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aymayzing · 26 days ago

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I Cannot Erase You, I Cannot Replace You

He tried to protest still. Get back on track with his plan, pull the reality towards what he imagined. I should go. So no one would see him leaving the room in the morning. So he didn't get too used to this. So he didn't get too hopeful. I thought you came in here ready to set the tongues wagging?, Lavellan laughed into his hair before placing a soft kiss at the back of his neck, pulling Dorian closer, tightening his embrace. Stay. Please. I want you to stay. But it'd end in the morning, right? It had to. Whatever bubble they were in for the night, it had to pop in the morning with Dorian leaving, pull them back into the harsh reality. It didn't.

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"Your taste is a little… austere."

It wasn't exactly the right word but the best one Dorian could come up with to describe what he was seeing. Lavellan's private quarters were simple. Nothing special really. Odd for a man with the titles Lord Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste. One would expect this man's quarters to reflect his titles' grandeur. To be dripping in gold, wrapped in finest silks, filled with marble.

This wasn't the case. The furniture in the room were the same ones Josephine had chosen and put in here right after their arrival in Skyhold. Their financial situation at the time was not ideal and so she didn't go for splendor and glamour. The furniture were well-made and sturdy but that's about it. No fine craftsmanship, no gold. They were also very few. A bed, a couch, a dresser. The desk and chair were so utterly covered in letters, reports and books that Dorian wasn't sure if it was right to count them at all.

Personal touches reflecting the inhabitant's character were scarce as well. Assortment of herbs drying in bundles under the ceiling. A box holding the neatly stacked equipment for brweing poisons. A small Dalish altar on top of the dresser. A few furs of differing sizes usually residing on the bed but due to their exertions, now kicked down onto the floor, mixed with pieces of their clothing.

"I'm not used to having this much space for just myself," Lavellan said. Dorian turned around to look at him from where he was standing a few steps away from the bed. He cut a marvelous figure, lounging around naked like that. Long legs, wide shoulders, muscled arms. The occasional scar cutting through the freckled expanse of his skin, inked lines of tattoos stretching out from his face onto his neck, from his back onto his sides. Warm light of the fire place catching on his long pale blonde hair. Dorian was sure he'd never get enough of this view.

"The aravel I used to share with my father was… Maybe a third of the size of this room? And it had to fit all of our equipment. I don't know a thing about room decorating. You, on the other hand." Lavellan jabbed a finger towards Dorian. "You probably do. Feel free to change away. Creators know this room should feel a bit more homely."

Dorian chuckled as he made his way back to the bed and sat down on the edge. "I'll speak with Josephine. I'm sure we can arrange for a new armchair or a chaise. Maybe something to hang on the walls as well."

There was a smile on Lavellan's face but he was watching Dorian closely. "You seem kind of… distracted."

"Sex will do that. It's distracting," Dorian fired back immediately, hoping it came off as certain and casual as he intended for it to.

It didn't.

Lavellan's smile vanished. The tattoos on his forehead rippled as he drew his brows.

"Dorian." It was a warning. He knew something was up and he wasn't letting it go so easily. Somehow, he always knew when Dorian was dodging a conversation and recognized when it wasn't a conversation that should be dodged. Or maybe Dorian was just always dodging the important ones.

Fingers gently brushing down Dorian's side, Lavellan leaned forward a bit, looking at him with worry.

"Is it about our fight?"

It wasn't a fight, not really. It was a petty squabble over a non-issue. It stemmed from the two of them being tired, already annoyed and overhearing a remark of an Orlesian noble who's name they didn't even know. It was utterly silly. Lavellan recognized that quickly enough. What are we doing? This is stupid, he said, shaking his head as he left to cool off. He focused on other things for the rest of the day and by the evening, he had largely forgotten this took place at all, looking forward to seeing Dorian so they could make up.

Dorian didn't recognize it for the foolishness that it was. For him, it was the start of a downward spiral.

What did Lavellan mean by that? What is stupid? The fight? Or them?

Was that it? It had to end at some point. Whatever was happening between them was, after all, a short-lived affair. It had to be. What else could it be? Lavellan had to shake out of it and end things with Dorian so he could focus on being the Inquisitor or pursue someone more suited for him, like Josephine, or maybe Cassandra.

Dorian, of course, tried very hard to convince himself he knew that too, accepted it and was fine with it. Except he wasn't. That lie he repeated to himself every time he left the Inquisitor's quarters, had run its course. Faced with the possibility that Lavellan had finally come to his senses, Dorian had to admit he didn't want things to end. He didn't want to let Lavellan go. He wanted things to stay as they were. No. He wanted more. More of what he already got and some things he has not yet gotten.

He just wanted Lavellan.

As foolish as that was.

But now he went and ruined it. If he just tried harder, maybe he could've kept him by his side just a little longer. Keep up the fantasy for the both of them – for Lavellan, that for now Dorian was a good enough affair partner; for Dorian that he succeeded, that he had Lavellan. He didn't and he wasn't and now, because he was also stubborn and spoiled, Lavellan realized what Dorian knew all this time. A rejection was coming and Dorian's heart twisted in pain at the thought. But what else did he expect?

By the evening, Dorian had already convinced himself Lavellan would not only put an end to their affair, he must also surely despise him now and would send him away from the Inquisition.

He didn't even remember what exactly he said when he entered Lavellan's quarters. Something along those lines but presented in his more casual, confident way. Like they had already come to an understanding and Dorian was just recapping that, wrapping it in a layer of jokes so it'd be digestible.

What he did remember was the way Lys' golden-green eyes changed as he heard it all. From the initial warmth at the sight of Dorian, through confusion, to something like panic. He flew through the room to Dorian, hands reaching out to him, grasping at Dorian's arms. He sat him down on the couch (which in his shaken state Dorian noticed had been moved to stand in front of the fireplace, when he could swear last night it was by the stairs; was Lavellan dragging it around the room? He could use an armchair. Maybe a chaise).

As Lavellan's hands were caressing Dorian's face, moving up and down his arms, the elf was apologizing. I'm sorry if I made it seem like it was such a big deal to me. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. It was so silly! I'm so sorry. You don't have to leave, what are you talking about? Of course, if you do want to leave, I will not hold you here against your will. But you don't have to leave. I don't want you to leave. You know that, right? I want you to stay. This fight meant nothing to me. I care about you. Please, stay. I'm so sorry.

Dorian's brain was at first rejecting what he was hearing. Surely, he must've misheard. That could not truly be what Lavellan was saying. No, Dorian knew exactly what Lavellan would say when he came here and it wasn't this.

So why was he hearing this?

Finally, Lavellan somehow broke through whatever walls Dorian's brain threw up in the past few hours. No wonder – he always found a way to strip down Dorian's defenses, get past them without Dorian realizing until it was too late. His brain caught onto how the situation was unfolding. It wasn't the way Dorian had earlier imagined.

And that wasn't surprising. Well, no, that's not right. It was surprising. It was shocking. Except it shouldn't have been. Not really. Lavellan tended to surprise Dorian. Defy his expectations. So maybe he should've seen it coming.

Dorian has, of course, heard about the Herald of Andraste even before meeting him that first time in the Redcliffe Chantry. He didn't spare him much thought before then but even still, unwittingly, his brain came up with a picture of the man he was about to meet. Sketched out his vague idea, expectations of how he'd look, how he'd behave. He could not recall now what that image was but it certainly wasn't Lavellan.

He knew he was an elf. Aside from that, not one thing did he imagine about the man right. He didn't expect a dashing rogue. He didn't imagine the man would be this down to earth. He certainly did not foresee the two of them joking about getting Alexius a fruit basket a few minutes into their first conversation.

Whatever stencil his brain came up, it had to be discarded immediately.

And then it happened again, in that dark future. Lavellan was no religious fanatic, he was a random person dragged into a gigantic mess, trying to make the right decisions in the very middle of it. He wasn't a divine knight rushing into the thick of battle in righteous anger. He was an archer, hiding in the shadows, keeping back, away from enemies. He didn't stomp down the Southern mages' rebellion, he allied with them, therefore legitimizing the whole ordeal.

And again. Back during that final night in Haven, under attack, Dorian imagined Lavellan as a martyr, dying heroically under tons and tons of snow. Maybe he'd be named an Anointed by the Southern Chantry, depicted the way Dorian saw his last moments in his mind – head held high, blade raised as snow was rushing close. But that image was wrong. The whole scene Dorian imagined was wrong. Lavellan didn't die. He got back to them. Undignified, shivering, with blue lips and dried blood caked on his temple, gluing together strands of his hair, unlike all those clean, smooth depictions of holy women and men the Chantry so liked.

And then again. When Dorian strolled into the Inquisitor's quarters after weeks, months of flirting, of him helping Dorian, getting wrapped up in his personal business with his father and then watching over him as he drank himself into a stupor.

Dorian had realized whatever he was feeling for Lavellan had began to drift away from friendship to something else. Something that caused his heart to beat faster whenever he caught Lavellan's gaze from across the room. That filled his chest with pride whenever he made him laugh. That made him feel both comfortable and at the same time rigid with anticipation when they were spending time together.

Back then he still tried to convince himself that it was just unbreached sexual tension. Most natural thing in the world, yes? Two attractive men, working closely together in a stressful situation. This called for some licking lampposts in winter, as the ridiculous Fereldan saying went. It'd satisfy them. Satiate their curiosity about one another. Calm them down and allow Dorian to put some much needed distance between the two of them.

Dorian had a very clear idea of what he came in that room for that evening. Expectations on how this would go. A step by step plan. Specific goals. It all fell apart within the first two minutes when Lavellan broke the kiss. My, so eager, he laughed then. Are we in a hurry? Dorian went back to the kiss, all hungry lips, teeth and tongue. I want you, he whispered to Lavellan. He pulled back a bit, grasped Dorian's face with both hands. I'm here. With you. You've got me already. You've had me for a while now.

Where Dorian aimed for a quick tumble, two people simply chasing release, Lavellan went for something much different. He took his time. They kissed long enough for Dorian to be left breathless, hands just roaming over their clothed bodies, slowly discovering each other. Then Lavellan guided them to the bed and they undressed slowly while kissing and laughing and looking into each other's eyes. In the time it took them just to get naked, any of Dorian's usual trysts in dark corners would've been done twice over. But this was not a usual tryst. Fear and hope both accompanied this realization as Dorian breathlessly whispered Lys' name again and again and again and again.

They laughed and kissed and swapped stories about their scars before going for seconds and by the time Lavellan crawled back into bed after cleaning them up, Dorian was half asleep, comfortable and safe, his chest swelling with something bright and hopeful. He tried to protest still. Get back on track with his plan, pull the reality towards what he imagined. I should go. So no one would see him leaving the room in the morning. So he didn't get too used to this. So he didn't get too hopeful. I thought you came in here ready to set the tongues wagging?, Lavellan laughed into his hair before placing a soft kiss at the back of his neck, pulling Dorian closer, tightening his embrace. Stay. Please. I want you to stay.

But it'd end in the morning, right? It had to. Whatever bubble they were in for the night, it had to pop in the morning with Dorian leaving, pull them back into the harsh reality.

It didn't.

Where Dorian thought the morning after would be awkward and embarrassing, Lavellan put him at ease. Where Dorian expected a hurried exit, Lavellan prolonged their goodbye by pulling him in for a kiss and one more and one more and one more and one more. Where Dorian expected to be thrilled to leave after accomplishing all that he set out to accomplish that night, he ended up not wanting to leave at all, drawn to the man like a moth to a flame. Where he expected inner calm and capacity to focus entirely on his studies and the Inquisition's mission, he found himself utterly distracted, thinking back to his time with Lavellan, looking around for any sign of the man, craving any scrap of his attention, wishing for another moment alone with him.

And then he got another night and another and another and another and another. And Lavellan would stop by to talk with him in the library, ask him out for drinks at the tavern, seek Dorian out to spend with him whatever breaks he could take from his duties. Out in the field, they fought side by side during the day and fell asleep in each other's arms at night. Dorian hasn't complained about being out in nature in weeks. He was happy he was where Lavellan was.

Whatever bubble they found themselves in that first night together, was, shockingly, still there.

That was the most surprising thing Dorian has ever experienced. And it was, of course, at the hands of Lavellan. Always surprising. Always defying expectations.

So is it any wonder that this man who always surprised Dorian, surprised him again when he began to apologize for their silly fight?

That fog of fear and shame that wrapped itself around Dorian had dissipated, relief flooding his senses. The only thing Dorian found himself able to do was kiss Lavellan, again and again and again and again. They ended up in his bed and Dorian knew now with unshaken certainty that he was in trouble. He had completely lost the plot. Lost his head. Found himself in circumstances he didn't anticipate, didn't foresee, could not have imagined.

A completely new path with no clear end and no directions was opening up before him.

All this was still buzzing in his head as he lied by Lavellan's side, their breaths evening out. As he had stood up from the bed, turned away from Lavellan and began appraising his room, giving himself a moment to breathe and gather his thoughts. As he sat back down on the bed, deciding to use the chance to speak with Lavellan.

Is it about our fight?

"No," Dorian said. "Yes," he changed his answer. Took a deep breath. "In a way?"

Lavellan shifted on the bed, sat up, mirroring Dorian's posture, preparing for a more serious conversation. Gathered his long hair and threw it over the shoulder away from Dorian, so he could see his face unobscured by the frankly ridiculous amount of hair this man had. He kept it braided when out in field and tried to keep it braided, or at least pulled back, in bed too but Dorian usually got his way and let them down. He loved running his fingers trough it, wrapping it around his hand, pulling slightly, just enough for the pressure to incite small, delicious sounds of out his lover's lips.

A good thing he was pulling his hair away from Dorian, he got distracted quickly when Lavellan's hair was involved.

"I'm curious where this goes, you and I."

“Where do you want it to go?” Lys asked softly. Dorian bit his cheek, considering the question.

“All on me, then?”

It was fair, he supposed. He brought it up. Maybe Lavellan would've even conceded to saying his bit first but Dorian worked up the courage to talk. A completely new path with no clear end and no directions was opening up before him. Uncertain. Leading into new and unknown territory. High risk, high reward. Terrifying. Yet hopeful and exciting. Promising so much of what Dorian craved so desperately. And he was willing to risk venturing down this path but he had to know if Lavellan saw it the same way.

Deep breath. Bracing himself for speaking aloud the truth he tried to keep from happening and then from acknowledging. He failed in that, of course. Clearly.

“I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise,” Dorian whispered, making sure to look anywhere but Lavellan's eyes. He shook his head. "We end it here, I walk away. I won't be pleased, but I'd rather now than later. Later…" Later I will be fully, completely, utterly in love with you. Later, you'll break my heart. And I don't know if I'll be able to pick up the pieces left by you later. "It might be harder to walk away later."

Dorian was sick to his stomach. Such vulnerability. Back in Tevinter, a conversation like this was unimaginable. Unattainable. It would leave him and his family exposed to an attack. Even here, even now, even with Lavellan, something in Dorian's brain was shrieking in alarm, warning him he was about to pay a high price for those words.

Fists clenching, nails digging into his palms, he took a deep breath. Just a few moments longer. He had to pull through just a bit longer and he'd knew.

Lavellan noticed this and put his own hand over Dorian's, thumb brushing the skin slowly, soothingly.

"I don't want you to walk away," Lys said softly.

Dorian whipped his head around, looking at Lavellan surprised. Yet again.

Of course the bloody bastard surprised him again.

Lavellan let go of Dorian's hand to shift on the bed, his body now turned fully towards Dorian, legs tucked under him. He grasped Dorian's face in both hands, their eyes meeting, fingers brushing Dorian's skin.

"I don't you to walk away," he repeated, softly but with a decisiveness to it. "Not now, not later." He raised himself up a bit which left him kneeling on the bed. "I want you. I want you to stay. Please, Dorian. Stay. Stay with me."

They looked into each other's eyes for a while, Dorian searching Lavellan's face, as if for confirmation. He seemed serious. Honest. How odd. How surprising.

How was Dorian once again surprised that Lavellan surprised him? He truly needed to get used to this.

The words were sinking in and the only thing Dorian found himself able to do was kiss Lavellan, again and again and again and again.

A completely new path with no clear end and no directions was opening up before them. Uncertain. Leading into new and unknown territory. High risk, high reward. Terrifying. Yet hopeful and exciting. Promising so much of what Dorian craved so desperately. And he was willing to risk venturing down this path now that he knew Lavellan saw it the same way. They'd risk this new path together.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #male inquisitor #male lavellan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x lavellan #pavellan #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age fanfiction #oc: lys lavellan #may writes #inquisitor x dorian #lavellan x dorian #lys x dorian

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catofadifferentcolor · 4 months ago

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Terrible Fic Ideas #93: Percy Jackson, but make it Dragon Age

Look. Contrary to all evidence I usually don't set out to come up with crazy crossovers, but sometimes my mind just seizes on a passing thought and will not let it go. Case in point: I've been replaying Dragon Age: Inquisition in honor of Veilguard coming out next month and had a passing thought wondering if anyone had ever tried mashing PJO and DA:I together. And so this insanity was born.

Or: What if Percy Jackson was the Herald of Andraste?

aka the From the Waters of the Fade fic

Just imagine it:

Everything happens according to canon until the end of MoA. As in canon, Percy grabs hold of Annabeth to keep her from being pulled into Tartarus... but unlike canon, she slips out of his grasp when he grabs hold of a ledge to check their fall. He lets go to fall in after her, but cannot see or reach her in the dark. They fall into the Cocytus seconds apart, but without Percy to shield her Annabeth dies instantly.

Percy, however, merely thinks they were separated by the current and travels through Tartarus looking for both her and the doors. It's not until the first time he allows himself to sleep that he learns the truth - and he vows to close the Doors of Death so that her sacrifice won't be in vain.

Canon continues apace - without Percy being ashamed of his poison powers because Annabeth isn't there to be afraid. He emerges from Tartarus determined to stop Gaia, though it's the kind of determination that speaks of immense misery and guilt being channeled into the one positive outlet he has.

(Though rather than the song and dance with the Physician's Cure in BOO, Percy takes a leaf out of Kronos' book and uses the Annabeth's cursed knife to carve Gaia into tiny pieces and scatter her to the winds - with the gods' help, after he shares his idea with Apollo on Delos.)

After the fighting ends, Percy falls into a deep depression. He manages to crawl out of it eventually - Dionysus and his powers of madness help a little here, as do Sally, Paul, and Estelle - and decides that rather than try to put back together the shambles of his mortal life, he'll stay at CHB as a sword instructor and (eventually) deputy camp director.

Fast forward to the summer Percy turns 24.

Things are going well. Though he's only taking classes part time, he's most of the way through degrees in social work and military history from NYU. The gods have done a good job of keeping their promises regarding their children and the minor gods, and even Athena has finally forgiven him for Annabeth's death. It looks like the start of a golden age.

All that is shattered when an unknown force enters CHB through the Labyrinth and kidnaps several of the youngest campers.

The alarm is raised and the demigods fight back... but several children are still taken, and Percy leads the group sent to rescue them.

The rescue attempt occurs while the kidnappers are camped next to a fissure in the Labyrinth, one which looks like it might go down to Tartarus if not for the acidic green glow it gives off. During the rescue, Percy falls into the fissure...

...and lands in the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Thedas.

And so Percy Jackson becomes the Herald of Andraste.

His intro to Thedas somehow manages to be even worse than his intro to CHB - but in their defense none of the others seem to realize he's not from this world until after The Wrath of Heaven, when he throws a bigger fit about being the Herald of Andraste than anyone expected from a human warrior. ("No, look: I can't be the Herald of Andraste. If I'm anyone's herald, it's Poseidon's - and I can't even be that because it's my brother's job and he's already worried I'm going to supplant him. Use my name or come up with a better title.")

Percy spends his first weeks in Haven confusing everyone around him. He's a warrior who uses a strange one-handed sword and rarely bothers with a shield - who is, in fact, more likely to use Annabeth's cursed knife as an off-hand weapon than anything else. He also has control over an element - water, in all its forms - that no mage in Thedas is known to have. And that's not even touching his strange armor preferences or references to an unknown pantheon of gods.

Only after In Your Heart Shall Burn - when Percy dumps an avalanche on the invading army without need of a catapult - do some start to believe he's from another world. Unfortunately, they take his off-the-cuff remarks about the Greek Gods, mix them with their Andrastian understanding of the world, and come to the conclusion that Percy is the grandson of Andraste and The Maker via their son, Poseidon.

("This is not what I meant by come up with a better title. Gods!")

The game proceeds apace, with the Inquisition doubling down with its heresy by claiming their Inquisitor is the Heir of the Maker.

Percy denies this at every turn, but everything he says is taken for proof of the new flavor of Andrastianism cropping up in the Inquisition. ("No, you don't understand, I used this knife to kill my despotic grandpa and his mom, neither of which was your Maker!" "Ah, Andraste must have been the half-mortal child of an Old God! I bet it was Zazikel!" "No, that's not what I- Sigh.")

In fact, the only one who believes that Percy is who he says he is at this stage is Dorian, who is eager to hear about the world he came from. They form a close friendship which slowly shifts into romance.

His actions in restoring peace throughout southern Thedas only encourage his new cult. Recruit both the mages and the templars and force them into peace talks? Why, that's what the Divine was trying to do! How holy of him! Close the rifts, fight Corypheus, and drive out the Venturi? Isn't that an echo of the first Exalted March? And so on.

Percy can feel himself being propelled towards apotheosis and nothing he does can close the floodgates.

He is a figure of awe and terror during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, the Orleasian court not knowing whether to burn him for heresy - and risk becoming the next Hessarian - or fall down on their knees in worship. Percy hates it but cannot deny its utility in forcing Gaspard, Celene, and Briala into a public truce.

He cannot deny its usefulness either during the battle at Adamant Fortress, when many of the Wardens refuse to turn their sword against the grandson of the Maker.

Even so, Percy, Hawke, and their companions still fall into the Fade.

They are led through the Fade by Annabeth, who has been residing in this space between realties ever since her death in Tartarus.

There is much info dumping, but it boils down to: 1) Chaos bore many children, which created many worlds, of which Thedas and their earth are just two; 2) Most spirits stay in the world of their birth, but some - those that don't go to Hades or Tartarus - are sent to the Fade, which eventually wears away at their memory until they become archetypes of whatever defined them most in life - anger, faith, valor, fear, &c; 3) When Zeus killed Kronos the first time, his spirit was trapped in the Fade. Kronos created Thedas, but abandoned it when he found a way back to their earth; and 4) Time does not move the same between worlds. Annabeth believes that Kronos' death in the Second Titan War spurred the Fifth Blight in Thedas, and Gaea's death at the end of the Second Giant War is somehow behind the Breach - either as a consequence of their deaths or as part of their plot to return to earth.

("So I really am the grandson of their Maker? Fuck.")

The sequence continues - without gathering the Inquisitor's memories, as he never lost them in the first place. Annabeth sacrifices herself to stop the Nightmare - and when that's not enough, Percy's rage at watching his friend die because of him a second time is enough for Percy to take control of the waters in the Fade and destroy the Nightmare once and for all, without any need to leave Hawke or a warden behind.

Percy had been angry at Corypheus before. Now he's enraged.

Storms and earthquakes batter Corypheus' forces across Thedas. Horses in the enemy's forces escape their stables. The sea becomes dangerous for anyone to sail.

The same single-focused rage that allowed Percy to end the Second Giant War takes over Percy now. Though he leads an army through the Arbor Wilds, he deals more damage than all the rest combined. He pursues Corypheus to the Temple of Mythal, pulls his lyrium dragon from the sky, and uses his powers to hold it in place as he beheads it. (Corypheus' agonized scream is like music to Percy's ears.)

They make it to the Well of Sorrows, the Sentinels being unable to stop a god-in-waiting.

After Morrigan drinks from the Well, they learn that with Corypheus' dragon destroyed Corypheus will be unable to change bodies. All that remains is a Doom Upon All The World.

Corypheus expends the last of his power to reopen the Breach, but Percy has slain two gods and multiple dragons at this point and has the might of a cult behind him. It is nothing for him to destroy Corypheus once and for all, using the orb to tear Corypheus apart and scatter his remains through the Fade much as he'd done with Gaea back on earth.

This is all that's needed to tip Percy over into godhood. Flush with power, he returns the Anchor back to the Orb before destroying both for good...

...which enrages Solas, though there's nothing he can do. Percy is divinity in truth, with faith and power behind him, while Solas lost the better part of his strength with the destruction of the Orb.

The war is over - and another begins.

The Inquisition disbands, but is largely reformed as the center of a new denomination of Andrastianism - one which acknowledges Percy as the grandson of the Maker, returned to Thedas to retake the Black City and pave way for The Maker's return. It's hard position to deny now that Percy reeks of divinity, and thousands flock to their banner. Mother Giselle is their new leader as Divine Joyous III.

Meanwhile the Chantry has finally regrouped under the banner of Divine Victoria (born Vivienne de Fer), and thousands flock to their banner in order to crush the heretics. A war of religion looms and nothing Percy can say will stop it from coming.

Part of him doesn't want to stop it from coming. Worship is a heady thing, for all he tries to cling to the things that made him human.

His friends help with this, but his friends are only mortal. Even Dorian, who Percy has come to love dearly, can only do so much, and refuses to be made immortal even if it means they'd have an eternity together. One by one they die, and eventually Percy is left all alone: a god amid a sea of worshipers.

(One day Percy will march on the Black City. One day he will wage war against Kronos and Gaea, who are gathering their forces to wage a third war on the Greek and Roman worlds of their original earth... but that is another story.)

Bonuses include:

Percy clinging to his mortality with raw, bleeding fingers. Each denial instead becomes more proof for those who would rather have present god than an absent one. The larger his cult grows, the more power Percy has to stop Corypheus. Percy is forced to sacrifice more and more of his mortality to save the world... and in the end it is all he can do not to become the very thing he despised.

Despite all the angst... humor. As Edith Hamilton says of the Greeks, "But never, not in their darkest moments, do they lose their taste for life. It is always a wonder and a delight, the world a place of beauty, and they themselves rejoicing to be alive in it." Percy is not as goofy as he is in canon, but then he is a young adult now. He's grown, but he's still happy to play and tease and live even in the midst of death.

The implication that the group which infiltrated CHB at the beginning are a group of clear-sighted mortals opposed to the existence of the gods. Some are relatives of demigods who died in the wars, others are opposed on religious grounds, and some just think western civilization is a scourge on the earth, but entirely mortal.

Percy being absolutely sure that Hawke is a demigod like himself - probably the child of the Old God Razikale. He has no idea how that might even work, but thinks it explains a lot about Hawke's power, to say nothing of the fact that Leandra doted on the twins but was far more critical of her theoretically oldest child. No proof is ever found for this, but things should be circumstantial enough that even Hawke starts to wonder about it once they learn of it.

And that's all I have - which, as usual, is far more than I ever thought I would. As always, feel free to adopt this plot bunny, just link back if you ever do anything with it.

More DA Ideas | More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

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