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manbehindthemask · 2 years ago

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"Frostbitten?" Azalea repeated softly. She supposed it made sense. Josephine's fingers did look like they had severe frostbite. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She glanced back to Josephine, watching her wiggle her fingers.

"Oh, I'm not looking to go back home, not yet at least." She said shaking her head rapidly. "I'm out here for a reason." Azalea didn't think she ought to elaborate, not before she knew she could trust this woman with that... Sensitive information.

Azalea wasn't expecting to suddenly have her arm captured in a far stronger grip, but here she was being tugged along by Josephine. She didn't fight it however, curious to see the inside of her home. What little she could actually see through the window was beautiful, she could only imagine what the rest looked like.

As she was pulled inside, a shiver rippled down Azalea's spine. It felt colder inside than it did outside. Even so, she was immediately taken aback by the display of grandeur and opulence before her, crystal chandeliers, a spiral staircase... All of it was breathtaking. It was like something out of a fairy tale! And it being way out in the frozen wilderness was even more fantastical. Before she could even take it in completely, Josephine was pushing her into a... Closet?

"Wait, what-" Before she could even argue, the door shut in her face. Azalea sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. Well, it'd be rude to leave now, so she'd just have to wait and see what Josie had planned for her.

The door opened once more and she looked to see a smaller child before her along with Josephine. The child appeared... Disgruntled somewhat, but seemed to be indulging whatever it was Josephine was doing.

Azalea stepped out of the closet and moved to crouch, careful to shift her skirt around herself to remain ladylike. "Hello, Juno." She winced as her hair was yanked, but didn't say anything. Azalea had no idea what the hell was happening at this point, but she was too curious to not see how this played out. Tiny hands rested upon her temples as the feeling of cold pooled in her chest before it suddenly erupted, leaving a soothing warmth behind. Her brows furrowed a moment before warmth came over her and her features relaxed.

Azalea's eyes fluttered open and she looked to the child before her, then to Josephine. She nodded, standing and brushing her skirt off. "I do, I feel... Warm." She mused, fascinated by the powers this child seemed to display. Did all of those like Josephine have powers? Maybe they were in a similar situation to her, then!

Before she could get too deep in those thoughts, she was distracted by what was being said. That seemed to be an ongoing theme. Meat? Was that what the child had said? Then she realized the pair was waiting for an answer.

"Oh! Azalea. My name is Azalea." She said, face flush with embarrassment. "I do feel warm now, thank you, Juno." She gave the small child a polite nod. Of course then the child vaguely threatened her and Azalea raised an eyebrow, but it seemed Josephine snuffed that thought out quickly. Azalea giggled behind her palm.

"Do all 'Frostbitten' have these powers, then?" She asked, looking to Josephine with a curious expression. "I've never seen anything like it before. Were you given powers like I was?"

@manbehindthemask

Josephine blinked, her head kind of bobbing subtly as she tried to take in the question and Azalea's backtracking of it. Etiquette and over complicated social structure was one thing but someone caring about being offensive to her was an entirely new concept.

"I don't know, my sister calls us frostbitten, those of us that look like this-"

She wiggled her fingers in Azalea's face the way a turtle does when they're attempting to attract a mate.

"-she's so smart maybe she could get you back home!"

As these words came out of Josephine's mouth she had a thought. Shit, Azalea wasn't a ghost so she was probably SO cold! Layering could only help a warm blooded creature for so long and she had stopped being a bitch, so Josie had ought to warm her up. She grabbed Azalea by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs of the big house. The large doors creaked open loudly and slammed shut with a force that shook the ground.

Somehow it was colder inside than out.

The main foyer they entered had a tall ceiling, dotted with a grand ice crystal chandelier in its center yet still seemed to stretch up ad infinitum. Right when the girls walked in there was a grand spiral staircase leading up to a second floor, on each side of the top of the staircase there was a string of white double doors. On the ground floor where Jopsehine and Azalea stood they were flanked by archways that lead into two different rooms.

"You're gonna wanna wait in here."

Azalea was barely given time before she was lead to a broom closet and urged inside, but it wasn't going to be long. It was for her safety.

After only a few minutes the door was opened again and Jospehine was joined by a child who seemed to be about middle school age. The same purple affliction as Josephine but with greasy ginger hair.

"Step out and bend down to Juno, this is Juno by the way!"

"C'mere!"

The young one tugged at Azaleas hair, placing their purple hands on her temples and intertwining with her locks. Soon Juno would begin to envelop her in a tingling sensation. Cold crept up her arms and legs and neck, cramping at her core before being ripped out of her.

Leaving only…warmth? Not searing heat. Luke, room temperature, warmth.

"Are you feeling OK? Juno let go of her!"

"Why are you makin' me defrost our meat anyway!"

Josephine pulled her younger sibling off of Azalea.

"She's not meat this is-"

She stopped to let Azalea fill in the blank, smiling as she found it quite pretty.

"Juno here has a special power, you should feel like..well like you're just in a regular place."

"I could make you drop from hypothermia right n-YEOUCH!"

Juno exclaimed as Josephine stepped on their foot.

#frostflowers #jozalea #azalea marino #josephine frost #rp

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hotvintagepoll · 9 months ago

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Josephine Hull (Arsenic and Old Lace, Harvey)—Josephine Hull was only in two major movies - “Harvey” and “Arsenic and Old Lace” - but those two roles made her an icon. Her mobile, expressive face is unforgettable. She was expert at playing these women who seem to be very conventional, until you scratch the surface and realize they’re scrungly to the core. The scene in Harvey where she is watching a bad performance at her soiree, and trying to look pleased while actually being appalled, is priceless [link]. In that same movie, she has wonderful scenes where she is trying awfully hard to disbelieve in Harvey (her brother’s invisible friend who is a 6-foot-tall white rabbit) but finds herself, to her horror, believing in him. (This one is a highlight - she comes in around 2:50 [link] Her other role, in Arsenic and Old Lace, is a sweet little old lady who the hero (Cary Grant) discovers to his horror has been murdering people. And again she sells her total conviction that she is normal, while being decidedly NOT. Another great example of her wonderful talent at scrungly facial expressions is in this scene, where she is waiting for an old man to drink poisoned wine [link]

Jerry Lewis (Artists and Models, The Bellboy, The Ladies Man, The Nutty Professor)—a scrungly little scamp if there ever was one. he and dean martin were the nick frost and simon pegg of their day (not in a comedy styles way but in a just two straight bros who are deeply in love way)

This is round 1 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you're confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Josephine Hull:

youtube

Batty little old ladies who are definitely less than sane

youtube

Jerry Lewis:

youtube

#jerry lewis #josephine hull #hotvintagepoll #scrungly 1 #Youtube

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biowaredisasterbisexual · 2 months ago

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Reflection Ruesday

Thanks for the tags, @thedissonantverses and @basedonconjecture! (And I see you, @woundedsoul12, I’m doing your version tonight too 😁). And thanks so much for creating this, @becausedragonage!

What to do: Go through your writing, art, gifs, etc. that you started but never finished and find something you love. Brush it up a bit if you want and share it. Tag me and use the tag Reflection Ruesday (it'll grow on you, I promise) and I'll comment and reblog. Then tag some other folks you think might enjoy it.

I’ll give very gentle tags to @hyperions-light, @ofcrowsanddragons, @mageofquandrix, @bygonesigh, @dymme, @vael-fire, @swamp-jello, and @grimrevolution and anyone else who wants to dust off something old to share!

Why break up a good theme? More Josephine and Leliana below the cut.

Ferelden was not quite what Josephine had expected. For one thing, she had not quite been prepared for the biting cold. Though she knew well enough that the south was nowhere near so temperate as her home country, Orlais was colder than Antiva as well, in Ferelden there was already a frost. The second surprise was the mud. Haven, it seemed, was far enough from any major settlement to be devoid of paved roads. The snow kept the dirt wet, and everywhere she walked, she sank.

It was…most unpleasant.

And then there was the smell. Though it did not reek of wet dog, the way haughty Orlesians claimed, it did smell of wet animals. With the muck and the wet and the hay for cows or horses, it was unavoidable.

The number of favors Leliana owed her in recompense for her recruitment was mounting higher by the minute.

Once inside her office off of the main hall of the Chantry, away from the prying eyes of everyone who might comment upon a show of weakness (at least until a runner came in, or Minaeve returned), she could let herself sulk for a moment. Josephine swept her cloak from her shoulders and hung it from the back of her chair. She brushed some hair up that had escaped its bounds as she went over towards her fireplace.

Every wall was bare stone, and cold radiated from each surface as though the building itself wished to drive them out. Josephine knelt carefully, avoiding any soot on the floor, as she lit the kindling.. The cold had made her clumsy, and she nearly knocked over the fire tools as she stood.

Josephine glared at her own hands for a moment, as though like a junior emissary they might bow to her will with the proper application of force.

She managed, only just, not to start as the door swung open, instead simply straightening so that the interloper might not know what she had just done.

“Did I scare you, Josie?” Leliana asked, sounding a touch too pleased with herself. The spymaster quietly closed the door behind herself, leaving them in relative privacy. Josephine knew she could pretend it was for her benefit that Leliana did this, but she also knew that Leliana did it so that her reputation - which grew more omniscient and frightful by the day - might not be damaged by someone seeing her being human.

Leliana pulled the hood from her head, revealing only slightly mussed hair the color of bright copper. A shake of the head, and her hair fell back into place easily. Oh, but Josephine was always deeply jealous of her ability to do that. Her own hair, coarser and naturally full of waves and curls, could never be made to behave so easily. Indeed, only the Commander’s hair was more unwieldy than her own.

“Of course not.” Josephine lied, her voice not giving even a hint of her deception. After all, she could have hardly risen to being a chief diplomat if she could not lie nearly as well as Leliana could.

Still, the other woman knew her well, and Leliana smiled knowingly as she removed her heavy leather gloves. “Of course not,” she concurred. Ugh, it was endearingly infuriating when she did that.

“Are you settling in?” Leliana asked, walking around the room slowly. It might have looked casual, but for the way her eyes narrowed on every feature in the room as though checking it for spies or assassins.

Knowing Leliana, that was actually what she was doing, however unnecessarily.

“I am.” As though to illustrate the point, Josephine walked purposefully to the chair behind her desk and sat down. Maker, but it was uncomfortable (though it was the most comfortable chair Josephine had been able to find). Everything, it seemed, in the entirety of Ferelden had been built for function, rather than for comfort. Though they criticized Orlais for going too far the other way, Josephine did wonder if they might learn something of the finer things from their neighbors.

She felt Leliana move behind her, and then lean over her shoulders to take in what was on her desk. “I do not imagine all of those letters are complimentary?” The other woman sighed.

“I suspect you know how complimentary they are.” Leliana was undoubtedly reading all of Josephine’s mail. And Cassandra’s, Cullen’s, and the Divine’s.

The older woman chuckled, and slid around Josephine until she was resting against the edge of Josephine’s heavy desk, between the Ambassador and her work. “Ah, Josie, you wound me with such baseless accusations.”

“Hardly baseless,” Josephine retorted, but she was smiling.

Leliana huffed, but did not look offended in the slightest. Nor did she move out of Josephine’s way, so that she might actually respond to those letters, complimentary and not complimentary alike.

Josephine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at Leliana speculatively. This - intrigues halfway across Thedas, the looming threat of battle and bloodshed, secret pages filled with facts known only by one or two souls - was where Leliana shone. Though she was dressed simply, in leather trousers covered by pieces of armor, two layers of heavy shirts beneath her custom-made chainmail, leather bracers, and her hood, she projected an aura of confidence and competence that most could only aspire to.

It did not intimidate Josephine - no, she knew Leliana far too well for that - but she could see how easily Leliana might command the respect of the others.

“Do you have everything you need?” Leliana asked, nudging Josephine’s leg gently so as not to bruise her with the heavy metal Leliana wore.

Everything she wanted? Absolutely not, nor had she ever worked in a position where she had had such an embarrassment of fortune. But Josephine could do what she did with nothing more than ink, parchment, quill, candles, and a board if she absolutely had to. She nodded. “Yes. I am thankful to Her Worship for the accommodations.”

Leliana burst out laughing. Though Josephine knew she should be offended, she could not help but smile herself; Leliana’s laughter was always something special to behold.

“It is cold, wet, and muddy. This building has likely not seen an attractive drapery since the Orlesian occupation. Haven may be the site of the holiest of holies, but you cannot tell me it has met all of your expectations,” Leliana said.

Yes, Josephine should definitely be offended. And yet, as always, maddeningly, Leliana was not wrong.

“I am not the delicate flower you paint me as,” she protested, the barest hint of sulk in her voice, and only because it was Leliana. “But yes, you might have mentioned that we were to lodge in a town once overrun by a cult and lacking in cobblestone.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Josie?” Leliana wheedled, eyes sparkling.

“With the draperies. Which, by the way, I should purchase.” Josephine reached forward to gently push at Leliana’s hip. “Go on, I should attend to my work.”

Leliana pouted. “Have I offen-….Josie, your hands are freezing!” No longer giving Josephine the playful look of mere seconds before, the older woman was turning Josephine’s hands over between her own (noticeably warmer) ones before Josephine could stop her.

“No, this will not do.” Leliana placed Josephine’s hands together, as though about to lead them in prayer like the Chantry sister she sometimes played at, and began to rub them between her warmer, rougher palms. “We must get you better gloves, yes? It would not do to have you freeze here.”

Josephine huffed, but let Leliana fuss. Apart from any more selfish motivations (Southerners were all so aloof, and she missed physical connection), she knew it was good for Leliana. The more time she spent as the Left Hand of the Divine, the more disconnected Leliana became from her own, good-hearted nature. She had been forged, like steel, sharpened to a deadly and effective edge. But, like steel, Leliana could shatter and break if made too brittle. Moments like these, caring for an old friend away from prying eyes, helped Leliana retain some of her warmth and humanity. The effect could be seen for hours, sometimes even days, afterwards, at least by Josephine.

“I will purchase better gloves,” she promised, the mother being left unsaid. Still, Leliana heard it, and arched an eyebrow.

“Until then you must borrow mine,” she pronounced. Leliana reached into a pouch hidden on the side of her thigh, and pulled a pair of gloves out. Without waiting for permission, she began to tug them onto Josephine’s hands.

They still bore the residual heat that had seeped through from Leliana’s body, and the leather (lined with ram wool) was well-worn and soft. “And what shall you wear, then?”

“Ah, but I am Ferelden, my dear Ambassador,” Leliana reminded her, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. She was in rare form today, it seemed. “My battle gloves will be enough. Come, let us go get some soup to better warm you.”

She tugged on Josephine’s hands until both women were standing. Leliana tucked an arm under one of Josephine’s, and began to lead her towards the door. “My work,” Josephine reminded, rolling her eyes and attempting to reclaim her arm.

“Always so busy, Josie. The letters will wait. Besides,” Leliana smirked, “none of them were particularly urgent.”

Josephine sighed. “Baseless accusations, you say. Go on, then. Feed me, if you must.”

Leliana pulled her hood back over her head, and handed Josephine her cloak, and then Ambassador and Spymaster went to enjoy the culinary delights of Ferelden.

Oh, Leliana owed her for this.

#reflection ruesday #josephine/leliana #josephine montilyet #Leliana #dragon age inquisition #my fanfic #wips vanished to the void long ago

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firefaerie81 · 10 months ago

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X-Men x Nyahallo part three

Part one

Part two

This time, my quest to draw X-Ladies in @nyahalloshop swimsuits brings me to some eclectic pairs!

Links to the original designs under the cut

Emma Frost - Moon Jellyfish

Monet St. Croix - Red Seraphim

Wolverine (Laura Kinney) - Shark

Scout Honey Badger (Gabby Kinney) - Bee Cute

Blink (Clarice Ferguson) - Lilypad

Nocturne (Talia Josephine Wagner) - Sakura (My favorite of this batch)

Dazzler (Alison Blaire) - Starstruck

#nyahallofanart #x men #emma frost #monet st croix #laura kinney #gabby kinney #clarice ferguson #talia wagner #alison blaire #wolverine #blink #nocturne #dazzler #art of firefaerie81 #marvel

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pisscrossiant · 4 months ago

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Random Dragon Age head cannons

Not specific to any game just kind of like a dumping ground for head cannons I randomly come up with

Grey Wardens start getting chubby after their joining, They have a increased appetite and slower metabolism so they start gaining more weight then they did before,

They're still insanely strong though, like most of the 'fat' you see on their arms and legs is actually muscle if they wanted even the skinniest Warden could snap someone in half.

On top of that, it makes them go gray pretty quickly, a Warden that's 19 could be getting gray hairs within a few months post joining.

The Dalish don't view breasts on women as sexual Men and Women alike will walk around with their bare chest out when it's hot and no one bats a eye. (Imagine the shock when the origins crew pulls up to the Dalish camp and they just see boobs everywhere)

Fenris is allergic to bees and Everytime they come across some Hawke and Merrill freakout and throw a blanket over him

They also keep a blanket in their pack at all times just for that.

Sera eats straight up coffee beans 24/7

She ate Josephine's Special Antivan coffee beans she has shipped to sky hold once and has never heard the end of it

Morrigan keeps spiders in her pockets to throw at people (mainly Alistair)

Merrill grows weed in her house and she supplies everyone in Hawke's harem with it, the only reason it hasn't been shut down is because Aveline needs it for her carpal tunnel.

Alistair accidentally ate shrooms and started freaking out when Morrigan told him what they do

He had the worst trip of his life he started crying halfway through

When performing magic with their hands Mages can get severe damage to their hands, Burn scars, frost bite, lightning burns, etc. which is why Mages usually use staffs

Apprentice's depending on how often they use magic tend to have very scarred up hands.

This is also why Apprentice's don't get staffs so they're less inclined to use their magic because it hurts so the templar's feel like they're less likely to revolt because of it

The Dalish elves and City elves look different, the Dalish tend to have more cat like eyes, their pupils will grow and dilate similar to cats , on top of that they have stronger noses and higher cheekbones, while City elves have more human like eyes, their eyes still dilate and glow like the Dalish 's but it's more rounded, and they have more delicate noses and softer features.

While Fenris acts like he despises Merrill he'd get protective over her if someone else mocked or hurt her, like he's got the whole "only I can bully her" thing going on.

#i'm back on my bullshit #alot of these are probably mega stupid but why not #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age 2 #dao #da2 #headcanons

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sorceresssundries · 9 months ago

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The Death of Thom Rainier

Pairing: Blackwall/Lavellan (My quizzy, Sparrow)

Warnings: ANGST, talks of death, grief, heartbreak.

Word Count: 4670 words

Summary: The honour and integrity of the Inquisition is at risk of being brought down by the decision surrounding the fate of the Inquisitor's lover. Action must be taken, and quickly, to save the group from talk of corruption.

It was late, and the moonlight dappled through the crumbling cracks and forgotten fissures of Skyhold, spilling pale silver across the war table. Shadows danced over the once-pristine map, now scarred with countless daggers marking places where they had struck — and where they had yet to reach. The Inquisition had grown into a force of reckoning, but with that power came bonds of responsibility, heavier than crowns and chains. They had to be more than a scattered band of idealists. They had to be an order, a symbol, both a hammer of justice and a shield for the helpless. Their future was as fragile and perilous as a frost-kissed web clinging to the rafters above.

Three figures met in secret, while the rest of the fortress slept.

“The Inquisitor has ordered his release from Val Royeaux,” Cullen’s voice cut through the room. His hands gripped the pommel of his sword, his eyes unflinching, burning with the loyalty that had driven him through so many battles. “He is to be brought here for judgement.”

Leliana’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the flicker casting her in shifting shadow. “A reasonable request,” she replied, her voice soft but edged. “Blackwall is a part of her Inquisition. Should she not be the one to pass judgement on him?”

Josephine, seated at the far end of the table, sighed, her hand rising to rub at her temple. The stress etched itself deep into the lines around her eyes, tired from the endless machinations and political games. “Blackwall was a part of the Inquisition, yes,” she said, her voice quieter than the others, yet no less burdened. “But this isn’t about Blackwall. This is about Thom Rainier, and Orlais wants his head. They won’t settle for anything less.”

“His crimes are…” Cullen began, his brow furrowed as if the mere memory of Rainier’s past offences disgusted him. “Unforgivable. I’m inclined to agree with the Orlesians on this.”

The commander was all duty now, his judgement unyielding. His years as a Templar had hardened him to betrayal, especially from someone so close to the Inquisitor.

Josephine straightened, the flicker of the fire catching the lines of tension on her face. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t just about Rainier’s past. His relationship with the Inquisitor was no secret, even at the Winter Palace. Our Orlesian allies watched them, talked about them. Whispers travelled faster than arrows. What will it look like if she brings him back here? If she protects him?”

“It will look,” Cullen said, voice dark and firm, “like corruption. As if we value personal attachments over justice. An institution capable of one corruption is capable of many. It could undo everything we’ve built.”

“And if we let him die in Val Royeaux, she will never forgive us,” Leliana interjected quietly, her gaze flickering with a rare moment of sympathy. “We will lose her trust.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, a storm waiting to break. There was truth in every word, and each of them felt the rolling thunder of the dilemma closing in.

“She will not forget the betrayal. Not from us.” Josephine’s voice trembled ever so slightly as she spoke, as though already anticipating the bitterness that would follow.

Leliana’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something colder and more dangerous flashing in her eyes. “There is a path forward.” Her voice, once as soft as a lullaby, now carried the quiet menace of a hunter who had found her prey.

The spymaster stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing lightly over the map, resting just above Val Royeaux. “We could arrange for his release — quietly. He would never make it here. A fatal accident on the road. An Orlesian ambush. It would solve the issue without leaving our hands stained. He dies, Orlais is happy, and the Inquisitor’s hands remain clean.”

Cullen stiffened. “You’re suggesting we…?”

“Kill him?” Leliana’s lips curled, just slightly. “I am suggesting we control the narrative. We let slip our route back here. We spare her the guilt, and we show Orlais that the Inquisition stands by its principles. We did as she asked us, Rainier is killed in an unpredicted attack, and the Inquisitor is spared the burden of deciding his fate.”

The room was cloaked in silence once more, heavy with the choice before them, a choice that would either save the Inquisition — or damn it.

Josephine’s fingers tightened around her quill, her gaze falling to the map. “If we choose this path,” she whispered, “We save our Inquisition. But we might lose her.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ♜ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sparrow sat on the throne she never wanted, in a fortress that still felt too vast, too cold, too foreign to ever be hers. The high-backed seat loomed around her, it's cold stone carved for someone much larger, much grander. Her small, elven feet dangled just shy of the floor, and the throne's broad arms were too wide for her to rest against. She felt weightless, suspended in the centre of it, untethered.

She straightened her spine, drawing on the memory of her mother’s lessons, as if the invisible cord pulling her back might make her taller, more imposing. Make yourself tall, Ma’da’ean, her mother used to say. And everything else will shrink.

But the world refused to shrink. The great hall remained cavernous, the whispers of the court still echoed off the walls like a rising storm, and the knot of dread within her only grew tighter.

Give her demons. Give her tyrants. Give her politics she knew nothing of and Gods she did not worship. She would take them all.

This, she could not do.

The dread had sunk deep, threading through her chest, winding around her heart. The thought of seeing him again, of locking eyes with the man whose name she did not even know, made her stomach twist.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, clinging to the silence inside her mind. Please, she thought, though she had no idea who she was pleading to. She wasn’t one for prayer, nor for gods. But now, she found herself grasping for anything to shield her from the moment that was about to come.

Please, don’t make me do this.

But whoever might have been listening did not answer. A cold silence fell over the great hall as the heavy doors groaned open. The sound echoed, announcing the arrival of the man she could not face.

She couldn't look at him. Her entire body rebelled at the thought of raising her gaze, of seeing him as he was now—a stranger wearing a name she didn’t recognise. Her heart still clung to the memory of the man he had been only days ago. His eyes had been soft, honest. His words had promised her safety, his touch had offered comfort. Nothing matters but us, he had whispered. He had kissed her as if she were something precious, first with gentleness, then with a passion that had made her believe him.

Now, all of that felt like a cruel trick, a trap she had willingly fallen into.

Her eyes burned, but she would not let the tears fall. She couldn’t drag her gaze from the floor. She needed to breathe, to gather the last shreds of her strength before she dared look at him again.

The man I knew doesn’t exist, she reminded herself. He never did.

It was anger that lifted her eyes, as the heavy sound of boots came to a halt in front of her - She could not let herself be Sparrow, or Blackwall’s lover. She was the Inquisitor. The mark in her palm itched as she raised her gaze to finally meet the man standing before her.

Cullen? And an Orlesian man in intricate armour and a matching brass mask.

Her breath caught in relief, or was it just surprise? She felt too nauseous to be sure of her own feelings. She was calm until she noticed the blood. It was splattered across Cullen’s armour, streaked across his breastplate, flecked through his golden hair. There was a jagged cut to his high cheekbone, the skin raw, smeared with red. The sight of it sent her heart into a tailspin, her anger replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Sparrow stood, unthinkingly. There was a river of murmurs, words tangling like hissing cicadas in the hot, oppressive air of a summer storm. Every gaze in the hall fixed on her, on them, but she could hardly hear them over the rushing in her own ears.

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice hoarse as it cracked through the crowd, pulling the room’s attention fully toward them. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, though she willed herself to stay composed.

Cullen glanced briefly at the court before locking eyes with her again. “We were intercepted.”

Sparrow’s stomach dropped. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest as she searched his face for answers. “Where is Blackwall?” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the name hit the air like a blow.

Cullen swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves were difficult to push out. “Thom Rainier is dead.”

The world tilted beneath her. The buzzing of the court, the murmured voices and watchful eyes, all faded into a distant hum. For a moment, Sparrow couldn't feel the stone beneath her feet, couldn’t even feel herself breathing.

The man beside Cullen was speaking - something about being an envoy, about it all happening so fast. She didn’t care. His words slipped past her, meaningless, drowned by the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.

He can’t be dead.

Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Her fingers flexed at her sides, desperate to hold onto something, anything that wasn’t slipping away.

He can’t be dead.

She could still hear his low, rough laugh in her head, the way it rumbled through his chest when he let his guard down. She could still feel the calloused swirls of his fingertips against her skin.

She hadn’t even bathed properly since they’d been together. His scent still clung to her, faint but lingering—leather, sweat, and the earth. She closed her eyes as if she could summon him back with the memory of it, as if he could step out from some hidden corner and make this a cruel misunderstanding.

Her eyes flickered to the windows, to the light of an indifferent sun spilling through the stained glass. The world outside was bright, alive. Vibrant patterns of colour danced across the stone floor, reflections from the sunlight mingling with the songs of winter birds that chirped in pairs just beyond the glass. It was all so alive, so full of life and warmth.

How could he not be?

Sparrow blinked, struggling to focus, to anchor herself to the present. Her voice—when it finally came—was like shards of glass, shattered and too small to hold onto.

“He can’t be…” she breathed, her words trembling on the edge of disbelief. “There has been a mistake.”

The Orlesian stepped forward, his presence all formality and cold distance. “My lady,” he began, “we were ambushed on the road by bandits. They spread pitch across the stones, threw oil, and fired arrows lit with flame. The carriage he was locked in was alight within seconds. The guards tried—”

“That is enough.” Cullen’s voice cut through, sharp and final. His tone left no room for further details, no space for the grisly reality the man was about to spill. He stood tense, his eyes not meeting Sparrow’s. His harshness wasn’t just for the noble, it was for her—an attempt to shield her from the images that would follow if she heard any more.

But it was too late.

The words “the carriage he was locked in” echoed in her mind, painting a picture of the fire, of Blackwall—Thom—trapped and helpless, dying in agony. She could almost see the smoke rising, the flames licking at his skin, hear the crackle of burning wood and the screams no one would ever admit to. The images flooded her without mercy, despite Cullen’s effort to stop them.

Her legs wavered, and she reached out, her hand barely catching the edge of the throne for balance. The air was too thick now, the voices in the hall too loud, too suffocating. The world, once bright and filled with the laughter of birds, was silent and cold.

She fell apart. All pretence of dignity slipped from her white-knuckled fists like sand. The invisible crown of the Inquisitor tumbled from her head, her practised posture buckled. She collapsed to the cold stone floor, not a leader, not a herald, but a woman with a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Get them out!” Her voice cracked as she cried out, barely able to force the words through the choking sobs that rose from her chest. “All of them. Now.”

Cullen’s stiff nod was the only reply she received. His voice cut through the hall, issuing orders with the force of a commander who would not be questioned. The nobles, the advisors, the residents - every prying eye - scattered as if swept away by the storm of her devastation.

She was an exposed nerve, raw and bleeding, her tears an unending stream. Her cries, desperate and guttural, filled the empty hall, echoing louder with each person who left.

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, her face buried in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. Time had lost all meaning. But then, without warning, a large, gentle hand unfurled her. It was Iron Bull - his presence massive and unyielding, but his touch impossibly gentle. She tried to fight, her body kicking and flailing as his arms lifted her from the floor, but it was futile. His strength was too steady, too absolute.

He carried her effortlessly up the winding stairs to her chamber, holding her as though she weighed nothing. His voice rumbled low, soothing but blunt. “Keep hitting, boss. It’ll help.”

So she did. She hit at his broad chest, her fists weak and trembling, but she struck anyway, again and again. She imagined it was Blackwall she was striking, the man who had torn her heart apart.

If he had been honest, if he had told her everything from the start, if he had trusted her the way she trusted him, he wouldn’t have died like this—engulfed in flames, alone, on his way to be judged by her.

Each hit carried the sting of her anger. Selfish fool. Treacherous. Manipulative. She pounded against Bull’s chest, though her strength was rapidly waning, her fury dissolving into fresh waves of grief. She hated Blackwall for the lies, for the betrayal, for leaving her with nothing but the memory of his touch.

She hated that she was stripped of the chance to be angry with him, to tell him of her humiliation. She wanted him to know how he had hurt her. That she had fallen in love with him because he was steadfast and kind. How humiliated she was that she had called out the name of another man while they made love.

But if she were honest, deep down, beneath all the fury and anguish, what she truly wanted was for him to fight for her. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, to tell her the truth in its entirety, to explain why he had kept so much from her. She wanted to be angry with him, to rage and cry and then, eventually, not be angry anymore. She wanted to forgive him, even if that made her weak.

Now that chance was gone and it felt as though she would be angry forever—trapped in this endless cycle of fury that had no outlet. The sharp, jagged words she wanted to hurl at him would never be spoken, would never cut him the way they cut her. Instead, they dug into her own skin, slicing deeper with nowhere to go, and she would bleed and bleed and bleed for the rest of her days.

And still, Bull carried her - bearing the weight of her anguish. He made no attempt to stop her, to console her.

He just let her break, knowing it was the only thing left she could do.

She couldn't pinpoint the moment she slipped into sleep - whether it was exhaustion or the way Bull had laid her down so gently on the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the weight of sleep pulled her under, heavy and irresistible.

In her dreams, everything felt warped, as if reality itself was bending around her grief. She wandered through the halls of Skyhold, her footsteps echoing unnaturally. The walls stretched impossibly high, and the colours of the tapestries bled into one another, too bright, too vivid. The faces of the people she passed blurred into nothingness, their voices a distant murmur of sound that she couldn’t quite make out.

Blackwall was laughing at her, that laugh she loved so much - the one that reminded her of the bending of the forest trees in Summer and the crackle of a fireplace in winter - sharpened itself against the stone walls of Skyhold and ricocheted around her.

Shadows from barely-lit candles began to stretch and twist, forming grotesque shapes that danced in the periphery of her vision. She turned, only to find the spectres of dead men swinging at the hangman’s noose, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The empty, hollow sound of coins jangling mingled with the cloying, hot smell of spilled blood.

“My lady” His voice spat at her, deep and gruff, “My love”

She wanted it to end. Please... make it stop. No more. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm, the sharp pain dragging her back to consciousness. She woke, sweat-slicked and trembling, tears streaming down her face.

She wasn’t alone.

A man stood on her balcony, leaning against the window frame, barely a silhouette in the dim light. When he noticed her stirring, he straightened sharply, stepping into a sliver of moonlight.

It was him.

Or rather, a ghostly, altered version of him. His hair, once long, was now cropped close, his face clean-shaven. The familiar features she had known were marred by dark bruising around one eye, his skin paler than she remembered. But it was still him.

It had to be another nightmare. Another cruel trick of the Fade. If she couldn't have him—if Blackwall had truly been taken from her—then all she wanted was peace. Blessed, quiet peace. She dug her nails into her palms, harder, until the skin broke and blood welled in her hands. She gasped at the sharp pain. Still, she did not wake.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, his gaze lingering on her bleeding hands as he took a step toward her.

“Don’t,” she spat, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand, the metallic scent of blood sharp in her nose. This place was more lucid than her other nightmares, more grounded in reality, but that only made the apparition in front of her more dangerous. He was too much like the man she had loved, too much like the man she’d lost.

“Sparrow,” he whispered, his voice filled with the old affection that once soothed her but now felt like a dagger twisted in her heart.

“Stop!” She inhaled sharply, her body trembling with the weight of her grief. “Leave. Now.”

This was no different from the other demons that had preyed on her in the Fade. Desire, most likely. Tempting her with the one thing she longed for most, only to use her weakness against her. They always found her here, in these fragile moments, vulnerable and desperate. She wouldn't fall for it.

“Don’t you dare use his voice,” she hissed, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the fresh pain from her palms sizzling. “You think I’m that easy to break?”

The man flinched, brow furrowing in the way she had seen a hundred times before, a familiar wrinkle in his forehead that made her heart ache. The memory of it tore at her insides, a splinter burrowing deeper into a heart already shattered beyond repair. Could there really be any more room to break? She thought she'd felt every kind of pain there was.

“It’s me, my lady,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “No more.”

Her body betrayed her then, a heaving, hollow retch overtaking her as she leaned over the edge of her bed. Nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten in days. The only thing left in her stomach was grief, and it was impossible to expel. But the tears—they still flowed, unrelenting. She thought they would run dry by now, but if her tears were a measure of her love for Blackwall, then she supposed they would never stop.

He moved toward her in an instant and knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her back in the same gentle circles that had once been a balm for her. The same touch that had comforted her when she was Sparrow and he was Blackwall.

She let herself believe the lie. She leaned into the sensation of his touch, as if it would be the last time she could ever feel him again. His hands were warm, real, and they smelled of the same worn leather and pine as he always had.

“I’m here” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her ear. “I promise you.”

She whimpered, torn between wanting to shove him away and pulling him closer. If this was the demon’s game, so be it. She would risk everything for just one more moment with him. One more breath, one more touch. Let the Fade take her.

“There was a plan,” he continued, his voice laced with weariness. “To get me out of Orlais, just as you instructed. The Inquisition made a deal with the Val Royeaux nobles—those who had every right to want me dead. They agreed to formally release me to the Inquisition, on the understanding that Cullen ‘let slip’ the route we would take back to Skyhold, the number of soldiers escorting me, everything. An envoy was sent alongside him to ensure the plan proceeded smoothly, that I would not make it back here alive.”

Her breath caught, her eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend his words.

“But there was a second part,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Another prisoner, sentenced to die, took my place. Dressed in my clothes, a sack over his head. They promised him they would provide his family a bag of gold if he stayed silent and died in my name. They gave him poison—quick, painless. He was dead before the ambush started.” His voice was bitter, angry. “I was taken away in secret, through passageways I'm sure no-one knows exists. With Leliana. Blackwall is dead. Thom Rainier is dead. I’m all that’s left.”

She ripped herself from his touch, rising to her feet as fury welled up in her chest. “More lies!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me believe—do they even understand how much—”

“They needed you to believe it,” he said quietly, his head still bowed. “They needed the Orlesians to believe it. To see the noble, bloodsoaked commander, the shaken envoy…” he finally looked to her “And the broken-hearted Inquisitor”

“Well, they got what they wanted,” she snarled, pressing her hand to her chest as if to hold herself together.

“I would never have agreed to it,” he whispered, “I was ready to die. I deserved to die.”

He began to move away from her, retreating toward the door.

“There’s to be a private hearing tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll still get to decide my fate.”

She stared at him, disbelief turning her blood cold.

“I’ll accept whatever you decide,” he said, his eyes burning for her. “I’ve been given more than I deserve. More than I could ever hope for. To have known you, to have been loved by you... that was more than I could ever have dreamed of, as Rainier or as Blackwall.”

Her certainty that she was talking with a demon wavered, and her heart fluttered. She had to know, she had to be sure.

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

“Anything,” he replied, without hesitation. His voice was resolute, as if whatever she asked, he was ready to face it. For her, he would.

Her gaze sharpened, seeking the truth she needed to hear. “When we were in the Fade... when we fought our nightmares—what did you see there?”

It was a question that had haunted her, one that she had never dared to ask until now. He had never spoken of it. She didn’t know his answer, and neither would a demon.

Blackwall tensed, his face tightening with a pain he had long buried. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something too heavy to carry alone. Finally, he bowed his head, the unspoken torment that had lived inside him spilling out, his voice raw with sorrow.

“You fought against spiders,” he began, his words slow and deliberate, as if reliving the nightmare again. “Sera fought against nothing. And I...” His voice faltered, and she could see the anguish etching itself into his features. “I kept seeing them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to shield himself from the images that had never truly left him. His hands clenched at his sides, but he did not stop.

“The Callier children. And the men, my men, who died for their murder,” he continued, his voice lower now, filled with the heaviness he had never allowed her to see until this moment. “Again and again, they came at me. And again and again, I cut them down.”

His words hung in the air like a bitter curse. He drew a ragged breath, his hands trembling, as if the ghosts still clung to him.

“That nightmare turned me into what I feared most,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It almost broke me.”

Her heart ached as she finally saw him - not a trick, not a demon - but the man she loved. The man who had lived with the weight of his sins, trying, despite everything, to atone. A man who, no matter how fiercely he loved her, still believed he was unworthy of any in return.

It shattered her.

The flood of emotion broke through her control, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him, sobs tearing from her throat as she buried her face against his chest. Her body trembled as grief, relief, and the overwhelming need to hold him crashed over her all at once.

He caught her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her as if he, too, was holding on for dear life. His hands shook as they gripped her, and she could feel the tremor in his chest as his breath hitched. Yet, still, he held her. Just as he always had. As if, in this one moment, all the guilt, all the nightmares, could fall away in the circle of her arms.

It was really him.

She stroked his cheek, her thumb brushing over the faint stubble growing back. Anger would come. Admonition, too. But what she felt now, swelling in her chest, was more important. Forgiveness. It was the first thread she would pull from the tangle of pain between them, the one that would begin to untie the knots.

The weight of the past was still there, but now it felt lighter, shared between them. They had both suffered, both lost something, but here, in this moment, they found something else: a chance to rebuild. A chance to begin again.

And for that, for him, she was willing to fight.

#dragon age inquisition #dragon age #blackwall dai #blackwall #blackwall fanfic

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arcadia-of-pluto · 5 months ago

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🤔 So for my Caleb fic, I'm thinking of giving everyone last names. (I know I'm doing so mf much–) but it's just easier to give them last names since in English, they don't have last names or they use their Chinese ones (like with Zayne).

So originally I wanted to grab last names that were the same as their Chinese meanings, but...I'm not sure if they'll fit well? I'll do a poll to see which yall prefer tbh

So first of all, the reader and Josephine will share the same last name (and Caleb, for a few years) and that'll be Vidales. It's Italian since Josephine gives me Italian vibes and it means "life".

For the love interests;

Canon similar last names

Caleb Sommers (English; meaning summer)

^ His Chinese last name means summer but also it gives "boy next door vibes" so I might not even have Caleb's as an option since I like it so much —

Xavier Gattaz (I forget which language, but it can mean "submerge")

^ His Chinese last name means "to sink" or submerge, which I find a little odd. The meaning fits more with Rafayel than him, so I don't really like it much

Zayne Chernov (Russian; meaning "black")

^ His Chinese last name Li means black. Which, again, feels like it fits more with Sylus than him. But then again, this is all my personal opinions —

Rafayel Makris (I forget the language, but it means "long, tall" which is the closest I could get to Qi's meaning)

^ His Chinese last name means "large, abundant, ample", which is another odd one – very difficult to find a similar last name.

Sylus Doree (French; meaning "gold")

^ His Chinese last name Jin means gold, which makes sense for a dragon, but I'm not really feeling Doree — obsessed?

Alright, now here's the non-canon related last names, just ones I chose since I felt they fit the most with each love interest!

Caleb Lamour (French; meaning "the friendship bond") or Caleb Viotto (Latin; meaning "life")

^ Like I said earlier, I'll probably use Sommers, but I just wanted to show what else I had for him.

Xavier Stellato (Italian; meaning "starry sky")

^ this name speaks for itself. I feel like it fits a lot more than "submerge" or "to sink". It feels a bit too "on the nose", but at least I didn't say Xavier Starlight or something 😭

Zayne Moroz (Russian; meaning "frost")

^ I don't know how Zayne suddenly became Russian, but – 🤷🏻‍♀️ I feel like this also works better than Chernov in my eyes, but I also like how his first and last name both have the letter z in them

Rafayel Navarre (French; meaning "of the sea")

^ do i even need to explain why I love this one? It feels very rich, very fancy and antique for Rafayel – along with the fact that his name would basically be "Rafayel of the sea".

Sylus Karras (Greek; meaning "dark")

^ If dark fits anyone, it would be Sylus in my eyes, but also Greek themed names just seem to vibe with Sylus.

I know it's probably self absorbent of me to prefer these compared to their official translation themed surnames, but idc at this point 😭 I'm still going to hold a poll regardless of how to feel though, just to gauge how others feel about it! <3 I'll post the poll below.

Just a reminder though, Caleb's last name won't be included since I really like Sommers for him.

Edit; Let me add this (no one has said anything but i wanted to make it clear), i don't hate their original last names and I honestly don't have any problems with them!! I was just thinking of changing them from Chinese to something else since, for me, it's either they all have Chinese last names or none of them do. I wouldn't like using the 5 Chinese last names for the LI, and then using other last names for all the other cast, you know?

And I'm only giving them last names because I feel like it's a bit odd to call a doctor by his first name or a Colonel, etc. By their first name.

I wasn't even sure if they had surnames in English since I never seen them and they're never even mentioned. The only time a last name is mentioned is in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene where Mc is going into Zayne's office, and "Doctor Li" is on the nameplate at his door. Other than that, I wasn't even aware the Chinese last names were included in the English translation.

Anyway, with all of that being said, I just wanted to reiterate that i don't hate their last names, I'm not trying to erase them or anything. I just wanted to try something different, since I thought it would be cool! (Also just because the last names are French, Greek, etc. Doesn't mean I headcanon them as that. The only character I headcanon with anything is Josephine being Italian or part Italian – and there's honestly no reason for that. It's just light fun! 🩷)

Since i didn't include it on the poll (I genuinely forgot to be honest), you can use the comments or my ask box if you'd rather I use the actual Canon last names or if you have any other suggestions!

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #love and deepspace fic #lads fic #lnds fic #l&ds fic #idea help #my polls #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #lads poll #lads rambles #lnds rambles #love and deepspace rambles

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thedeafprophet · 2 months ago

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I have such fun with the specific way The Manager's manipulative aspects play out with Josephine...

He never tells her what to do, never gives her directions or a command, but he plays to what he *knows* of her. An implication of mystery, a play at her need to know. Intercepted with praise and approval, just enough information to drag her into the spiral he's carved

from a wip snippet:

May tilted his head, his smile an unreadable thing. “I think you’ll find, Professor, that knowledge is rarely the end of a story. And as for mysteries- well. I could leave one unfinished. It would bother me, perhaps, but I could.”

His eyes glittered like frost beneath candlelight. “But do tell, Professor, could you?”

#me saying im in a really manage focused mood right now as if im not alwaus #ough i love the dynamics here #writing from Josie's pov is such a blast #this scene was giving me such havoc cuz theyre such poignted characyers to write #oc: josephine #the manager of the royal bethlehem #josies weird uncle who annoys her so much

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bucketsofmonsters · 10 months ago

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Where the Light Enters - Part 4

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, eventual sex, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, referenced noncon, panic attacks, happy ending, the tags look scary but this is mainly a story about recovery

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 3k

ao3 link

Masterlist

The place they were currently staying was called Haven.

She hadn’t understood the first few times, had thought they were saying that this place was a haven for them in this fight.

It didn’t feel like a haven to her.

Haven was a lot of things.

She was told there had been important things here, years ago. Some sort of religious symbol. She’d been told about it like it would mean something to her. Very little that they said meant anything to her, but at least usually it was about things in current times that might actually affect her, not just legends of some artifact long gone.

It was also allegedly a home, a place where they could seek refuge. If that was what it was, she thought she would probably hate it less than she did.

The cold was the first thing she took grievance with. She’d had to pull strings and call in favors to get enough furs to be able to survive the cold, let alone feel anything close to alright in it.

Everything was so far apart too, insisting you go out in the cold in order to get anywhere.

There was also the matter of how open it was. She was accustomed to squirreling herself away, letting her existence fade into the back of people’s mind when she did not need anything from them.

Even as an important figure for this group she’d stumbled into, she thought she’d be able to hide on occasion if it weren’t for the fact that there was no way to move in the open space against stark, white snow without drawing the attention of everyone within a mile radius.

Haven was a lot of things. Easily defensible was not one of them. So when the enemy came, seeking the power that had embedded itself into her palm, there was little they could do.

When the first chance to flee presented itself, she took it, running through old paths half remembered by some chantry member who’d been there far longer than they had.

She’d immediately taken the side of abandoning it all. This place was worth nothing to her, less than nothing even.

And so they fled.

They were out before the army could even really draw close.

Cole was nowhere to be found as Haven was taken, as their sanctuary was razed to the ground.

They escaped into the mountains, where it was somehow impossibly colder than Haven was. She was glad she’d been layered in her furs, half convinced she’d have frozen to death by now if she hadn’t. Every time she saw one of the chantry folk in their robes she would wonder how they could be standing and moving around like they were. Even in as many layers as she had, her hands were frozen solid, planted firmly between her thighs trying to sap some heat from the rest of her.

She saw a layer of frost developing on Cullen’s armor and shivered sympathetically. She hadn’t even considered how cold the metal would get in temperatures far below freezing.

Him and Cassandra seemed completely unphased by this, instead bickering about something in the corner. Josephine and Leliana quickly joined them, all fighting about something.

They kept trying to draw her into the conversation and get her to make choices. She steadfastly refused, bundled up on a crate under a hastily constructed overhang, trying to avoid the snow that lay in both directions.

She did a silent head count as she sat there. Bull came over and ruffled her hair affectionately, leaving her another blanket before heading off to help his Chargers.

She saw Solas stomping around and groaned internally, wishing that he’d been left behind somehow.

Varric smiled at her in the distance, off helping some stragglers alongside Blackwall.

Some new mage was there, and Cullen came over to inform her that his name was Dorian and he’d warned them of the coming attack.

She gave him a polite wave and then went back to ignoring him.

The only person she recognized who was missing was Cole.

It was too much to hope that he was permanently gone. It was not unheard of for him to disappear for long stretches of time. She was sure he would be back, sooner rather than later.

But still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be able to find them, out there in the mountains, where even the monster that had come to hunt them couldn’t seem to find any trace of their army.

She wondered even more so when they found this new home.

Skyhold, someone had called it, she was fairly certain.

She shouldn’t have wanted to see him there. He was a nuisance more than anything.

And yet she found herself looking in dark corners and seeing if that vacant look would show up in anyone’s eyes as they got that nagging feeling that they’d forgotten something after Cole left them a little better off.

She wondered if maybe she’d begun forgetting him.

She wasn’t sure why Cole hadn’t made her forget it all already. It would make things easier for him.

But then again, he seemed a lot less concerned with ease than she was.

No, making things easy and safe was never something Cole wanted.

Part of her thought that he did it very intentionally. That one of two things was happening. That either he wanted her to remember all the threats, to make her careful, or worse, he thought remembering him might help her.

But she didn’t want to think about that so she stamped it down deep inside her.

And then, one day, a week into moving into Skyhold, she saw him. He was up on the battlements that lay on the edge of their new castle. He was perched on an overhang with no one else looking up at him.

She could see him. She wondered if she was the only one who could or if it was simply that no one had bothered to check.

Either was acceptable, so long as no one questioned him too much. With the secrets he’d gathered, she’d prefer if no one but her ever noticed him again.

Because that was the problem. He needed her alive, but somehow he hadn’t seemed to realize that he didn’t need her safe and happy, didn’t need her in a position of power.

Just alive.

She wondered why he hadn’t plucked the thought right out of her head the way he had so many others.

She didn’t expect to see him again for a while after that. He seemed more than content to lurk in the shadows on his own, far less friendly than he used to be. She stopped looking for him at all after she saw that he’d found his way to Skyhold.

It was unbecoming to look for him like this.

The next time she saw signs of him, he wasn’t actually present. There was a small pastry on her bed with a little nineteen piped atop it, one she recognized instantly. She’d been given one just like it on her birthday years ago, a lower number written across the top then, though she could barely remember what it was. The years all blended together. She’d been given it by someone who’d thought they were doing something nice. She supposed in that way it was a perfect mimicry.

It probably meant it was her birthday.

It turned her stomach to look at it. Even if it hadn’t been tied to a wretched man, it reminded her of her march towards undesirability, closer to losing the only thing protecting her.

She picked it up and disposed of it immediately, trying to purge the thought of it from her mind.

Cole graced her presence a few hours later. “I didn’t mean it to hurt,” he said, her heart skipping a beat as he appeared out of nowhere. “It was your birthday and I saw it. I thought it might help. It’s hard to tell with you, everything is so tangled in the hurt.”

“Fine,” she spat. “Next time you’re not sure, just leave it alone.”

“I don’t know how to help.”

“That’s why you should leave it. Since when do you try to help me anyway? What happened to me causing the hurt and you wishing you could kill me.”

“I can’t kill you. I should still do something.”

“There is nothing you can do for me,” she said, not even angry at him. It was simply true, a fact that she was informing him of. She was beyond helping. “Focus on people who might actually appreciate it, alright?”

She didn’t wait for a response before storming off.

Two weeks passed before she saw him again. He’d taken her advice and left her alone and she was better for it.

And then, in two weeks, Bull’s eyes got vacant in that familiar way that she’d come to understand meant Cole had helped him and she got mad.

It usually didn’t matter, when anger overtook her. It wasn’t like she was allowed to let anyone see.

But Cole had caused this, and she could be angry at Cole all she liked. Nothing she could do would make him buy into the meek girl everyone else saw so she could be as mad at him as she wanted.

So she went to see Cole.

She didn’t know where to look but it was like he knew she was looking. He showed up for her so quickly and she wondered if maybe he didn’t realize how upset she was.

“You helped him,” she shouted, accusationally. “You helped Bull. You know what he’s done! How could you do that?”

“He doesn’t know he’s done anything. It’s a mistake. You could tell him and he would stop.”

She was fully aware that she was being unfair and it did nothing to stop her. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“You hurt people,” he said softly. “And you deserve help.”

“It’s not the same,” she insisted.

“No, it’s not. You know you’re hurting them.”

Her breath came in stuttery and she hated that this was affecting her, that she couldn’t even be angry properly. “I’m doing what I have to. I don’t have another choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he said, irritatingly and never-endingly inexpressive. She couldn’t read him, not even a little, and yet he could peer directly into her head like it was nothing.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Shut up,” she hissed.

“You can be mad if it dims the hurt,”

It made her ten times as angry to be given permission to be mad.

She picked up the thing nearest to her, some dusty book someone had forgotten about, and threw it at him.

He dodged it easily, without even thinking.

She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. The sound of it echoed through the stone hall. It didn’t make her feel any better.

She left without Cole the next day.

They were heading to a desert somewhere to go close rifts. Solas had begged her to look for elven artifacts and she’d promised him they would and then immediately disposed of the request mentally.

She’d brought that new mage with her, Dorian she was pretty sure his name was.

He seemed lovely by nature of his greatest virtue, not being Solas.

Bull offered to tag along. He never seemed to stop offering lately and she didn’t have the energy to shut him down, so he came too.

Blackwall also went with them, just by nature of being in the armory when they were suiting up to head out. She didn’t mind. He was a good shield and endlessly noble, set on ensuring she didn’t get hurt.

He seemed distressed over how young she looked, not enticed by her like some of the other men in the Inquisition were. It didn’t matter to her, as long as he kept her safe.

It was a quiet affair. Dorian was a chatty one, trying endlessly to strike up conversation, but neither she nor Blackwall would take the bait, just stomping through the desert.

Bull tried to engage him in conversation but Dorian was not fond of Qunari so that devolved quickly. She didn’t pay too much attention, more than content just kicking up sand as she walked.

A few hours into wandering the hot desert, they found a rift. It was hard to hide from the chaos of the battle in a desert, with far too few things to cower behind until it was all over. She just hunkered down as best she could and trusted her companions.

She was looking away when a stray spell from that new mage hit her, the bolt of light embedding itself into her shoulder, searing pain shooting through her.

She yelped, curling in further on herself in an attempt to make herself small.

It felt like an eternity before it was over.

Dorian rushed over, apologies spilling out of his mouth as his hand pressed into the wound.

She flinched away from his touch as it made the wound sting worse. Blackwall went to lift her up before Bull pushed past him, hauling her into his arms.

She wished Blackwall had been allowed to do it.

She barely paid attention to anything but the pain as they made their way back to Skyhold.

It did occur to her that with anyone else, they’d just push through this injury, take a health potion, bandage it up, and keep on going. She wouldn’t even have thought twice about it, except for when she had to feign sympathy.

She was dropped off at the medical tent at Skyhold and the three men were shooed away, the woman there insisting that they really did not have enough space for three grown men, one of them a Qunari at that, to be loitering.

They got her fixed up pretty quickly. It wasn’t too severe an injury, all things considered, necromantic spells just tended to leave a lingering bone-deep ache that other types of magic didn’t.

It would last a long time, she was told. She might feel it when it was about to rain, told like it was a joke that she’d be stuck with this pain, rolling in with the thunder.

She was given something for the pain when she asked, and she was sure she only got it because she was the Inquisitor overreacting to something that wouldn’t have phased any other soldier.

And then she was sent back to her room, the tent too busy with actual injuries to deal with her any longer, even if she was a girl who’d stumbled into a leadership position.

Any other leader would have given up their cot immediately, insisted that the medical care go to people who really, truly needed it. She just grabbed her pain medicine and left.

She should have gone to see Bull and milked this injury for all it was worth. Maybe stop by Blackwall if she couldn’t stomach that, or guilt trip Dorian a little without letting him realize that was what she was doing.

She returned to her room instead, set on doing it in the morning, knowing she couldn’t avoid it forever.

But for tonight, at least, she could rest.

Cole was standing beside her bed when she reached her room and she considered throwing something at him again, like he was a wild animal she could scare off.

He whipped around, eyes darting down to her bandaged shoulder and then back up to her face.

“You don’t mind it,” he said. “It means they’ll leave you alone and it means they think you’re small so you don’t mind.”

“I don’t like getting hurt,” she responded. “I don’t know where you got that from.”

“You don’t like it, but it’s easier. You like it when it’s easy. And you don’t mind this hurt quite as much.”

She shrugged, opening her little bottle of pain medication. “Can I just go to bed please?”

“Can I have some,” he asked, staring the bottle down.

“Why?” she asked, already knowing the answer the endlessly selfless spirit would give. “Are you hurt?”

“The pain claws at them, years gone but still in them, like shards of swords lingered. Some nights they want to claw it out but there’s nothing there to take.”

“So what, you’re going to drug people? I’m sure that will go over well, a bunch of soldiers who don’t know their inhibitions are off.”

He paused, seeming to really consider that. “I’ll make sure they know. Remember the medicine, don’t remember me.”

“Fine,” she said, emptying half of it out. “Take some. You just can’t give it to Bull.”

She knew exactly what she was doing. She was picking a fight.

He just looked sad.

“I won’t stop helping,” he said. “But I don’t want you to feel sick.”

“I always feel sick,” she said, verging dangerously close to honesty. She couldn’t afford that, not even with Cole. Anything else had been a lapse in judgment.

His face fell. “Not because of me. Never because of me.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“I won’t give them to Bull,” he declared. “I will help him away from you, do my best to soothe the hurt where you can’t see.”

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She shouldn’t even be mad. “Whatever,” she said with a huff.

“It does matter,” he said. “All of it matters. I didn’t think it did, but you’re a person alongside the bad and the hurt burrows in you. It’s not inside you, not fully. The rot can be cut out.”

“You won’t be cutting anything out of me.”

“I didn’t think I would, but it matters that you could. The rot is a part, not the whole.”

And she couldn’t stay mad, her already flimsy reasons collapsing in on themselves. He was wrong, but it meant something to her that he believed. Maybe just for tonight that could be enough.

She didn’t have to say as much. He was gone as soon as the thought crossed her mind, leaving her to finally get some sleep.

#dai cole #cole dai #cole dragon age #dragon age cole #dragon age inquisition #dai #colemance #where the light enters #In which Britches is unreasonable and Cole doesn't know how to apologize

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