured. It was unimaginable.

           And it was all his fault.

           After trying to read the same sentence in his book for the fifth time he decided he wasn’t going to get any work done in his current state. He needed someone that could help him focus on what was really important. Not on just one example of suffering. He needed to refocus on the big picture. He laid in bed and quickly fell asleep. As soon as he entered the Fade he found himself in an old library that he had visited many times growing up. Tall trees wove together to make shelves covered in heavy tomes. The roof was nothing but beautiful green leaves. He looked around for his friend, Wisdom, but could not find them anywhere. Odd. They were normally here when he came looking.

           “Hello?” Solas called. His voice echoed strangely here.

           “I need to focus on what is really important.”

          His own words surrounded him as the ground beneath him gave way and he fell. He reached out desperately to try to reshape the dream, but to no avail. He landed on a cobblestone alley on a beautiful sunny day. There were plants hung along the walls drying, and several barrels were stacked along the walls as well. Suddenly a door behind him burst open and screams filled the air. A human man emerged holding a screaming elven girl. An older elvhen woman came barreling out after before being grabbed back by other hands. He couldn’t make out the woman’s face, or the faces of those holding her. But he could smell the spices. They filled his nose and made him want to be sick. The feeling was made worse when he looked at the face of the child and saw her bright green eyes rimmed red with tears.

           He shouldn’t be here.

           He tried again desperately to leave this dream, but still couldn’t break out.  Solas followed the child’s line of sight to see the woman being beaten in the alley. The girl screamed louder. Finally the guard yelled, “If you don’t shut up we’ll break her arm!”

           The girls eyes widned and she bit down on her lip. She looked back at her mother on the ground, now trying to stand back up. The woman looked up and stared at the child as if she were the only thing in the alley, the whole world even. The guards started walking again and Solas followed little Ellana out of the alleyway and into another memory.

           She was in a rickety old cabin that shook all around them. A storm raged outside and the only light was provided by the flashes of lighting in the sky. Ellana sat curled up on a small cot with a threadbare blanket covering her. There were seven other cots like hers in the tiny space, with other small children in them. All of them were soaked from the myriad leaks in the roof. All of them were shivering. In these conditions, Solas wouldn’t be surprised if half of them died in the night. Ellana was crying, but the child in the bed next to her was sobbing. He was screaming for his mother. For a cherished blanket. For a lost toy. There was a fireplace in the back of the cabin, but the wood was soaked and no matches were provided.

           Solas knelt next to little Ellana’s bed and watched as her eyes focused in on the child next to her. She gritted her teeth and sat up in bed with a look a fierce determination on her face. She looked at all the other little bodies in the room shaking from the cold and fear. Solas knew suddenly that all of them had come with her, had been taken from their mothers with the same purchase that took Ellana from hers. She got into the bed next to her and took the little boys hand. The boy squeezed her hand back and his sobs calmed some. She turned to check on the child on the other side of her bed, who had been quiet. She crawled out of her bed and onto the other little girls. She picked up the girls hand and felt that it was cold. She felt that the hand wasn’t shaking either. The girl wasn’t breathing. Her wide blue eyes were still wet from tears, but they weren’t crying anymore.

           Ellana flung herself back and Solas wanted to scream in rage. The other children had gotten up to see what had spooked her so bad. Ellana looked at all of their faces, and Solas could see what she saw. Despair. Complete and total heartbreak. No child in that room was older than seven. All of them were shaking and Solas was terrified his earlier prediction would prove to be true. Ellana’s little face set again as she got out of bed. She went over to the fireplace and knelt down.

           The oldest looking child, a girl, asked, “What are you doing?”

           Ellana stared at the dark fireplace, “My mamae taught me a trick. In the winter when it would get cold and we couldn’t get enough firewood, she knew how to get warm.”

           “What’s the tri-”

           “Shush, I’m focusing.”

           The older girl looked annoyed but didn’t say anything else. Ellana held her hands over the logs, as if they were lit and she was warming them. Her face was scrunched up and her eyes were closed. He could hear her mumbling to herself, “I am warm,” over and over again.

           For a few long minutes nothing happened. The other children all looked at each other confused. The older girl rolled her eyes and laid back down. Solas pitied her, she was too young to be so jaded. Solas kneeled down next to Ellana and he could see the little tears coming out of her squeezed-shut eyes and could hear her sniffles.

           “I am warm.” She was crying to herself.

           Solas knew he couldn’t help, this had happened long ago for her, but still he whispered, “You can do this.”

           Her face twisted even further and her head tilted, like she was giving it one more go. Suddenly steam began to rise from the logs. More and more rose and the other children rose with it and gathered around her. Ellana still hadn’t opened her eyes. The other children lifted their little hands up to and prayed with her, “I am warm. I am warm.”

           Suddenly a small flicker of light appeared deep under the logs, all the children gasped. Their prayer grew louder and louder as the flame grew. Ellana didn’t open her eyes, but her voice rose with theirs. Solas could feel it coming off of the children in waves.

           Faith.

           The fire grew bigger and bigger until it engulfed the logs. Only then did Ellana open her eyes. The children cheered. Ellana didn’t. She stood and walked over to the little girl still in her bed with her unseeing blue eyes. The other children sobered and joined her. They gathered around the bed solemn as priests at the passing of great king. Very gently Ellana pulled back the blanket and placed her hands under the girls slight shoulders. The other children followed suit and lifted her carefully, so as to not disturb her. They placed her in front of the fire and covered her back up with her blanket, pulling it so it covered her face. The other children sat around her with Ellana in the middle. They all grabbed the child next to them and held each other. Solas knelt behind them and watched them fall asleep like that.

           The room darkened and Solas was pulled into another memory. Solas was still reeling from the previous scene that he didn’t even try to stop it. He was kneeling on a riverbank with trees all around him. For a moment he thought he was back in his library, but then another elf joined him. He recognized Ellana again, but she was older this time, maybe fifteen. She did not yet have vallaslin on her face, but she was gripping the same pendent she had been wearing earlier. The same determination was set on her face as she stared at the water.

           “Hurry it up!”

           Solas swung around with Ellana and saw a human guard standing a few paces behind them. There was enough detail in the armor now to confirm Solas’s suspicions. They were from Tevinter. Ellana wore no shackles, but she didn’t need to. She turned back and dipped her hands in the water and took a drink. Others joined her at the riverbank. Solas counted at least twenty before Ellana was standing and Solas was moving with her. It was dusk and it was obvious that this was a traveling party that had made camp for the night. A rudimentary fence had been set up with little bells on the wires hanging between wood posts. Bedrolls were set up inside, and Ellana walked through the only opening in the fence and sat on one. The guard at the entrance spoke to the elves present, “One hour until the end of dinner.”

           All of the elves nodded and the guard walked a short distance away to talk to another human. It was still light enough out, though it would be dark soon, and he didn’t really have to worry about them escaping. Solas could see the road from the clearing where they had made camp and recognized the Imperial Highway. Solas looked back at Ellana and could see that she wasn’t looking at the road. Her eyes were deadlocked on the river. Another elf sat on the bedroll next to hers so that both of their backs were facing the guards. Solas recognized her face as the older girl from the shed.

           “Don’t even think about it.”

           Ellana smiled but didn’t take her eyes off the water, “Too late.”

           “Are you crazy,” The girl was whispering but Solas could tell she wanted to scream, “You can’t swim.”

           “I can float. I can grab a piece of wood and kick. That’ll help me float faster.”

           “You’ll drown.” The girl hissed, looking increasingly desperate.

           Ellana turned to look at her and asked, “Are you going to tell?”

           The girl scoffed, “Of course not.” She hesitated for a moment, “I just don’t want you to die.”

           Ellana held her pendant firmly and looked back at the water, “I’m not going to die.”

           She seemed to be saying it more to herself than her friend. The memory blurred and her friend drifted away. There was movement around Ellana, but she didn’t take her eyes off of the water. The sun sank in the sky, and the guards were finally drunk. Solas knew that she would be all right, but the air was thick with tension and it was hard for him to breathe. Finally, Ellana rose. She looked behind her and saw that the guards weren’t paying attention. She looked down at the small pack next to her and thought for a moment. She grabbed only a small shiv out of it and stuck it in a small pouch tied at her waist. She took off her necklace and reached into her shirt to tie the cord tightly around her breast band. She took off her boots and started to walk casually towards the water. Solas could see other elves heads rise and look at her. Their idle chatter stopped and she began running. Solas heard a guard shouting behind her but she was moving too fast. Solas ran along side her and watched her face scrunch up the same way it did when she had made fire just as she jumped into the fast moving river. Solas was dragged under with her and couldn’t tell which way was up. All he felt was the water, and the fear. It dragged him down and he kicked his legs desperately and brought himself above the surface. He saw Ellana do the same and desperately try to keep herself above the surface. Solas was pulled back under and didn’t see anything else.

           When he could open his eyes again, he was staring up at the night sky. He turned and saw Ellana a few paces away puking up water and bile, her feet still in the water. Once she could breathe again she was laughing. Solas could feel her jubilation. Her freedom. It was gone the moment they both heard shouting. They spun to look at the opposite bank and could make out torch light in the distance through the trees. In a moment Ellana was on her feet and she was running. Solas could only follow. They ran together through the forest and Solas could feel the fear rolling off Ellana in waves, but she didn’t slow down. The trees almost seemed to part for them. Showing them the way. Solas turned his head and saw that they were in fact closing behind them.

           Time seemed to melt away as they ran. They ran through heat, through rain, through forests, through snow. They just ran. Solas could see Ellana getting thinner, could see her wearing down. Finally they reached a bog. From the state of Ellana’s clothes she must have been on the run for weeks, if not months. The pendant was clutched in her right hand with the cord wrapped around her wrist. Her left hand clutched the small shiv desperately. Ellana had abandoned her shoes when she left, and the bog was treacherous. Ellana was soaked and exhausted but forced herself to keep moving. She couldn’t last though, Solas could see that clearly. She was starving, hadn’t rested, and from the sweat on her forehead was likely very ill. She was trying to climb a small hill when her feet finaly gave out and she collapsed in the mud.

           With what was left of her strength she rolled onto her back and wailed. It was thunderous. Solas felt it in his soul. She had fought for so long to die on this hill in this bog. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she wailed. If she were caught now she didn’t have to worry, she wouldn’t survive the journey back to the Magister anyway. She turned her head to the side and looked at the pendant she clutched. Solas strained to hear her whisper, “I’m sorry. I don’t know any of the right words. My mother used to sing them, but I don’t know them anymore.”

           She pulled her arm with the pendent to her chest and clutched tight, whispering, “I don’t even know your name.”

           The scene began to fade when Solas heard a gentle feminine voice float down around them, “Her name is Mythal, and she has brought you to safety.”

           The last thing Solas saw was a glowing elvhen woman reaching down to Ellana.

           “I need to focus on what is really important.”

           Solas heard his own voice again and was suddenly back in his library. Wisdom stood in front of him. Solas collapsed to his knees in front of his friend, breathing heavily. Wisdom bent down in front him and said, “When you only focus on the big picture, it can be hard to remember why your goals are so important.”

           Wisdom reached down a hand and pulled Solas to his feet, “You do not trust her because you do not trust faith. It has betrayed you, and many others. You must also understand that your experience is not universal. Faith can be a good thing; it can bring strength where none exists. Make the impossible, possible. She is strong because she has had to be. Clever because she has had to be. Manipulative because she has had to be. You of all people should understand.”

           Solas nodded. Wisdom opened their mouth and a strange mix of Ellana’s and Mythal’s voice came out, “I need your help. I cannot do this alone.”

           Solas shot awake.

------

Chapter 7: https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/188454450694/chapter-7-vivienne

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 4: Fold

Where Tristan has a bit too much to drink and ends up sleeping on Dorian’s floor. Also known as the one where the Herald of Andraste makes a fool of himself.

Read here or on AO3! ~3000 words

********

Sitting by the desk of his small hut, clutching his fine feather pen, Dorian let out an exasperated sigh. Ever since he had come to Haven, writing had become one of his least pleasurable activities. He couldn’t quite fathom how he was still cold despite being so close to the hearth and wearing his stoutest cloak. His wooden fingers fumbled about with the pen, his letters on the thin vellum a forced squiggle. He brought the small piece of paper up to his eyes and squinted at it. No one would be able to read that cursed label. With a sharp huff, he crumbled it up in his fist and threw it in the fire.

He let his gaze fall past the window as he briefly contemplated the wisdom of his decision to ever descend to the south. It was very different from how he had envisioned it. Oh, it was terribly quaint, in a decrepit sort of way. He would even call it picturesque had he not been trembling like a wet mabari all the time.

But the weather and the horrid architecture was the least of his concerns. It didn’t help much that most people he met gaped at him like fish out of water and scrambled away as if he were the bearer of the blood plague. He had found out the hard way that mages, and those from Tevinter especially, were not exactly well received. Half the residents of Haven thought him something of a villain from a children’s story. As for the other half, Dorian only hoped that they weren’t bold enough to burn his hut while he slept.

So, that’s what the infamous southern hospitality he had heard so much about was like. Splendid.

A knock on his door stirred him out of his grim thoughts.

“Thank the Maker” he whispered as he placed the pen back in its holder. No more writing for him, at last. He stood up, gathering his coat tightly about his shoulders. He hadn’t even pushed the door fully open when he felt the strong, icy blast coming in from outside. The cold, he might someday get used to, as well as shovelling the snow from his door every morning, but this blasted wind? He didn’t think he would ever get used to that.

A massive, horned figure obscuring the daylight greeted him as soon as the door swung on its hinges.

“Morning” the Qunari who called himself the Iron Bull said with a grin.

“Good Morning” Dorian said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m in need of some potions. You know. For tomorrow.”

Dorian lifted his eyebrows inquisitively. “You’ll be joining the Herald for the closing of the Breach, then?”

“Yep. And the Chargers, too. So I need to stock up on the juice.”

“I see” Dorian mused. He had heard Cullen and Cassandra talking to their troops about the march to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but he had not expected them to go so soon. Especially since no one really knew exactly how the Herald would close the Breach. Even Solas, the mysterious elven apostate that seemed to know far too much about the Fade and the mark on the Herald’s palm, could not gauge how closing the Breach would affect the man. A small ball of apprehension settled in Dorian’s stomach.

He glanced behind him, at the work space that he and Adan, the herbalist, shared. “Wait here” he told Bull and walked in.

The Qunari leaned on the door frame casually and crossed his arms, thick like tree trunks, over his enormous chest. Dorian could feel his gaze on his back as he sifted through the many vials on the shelves.

“What’s wrong, Bull? Couldn’t resist examining the ‘Vint’?” he said idly, in a mocking imitation of the Qunari’s thick accent.

Bull snorted. “That what you are? You people all kind of look the same to me.”

Dorian harrumphed as he put the vials in a leather pouch. He handed it over to Bull, and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the view, at least.”

Iron Bull let out a laugh, a soft basso rumble, as he brushed the stubble on his rough cheeks. “I wouldn’t mind enjoying more, if you catch my drift. But there’s too much to do before the big day. Polish my breastplate, sharpen my axe, catch up with the boys…”

A throng of scullery maids passed them by, giving them wary looks. Bull winked at them with his one good eye. They gasped, and hurried down along the path.

“Is terrifying the people of Haven in your list of priorities, too?” Dorian said with a sickly sweet smile.

“Oh, don’t you worry about them. Half those girls will be on my knee before the evening’s over.” He proceeded to flash him a big, toothy grin.

Dorian rolled his eyes, and Bull laughed heartily at his reaction. He scratched his scarred chest with a massive finger as he looked up at the Breach. Dorian could have been wrong, but he thought he heard a soft, shaky sigh leaving the Qunari’s lips.

“You’re not anxious about tomorrow, are you?” Dorian asked.

“Anxious? No. The Chargers and I have been through too many battles to be anxious about that sort of thing. Concerned, though… Maybe I am that. No one knows what’s going to come out of that Breach when we get close. When I asked to be hired by the Inquisition I didn’t think I’d have to fight that many demons.” He shuddered slightly. “Blighted demons.”

“Ah, yes” Dorian said, nodding gravely. “Demons. Never a pleasant enemy.”

“Makes you regret ever joining, right? Far too many of those Fade-things for my liking.”

Dorian glanced up at the Breach, following Bull’s gaze. It promised a bleak sort of future, that was true. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret joining the Inquisition. Not yet, at the very least.

It had never been part of Dorian’s plans. Helping the Herald against Alexius and the Venatori, yes, no matter how much it had hurt to see his former mentor reduced to that. But staying after that… Dorian hadn’t quite known what to expect, at first. Perhaps yet another cult led by someone whose head was filled with far too many Chantry teachings for his own good, a delusional prophet of some sort. But Trevelyan was anything but that.

Certainly, the Herald was not one to inspire confidence and loyalty, at least not straight away. Not with that perpetual frown, and the way he scowled at those who praised him as Andraste’s chosen, or the way he looked at his advisors and the Chantrics over the tip of his nose, as if they existed only to annoy him. But a few conversations with the man, and Dorian had been surprised to find that he was determined and idealistic, if in a somewhat grim and sullen sort of way. That dark blue gaze, almost violet in a certain light, could peer right through you, and his smile, on the rare occasions it appeared, was genuine, even childlike in its honesty. And that adorable flush in his cheeks whenever Dorian teased him…

A small smile spread on his lips. Oh, teasing the Herald was risky. But the temptation of probing him to see what was hidden underneath that broody façade was too big to resist.

And perhaps see more than that, if I’m lucky.

Oh, there they were. Those delightful thoughts that always got Dorian in a heap of trouble. Admittedly, it had taken him longer than usual to fall for the worst possible person at the worst possible time.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Trevelyan passing through the huts. His pale blonde hair caught the light of the morning, but his frown was so dark, it could have brought the night upon them half a day too soon. Coming back from another council meeting, it seemed. He didn’t even glance at them as he walked towards the tavern.

“There he goes” Bull said, somewhat sarcastically, as he straightened up. “I’d better go after him. There’s, uh, a lot we need to discuss about the battle tomorrow.” He started to leave, but then stopped. “Why don’t you join us? I’ll buy you a drink. Or two, if you’d like” he said with a wink.

Dorian rolled his eyes again at the Qunari’s leer, but could not help considering his proposition. Spending some more time with Trevelyan, teasing him just a little bit more to see that slow half smile spreading on his gorgeous face… But he shook his head firmly. Swooning over the Herald of Andraste would not be wise. Not wise at all.

“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to decline. It wouldn’t be proper of me to impose on your no doubt very serious war conversation. Run along, now” he said, waving Bull away as he swung the door closed. Bull’s mocking rumble grated at his nerves as he walked back to his desk.

*****

Tristan glanced at his companions’ serious faces around the table. A tentative silence had spread among them, thick and heavy.

Bull downed his ale and set his mug on the table with a thud. “Well, what’s it gonna be?” he said, his basso voice vibrating through the room.

“All in” Tristan said, and pushed the remainder of his coins to the big pile that had formed in the centre of the table.

Varric was arranging his cards in his hands, and scratching the red stubble on his cheeks thoughtfully. Sera’s legs were fidgeting under the table as she muttered something incorrigible to herself, glancing at the hand she had been dealt.

Varric shook his head. “Fold.”

“Sera?” Bull said, turning to the jittery elf.

“Piss and pissing buckets” she mumbled. She pushed her coin purse forward, chewing her lip. “All in.”

“Alright” Bull chuckled. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Sera went first, spreading her cards in front of her. “Three of Knights! Eat it!”

“Don’t celebrate just yet, Buttercup” Varric said, as he watched Tristan lay his cards down.

Sera’s face fell in a frown. “Four of Serpents? Andraste’s tits!”

Tristan folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. He was definitely the winner of that round. He glanced at Bull, who was looking at his cards mournfully. “What do you have, Bull?”

“Oh, nothing much” he replied with a sigh, and spread his cards.

Tristan stared at the cards, mouth hanging open. “How on earth did you manage to get an Angel of Death?”

“I’ve told you not to bet against a Qunari, Blondie” Varric chuckled.

Sera jumped on her chair, ranting incoherently. “You friggin’… cheater! You hide the bloody cards up your sleeves!”

Bull’s laughter rumbled across the room. “Where would I hide them? I’m not wearing any sleeves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You… How the hell should I know? Maybe you Qunaris stuff them down your breeches!”

“You can check my breeches if you want. You might find something else that you like” Bull said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Ewwww” Sera said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “No, thanks, I’m off. Arsebiscuit” she mumbled as she walked away.

“You probably want to keep an eye on that money. I wouldn’t put it beneath her to try to steal it back later” Varric said with a teasing smile.

“I heard that!” came Sera’s shrill voice from the door. Bull laughed as he leaned forward and brushed all the money from the table towards himself with his enormous hands.

“I can’t believe I lost. That was the best hand I’ve had in days” Tristan groaned, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Don’t feel so bad, Boss” Bull replied, as he put the coins in his fat purse. “I gotta say, you’re putting that Inquisition gold to good use.”

“Yeah, well, consider it part of your pay.” Tristan stood up, and almost fell back down on his chair. He hadn’t realised how drunk he was.

“Fine with me” Bull laughed.

Tristan blinked a couple times to stabilise his swirling vision. “Come, let’s play another round. I’ll win that money back.”

“Not tonight, Boss” Bull said as he pushed his chair back. “Got a big day tomorrow, remember?”

The Breach. Tristan had tried to get drunk enough to forget about that, but evidently it hadn’t worked. He shook his head and sat back down. “It’s still early enough. Varric, what do you say?” he replied, turning to his trusty dwarf.

“Sorry, Blondie. I’ve got to get back, too. You should go to bed, get some rest. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, I know” Tristan said, waving him off. “Alright, you two, get out of here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Boss” Bull said and patted him on the shoulder as he walked off.

The tavern seemed a lot emptier with them gone. Only a few tables were occupied, and the patrons did not seem so cheery anymore. A couple was sitting in the corner talking softly to each other’s ear, while a man snored with his head resting on the table next to him.

The barkeeper’s voice behind him made him jump. “Shall I bring you anything else, Herald?”

Tristan took a breath to steady his heart. “No, thank you, Flissa. I’ll be on my way.” He emptied his mug and set it on the table. The taste of the stout brew clung to the roof of his mouth as he pushed himself up slowly and staggered towards the door. The frozen wind hit him square in the face, and he retreated further into his cloak. A few steps later, the world came spinning around him, forcing him to lean against the wooden door of a hut. The large, gaping hole in the sky was staring at him menacingly, as if in disapproval.

“Well, I don’t like you either” he whispered to it, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was lying on a rug in front of a fireplace. The blanket that had been thrown over him had a faint aroma of oakmoss and sandalwood. He blinked a couple of times, letting his gritty, puffy eyes adjust to the light of the room. Next to the fireplace was a small table, with a vase of fresh flowers, a pot of ink and a feather pen. The shelves on the wall were heavy with vials, potions and thick leather bound books, neatly stacked in alphabetical order. That was definitely not his room.

“Well, look who’s decided to join us. And by us, I mean me.”

Tristan sat up on the rug, and felt as if his head would split in two.

“Dorian” he groaned painfully. The mage was sitting on a wooden chair by the window, sipping something steaming from a dainty porcelain cup. The sunlight streaming through the window was making Tristan’s headache worse, if that was even possible. “What… Why am I here?”

“I was about to ask you the very same thing” Dorian responded. He leaned back in his chair, leisurely crossing one leg on top of the other. “I was readying myself to go to bed last night, when I heard a noise coming from outside my door. Inquisitive, as always, I opened it. And next thing I knew, there was our Herald, sprawled on my pretty rug. I was quite astounded, as you can imagine.”

Tristan rubbed his temples. He had no recollection of stopping by Dorian’s hut the previous night. In fact, he could not remember much. Only that he had drunk more than his fair share of ale and that his coin purse was empty. He lifted the blanket just a hair and peered down. It was some relief to see that he was still fully clothed.

“I took the liberty of taking off your boots and your coat. Just so you could sleep better. I hope it was not terribly forward of me.”

“No, it’s… that’s fine” Tristan mumbled. He could already feel his blood rising to his cheeks. At least Dorian had not seen him in his small clothes. The Herald of Andraste, blind drunk and wearing nothing but his underthings. Some sight that would have been.

“I did try to wake you, you know” Dorian continued. “But you were snoring like an ox. Alas, in the end I gave up and let you sleep where you had fallen. I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

Tristan pushed the blanket aside, ignoring the pain in his back from the bite of the hard floor. He made as if to stand up, but the world started spinning. The feather pen rattled in its fountain when he attempted to steady himself by grabbing the edge of the small desk.

Deceptively strong arms wrapped around him, and held him steady. He looked up at Dorian’s face, unbearably close to his. Dorian’s brows were furrowed slightly in concern. “Are you alright?”

Tristan blinked, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t remember ever being so close to him, his breath almost brushing against his skin. His heart fluttered awkwardly, and he pushed himself gently away with a sharp nod.

Dorian took a careful step back, placing his hands on his hips. “Let’s get you something warm to drink, shall we?”

He didn’t even wait for a response as he walked over to the small table by the window and sat back down on his chair. “Here, I made you some tea” Dorian said, pouring the hot liquid in a matching porcelain cup. “Do you take any honey in it?” he asked, reaching for a small clay pot with a carving of a flower on it.

Tristan shook his head as he took the opposite chair to Dorian, and immediately regretted it. His headache, that he had all but forgotten, came back with a vengeance. He brought the cup to his lips and took a long draught, scalding his tongue.

“I made it as strong as I could. Figured you would need it” Dorian said.

The bitterness of the tea made his eyes water. “It’s certainly strong” Tristan said, his voice slightly chocked.

Dorian gave him a satisfied mirth as he sipped from his own cup. “That should be enough to get you through today” he said, glancing at the sky through the foggy windows. Tristan followed his gaze. The Breach was looming over them, threatening as always.

Fuck!

His stomach fell to his knees. He had completely forgotten about that.

“What time is it?” he asked Dorian as he jolted bolt upright, searching frantically for his boots. Leliana and Cassandra would definitely have his hide this time if he were late.

“They haven’t left for the Temple yet, if that’s what you’re wondering” Dorian replied, calmly watching him as he spun around, no doubt like a headless chicken. “Seeker Pentaghast would leave no stone unturned or door on its hinges if you didn’t turn up on time.”

“Oh.” It took a couple of breaths for Tristan’s heart to fall back in its place. He stood in the middle of the room awkwardly for a moment, smoothing his palms over his wrinkled doublet. Avoiding Dorian’s gaze as best he could, he sat back down on the chair, his back as straight as he could make it. Absently, he realised just how dishevelled he must look. He ran his hands through his hair, hoping to smooth it down. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I… I must look like a mess.”

Dorian’s silvery laugh bounced off the walls of the small room. “That would be putting it mildly. I trust you had a good time last night at the tavern, at least?”

“It was just a small feast for… well, in preparation for today” Tristan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Evidently, I had a few more drinks than I should. I don’t usually show up at people’s doorstep in the middle of night.”

“Does that mean I’m the exception? I’m honoured and flattered, Herald” Dorian said with a smile, sipping on his tea.

“That’s… that’s not what I…” Tristan stammered. Get a hold of yourself, man!

Dorian was watching him with keen eyes. The slightly mocking half smile on his face did not make things any better. Dorian must think him a hopeless drunk and a fool. He was no doubt finding this whole charade incredibly funny. A sharp pang of embarrassment hit him as he glanced about, letting the absurdity of the situation sink in.

Tristan took a breath in an effort to steady his voice. “I should probably go. I’ve disturbed you enough for one day” he said, standing up. He bid Dorian farewell with a bow that was much too formal and started walking towards the door.

Dorian blinked at him, a startled expression on his face that lasted only for a moment before it melted into a polite smile. “Not at all, Herald” he replied, standing up as well. “You can stop by anytime. It would be my pleasure to put you up on my rug again. Oh, and don’t forget your boots. Wouldn’t want to run around barefoot in this weather.”

Tristan bit his lip, wondering if there was any way he could embarrass himself any more that day. He hopped awkwardly on one leg as he pulled his boots on, and with a polite nod to Dorian turned towards the door. He was just about to turn the door handle when he froze.

“You, uh….” He started, and then stopped. It had only then occurred to him how odd it would look to any passer-by to see him coming out of Dorian’s hut at that hour of the morning, his clothes obviously worn in from the night before. If people were whispering about him and Dorian now, he did not even want to know what they would be saying in that scenario.

There was no easy way to ask what he was about to without sounding completely mad. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You don’t happen to have a back door, do you?”

Dorian blinked a couple times, then gave him an amused smile as he caught on his meaning. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m afraid not. But I do have a back window, if you’re interested” he said, and gestured towards a small window at the back of the hut, overlooking the Chantry Building.

If something looked more sinister than coming out of Dorian’s front door, it would be someone catching him jumping out of his back window. He smiled as politely as he could and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Again, sorry for bothering you.”

He twisted the door latch and walked out with as much dignity as he had left. He stole a glance at the swirling, angry hole in the sky, aggravating like a bloody eye sore. Oddly, it didn’t look as menacing anymore. Perhaps with some luck, it would pull him into the Fade and save him the embarrassment of seeing Dorian again.

[roguelioness]

First Drabbles

I was tagged by the always-wonderful @galadrieljones to post some of the first drabbles that I ever wrote. Like gala, a lot of my very first fandom related writings are in notebooks that are now long lost, so I’ll stick to the fandom I currently write for - Dragon Age.

Tagging @long-liv-prairies, @kagetsukai, @shannaraisles, @rawrzimon, @wickedwitchofthewilds, @ladydracarysao3, @ma-sulevin, @thevikingwoman, @buttsonthebeach, @empresstress13, @kaoruyogi, @idrelle-miocovani, @ladynorbert and everyone who reads this!

The first few ficlets I haven’t ever posted anywhere. Many of them are small bits of scenes and dialogue from ideas I had, but they tapered out. Either I lost interest, or lost inspiration, or just never got around to working more on them.

My first ever drabble was for a half-elven Inquisitor, Callista Trevelyan. She was the daughter of Ostwick noble Bann Trevelyan and his elven maid Ashalle; when Callista was five years old, she looked too much like her father for anyone to doubt she was Bann Trevelyan’s child, so he reluctantly brought her up with his other children. She was never accepted, and it was actually a relief for her to wind up in Ostwick’s Circle. Her story was meant to be a love triangle with Cullen and Solas, which is why I stopped writing - I couldn’t find an ending that would be happy for all three of them. *shrugs* Maybe someday I will, who knows.

In the meantime, here’s a snippet from what I had written for her (below the cut):

She rose much before the first faint threads of dawn had meandered across the sky, as was her habit. It was the only time she to do the things she wanted to do. Slowly unwinding her limbs from the tangled sheets she crossed the room to enter the private alcove in the corner that served as her water closet. She filled the large bathtub with water - one of the few luxuries she’d asked for - and with a slow, tired wave of her hand heated it up. She stepped out of the thin, but surprisingly warm nightgown she wore, and neatly put them into the basket that served to hold her soiled garments. She slid into the water with a soft sigh, and tried to relax.

Relax. Not something that came easily with the title Inquisitor.

She reached for the elegantly designed bottle that held her cleansing fluid, something she’d created herself, meant to cleanse and soothe her skin. She smiled wryly, she was a woman after all, prone to all the womanly vanities.

She rose out of the water and dried herself with the towel placed nearby. She enjoyed this ritual she had in the mornings at Skyhold; they calmed her, calmed her thoughts and worries if only for a little while. Pouring the oil richly scented with amber and orange blossom she worked it into her limbs slowly, massaging it into the parts of her that ached. Dressing herself in a rich royal blue tunic and breeches of a warm brown she walked out of her room and down the stairs to the main hall.

She paused in front of the throne. She inevitably did. It was the most prominent piece of furniture in the room, after all. It was imposing and commanding, and for the thousandth time, she wondered the turn of events that lead to it being hers.

Her mouth twisted up into a mocking smile. Callista Trevelyan, head of the Inquisition, respected by Ferelden and Orlais. What would Sedrick and Paulette say if they saw her now? Her thoughts went to her mother as she chewed on her lip worriedly. Leliana had been unable to find anything of Ashalle. Her hands clenched into fists unconsciously. The last she’d heard of her mother was that she’d been sent away. By Paulette, no doubt. That snivelling little druffalo shit was always jealous of the mother-daughter bond she had with Ashalle. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. Leliana was on it. She’d handle it, and if anyone could track her mother down, it was the Nightingale.

Letting out a small sigh, she shook her head to get rid of the melancholy thoughts and found her way to the kitchen for the two honey cakes she always had to help with the bitter tasting elfroot-and-spindleweed concoction she had each morning. She was trying to get the others into it as well, but no one save Vivienne was willing to brave the taste. Picking up the trough of hot pear cider and two mugs, she walked up onto the battlements. Here, she offered the night guards a warm drink. Which she was sure they welcomed, but more importantly it gave her the chance to talk to them, to get to know some of the people she was defending, the people who put all their faith into her. Being around them gave her the strength and the courage to face the day, with all its trials and tribulations.

Cullen found her on the battlements of the right tower laughing with the guards, and a warm glow enveloped him. He knew she did this for herself, but she would never know how much it meant to the soldiers. They knew she cared about them, and all her small kindnesses only strengthened their loyalty to her.

He approached her, his face grim. “Inquisitor,” he spoke. She turned to face him, the smile on her lips disappearing as she saw his expression. He hated that, hated knowing that the news he had would cause her grief. “Might I talk to you? In my office, perhaps?” She tilted her head in acknowledgement, and lead the way to his office. He followed, closing the door behind them as she turned around to face him. He handed her a scroll. “The people we lost at Haven. I’m sorry.”

She took the scroll from him, reading through it, and looked up with a face writ with raw grief. “I should have done more, Cullen. I should have save more of them. I failed Flissa, and Minaeve, and all the rest. Corypheus came for me, and how many died for that?” She absently rubbed her hand across her eyes to wipe away  unshed tears.

“Inquisi - Callista, it wasn’t your fault. How could you have known? None of us knew who he was at the time. None of us knew what he’d do. You saved so many of us. And so many of your friends, too.” He did something completely out of character and wrapped his arms around her, his head resting on top of hers. “You nearly died, offering up your life to save the rest. Callista, you did all you could. It is not your fault. “

She leaned into him, taking a deep breath, then pulled away to look up at him with a shaky smile. “Thank you, Cullen. I needed that.”

He let go and took a step back, giving her a comforting smile. “I only speak the truth.”

Her smile grew less shaky. She sighed, and rolled up the scroll. “I should talk to Josephine about setting up a memorial to Haven, with the names of all we lost. It… it’ll help with everyone’s grief.”

He nodded. “I’ll convene the war council later today.” She smiled and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Commander.”

He watched her leave, feeling overwhelmed with the range of emotions coursing through him. She is a mage, he told himself. Surely, he needed to be wary, after Kirkwall, after all he’d seen…

Then he saw her laugh with the scout outside his office, and the sound, clear, rich and warm, drove all thought out of his mind, save one.

Maker help me. I’m in love with her.

Solas walked into the communal dining room, his eyes immediately seeking the Inquisitor. Not that he’d ever admit it. She had caught his interest from the minute she walked out of the Fade, the sole survivor of the explosion at the Conclave. He’d felt some guilt over all the lives lost, but at the time, they were all just shemlen to him. Undeserving of the land they stood on, akin to weeds. But now… now, the waters were murkier. Being around them, day after day, their lives, loves and desires so like the Elves of old… he reined in his train of thought, gave up on the Inquisitor, and sat at the table next to the Varric.

“Morning, Chuckles,” the dwarf quipped “what’s got your nug? You seem irritated and the day hasn’t even started.”

“Good morning, Child of the Stone. I trust you slept well?”

Varric snorted. “I have a name you can use, Chuckles. Or at least come up with a better nickname.”

Solas grinned “Since you don’t seem to want to use mine, I thought it improper to use yours.”

Varric muttered something indecipherable beneath his breath and stuffed some bread into his mouth.

The noise in the dining hall fell in intensity, and Solas knew that the Inquisitor had arrived. He knew, from memory, she’d be weaving around the tables, stopping here and there to talk to the men and women who gave their lives to the Inquisition’s cause. It was well known that the Inquisitor treated everyone with kindness, and while some of the traditionalists scoffed at it, the majority admired that their leader felt like one of them. He could admire that. He did admire that…

He looked up as she walked over to their table, rising slightly as she sat down. “Solas,” she laughed “how many times have I told you not to rise and interrupt your meal? We’re friends, you and I, and shall stand on no such formality.” Was it just his imagination, or did she emphasize “friends”?

He looked at her, hating the stiff smile on his face. “But of course, Inquisitor.”

She sighed, and turned towards Dorian, who was seated next to Iron Bull. She grinned mischeviously, and Solas felt something twist inside him. “Dorian, I stopped by your quarters last night to borrow a book, and didn’t find you there! Are you well?”

Dorian turned slightly pink, and Iron Bull guffawed. “Nah, boss, our Tevinter mage here was busy last night.”

She grinned, cat-like and wide, and winked at him. “I can see bull riding most definitely suits you!”

The mage from Tevinter  turned red, and retorted “Well, at least some of us are capable of having fun, Inquisitor!”

She laughed and nudged him with her elbow, then leaned in close to his ear and whispered something, to which he smiled and nodded.

She is never that free and easy with me. Solas hated it, wanted to hate her for it.

Just then, one of Cullen’s messengers came by with a message for her. Solas frowned at the thought of Cullen, and wondered why.

He heard her quietly reply, please tell the Commander I will be there shortly, and Solas clenched his jaw for a brief moment before remembering his surroundings.

“Nothing serious I hope, Inquisitor?” he asked smoothly.

She replied distractedly “Hmmm? No, I don’t think so. It appears some of our people are missing in the Fallow Mire. Leliana will be giving me more details, but it looks like a party will be heading that way tomorrow.”

Iron Bull slammed his tankard on the table. “I’m ready anytime, boss!”

Solas inclined his head gracefully. “I hope you know that you can call on my services at any time, Inquisitor.”

She smiled, a serious look in her eyes. “Thank you. Iron Bull, I’ll let you know, but Solas I’d like you to join the party. I have a feeling we’ll need another mage.”

He nodded, and watched her walk away, enjoying the sway of her hips. Varric piped up, “She does have a nice behind, our Inquisitor”.

“Oh really?” Solas replied coolly, “I hadn’t noticed.” Giving a curt nod to the others at the table, he rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for the journey.”

Varric put a hand on his arm, stopping him for a second. He spoke quietly, directing his words such that only Solas could hear them. “Callista’s good people, Solas. Don’t do anything reckless.”

Solas looked at Varric disdainfully. “Me? Do something with her? She’s not my type, Varric. She is not of my kind.” With that, he walked away.

Was it really so bad she wasn’t an elf?

[dergonageloser]

Inquisitor!Fenris, part 5! You can also read it here

Hawke sat still in the chair she’d dragged up to Fenris’ bed, leaning forward with her elbows on the straw mattress. His breathing was ragged, though much steadier than it had been the day before, and the day before that. She held his marked hand between hers, pressing it against her mouth as she listened to his soft exhales. His lips were parted, just enough for Hawke to know his mouth would be dry when he woke up.

Bean lay sprawled at Fenris’ side, head propped on his thigh. The dog’s eyes drooped closed, and he occasionally let out a snore loud enough to wake himself back up before settling back down again.

Sunlight filtered through the window, dappling long shadows against the floor. Night would fall soon, marking the fourth day Fenris slept. His superficial wounds had been tended to, and no longer soaked his bandages with blood. The alchemist—not a healer, she’d noted bitterly—had told her it would be another waiting game. All things considered, it was remarkable his healing was going as well as it had.

The original rift had been a nightmare to seal. They’d had to reopen it, which of course allowed a massive Pride demon to burst through and wreak havoc. Hawke herself had sustained some bruised ribs from being flung back into a crumbling pillar, as well as some nasty scrapes and cuts. When it had finally been cut down—by an impressive combination of Hawke’s lighting and some of Varric’s favorite fire-bolts—she’d been gleeful that they’d reached the end.

“Hurry! Close it!” Cassandra had shouted, and Fenris had hesitantly stretched out his left arm to beckon to the rift.

His following scream had cut through Hawke as though it were the sword on Fenris’ back, and she stumbled over to him just as the rift faded and his eyes rolled back in his head. She’d caught him before his head hit the ground, and the next few minutes had been filled with the same terror of oh Maker he isn’t waking up.

He’d been so pale, a sheen of sweat glistening across his brow, making his hair stick. His head lolled in the crook of Hawke’s arm, his breathing so horribly labored that it took Varric a great deal to convince her he wasn’t dying.

And yet, it wasn’t the only thing that disquieted Hawke as she sat at her husband’s side, waiting.

They’d found red lyrium in the temple, as if the Breach hadn’t been worrisome enough. With it brought distant memories of her baby brother’s face pale with the taint, of his blood that soaked her hands when she took his life. Varric, obviously, was rather upset at the sheer size of the lyrium vein, as it was at least ten times the amount as had been in that damned idol.

And then, a disembodied voice had filled the temple before they’d even reached the rift, and the sound rang loud and dangerous bells in Hawke’s memory. Suddenly, she was back in the Temple of Dumat, facing a creature with a massive amount of mana and very cross to find that he’d woken up in the wrong century.

To witness the brief vision of her husband facing down the ancient, gnarled magister was both inspiring and absolutely terrifying. Worse still, Fenris still couldn’t remember any of it.

Had it been a farce to conceal the identity of who was truly responsible? Or had she somehow failed in killing that twisted, horrific darkspawn those years ago?

Neither option was appealing, but she had a feeling that Fenris lying here unconscious and marked with another painful magic was completely and utterly her fault.

The mark on Fenris’ hand glimmered a moment, and his jaw clenched in his sleep. Hawke closed her eyes, pressing her lips to his hand and bowing her head.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she murmured. Her hands shook just slightly.

A knock on the door echoed across the wooden floors, and Hawke hastily wiped at her eyes, looking to see Varric poking his head through the door. Bean perked his ears, tail thumping on the mattress.

“Mind if I come in?” he asked, his grin warming the room.

“Can’t ever turn you away,” Hawke replied, attempting at a smile. “It’s illegal. Against the rules.”

“Don’t worry, you’d only have to pay the fine of buying me a pint,” Varric shot back, stepping through the door and shutting it with a soft thud. He paused at the tray of broth and bread sitting on a table close to the door. No steam rose from it, as it must have been there for at least an hour. Nothing like cold soup to ruin the appetite.

Still, he made a note to bring Hawke another tray.

“Any stirring?” he asked instead, stepping up to the bed. He reached out to let Bean sniff his hand, then scratched behind his ears.

Hawke shook her head. “It’s been quiet.”

Varric glanced over the elf, pursed his lips in a frown, looked back at Hawke. Fenris, at least, seemed to be getting better with each day. Dark bags hung under Hawke’s eyes, her pale cheeks stretched tight over her cheekbones. Her jawline was much more prominent than it had been last time he’d seen her back in Kirkwall, and her hair longer and shaggier.

“His color’s better,” he remarked idly. Hawke hummed in agreement.

The light in the room faded as dusk crept in, and Varric sighed.

“Come on, Hawke, let me buy you a drink,” he said, raising a beckoning hand to her. “And some cheese at the bare minimum.”

Hawke huffed. “I don’t like cheese all that much.”

“Hmm, I’m sure we can find a moldy slice of bread, at least.”

Hawke snorted, gently laying Fenris’ hand down. “Thank you, Varric, but I’m not hungry.”

Varric did his best to hide his disappointment, as it would help neither Hawke nor himself. Instead, he nodded, then turned to fireplace and picked up an iron poker and a flint. Hawke didn’t stop him, only looking up with an almost exasperated expression.

Soon, a small flame was going, catching on to the kindling and spreading over the larger logs. The light made the outside sky appear much dimmer than it had, casting wavering shadows along the walls. Patches of yellow glowed on Hawke’s cheeks, glimmering in her eyes. Even Fenris looked warmer, his breath easier as heat steadily filled the room.

A log cracked, popping with a burst of sparks. Bean shifted in the bed, stretching out to lay alongside Fenris instead and let out a long sigh.

Hawke eventually broke the silence, as Varric knew she would.

“Do you think it was really him?” she asked, softly. It hurt Varric to hear the effort she spent in not allowing her voice to shake. “Was it really Corypheus?”

Varric didn’t respond for a moment, choosing instead to pick up the small cauldron sitting next to the hearth. He’d been wondering the same thing all day, his mind running through every possible scenario that could have led to Corypheus’ bullshit resurrection. But, smart as he was, he couldn’t claim to understand everything, so there were things he had to just accept at face value.

Which, honestly, made being a good, supportive friend very difficult.

“I don’t know, Hawke,” Varric replied, standing up and shuffling to where the tray had been left on the table. “I really don’t.”

Hawke sighed, a half-hearted mocking tone. “Isn’t it your job to know things?”

Varric let himself chuckle. “No, my job is to write books, manage the family business, and circulate information through people that don’t trust me or each other. And, occasionally, lie out of my ass.” He picked up the bowl of soup, tipped it into the cauldron. Bean lifted his head, regarding the dwarf with interest now that he was holding food. “Ancient magister darkspawn thing who might have found a backdoor out of the afterlife? Most definitely not in the job description.”

He set the bowl down and ambled back over to the fireplace. The flames had enveloped the logs, warmth flowing from it and making his skin tingle as though he stood in the desert on a hot day. He’d have to wait for it to die down a little, so he set the cauldron down and pulled up a stool to sit on.

“But what if it is him?” Hawke had her head bowed, hand clasped together so tight her fingers became a mash of red and white.

Varric looked at Fenris, at his rising and falling chest, and the glimmering hand that Hawke couldn’t stop staring at. “Then we fix it,” he said. Then, more firmly, “This isn’t your doing, Hawke. You did everything you could.”

“Yes, including releasing him in the first place,” Hawke countered. Her hands shook. “With my own blood.”

“You know, with everything that’s happened, I think he’d have bust out of there with or without our intervention,” Varric said. He spread his hands. “You did what you could, but at the same time, there wasn’t anything you could do.”

Hawke sent him a baleful look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“If I had the power to control how you felt, I’d have fixed that guilt complex of yours years ago.”

She barked out a startled laugh. “I suppose you’re right.” She turned, looked him the eye almost sheepishly. “Perhaps I do need a drink.”

Varric smiled. “Now you’re talkin’.”

The tavern was small, and about as quiet as you could get with just a few thrown-together troops of under-trained soldiers. They still seemed to be celebrating the rift being stabilized, though the cheer was rounded down with sandpaper still by the Conclave. Hawke wondered how much these men were being compensated just to stick around and fluff up their numbers.

She briefly worried about leaving Fenris behind, but she’d also left Bean to watch over him. If something were to happen, Hawke would always be able to hear his howl from a mile away.

Varric gestured to the barmaid to bring them some drinks, and Hawke drifted over to an empty table closer to the door while he went to the bar to give his order.

One soldier, a young woman still wearing her leathers, was staring at her from another table.

Hawke looked away, eager to ignore questions and, instead, drink her fill. But the soldier had other ideas.

“You’re the Champion of Kirkwall?” she asked, leaning away from her table and towards Hawke’s.

Hawke breathed deeply through her nose, exhaled slowly. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“And you’re married to the Herald of Andraste?”

Hawke blinked. “The what now?”

“The elf Andraste sent out of the Fade. Your husband. Was he really chosen?”

Mouth open, gawking for a brief moment, Hawke started wondering where Varric had buggered off to. If this soldier hadn’t been looking at her like some awed child that had found a pile of new toys on her bed, Hawke might have laughed at the ludicrousness of what she’d just said.

Instead, she closed her mouth, then opened again, “Who—where did you hear that?”

“Everyone’s been talking about it,” the soldier said, as though it were obvious. “Bran even asked Lady Cassandra about it.”

“Oh? And what did she say?”

“She told him he had better things to worry about, which is fair, Bran was always the nosy one—”

“Bran with the freckles?” Varric interrupted, sliding into the chair opposite from Hawke and sliding her a pint. “Been asking me shit too. ‘Was Meredith hot or just a crazy old bat?’ he asked me.”

Hawke grasped her chest in mock offense. “He did not.”

“Would I lie about that?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Drink your ale.”

“So did he say what Andraste looked like?” the soldier asked as Hawke obediently took a sip.

Hawke spluttered, hammering her fist to her chest as she coughed up the ale that almost tasted as good as the shit back at the Hanged Man. Varric flung a handkerchief at her, and it landed on her face. She tugged it off with a scowl.

“Did you hear, Varric?” she asked, somewhat accusingly. “My husband was apparently chosen by Andraste herself.”

Varric gave the soldier a sidelong glance. “I heard,” he answered, carefully.

“So why wasn’t his wife informed?”

The soldier swallowed, leaning back, eyes flicking between the two.

“Because his wife was taking care of her husband and didn’t need to hear about his new nickname,” Varric responded, raising his mug to his lips. “Not until he woke up, anyway.”

Hawke pursed her lips, then rolled her eyes to look up at the ceiling with an extravagant sigh. “Good thing you’re paying for my dinner, too.”

Varric grinned. “Always happy to be of service.”

The soldier, amazingly, had kept her mouth shut for this, but she seemed to nearly burst with questions. Hawke wondered if steam might start pouring out of her ears. Having pity, she waved her hand at the soldier.

“If Fenris was really chosen by Andraste,” Hawke told her, doing her best to withhold her exasperation. “Then we won’t really know until he remembers what happened at the Conclave.” Here, Hawke looked the soldier in the eye. “What’s your name?”

“Amelia, ser.”

“Amelia,” Hawke echoed. She took a sip of her ale. “It’s probably best not to get too excited about rumors. For now—,” she glanced at the bowl in front of Amelia, “—enjoy your soup.”

Amelia nodded, a smile splitting her cheeks into dimples. She threw some change on the table, grabbed her soup, and rushed out of the tavern.

Hawke watched the giddiness in each bounce of her step, then sighed when the door swung shut.

“She’s about to go tell all her friends,” she said, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. She ignored the rustle of motion when several patrons quickly turned back to their business to pretend they hadn’t also been listening.

“Yep,” Varric remarked into his pint.

The barmaid approached the table and set a steaming bowl of broth and a loaf of bread in front of Hawke, muttering a quick, “Enjoy your meal” before shuffling off to take more orders. Hawke blinked down at the soup, narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Were you planning on buying this the whole time,” she started, peering at Varric. “Or was this going to go on my tab if I hadn’t said anything?”

“Beats me.”

“I’m touched.”

Hawke ripped a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, stirring the mysterious contents around. She’d only really just started digging in, when the tavern door opened again, and Cassandra stood on the threshold, scowling and intimidating as ever.

“Nope,” Hawke muttered, leaning in closer to her soup and taking another bite. “Nuh-huh, not while I’m eating,” she said through her food.

Cassandra spotted her and, unbeknownst of Hawke’s quiet protests, strode over like a woman on a mission. It would’ve have been a turn-on for Hawke, had she not already spent and uncomfortable amount of time with her already. Nothing ruins a friendship like getting to know each other.

The rest of the patrons were doing a poor job of disguising their interest.

“Seeker,” Varric greeted, slapping a cheerful grin on his face. “What can we do you for?”

“Champion,” Cassandra spoke, paused, then inclined her head to the dwarf, her lips quirking downward. “Varric.” She turned back to Hawke. “I need to speak with you.”

“Can it wait?” Hawke asked, gesturing to her gradually cooling meal. “I’ve got free dinner and I’d rather not waste it.”

“It won’t take long,” Cassandra replied. She held Hawke’s sour stare with the same steadiness Aveline used with her recruits. It irritated part of her, but the other part just felt homesick.

Hawke sighed, planted her hands on the table and stood up. The chair scraped across the floor, piercing the still quiet of the tavern. She paused, waited. Conversations immediately sprung up around her, the room bustling about again as though nothing had happened. With a nod, she stepped away from the table.

“Don’t run off without paying,” she shot to Varric as she passed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, taking a sip of his ale.

When Hawke opened the door to leave the tavern—and being blasted with the chill of the night like a splash of water to the face—she saw that Cassandra was already walking away. Toward the Chantry. She slid her jaw to the side, frowning.

“Thought you said it wouldn’t take long,” she called to Cassandra.

“It won’t,” was the short reply.

Maker save her from bloody irritating soldiers—

Hawke trudged up the hill, picking carefully through the muddied path. Firelight from torches and nearby campfires lit the way, though the patches of snow did helpfully reflect the light of the moon, glowing as Fenris’ hair would on a clear night. She clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders, making a note to find one lined with wool. Or fur.

She threw a glance back at the hut where Fenris still slept, pausing only for a moment before shaking her head and moving on.

Cassandra had left the Chantry doors open, the candlelight pouring onto the steps and flickering when Hawke swept inside. Behind her, a guard shut the door, the final gust of wind making her cloak flutter about her knees. Just ahead, Cassandra fell in line with Leliana, who’d been murmuring to Cullen and another woman with dark skin and a golden-trimmed dress. She held a wooden board with a candle attached in one hand, and a feather quill in the other. They all looked up as Hawke approached.

“Champion,” Leliana greeted, nodding her head to her. “Thank you for coming.”

“Cassandra might have beaten me to a pulp otherwise,” Hawke responded, both as a friendly jab and an accusation of ‘like I had a choice’. Cullen hid his mouth behind his hand, poorly disguising a snort.

Cassandra squinted, seemed to be caught between being flattered and offended. Good, that meant she was listening. Before she could respond, however, Leliana cleared her throat and gestured to the other woman.

“This is Lady Josephine Montiliyet,” Leliana said. “Josephine, this is Percy Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Well met,” Josephine greeted, her heavy Antivan accent coating her voice. She curtseyed, and Hawke bowed her head shortly to her. Then, she looked between the four.

“So?” she prompted, raising a brow. “Why was my dinner interrupted?”

Leliana glanced sideways at Josephine and Cullen, then spoke, “I’ll get to the point then. We need to discuss what our next step is in the case that your husband doesn’t wake up.”

Oh did that make her metaphorical hackles rise. “Beg pardon?” she said, her tone low, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

“What Leliana is trying to say,” Josephine quickly stepped in, throwing a scolding glare at Leliana. “Is that people have been flocking to the Herald of Andraste in the past week. It’s been a huge help in recovering from the Conclave. But if we can’t give them the Herald, we need to find someone else.”

Hawke was silent for a moment, processing each sentence one at a time. Four days was a long time to stay cooped up next to your unconscious husband, and she’d apparently missed out on a lot.

She waved her hands in a sweeping gesture. “Okay, firstly, what the hell does that even mean, ‘Herald of Andraste’?” She paused, then glared at them each in turn. “Did you start that?”

“No,” Cassandra responded with forced patience. “But we haven’t stopped it, either.”

“Rumors of Fenris’ survival of the Conclave have spread far, and quickly,” Leliana explained. “It varies as it goes, but the consistent parts include him emerging from the Fade with a woman standing behind him.”

“And they think that woman was Andraste?” Hawke finished. She ran a hand across her face, tangling her fingers through her hair briefly. “A bunch of fools to assume that.”

Some sisters in a far corner tutted softly, as though disapproving of Hawke. She ignored them, instead setting her hands on her hips and waiting for someone to continue.

“Are they really fools, though?” Cullen asked, actually meeting her eyes for once. He stroked the light scruff on his chin. “The only survivor of the Conclave bears a magical mark that miraculously closes rifts? It’s either a very lucky coincidence, or something a bit more divine.”

“Divine my ass.” Hawke shook her head. “Magic isn’t divine, it’s just magic. He’s going to be cross when he wakes up and finds out he’s the new religious icon.”

“If he wakes up,” Leliana added.

Hawke glared at her. “Do have something to say, Sister Nightingale?”

Leliana’s expression remained passive, so infuriatingly neutral. “Only that we need a plan for every possible scenario. Including one where Andraste’s Herald tragically passes of his wounds.”

Hawke’s hand was immediately at the dagger on her belt. “Threaten my husband one more time, please,” she hissed. “I’m cranky and my dinner is getting cold, that’s really all it will take.”

“Easy, Hawke,” Cullen raised his hands, intended to pacify. He looked tired in the dim light, the bags under his eyes bigger and darker than they’d been in Kirkwall. He threw a look at Cassandra, whose hand was gripping her sword. “We’re not making threats, and we’re not here to pick fights with you.”

“Do enlighten me.”

Josephine spoke up. “If he wakes up, then he can be a symbol to inspire the people,” she said, twirling her quill in her fingers. “And, if he stays, we can extend our protection to him.”

Hawke slowly withdrew her hand from her dagger. “Protection from what?”

“The Chantry caught word of this Herald of Andraste, and they aren’t pleased,” Leliana offered. She lifted her hand to tap at her chin. “They’ve labeled him a heretic, and some clerics and mothers would see him imprisoned.”

“And how exactly would you prevent that from happening?”

Leliana glanced at Cassandra, who nodded. “We plan on forming an official group, one aimed at repairing the damages caused by the destruction of the Conclave,” she said, her eyes piercing Hawke even in the dark. “Including both closing the Breach and cleaning up the last bits of conflict between the mages and templars.”

Hawke squinted at her, carefully connecting each dot. She didn’t like the conclusion one bit. “You want Fenris to be the leader of this group.”

“It doesn’t have to be official just yet,” Josephine added. “He’d be more of a symbol to give the people hope, a head piece, at least for now. The stories already sprouting up about him could aid his cause.”

“Your cause,” Hawke retorted. “You haven’t even asked him yet.”

“We cannot,” Cassandra said, nodding. “Which is why we’re asking you, an alternative head piece should the Herald remain incapacitated.”

And if that wasn’t a righteous punch to the gut. Hawke almost felt winded. They waited for her response, quietly looking upon her as if she held the answers to the universe. The nobles and beggars alike had given her the same look back in Kirkwall. It hadn’t worked out so well for them when she ran out of answers to give, in the end.  

She balled her hands into fists, breathing slowly through her nose.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hawke muttered. She met their gazes, jutting out her chin. “But if Fenris doesn’t wake up, I’ll be gone soon after.”

Was it wrong to refuse to help a worthy, world-saving cause? Maybe. But if she couldn’t save one city, then her help wasn’t what they needed.

Varric would forgive her. Eventually.

“And if he does?” Leliana prompted. “If he accepts our offer?”

Hawke didn’t have to think hard on that one. “Then I’ll stick around, of course.”

Cullen nodded. “That’s all we can ask.”

When Hawke returned to the tavern, her soup was cold. She sighed as she sat down, ignoring Varric’s questioning look for now.

She wished Fenris would wake up soon.