#katdancer

[nyssatrevelyan]

She remembered.

She remembered the first time they had met. All that remained to her was her name, and a sword and shield that she could not use and would properly belong to her brother, anyway, if he still lived. Her name meant an Oath from the Maker, and by the Maker, she meant to keep hers. All she was was duty and sorrow, daggers and leather armor, and somehow, despite it all, he had made her laugh.

She had never thought she could laugh again. Not ever.

His name was a good one: Alistair. It meant Defender of the People. It suited him perfectly, she was soon to learn. He was big and strong, and it didn't hurt that he was handsome, too. She had thought he would be as confident in his quiet moments as he was on the field – but there was something gentle, and something that felt uncertain, as if he thought himself unworthy. She could not understand why.

She remembered the relief and joy on his face when he saw for himself that she'd survived the disaster at Ostagar – that he wouldn't be left alone. He feared that above even the loss of his own life, and it made something in her ache to see what his life must have been – isolation. Loss. Her recent life was so, but she'd grown with a family who loved her, supported her, and encouraged her. They'd made her strong and confident. He was physically strong – but afraid to lose any more. And when he'd finally been able to see past his own loss, he was shamed to see she had been shouldering his emotional burdens along with her own without ever a complaint.

He'd shouldered her burdens too.

She remembered the talks by the fireside. His jokes, when she got too close. Even his irritation. "Poke, poke, poke! Tell me all about your life, Alistair!" he'd once grumbled. But she had a gift for listening, for drawing people out, and she very much wanted to understand this man – the man who stood beside her. She didn't care that she had been a noble and he had been a stableboy… a certain Arl had taught her all too well that bloodlines and so-called nobility were nothing more than words. Being reliable. Honorable. Compassionate. These were things that were asked of the nobility, but some failed at it horribly. And some stable boys turned knights had more of it in their carefully mussed hair than she had ever known.

She remembered the first night she'd slept, after Ostagar – the nightmares that had her sit bolt upright, drenched with sweat, shaking with fear and disorientation, a shriek strangling her as she clenched her teeth around it, desperate not to draw ITS attention again… and he was there, speaking softly, telling her the bad news – that this would be a normal nights' sleep for her until she could learn to block it out. That he'd been just as frightened. And unsaid, that it would be all right, she'd master it. That he'd be there for her when she woke.

She knew that after Ostagar, they were bonded together – comrades in arms? Best friends? She knew it must be because they depended on each other so much – for survival, certainly – but also for the one constant, the one rock they could cling to in the chaos. She was always there, slipping around the battlefield like a ghost, her speed and daggers whittling down the numbers from the sides and back of the pack – he was always there, pounding on the biggest foe, drawing the attention of the Darkspawn and letting her take the enemy unaware.

And there were times when she was overborne, flung to the ground, and saw her death in the eyes of some loathsome creature as it tried to end her, and then there would be a roar, and the ungodly smash of metal against bone, and his bloody shield would have flung aside like a broken toy whatever had threatened. And there were times when HE was dashed to the ground, dizzy with a blow, and she used her acrobatics to wheel across the battlefield, to launch herself through the air and kill his attacker – blade through the eye, slit throat, a sharp twist of the neck – and then she'd land, mere feet from him, and their eyes would meet – just for an instant – and no matter how exhausted, how pained, they were up on their feet again, back to back, fighting.

She remembered all that as he stood before her, shuffling shyly, as he pulled out from behind his back… a rose. One perfect, beautiful red rose.

As a very eligible and unmarried noblewoman, she had received all kinds of gifts from would-be suitors, and more flowers than could fill a greenhouse. But this one flower, handed to her by Alistair, meant more to her than if it had been fashioned of rubies and emeralds. He hadn't had gardeners tend it until it was ready to be cut, or florists to arrange a beautiful bouquet. He'd cut it with his own dagger, by his own hand, just for her.

It would be easy to make jokes about it, to let them both pretend that this wasn't anything important, that he wasn't offering her his heart. Equally as easy to pretend she wasn't breathless with the knowledge that there was someone left in the world who cared for her, and that her heart wasn't bursting with joy that this aching longing she felt was not unrequited.

"It's beautiful," she had said quietly, her eyes filling with happy tears, and she had stepped into his arms, leaning her cheek against his splintmail, hugging him tightly. She felt his arms come around her slowly, as if he were afraid to break her, and felt his cheek against the top of her head.

And had never felt more as if she were right where she belonged.

[anjia9527]

Poop Chart: Is Your Poop Healthy? See Our Chart on Healthy Stool This Poop Chart Tells You Everything You Need to Know About Fixing Your Gut Source by katdancer

[daae-dancer93]

It’s my month! I know times are tough but I have a few friends here I know personally that may want to gift something so here’s my linktr.ee wishlists some are $5 or less :) https://linktr.ee/Katdancer

Phamily Birthday Calendar - August 2020

Please take one tiny moment to reblog and on their special day to send some kind words and wishes to the August “bday babies” of the Phamily.

Seriously, I beg you, when you see the current month of the Phamily Birthday Calendar on your dash, please hit the reblog button. That’s the only way it will get more attention, be spread among the Phandom and hopefully work. I really need your Phan support here ^.^ .

5th of August: @notaghost3

10th of August: @embergeist

15th of August: @jennyfair7

18th of August: @gracie-p8-officialblog AND @kittieofmazandaran (CAN’T TAG YOU DX)

19th of August: @daae-dancer93

24th of August: @daenerysthesilverdragon (CAN’T TAG YOU DX)

30th of August: @benny-lynne

31st of August: @phantomofthebasement

Mistakes - I try my best to avoid them, but they still can happen. If you’ve already joined the Phamily Birthday Calendar and your birthday should be in this post, but isn’t for what reason ever or is, but with the wrong date, please let me know!

Phan and not a participant of the Phamily Birthday Calendar, but want to be? Contact @timebird84 (personally, not via comments, reblogs or tags!)

Every phan (= fan of The Phantom of the Opera) is welcome!

[nyssatrevelyan]

Some of my fanfics...

Heart of Stone  (DA:O, Warden Risa Aeducan)

Regrets (DA:O, A vignette with Warden Risa Aeducan)

The Warden Remembers (DA:O, Warden Elissa Cousland)

Boy (Young Alistair and OC Lynette, unfinished) From Afar (DA:O, A vignette with Warden Risa Aeducan) Cold Reality (DA:I, Inquisitor Nyssa Trevelyan, unfinished)

Stone Hewn (Unfinished sequel to Heart of Stone) Haven’t I Seen You Somewhere Before?  (DA:O, Warden Solana Amell, unfinished)

First Flight (DA:O, OC Finch)

[nyssatrevelyan]

Zevran/Warden Week Day One:  FROM AFAR

"My dear Warden Commander…" said a very familiar voice, breathily, just into the delicate shell of her right ear, "may I ask what you are doing here?" Along with the voice like fine brandy which made a warm, tense feeling coil in her gut, there was an icy cold touch of silverite at her throat.

Risa Aeducan was lying on her stomach on a Denerim rooftop overlooking the crowded main street up to the Chantry. Her infamous throwing daggers were at her side; her bow unslung and laid down beside her. The woman herself was watching across the street intently. There were far more people down there than she'd ever seen, and the city guard guiding people back, back out of the main road, back against the storefronts.

"Zevran, old friend," she murmured softly, taking care not to move toward her weapons, or even to think of doing so. "I am… lying on my stomach, as I am sure you've already observed." There was a hint of humor in her voice – her statement recalled the very literal Sten who'd accompanied them on their two year desperate journey to kill the archdemon.

"The question is, why here? Why now? And why with weapons arrayed beside you?"

Risa took a chance and slowly, hands still spread on the roof, looked over her shoulder. She had no illusions: she was not superhuman. She could still die, easily, of a cut throat.

Zevran knelt beside her, tense, his honey brown eyes staring intently into hers.

"I… I had to see him," she said very quietly. "And I wouldn't be welcome. Not on this day." She closed her eyes, and hung her head.

The knife came away from her throat, and Zev settled close beside her. "And the weapons?"

"Couldn't get comfortable with them on, and you know how it is – I'd've felt naked without."

A smile curved the lips of the Antivan. "Now that would have been quite the present for me to discover up here."

Risa smiled, but it was a sad, small smile. She looked so much older today – the set of her shoulders, the cast of her eyes and the crows feet at their corners, the furrow in her brow, even the perfection of her lips all spoke of a woman so much older than the four years that had actually passed.

"So you stayed." It wasn't a question, precisely, but the glance from the corner of her eye showed that she waited for an answer.

"So I was asked," he replied, and an arm stole around the dwarf's broad shoulders. "And you were right. He needed looking after. He was most upset when he realized what I was doing, you know? But the queen, she hired me on immediately. They've never had reason to regret it; there have been attempts, you know."

Risa nodded. Of course there were attempts. How different, really, were topsider politics from Dwarva?

"Querida, you need not be perched up here like a gargoyle. I am sure that had he known you were here…."

"No," Risa said sharply, then more gently a moment later, "No. It would only cause pain."

She could hear the procession coming down the block now, the cheering, the wheels of the royal carriage rattling along the cobbles. The arm around her shoulders tightened, and she found the warmth of the elf's lithe body beside her comforting. So many guards. So many people crowding around.

And then they were there – he first, stepping out of the carriage in that golden kingly armor, surrounded by the guard. Ser Cauthrien had trained them impeccably, and they were ranged around the carriage, keeping the people of Denerim back.

Then Anora, looking flushed and beautiful as she stepped down out of the carriage, her hand in Alistair's as he guided her safely down to the street. Her gown in Theirin red was exquisite.

Risa quivered, watching her.

And finally, the elf maid, Erlina, handing down into Alistair's strong, capable arms a small bundle wrapped in white. It squirmed, and let out a loud, imperious howl that set all the bystanders to murmuring "awwwww".

Risa's eyes fell shut, her brow furrowing. She swallowed hard. Couldn't look anymore. And so she only glimpsed from the corner of her eye when the proud parents and their entourage brought the infant into the Chantry to be affirmed before the eyes of the Maker.

"Risa."

It had been years since Zevran called her by name, and she could barely bear it now. She backed away from the edge of the roof, then pushed into a crouch, rummaging through her pack. She pulled a lumpy drawstring sack out of it, handing it to Zevran.

"For the nuglet," she said, her voice thick, her onyx eyes unable to meet his. "Look."

"Risa, you should give this present your…."

"I can't," she said, opening the bag. She pulled out a metal rod with a globe at one end – silverite, and studded with precious gems. She shook it gently, and soft, musical chimes pealed from within.

"A princely gift," he said quietly, taking it from her.

She nodded. "It was mine at that age," she said softly, "and my mother's before me." She didn't need to say anymore... Zevran knew that this rattle would never be played with by a little Aeducan, and why.

Risa pulled something large, and soft, and squishy from the bag next, and Zevran nearly laughed to see a stuffed nug doll. She smiled a little, though it did not reach her eyes. She let him inspect that as well before putting them both back into the bag, tying it shut, and handing it to him.

She got up, dusting herself off, and met Zevran's eyes once more. Her face was as stone as she picked up her weapons and fastened them securely to her armor… but her eyes, as always, her eyes sang a song they knew only too well, a song Zev had seen them singing now, louder and softer, for years. Loss. Pain.

 Love.

"Watch over them all," she whispered harshly, turning away so that he wouldn't see the tears that threatened.

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, and her small hand came up, covered his, and squeezed back.

"His name is Duncan," Zev said softly. Risa nodded, and suddenly she was running, leaping between this rooftop and the next... and the next… disappearing into the distance.

[nyssatrevelyan]

He remembered.

He remembered her at seven, running in the sunlit meadow, her dark auburn hair untamably messy and straggling from its braids, green eyes dancing and her knees scabbed over.  And she didn’t care.

He remembered the hurt in her eyes when he and Fergus told her to stop following them – she was just a girl, and not welcome to join their hunt.  She hadn’t said anything, just swallowed and stood there, frozen, disappointment all over her face.  She’d fixed them both with a hard look, and turned around to head slowly back to Vigil’s Keep.  It was after she was perhaps fifteen or twenty yards away that he’d heard the choked sob and as he turned to look in surprise and guilt, she’d burst into a run, head down and wiping the back of her wrist across her eyes.

He remembered the next year, when she played dolls sitting on the floor in the solar with Delilah, but clearly her heart wasn’t in it.  She kept glancing at him and Fergus hunched over the chessboard, with Fergus beating him soundly.  She inched her way closer and closer until there was no point pretending that she was interested in pretending to feed and change an infant doll.  He remembered how she’d studied the board carefully, saying nothing, until he’d felt unaccountably annoyed and invited her to take over if she thought she could do better than he.

Delilah had stood beside them too, quietly watching, as Elissa picked up her chevalier and moved it, eliciting a groan from Fergus.

In the next five moves, she’d beaten Fergus.  And while Teyrn Cousland chuckled, his own father had fixed him with a poisonous glare.

He remembered her at eleven, walking out to the practice field, her own glove, armguard, and quiver strapped on, and carrying her bow… how she’d strung it deftly despite his offer to help.  She’d been surprisingly good – their contest was close, and he’d won by the matter of a point.  She’d congratulated him and shook his hand, and said that next time, she’d be better.

He had no doubt she would be.

He remembered her at sixteen, at the Royal Ball.  Maker, those auburn waves of silken hair, tumbling fetchingly around her shoulders, and those gorgeous green eyes, wide with worry and wonder.  She hadn’t been danced with yet – he couldn’t tell if it was because his fellows were shy of her father’s power and position, or jealous of it.  And so he had stepped forward.

The look in her eyes had been guarded and wary – as if fearing some joke at her expense.  He’d bowed, very formally but correctly for her rank in the nobility, and as he straightened, inclined his head at her and held out his hand with a wink.  A brilliant smile had transformed her face, and she placed her right hand in his left without hesitation.  As he had wavered, she took his right hand and drew it around her waist, beaming into his startled face as he found himself with a beautiful girl in his arms.  As the music started, he hesitated, and she murmured into his ear that if he were leading, he’d best get to it or she’d do it.  She laughed merrily as he swept her into the waltz.

He remembered how fast his heart had beat, and how perfectly they had moved together, her left hand on his shoulder, in step with him… her eyes gleaming into his, and her beautiful smile.

He remembered later, in the garden, when he’d stolen a kiss… and she’d stood on tiptoe, her hands on his chest, to steal it back.

He remembered other dances, other gardens, other kisses… fumbling in the dark…  and the line, clearly drawn, which neither of them crossed but skirted alongside, knowing their duty as well as they knew their own heartbeats.

He remembered Thomas’ gloating look, and the way he scrambled off to tattle…  And he remembered being sent off to the Free Marches to squire, immediately, without a chance to even say goodbye.

[nyssatrevelyan]

He remembered.

He remembered hearing that the darkspawn were rising, and Ferelden was meeting them on the battlefield.

He remembered the day Ser Ell had called him aside, with a face full of worry, to tell him that his king was dead and that good men like his father and Teyrn Loghain were rallying the country to beat back both darkspawn and Orlesians.

He remembered hearing that the Grey Wardens had treacherously lured King Cailan to his death, and that but two outlaws were left roaming the countryside, fomenting rebellion.

He remembered his father writing about the Couslands’ betrayal, and how they had been plotting with Orlais to invade during the chaos. He didn’t want to believe it – Bryce Cousland had been a beloved uncle to him, Eleanor Cousland had been a mother to Delilah after their own mother passed…. Fergus was more his brother than Thomas had ever been and Elissa….

He’d remembered the brilliant smile, the breathless kisses, the promises of always, and someday, and forever, and the Couslands’ smiles of approval… and he’d locked himself away, drank, and cried.

To know they were all dead and that Highever was now his father’s teyrnir… the conflicting emotions made his heart break. The pride in knowing his father had finally achieved what he’d always wished for and deserved – retaking Highever – was overshadowed by his grief and disbelief that his second family , heroes of the Occupation! -- could have plotted against Cailan and Ferelden.

He remembered hearing that the bannorn was in rebellion, and that civil war was tearing Ferelden apart… that the two Grey Warden traitors had amassed the dwarves, the elves, the mages and of all people, that fool Eamon Guerrin behind them!

He remembered, very clearly, the letter that had come to him in Teyrn Loghain’s own hand, bluntly sending regrets and informing him that one of the Grey Warden traitors was indeed Elissa Cousland – his Elissa alive! – and that she had murdered his father in cold blood in their new estate of the Arling of Denerim.

He remembered taking ship immediately, and arriving in Ferelden to find a previously unknown bastard of Maric’s on the throne, and married, unhappily, to Queen Anora, and Loghain conscripted as one of the traitorous Grey Wardens. All arranged – by her.

He remembered coming home after the civil war… finding that his name was soiled, his brother dead, his sister missing and his home filled with Wardens… Orlesian Wardens. And that Fergus Cousland was Teryn of Highever, and Elissa Cousland touted as the Hero of Ferelden, the Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Commander of the Grey. And the reason for all this – the reason he was alone in the world – was her.

He remembered using his assassin’s training and sneaking back into Vigil’s Keep, knowing she was on her way. He considered killing her, but what would be the point of that? It would not bring his father or his honor back. And he didn’t want to think about – couldn’t imagine – watching the light in her eyes go out as he murdered her. So instead, he was caught as he tried to gather some family mementoes and steal back away into the night.

He remembered it took four Wardens to beat him into submission and to drag him to the dungeons.

He remembered the Darkspawn attack, and how many died while he was trapped in his cell – and how she’d come, surprised, still reeking with blood, to see him. How fitting for a murderer, he had thought. How for an instant, there had been a flash of hope, of love, of joy to see him whole…

He remembered the words that had spilled between them – painful, vicious, hateful as he branded her murderer and she called his father traitor, murderer and worse.

Mostly he remembered the anguish in her eyes as she realized that it was her responsibility as Arlessa to sentence him. She’d asked him what he would do if she let him go, and he told her he might come back sometime to finish the job when he wouldn’t be caught. When she observed he wasn’t helping his case he’d asked if she wanted him to lie to her.

He’d never lied to her before.

He’s thought to force her to hang him, to end his misery – and gambled that if she forced conscription on him he would die as apparently many did. Instead she’d ordered her seneschal – formerly his father’s seneschal – to help him gather his things and to have him escorted from the keep.

He remembered coming back, to Join her and to redeem his sullied name.

[nyssatrevelyan]

She remembered.

She remembered the first time they had met. All that remained to her was her name, and a sword and shield that she could not use and would properly belong to her brother, anyway, if he still lived. Her name meant an Oath from the Maker, and by the Maker, she meant to keep hers. All she was was duty and sorrow, daggers and leather armor, and somehow, despite it all, he had made her laugh.

She had never thought she could laugh again. Not ever.

His name was a good one: Alistair. It meant Defender of the People. It suited him perfectly, she was soon to learn. He was big and strong, and it didn't hurt that he was handsome, too. She had thought he would be as confident in his quiet moments as he was on the field – but there was something gentle, and something that felt uncertain, as if he thought himself unworthy. She could not understand why.

She remembered the relief and joy on his face when he saw for himself that she'd survived the disaster at Ostagar – that he wouldn't be left alone. He feared that above even the loss of his own life, and it made something in her ache to see what his life must have been – isolation. Loss. Her recent life was so, but she'd grown with a family who loved her, supported her, and encouraged her. They'd made her strong and confident. He was physically strong – but afraid to lose any more. And when he'd finally been able to see past his own loss, he was shamed to see she had been shouldering his emotional burdens along with her own without ever a complaint.

He'd shouldered her burdens too.

She remembered the talks by the fireside. His jokes, when she got too close. Even his irritation. "Poke, poke, poke! Tell me all about your life, Alistair!" he'd once grumbled. But she had a gift for listening, for drawing people out, and she very much wanted to understand this man – the man who stood beside her. She didn't care that she had been a noble and he had been a stableboy… a certain Arl had taught her all too well that bloodlines and so-called nobility were nothing more than words. Being reliable. Honorable. Compassionate. These were things that were asked of the nobility, but some failed at it horribly. And some stable boys turned knights had more of it in their carefully mussed hair than she had ever known.

She remembered the first night she'd slept, after Ostagar – the nightmares that had her sit bolt upright, drenched with sweat, shaking with fear and disorientation, a shriek strangling her as she clenched her teeth around it, desperate not to draw ITS attention again… and he was there, speaking softly, telling her the bad news – that this would be a normal nights' sleep for her until she could learn to block it out. That he'd been just as frightened. And unsaid, that it would be all right, she'd master it. That he'd be there for her when she woke.

She knew that after Ostagar, they were bonded together – comrades in arms? Best friends? She knew it must be because they depended on each other so much – for survival, certainly – but also for the one constant, the one rock they could cling to in the chaos. She was always there, slipping around the battlefield like a ghost, her speed and daggers whittling down the numbers from the sides and back of the pack – he was always there, pounding on the biggest foe, drawing the attention of the Darkspawn and letting her take the enemy unaware.

And there were times when she was overborne, flung to the ground, and saw her death in the eyes of some loathsome creature as it tried to end her, and then there would be a roar, and the ungodly smash of metal against bone, and his bloody shield would have flung aside like a broken toy whatever had threatened. And there were times when HE was dashed to the ground, dizzy with a blow, and she used her acrobatics to wheel across the battlefield, to launch herself through the air and kill his attacker – blade through the eye, slit throat, a sharp twist of the neck – and then she'd land, mere feet from him, and their eyes would meet – just for an instant – and no matter how exhausted, how pained, they were up on their feet again, back to back, fighting.

She remembered all that as he stood before her, shuffling shyly, as he pulled out from behind his back… a rose. One perfect, beautiful red rose.

As a very eligible and unmarried noblewoman, she had received all kinds of gifts from would-be suitors, and more flowers than could fill a greenhouse. But this one flower, handed to her by Alistair, meant more to her than if it had been fashioned of rubies and emeralds. He hadn't had gardeners tend it until it was ready to be cut, or florists to arrange a beautiful bouquet. He'd cut it with his own dagger, by his own hand, just for her.

It would be easy to make jokes about it, to let them both pretend that this wasn't anything important, that he wasn't offering her his heart. Equally as easy to pretend she wasn't breathless with the knowledge that there was someone left in the world who cared for her, and that her heart wasn't bursting with joy that this aching longing she felt was not unrequited.

"It's beautiful," she had said quietly, her eyes filling with happy tears, and she had stepped into his arms, leaning her cheek against his splintmail, hugging him tightly. She felt his arms come around her slowly, as if he were afraid to break her, and felt his cheek against the top of her head.

And had never felt more as if she were right where she belonged.

[nyssatrevelyan]

Abandoned

Story available on Archive of Our Own, will update when I can.

Chapter 1

Nyssa had awoken alone.

For a moment, she was cold and disoriented, and she looked around blearily, trying to make sense of the world.  Straw was scratching her, and she was sore and naked and….

Blackwall.

She looked around the upper story of the barn, but aside from a cat prowling about looking for mice, she was alone.  She could hear the mounts shuffling and making quiet noises to themselves, and Horsemaster Dennet speaking to them softly.  Maker, if she could hear him….

Nyssa raked her fingers through her hair, and felt straw in it.  She blushed, groping for her clothing.  As she did, she noticed the soft gleam of metal by her feet, and leaned over.

Blackwall’s Warden-Commander badge.

A chill raced down Nyssa’s spine.  Why would he leave this here, with her?

By the time she’d made it down the stairs to the ground level of the barn, Dennet had blessedly found something to do outside by the well.  She was more than half convinced by the way he studiously stayed at the well that he HAD heard what had happened last night, and was trying to give her an escape route.

Might well be he was trying to give HIMSELF a way out of an uncomfortable encounter, too.

A piece of paper caught her attention, balanced against the griffon riding toy Blackwall had been carving.  She picked it up, her stomach knotting with dread.

 My lady:

 There is little I can say that will ease this pain.  Just know that while it hurt to leave, it would've hurt more if I stayed.  

I am deeply sorry. -- Blackwall

She stood, staring at the note, her mind racing.  He'd.... left?  He'd left, and had tried to make it seem... good that he'd left?

She gripped the parchment hard, unconscious of crumpling it in her suddenly damp fist. It couldn't be, he loved her and she loved him, he wouldn't  --

Unless...

Her cheeks burned with shame.  She hadn't told him, not until they were already.... that this -- that he was her first love.

He'd stopped, frozen for a moment, and she'd seen something in his eyes -- indecision? Worry?  For a moment she'd thought he'd stop, and had begged him to go on.  He'd seemed to come to some decision, and instead of stopping, he'd been very gentle and compassionate, attentive to her beyond all imaginings.  He'd coaxed her to pleasure repeatedly, until she'd dozed off, limp and exhausted, nestled against his side.

Maybe.... maybe he hadn't liked her.  Maybe her inexperience....  Or worse, maybe he'd never liked her.  Maybe he had only wanted to bed the Inquisitor.  People were attracted to power, and she was no fool -- she was attractive enough, physically....

Maybe that was all he'd ever wanted of her.

Her stomach twisted with nausea as she turned toward the barn door and saw a scout standing there.

“Sister Leliana has confirmed it.  Blackwall has gone.”

Nyssa nodded slightly, the parchment damp and crumpled in her fist, then noticed the look of sympathy in the runner’s eyes.  She looked away quickly, her face suffusing with shame.  “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely able to get around the lump in her throat.  “That will be all.”

She didn’t run.  A lifetime of Circle training took over, and she walked purposefully but without unseemly, eye-catching haste – her hand wrapped so tightly around the Constable’s badge that the edges cut painfully into her hand. 

He should never have allowed her to accompany him back to the stables.

Blackwall tightened the cinches on his -- well, the Inquisition's horse, really, but the little gelding he rode most often when they went into the field.  Brown as dirt, steady, with a deceptive gait that ate up distance even with a hairy lummox like him aboard.

The gelding turned to look at him, nudging the warrior with a soft nicker. Blackwall usually had a carrot or an apple for him, but now, tonight -- he hadn't taken the time to get one from the kitchens.

He glanced at the ceiling above him praying that even this slight noise wouldn't give him away, heard nothing, and turned back to his task.   With every buckle fastened, disgust, guilt and sorrow made him more desperate to be away.

He'd known he was worthless.   He'd known and he'd begged Nyssa to believe him when he said he was nobody, and that there no life they could have together.  And now she was another regret, another stain on his soul -- another life he'd fouled and ruined, just because he was too weak to do the right thing and leave her alone.  A woman twenty years his junior... bad enough he was old enough to be her father, but the life she'd had forced on her had left her far more innocent than he'd realized.

He'd wanted to believe her.  That was his only excuse, and still, the blame was his entirely, not hers.  He'd wanted to believe her when she told him she knew he was a good man, he'd wanted to believe her when she looked at the death and destruction in his wake and said, "You don't have to face this alone."  And blessed Andraste, the way she looked at him, and the gentleness of her touch... the way she believed in him, trusted him....

He should never have let her accompany him back from the tavern.  They'd drunk some, but he wouldn't excuse himself with that.  He hadn't been drunk.  Neither had she.  The difference was he'd known, he'd known from the moment he asked her to accompany him to the tavern that he would be leaving.  He'd known what he was doing, and couldn't -- and didn't want to stop.  She had probably imagined this was the start of their life together when he knew, he'd always known, it was goodbye.

Another lie.  Another betrayal.

He leaned forward, his head against the saddle, a hand over his eyes, his breath unsteady. The one person in the world who thought him worth something, and to do this to her....

He swallowed, straightened, and continued his task, now fastening his saddlebags to the saddle.

He'd taken her innocence on a stack of hay bales in a stable.

The shame of that hit him like a hammer blow; it took his breath away.  He hadn't realized until her sharp gasp, and when he'd realized, tried to disengage, she'd clutched him tighter and pleaded with him not to worry, to go on, that she loved him....

A worthless bastard like him.

He'd loved her like a man possessed, whispering his adoration of her with every stroke -and then he'd loved her again, kissing her, stroking her, licking her.  He'd managed to build her pleasure, tease her until she came, stifling her cries in his shoulder.

He could still taste her.  Maker, he had thought to take the memory of her to his pyre, but once he realized that he was the first man she'd lain with, he'd used every technique he knew to bring her to fruition, three times to his once.  To leave her with at least one good memory of him.

"She's happy."

He gasped, whirling.  Cole, of course.  "Maker's balls," he swore, taking the horse's reins.

"Guilt, shame, another life ruined, another lie, another betrayal -- go before I can't. It's better this way." Those pale eyes looked at him from beneath a fringe of limp blonde hair and that ridiculous hat.  "You don't want to go.... and she needs you."

"The last thing she needs is me," Blackwall said.  "Maker forgive me for hurting her like this -- I know I can't."  He looked at the strange spirit boy.   "Let her sleep," he begged.  "Let her have some happiness before she realizes.... before I'm gone."  He led the horse outside.

"She loves you."  Cole sounded a little confused, a little worried.  "She'd help, I know she'd help!  She'd want to -- "

"No, Cole!"  The whisper came sharp, and fierce.  "She mustn't know, she mustn't.... it's kinder to let her remember me as she sees me -- not as I am."

Blackwall mounted the gelding.  "Let her dream," he repeated softly.  "Let her have some peace.  Maker knows she gets little enough of it."

He'd left the note on the unfinished griffon riding toy -- and the Warden-Constable badge beside her.

Let her love the dream.  The reality would be a bitter disappointment.

He'd ridden through the silent, empty courtyard and out of Skyhold, alone.

When Dorian knocked at Nyssa's door a few hours later, it was opened after a good few minutes of fumbling.

Nyssa was swaying slightly as she held the door open, a bottle of Gwaren whisky clutched by its neck in her left hand.  The bottle glowed a peculiar green as the mark pulsed against the cold glass. “Dorian!” she said, a bit too loudly.  “C’mon in, have a drink with me, cousin!”

Dorian stepped in, shutting the door and guiding her back up the steps with his hand gently resting on the small of her back.  “I see it’s been that sort of day for you this time, Nyssa.”

“He’s gone,” she said, plopping gracelessly onto the couch by the top of the stairs and taking another swig from the bottle.  She coughed, then looked away at the pattern in the carpet.  “Gone,” she repeated.   “Without a word.”

She didn't need to clarify:   runners had been racing through the library up to and down from Leliana's roost all day.  It hadn't been long before he knew that Blackwall had gone, whither no one knew.

“Somehow it doesn’t feel very gratifying to have been right about his boorishness.” Dorian reached over and gently tugged the bottle from her fingers, then took a swig himself.  His nose wrinkled at the taste.  “Nyssa, I thought you had better taste than this.”

“It’s strong,” she said, raking her fingers through her hair.  “I need strong.”

He considered the missing Warden, and kicked himself for having encouraging her in her pursuit.  Yes, she had been attracted to Blackwall, probably his physical strength.  He WAS quite a burly man, and muscular.  What must he have seemed to her when mages tended to be lithe?  He was larger than Cullen, and any of the templars in the courtyard sparring.   He must have felt safe, like protection.  But there was also that quiet resolve to do one's duty as one must.  Duty, sacrifice, and honor.  Nyssa had fallen for that, too.

Dorian huffed, trying to distract her as he considered how best to help her.   "I suspect the last thing you'll need in the morning is the hangover this swill will trigger."  He sat beside her on the couch.  "But, if needs must, we'll be miserable together.  Mother Giselle can shoot me some more dirty looks and make a few veiled comments about my undue influence on you, but ha! the joke will be on her -- it will be your influence over me!"

Nyssa stopped, looking stricken.  "I don't want that 'bad Tevinter' nonsense coming back up."

"Well, I AM a bad Tevinter.  Ask my countrymen."  He smiled at her, leaning and crossing his leg negligently.  His rings flashed as he saluted her with the bottle.

Nyssa flopped back against the couch, groaning.

Dorian took one more swallow of the whiskey, then set it out of her reach, shaking his head at the taste.  "People come and go from Skyhold for all sorts of reasons.  Why is this particularly upsetting to you?  I know you were fond of...."

She closed her eyes, took a breath.  "Because I spent the night with him," she said in a small voice.  "And when I woke, he was gone."

Dorian went still, his grey eyes darkening.  Oh, he knew how that went, well enough.  The difference being that he had known each time what the outcome would be come the morning.  Clearly, Nyssa had not.

She sat forward, elbows on her knees, running her fingers through her hair nervously.  "I feel so stupid," she said, her voice tight and shaky.  "I'm not... I hadn't...."  She stilled, unable to meet his eyes.  "Maybe.... I just wasn't g--"

Maker.  She was ashamed.

Dorian shook his head. "Stop.  I refuse to listen to you running down my best friend."  There was anger smouldering in his eyes, but Nyssa could also see -- not pity, but understanding.  He put a hand on her shoulder.  "No matter what you may think or feel, it has nothing  to do with you, and everything in the world to do with his being a swine."

Nyssa shook her head bitterly.  "Everyone leaves me," she muttered.

"Nyssa...."

She looked over at him.  "Everyone, Dorian.  My parents... they couldn't get the templars out to take me away fast enough.  When I was in the Circle, I didn't.... I wasn't able to inherit but I had it pounded into my head that there had better not be any Trevelyan mage bastards.  So I wouldn't.... and my friend decided to move on to someone who would."  She drew a short, shuddering breath.  "And when the Circle dissolved -- my Aunt Lucille took me, just long enough to send me to the Conclave with my templar and clerical cousins.  They're all dead now."  She sat stiffly.  "So this, this being alone thing, it's not new to me.  But it still hurts.  It hurts that no one stays, ever."

He sighed, and there was something unreadable in his eyes as he slid closer and wrapped an arm around her, tugging her close.  "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, my dear.  Poor as that company may be."   He felt her start to relax against his shoulder fractionally, and patted her back gently, soothingly.  "And one of the first things we are going to work on, beside your perception that you are somehow unworthy of people's regard, is your pedestrian taste in alcohol.   Surely as Inquisitor you should have better ways to drown your sorrows!"

He sat there, soothing her, until she finally fell asleep.

[nyssatrevelyan]

Stone Hewn:  Divine Intervention?

I know it’s been aaaaaages, but a brief chapter update is here.

[nyssatrevelyan]

Abandoned

Chapter 6:  His Day in Court

For the first time since she had been called upon to pass judgment on others in her capacity as Inquisitor, Nyssa felt physically ill.  She’d been nervous before, as her word could mean doom or redemption for whomever stood before her.

As was her protocol, she always put on her formal armor, the gleaming gold scale mail, when she sat upon the Inquisition throne.  This was to divorce herself from her other selves:  the Herald of Andraste fighting pitched battled with demons and closing rifts to protect the people of Thedas, and Nyssa,  friend and confidante.

She was all too aware of the irony of her position – a mage sitting in judgment of (mostly) non-mages, and she was also all too aware that many had probably assumed her position would be to punish as harshly as mages had been punished.  But Nyssa tended the other way:  if there were some good that could come of sparing someone – if they could be rehabilitated – that was her choice.  That made her responsible for their good behavior, and they were carefully watched.  Some, like Gereon Alexius, had after a time become steadfast members – albeit watched to make sure their loyalties were genuine.  While she could have taken ‘revenge’, it would not make the point that needed to be made:  that there was a better way.

It had made her execution of Livius Erimond that much more emphatic.  He had truly been dangerous and unrepentant.  His magic made him too dangerous to hold.  As Inquisitor, she had not left his demise for others to carry out, but had done it herself with her ceremonial two-handed sword.    If she believed someone must die, she felt she must take responsibility for that decision as well.

[nyssatrevelyan]

Chapters: 100/100 Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Female Aeducan/Alistair, Female Aeducan/Loghain Characters: Female Aeducan, Alistair, Shale, Morrigan (Dragon Age), Wynne, Zevran Arainai, Oghren, Dog (Dragon Age), Leliana, Duncan, Sten, Nathaniel Howe, Sigrun (Dragon Age), Anora Mac Tir, Risa Aeducan, Loghain Mac Tir, Varel, Anders, Ser Rylock, Gorim Saelac, Shale (Dragon Age), Pyral Harrowmont, Bann Esmerelle Additional Tags: Implied Torture, Implied Sexual Content, Adventure, Angst and Humor, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Omniscient, POV First Person, Flashbacks, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Series: Part 1 of Heart of Stone Universe (Risa Aeducan's Tale) Summary:

Risa Aeducan, former princess of Orzammar, has a job to do. And she'll use whatever means are necessary to get it done. When she spared Loghain in the name of honor and conscripted him, she found she'd lost - and gained - more than she imagined possible.

[nyssatrevelyan]

Chapters: 11/? Fandom: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Trevelyan Characters: Cole (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus, Nyssa Trevelyan, Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford, Leliana (Dragon Age), Josephine Montilyet, Morrigan (Dragon Age), Ban Marcus Trevelyan Additional Tags: Angst Series: Part 2 of Tales of the Inquisitor Summary:

Nyssa Trevelyan wakes alone, in the stables.

**New Chapter -- I know it’s been forever.

The Proposal

“Inquisitor, Bann Marcus Trevelyan.”  Josephine ushered Nyssa’s father into her office.

Nyssa stood from behind the desk, where she had been seeing to some correspondence as she waited.  There had been a small table set with light refreshments, and set for two.  Nyssa gestured to the table and asked formally, “Won’t you sit down?”

Ban Trevelyan looked around the office.  It was clean and, except for the desk she had just stood from, orderly.  The immense library of books behind her were obviously well-used and just as obviously well cared for.  It reminded him rather of his own study at the Trevelyan estate in Ostwick.

Keep Reading on A03

He moved to the table and would have pulled out her chair for her; Nyssa simply pulled out her own chair and seated herself.  The look she fixed him with showed she had not forgotten her etiquette but instead was acting as the ruler of this fortress, not a lady of the court.

Not that she’d ever gotten the chance to be a lady, really.

“I will… leave you to your conversation.”  Josephine looked nervous about leaving the two together.  “I will be right in my office, should you require anything.”

------------------------------------

After Josephine had left in a soft susurration of satin and velvet, Nyssa picked up a bottle and asked, “May I offer you some wine?”

“Thank you.”  Marcus looked around the room again.  “This seems a good, quiet place to work.”

“One of the few here at Skyhold,” Nyssa said politely.  “Quite close to the Throne Room, convenient to the kitchens and wine cellar.”  She poured the wine into first his glass, then her own. “It’s an Antivan white – I find myself quite fond of it.”

Marcus sighed.  The small talk, if anything, was making this all quite a bit more awkward.  “I didn’t expect our meeting to be this difficult.”

“Oh?  How did you expect it would go?”  Nyssa was maddeningly correct in her manners, but there was definitely a cold undercurrent in her words.  Her hazel eyes were not angry, but guarded.  And for that, Marcus could not blame her.

The last time she had seen him, he had shut her in her room and turned the key in the lock.  It next opened when a templar and mage came to remove her to the Circle, and from what he had understood – it had not been pleasant.   He had been coward enough not to wait with her, not to explain – not to come out of his study until she was gone.  Still, it hurt to see her looking at him as if he were a stranger.

“I had hoped,” he said, stung a little, “that you might be happy to see me.”

“I am glad you seem well enough,” she said carefully.

Marcus took a deep breath, and marshalled his patience.  “I understand that you are angry with me –”

“Do you?”  She flicked her eyes up to meet his.  “I am not angry.  Not anymore.  What I am is profoundly disappointed in you, and suspicious at the timing of this visit.”

“Disa—”

Nyssa cut him off.  “You lived less than thirty minutes from the Ostwick Circle.  Other mages’ parents visited – not you.  Why?  Why did I have to hear what little I did about my own family from other mages?”

He looked away.  “It was a mistake,” he murmured.  “We should never have cut ties with you.  But you don’t understand – we were afraid.  If anyone found out….”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.”  Nyssa put her goblet down carefully.  “I understand that if it got around that the Trevelyans – the pious Trevelyans, with their templars and mothers, brothers, chanters and sisters – had magic in their blood, well, there would go the family reputation.  No suitable matches for my brothers, the family honor in shreds.  Better to pretend I had never existed – I understand completely.”

Marcus shook his head.  “No.  You don’t.  Your books, your staves, your clothes – we, I made sure you had everything you needed – the best of everything….”

“Except you.”  There was no heat to it, simply a statement of fact.

Marcus got up, paced.  “I’m going to make it up to you, Nyssa.”  He turned and looked at her.  “What do you know of the Bryland family?”

Nyssa’s head came up sharply, and she glared.  “No.”

“They are a highly favored noble family in Ferelden, and….”

“I said, no.”

Marcus looked exasperated.  “Nyssa, as your father, it’s my duty to make a good match for you.”

“Since WHEN?”  she flared, slapping her hand on the table and making the cutlery rattle.  “It was your duty to have me dragged off to the Circle!  It was your duty to cut ties with your only daughter and leave her to be raised by strangers!  So, when did it become your duty to have anything whatever to do with me?”

“Be reasonable!” he snapped.  “I’m trying to make it up to you, by making a good match….”

“No.”  She stood.  “You’re not trying to make it up to me.  When I was just a MAGE, it was convenient to have me put away.  Now that I am the Inquisitor, you think you can broker some deal to make things cushier for you.”

Marcus went red.  “The Brylands are expecting an invitation to Skyhold.”

Nyssa gaped at him.  “You invited them, before even meeting me?”

Marcus crossed his arms.  “Of course.  It’s a good match, you’ll see.  They are well-positioned in the Ferelden court.  You will have a….”

Nyssa crossed her arms, unconsciously mirroriring him.  “Uninvite them.  I don’t care about their position in the Ferelden court, and I don’t care about how this will affect the Trevelyans.  If they come here looking for a betrothal they will be sorely disappointed.”

Marcus took two steps toward her, his face crimson.  “You will….”

There was an awkward clearing of throat, and both Nyssa and Marcus turned toward the hallway.  Instead of an embarrassed servant, however, there stood Thom Rainier – beard neatly trimmed, well groomed, and wearing his gambeson with an Inquisition tabard over it.

“Forgive me, my lady, but you asked me to remind you that you were to speak to the newly arrived mages once they were shown their quarters,” he said politely.

Nyssa flashed him a puzzled look, and before Marcus could turn to catch it, Thom gave a slight nod of his head toward the door.

“Oh, of course,” Nyssa said, “Thank you.”  She tugged the bell pull, and a moment later Josephine appeared, looking momentarily flustered that Thom was present.  “Lady Montilyet, please escort Bann Trevelyan to his quarters.  I must go meet with the new mages.”

“At once, Inquisitor.”  Josephine smiled at Bann Trevelyan, though anyone who knew her would have seen she was bristling with curiosity.  “This way, my lord.”

“Nyssa—”

“We’ll speak again soon.  Duty calls,” Nyssa said, following Thom through the kitchens.

------------------------------------

As Nyssa followed Thom up to the battlements, she gave him a curious look.  “How…”

“Cole popped in on Varric and said something about you getting ‘too bright to see’.  Varric sent me to see to it.  I don’t think he wanted to pull ice shards out of his chest hair.”

Nyssa snorted.  “I was getting annoyed enough that if I’d not kept a tight rein on my temper, the temperature might well have dropped.  Seeing to the new mages – that was brilliant.  Perfect, considering the topic.”

“Oh.”  Earnest blue eyes turned to look at her, curious, but wary.  “I, uh, take it discussing family history did not go well.”

“It did not.”

They stopped once they had climbed the stairs, looking out and down into the valley at the army camp below.  It was pretty from up here at night – the glow of campfires seeming like fireflies.

“I imagine… he tried to reconcile with you?”

Nyssa turned, scowling.  “That’s what he called it.  I call it arrogance.”  She pointed across the courtyard to the keep.  “He is trying to marry me off to some Ferelden nobles!”

“I see.”  His gaze slid away, looking down at the army camped below.

Nyssa dropped her arm, looking at Thom.

“My lady,” he sighed.

Nyssa could feel the gulf opening between then, came closer to him in one, two strides, and laid her hand on his arm.  “Thom, don’t….”

He wouldn’t look at her.  “You shouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.  The Inquisition – well, one way or the other, it won’t last forever.  If you survive this, you should have…”

“I should have what?” she demanded, reaching up to cup his cheek, even if he steadfastly kept his eyes down.  “I should have another gilded cage?  I should have an arranged marriage that will benefit him, as it benefitted him to put me in the Circle?  I should give up the freedom I have – for what?  Velvet and silks, gems, and more people ordering my life for me?”

“You would have all the riches and comforts you’ve always deserved.”  He finally looked at her, and she could see the unspoken words in his eyes, everything I can never give you.

“Thom Rainier,” she said softly, “I have had the best of everything, as Bann Trevelyan put it.  The best robes, the best books, the best staves, the best ingredients….”

“You could have more.”

“I do have more.”  She reached up with her other hand, framing his face.  “I have a man who loves me for who I am, not what I have, not what influence I wield.  That’s worth more to me than pretty shoes and shiny baubles.”  She stood on tiptoe, leaning her forehead against his.

He sighed, letting his arms come around her.  “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly.

“You do.  And I deserve you.”

He chuckled.  “You definitely don’t deserve me, Nyssa.”  He kissed her forehead.  "What will you do?"

"Do?" She shrugged.  "Nothing.  It's his mess, let him clean it up.  He's treated me as some unwanted by-blow for twenty years.  I don't feel any obligation to him.  And even if he were to be foolish enough to bring the Brylands here, I have no problem with the scandal 'no' will cause him."  She stepped closer, hugging him tightly.  "No priest of Andraste would perform the rite once I said no.  Who can he appeal to?  There is no Divine.  To the King of Ferelden?"  She shook her head.  "Given that we are allies I don't think King Alistair would attempt to force it.   No.  Bann Trevelyan can extricate himself from this position he tried to force on me as best he can." Thom sighed.  "It will cause ill will between you and your family."

"A family in name only, these twenty years.  Anyone who cared about me is gone, blown to shreds at Haven."

She sighed.  "My, but won't Dorian love to hear this one."

He expelled a long, slow breath.  "Yes, of course.  I'm sure Lord Pavus will have a lot to say about your choices."

Nyssa looked up then, frowning slightly.  "Thom?  You're not jealous of him, are you?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes.  "Jealous?  Why would I be jealous," he said evenly, but she could hear the bitterness that underlay it.  "Man half my age, handsome and he knows it, a noble like you, a mage like you...."

"Who doesn't like me.  Not like you seem to think, anyway."  She looked slightly amused as she cupped his cheek.  "We are distant cousins, and very dear friends.  But that's all there is to it.  And I need an archivist I trust, and someone I can discuss magic with without being made to feel I am a naughty child for asking."  She chuckled.  "Trust me, you are not in competition with Dorian for my affections."  She touched her nose to his.  "Sit with us the next time we're arguing theory if you like.  I've not asked you because I feared you'd find it boring but...."

"You have the right of it," he chuckled, and she could tell that he believed her, even if he still doubted his own worth.

She kissed him, then tugged his hand.  "Come to the tavern with me," she wheedled.  "Bull and the Chargers will be there by now -- and Sera, too.  We'll have fun.  I could use fun."  She poked his chest through the gambeson.  "You could use it, too."

He inclined his head to her.  "As you wish, my lady."

[nyssatrevelyan]

Orange and cream

Awwww, thanks! 

I’m pretty easy to get to know, I think.... I’ve had a Hero of Ferelden Blog, RisaAeducan, and this one.  You can check out my fanfics at A03 under KatDancer, and ff.net under KatDancer2.  I’m currently working on NaNoWriMo, writing my Inquisitor’s tale.And thanks for liking my blog.  :)

[nyssatrevelyan]

He remembered.

He remembered, even though he had spent most of his adult life in a constant state of drunkenness, trying to forget.

He remembered the Cloud-heads strolling into Tapsters and how strange they looked there – humans, mostly – and an elf, and a Qunari of all things, and a gigantic wardog. In the best of times, few outsiders came to Orzammar. In the wake of King Endrin's death and civil war, NONE of them belonged there. Yet here they were, as if they belonged there.

He remembered how beautiful their leader was, with her dark auburn hair and those amazing emerald eyes. She looked like she could get knocked over by single deep stalker, as tall and thin as she was. And he'd been amazed at how the others followed her, deferred to her – there must be something special about her, though he couldn't see what, other than her startling, attenuated beauty.

He remembered their leader spoke to him, and when she realized that he was MARRIED to Branka, how her face had gone soft with concern. That had pissed him off, to be honest, and he spurned her offer of help as insincere. She still spoke to him gently, though – as if finding the Paragon WASN'T more important than helping him. That was odd – a very non-Dwarva point of view, to be honest.

He'd been at the Proving, where their leader, Elissa, had looked like easy prey to their best dwarven fighters. And he'd seen how agile she was, spinning and kicking, punching and throwing, leaping and dodging – her longer reach and faster speed leaving rogues and warriors alike spitting dirt, teeth and blood. And she knew about honor: rather than depend on her own people to back her in the melees, she had chosen Gwiddon and Baizyl, Harrowmont's champions and led them to a victory so decisive it could only be seen as the Ancestors' favor for Harrowmont and his bid for King.

He remembered the moment when he stood before her at the entrance to the mines, blustering about how she needed him when the truth was, he needed HER to find Branka, and they both knew it.

He remembered how in the end, when they'd found Branka, Elissa had refused to help the mad Paragon secure the Anvil of the Void – how she'd helped the Paragon-Golem Caridin destroy the Anvil rather than condemn a single new living soul to becoming a golem – a possession.

And recognizing that above all, she was right, and Branka was mad and would kill them all before she stopped… he'd killed his smith-Paragon wife – the one who had taken his entire house into the Deep Roads and fed them to the darkspawn one by one after she'd left him to become a laughingstock at home.

He remembered how Elissa had accepted him into their group and taken him from Orzammar – knowing there was nothing for him here anymore. How she'd stood patiently with him as he trembled outside in the sun for the first time, and said nothing while the fear of all that brightness and openness tore at him…

How she'd simply reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. Such a simple thing to do – so comforting. So wonderfully subtle, so the rest of her crew didn't realize he was about to piss himself in terror before she reassured him.

He remembered how she'd walked with him far from the confines of the fire, and how she'd listened to all his bluster, simply nodding and accepting. He remembered how she'd drunk with him, and how really, the liquor was far too strong for her, but she'd done it anyway. He remembered that when he'd started to cry, a weak, stupid and unwarrior-like thing to do, she'd just held him and kissed him on the forehead. And that was with him smelling of desperation, sick, and piss – as her fellow Warden had once commented.

He remembered she had nearly taken the Templar's head off for that, and said something that REALLY made him want to cry: "What makes you think any of us are any better? What makes you think I'm not half a thought from falling into the bottom of a bottle and never finding my way back out?"

He remembered how when he told her he wanted to go find Felsi, not only had she not laughed at him – she'd made time to go immediately AND helped him convince the girl to give him another whirl.

He remembered coming across her in the woods late at night when she should have been asleep, and seeing her silent, miserable sobs.

And he'd gone to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder, and kissed her on her fiery hair. The look she'd given him was pretty watery, but there was also recognition that yes, he knew what it was to lose everyone and yes, they'd make it through this together.

[nyssatrevelyan]

I remember that when Maric's bastard and that ragtag collection of misfits set foot on the blue and gold carpeting of the Throne Room floor at the Landsmeet, I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry – that Eamon was so desperate for power that he'd put his trust in… this. The last two Grey Wardens, too pathetic to have gotten themselves killed with their betters, a Circle Mage, an apostate, a drunken dwarf, the assassin Howe had hired to kill them, one of the Qunari, a redheaded Orlesian bard, and a strangely familiar golem. And at their head, cool-eyed and confident… Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. I'd known the girl at six years of age, who'd checked her game of tag with her elder brother to drop a gravely polite curtsey to me when her father called her over. She'd stood beside him, clear green eyes looking up at me much the way they were meeting mine now, and said very daintily that it was a pleasure to meet the Hero of the River Dane. That she was most honored to have met me. That she regretted it was time for her bath, and that she'd hoped to meet me again.

When I had met her again at Ostagar, I had been very brief with her, telling her that I knew Cailan intended to bring Howe to justice, while knowing that would never happen. The girl's eyes were dark with grief, although to her credit she did not allow herself the luxury of tears and emotion. I respected her – even if her father were toadying for the Orlesians. From all I'd heard, she was a good Ferelden girl, and no doubt would be a magnificent knight, were that her fate. She'd been polite and correct, wished me well, and let me get back to my planning. In her eyes, for an instant – a look confidence, of trust. That the Hero of the River Dane would prevail, and pull us all through this madness. Would that that had been true. It was mostly Howe who tried to destroy her. I did not know of Highever until she came to Ostagar; I was unaware of many of the attempts that had been made on her life, outside of the Crow. I should have known – I knew the kind of viper Howe was – how could I not? But I cannot let the blame rest with him alone. Ultimately, I was responsible, and nothing brought that notion home clearer than when I agreed to let the assassin after her. Agreement. Approval. And in that act, I took responsibility for every vicious, stupid attempt that Howe had been making on her over the past year. Had I objected, I have no doubt Howe would have proceeded anyway; but I gave my approval and so became complicit in the murders of the Couslands. And in so doing, I made a fatal mistake. The very thing that made me fight like a demon against the Orlesians, and win Ferelden free of them, was the righteous rage of a boy who watched Orlesian soldiers rape and murder his mother in collection of a tax debt. That simple act, defiling and murdering my mother, has driven me for forty years or more – and in Elissa Cousland's eyes I saw the same righteous rage – parents dead, sister-in-law dead, young nephew, dead… every servant and serf in the castle, dead. When she coolly offered to duel me herself, I should have remembered that rather than thinking of her inexperience and believing that I could beat her easily. To slay her would be a mercy – to send her to her family in the Fade – and then we could get on with the business of disposing of Maric's bastard, uniting Ferelden, and ending the Blight. Unlike Cailan, she had not been raised solely on stories and with privilege. She had been well trained with the blessings of father and mother both – for they had fought in the occupation to help win Ferelden free of Orlais. They were of a mind that it wasn't necessary, but best to be prepared should the worst come to the worst. And thank the Maker they had. Their little spitfire had assessed me calmly as we circled each other, and more and more I respected her and hated the only outcome – that she should lie dead before me, and the blue carpet would need replacing. That didn't happen. The girl was fast and accurate, and it seemed like the Maker himself guided her against me. She struck hard and fast, and scored against the weak points in my armor with every blow. There were a dozen passes between us, and with each one we learned more about the other. What I learned was disquieting – this was no child playing at war. This was a fury, vengeance personified – and I knew I had no defense from that. And then – I am not sure what she did, exactly, but she got in under my guard, too close, and as I stepped back to get room to kill her, she'd flung her arm up into my face, the pommel of – Maric's blade, I finally realized, as I slammed to the ground – Maric's blade, smashing up against the side of my jaw, and another blade, mismatched from the first, at my throat. Yet there was no hunger, no fierce joy in my defeat – only steady calm, and a touch of regret. And the relief in her eyes when I yielded – because I had misread her again. She was not standing over my bruised and beaten body, glorying in being able to finally strike SOMETHING dead for taking her world and life away. She was standing there as Ferelden… and for Ferelden's sake, she would end this civil war and Blight, doing whatever was necessary to accomplish that. What magnificent allies we would have been had I but known that was her goal, that was her agenda: save Ferelden. As it has ever been my goal.