#nathaniel x warden

[azurechicken]

Nathaniel not being romanceable in Awakening means nothing to me (or to my Cousland for that matter). It doesn't mean he isn't romanceable at all. Awakening is just the beginning. It's the mutual pinning, the slow burn, the i met my childhood friend and now they are my enemy? They are learning. Learning to live with the tragedy of their families and their intertwined fate. Also learning about each other after such a long time spent apart. And they are casually ending darkspawn after darkspawn while doing so. Shamelessly ogling each other despite the gore. Honorable nobles to unhinged Wardens saving the world from the Blight. Childhood friends to brief enemies to unapologetically flirting colleagues. They will get together, but the narrative will end before they do.

[pinayelf]

A2 for amihan/nate from the sketch meme c:

Ty for this I really missed them 🥺❤️

(Also djfjfj sorry it’s late I’m such a slow drawer)

[crowetesque]

Backlog: I love imagining blorbos as Animal Crossing villagers based on their personalities.

[nowandthane]

Hi Thane! (It's my-dumb-obsessions/Silverbow). Feel free to ignore this if you don't want to do a poem for an OC, but since you've read the first half of Under Your Command, would you like to try one for Cariane Amell and Nathaniel Howe?

Imagery: silver and gold, blue; fire and rain; home, dreams, magic, blood (specifically the rhythm of tainted blood).

taking poetry requests <3

Hey Doc! I love doing poems for OCs, they're most (all??) of the poetry I write actually 😅 And ooh, I'm honoured you'd offer Cariane and Nate, I love them so much 🥹 Under Your Command for anyone who wants some great Nathaniel x Amell <3

Bound by oath, blood– the bodies that haunt me– we sway to the rhythm of a song only we can hear. Following your lead is easy; under your command, I rediscover myself anew. Once I burned with vengeance, yet now the rain washes away the sins that were never mine to carry. I wish to plead with you, a final request, that I may finally come home– Bind me to you, not by these shared words, or our tainted blood. Bind me to your heart, and you to mine. Perhaps we could dance to a different song– ours.

[knuttydraws]

Today's pro tip: if you feel uninspired, steal your friend's ship. Bonus points: your friend lives on the other side of the world so you are safe for another 5 to 6 hours. Brianna Cousland belongs to @kittynomsdeplume and Nathaniel Howe belongs in our hearts.

[storybookhawke]

If there's one thing I know about my Handers War AU prequel is that Nathaniel survives to the end of the war and finally gets to marry his lovely nurse lady, Corinne.

[perkeleen-lavellan]

Here's a little holiday spirit for everyone. You can now go grab the Love Across Thedas zine on itch.io for free, and find this artwork and much, much more inside, including plenty of fanfiction and digital merch.

@loveacrossthedaszine Extra thanks and much love to everyone who worked on the zine, but especially the mods.

(For anyone interested in what I was thinking when I was drawing this tune in below)

I wanted to do nanders because I pretty exclusively just do art about my player characters and their beaus otherwise. But nanders is one of those ships that I have been carrying my torch for since day one, or day 6 months in more like, with the pace I do my playthroughs in. Regardless, they were my favourite part about Awakening, and the greatest tragedy in Dragon Age is that they still haven't reunited for longer than 5 minutes in some dank darkspawn tunnel! So I set out to fix that.

I wanted to create a scene where the Amaranthine Wardens, my Mahariel and Zevran included, would go meet Anders in the middle after what happened to the Kirkwall Chantry, to keep him safe, and the team could finally get that more permanent reunion.

Due to my own headcanons the Amaranthine crew is also having a bit of an exodus, since they're in the middle of planning to go rogue from the rest of the Wardens. Oops :). All in all they're a bunch of outcasts right now, but they have each other.

And of course Nathaniel brought Pounce with them too.

[iamclarex2art]

Aravea and Nathaniel Howe 💖

A Dragon Age commission for @N7Addi from twitter ☺️

[morgandarcyarts]

I mean, she has a point.

[henshark-blog]

The HoF who spared Zevran is like this

HoF: You're a Grey Warden now

Nathaniel: what? No

Nathaniel: I wanted to kill you

HoF: You're lucky, I like that in men

[greypetrel]

Hiii 👁️👄👁️💜 Maybe: 🎄 spirits follow everywhere i go - or alternatively:🎄 oh, you fool, there are rules

Hello! Bet you forgot you sent me this, uh? 💜

WELL, it's here! After much consideration because I love the album that contains both these songs, I thought that the Yawning Grave just yelled Morrigan. A minor possible spoiler for the Arbor Wilds/What Pride Has Wrought but well. I'm not explaining whys and hows anyway.

Tis the prompt list

Oh you fool, there are rules.

[ Morrigan x Female Mahariel | 3.692 words | No trigger warnings - Hurt/comfort ]

I tried to warn you when you were a child I told you not to get lost in the wild I sent you omens and all kinds of signs I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you (You can run, but you can't escape) Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins (You will open the yawning grave)

Morrigan didn’t stall long in Skyhold, after Corypheus was defeated.

She had done what she must. That was it. She never meant to stay much longer.

She was grateful for Aisling, for her concerned expression as she told her that she would have tried to help her if she only had let her. Tried to fix whatever was done to her at the Well. Morrigan knew guilt when she saw it. It resonated deeply in her heart, and she was at the same time grateful and repulsed. It only made her want to run.

Run from that castle, run from another series of mistakes, run from companionship and friendship she still doubted she deserved.

Old books and ruins were much safer companions. They never talked back.

She wanted to believe the Inquisitor, be sure that everything could be fixed, that if they put their mind to it, they could have found a solution. Freed her from the cage of a past that wasn’t her own alone anymore, once again. She really did.

She wasn’t fool enough to actually do it.

Aisling knew not the extent of the magic that had been bestowed upon her. The extent of the control it could exert, how much she felt it deep in her bones, like the loose strings of a puppet. She knew, painstakingly well, for all the voices of the Well whispered it into her ears, that as talented as Lavellan was, as undoubtedly bright and creative with magic, she wasn’t powerful enough to break that spell.

None of her people was. No one else was, anymore. Save for… but he had vanished after the battle.

She thanked Aisling, told her words of comfort she didn’t feel, and of trust that in spite of herself she couldn’t convince herself not to mean. She at least owed her a nice goodbye. Kieran hugged her tight, and the elf stalled, caressing his hair and recommending him to listen to his mother. She whispered something in his ear, which made the boy giggle. Morrigan smiled: it happened much more rarely these days.

And before the first light of days could tinge the sky in pinks and lilacs, she took her son’s hand and left the fortress.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Leliana had waited for her, just outside the first outpost, before the descent to the valley.

She knew she didn’t have to go. She knew it well that right now, Skyhold was probably one of the safest places in Thedas. A place run by a person who knew her, knew partially the extent of what she did, could help her should something awry happen, should the Well decide to take full control of her. A person that loved Kieran and, she knew, would have gone out of her way to keep him safe and bring his mother back.

But she missed her.

She missed her and that choice of old, the separation, seemed now the biggest in a long list of mistakes she made. She had gained the knowledge she craved, and for what?

“I miss her.” She just told Leliana, too tired, to battered up to bite back something.

Leliana nodded, smiled in a knowing way that brought back memories, made her look like the young person she once was, and stirred some irritation.

“It was plenty of time you did.”

“Don’t tell the idiot.”

“Oh, I’m saving this bit of information for a special occasion, worry not.”

“If you hear from her…”

“You’ll hear first.” Leliana smiled. “You always hear first from her. You know it, yes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sneered, the pang to her heart finally enough in bringing some old bite back. “I wouldn’t dare implying I know more than the next Divine.”

“It’s been nice to meet you again, Morrigan.” She looked down, and smiled at Kieran. “To meet you both. Come say hi if you are in Val Royeaux.”

She travelled south for a couple of days, just to mislead any possible person who followed her.

And then, she headed straight to Amaranthine.

---

Nathaniel welcomed her warmly and ruffled Kieran’s hair, complimenting on how much he had grown.

Morrigan saw him frowning as the boy answered with a smile that was there for politeness, but didn’t offer any explanation to the fact. She couldn’t, not now. Not with him first.

“Is she here?”

“No.” He sighed. “Still Maker knows where. The last letter came from the Anderfels, but it was five months ago.” A pause, he looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Of course.

It was no surprise, after all: when she came to bid her goodbye in Orlais, Alyra had said she would have been gone for a while, and that communications would have been difficult. She had built a net of spies, but it wasn’t so widespread as to reach desolate places. In the Anderfels, Morrigan knew she had a handful of people in Weisshaupt, but nothing more. And, she couldn’t risk getting found or tracked.

Hoping she would have been there, waiting to magically fix her mess, had been childish and stupid. She wasn’t living in a fairy tale, she was no Vassilissa, as much as she had liked to pretend she was, as a child. As much as Alyra had made her feel like that. Such mishaps had already happened: the first time she reached her in Vigil’s Keep, Alyra had been in Denerim, impossibilitated to move before a week. They had managed three days together. Nothing more, and it wasn’t the only time they had missed each other. It was foolish to hope things could go differently.

“Very well. Can we stay the night, before leaving again?”

Kieran looked at her, snapping his head quickly with a face of disappointment. Morrigan knew perfectly well what he was about to say, and shook her head at him.

The room was found, and there were not many things left to do save opening the window, get a fire going, and bring their bags there, their cloaks to be washed. The same room she had occupied every time she had visited, finding it in the same level of readiness to be occupied.

She observed a dapple of sun shining over the white of the fresh linens. The air smelled like clean, as clean a that place -the whole castle actually- was. Kieran shook Nathaniel’s hand, very politely, and Morrigan wished him a nice afternoon and thanked him for his hospitality. He scoffed the formalities, but hesitated on the door before leaving. He turned towards her.

“She left orders, you know.” He told her, with a smile. “You both can stay for as long as you wish. Not a word of your presence will leave the walls, she described in no lack of details what will happen to snitches to all the recruits and the staff.”

“It sounds like mamae.” Kieran convened.

“The recruits still have nightmares.”

Morrigan joined the other two laughing at that, in spite of the glomp in her throat that rose knowing that Alyra had, in fact, thought of her. Of them both. She clutched one hand in the other and told Nathaniel that she would have thought about it, when Kieran asked her if they could stay.

“Just until mamae is back. Please, mother.”

The room was warm and comfortable, and no servant batted an eye when she asked for dinner to be brought in her room, leaving Kieran to go dine with the others in the great hall. She just walked him there, watched him taking place on a bench close to Nathaniel and in front of Velanna, answering politely to the question the others asked him. Smiling.

Some normality, at long last, or whatever normality she could ever hope to offer him.

The image only made the glomp in her throat grow.

And the glomp grew further when, back in her room, the servant returned with her favourite dish.

“Lady Warden-Commander left a list of what you and your son like to eat, my lady. Just in case.” The old woman smiled, sympathetically. “If you have other preferences, please let me know.”

Morrigan closed the door behind the maid, thanking her, and with all the dignity she had left, walked to the bed and sat down, elegant as a queen.

And then she let go, falling heavily back on the bed. It was fresh and plush: a room well taken care of, as if she was expected. Alyra left orders. Alyra said to the cook what to prepare her.

She wished she never went through that eluvian, all those years ago.

What god to pray for Mahariel to come back to her safe and sound and please, come back soon, she didn’t know anymore, but she was tired. Bone-deep tired.

Maybe she could rest. For some days, at least.

Kieran would benefit from a familiar place to cope with the lack of part of his soul. Faces he knew and who loved him to help him through the change.

Yes, she decided. They both would use some rest.

For some days, at least.

If that was yet another mistake, at least Kieran would have been happy about this one.

She ignored the voices telling her to go.

---

The days became weeks. And months.

Morrigan thought they were past hospitality, but looking better she realized both her and Kieran were a part of the Keep. Expected and wanted. Kieran had his spot in the Library, and everyone in the Keep, Wardens and not, automatically started to teach him whatever knowledge they possessed as if the child was a part of their environment too.

It wasn’t Skyhold, with the Inquisitor and Lord Pavus struggling to cut a free hour for lessons in busy schedules. No, here he was welcomed and expected during activities, at very regular timings Morrigan knew were something Alyra had started in the Keep. Everything happened at a precise time, as she would have wanted.

Her absence was a presence in itself, and it was soothing. It relaxed her, and the boy as well.

Kieran still cried because at night he felt the air too silent, and often crawled in her bed, to be soothed with a hug. He was growing old for that, Morrigan knew, and yet she had not in her to shun him away, nor to scold him because it was unbecoming for a young man his age to seek his mother when he had a nightmare.

No, she hugged him tight and caressed his hair until he felt asleep against her shoulder, like she did when he was but a baby. Everything felt more bearable, more worth it, when she held him like so, alive and breathing and free.

She missed him tenderly when he was a baby, those days. She soothed him and soothed herself as well.

She missed tenderly the exact look Alyra made when she first saw him: she had melted down, the usual air of harshness crumbling in something tender and marvelled. She never looked smitten, not with her and not with Alistair. She had looked so with Kieran. She had smiled, and poked the baby’s nose with such delicate tenderness that Morrigan had burst in tears.

“If you haven’t heard from her… But I’ve written her, too. Told her you’re here.” Nathaniel said, one day when she asked again whether he had news or not. “You know her safe spots, she’s gonna return as soon as she’ll read the letters.”

“Is she?”

He sighed, deeply, stopping to look at the Wardens training in the courtyard, at Velanna crouching in front of Kieran to correct his grip on the staff. Everything went on like normal, like one would expect. A clockwork fortress that stood its ground, brought to discipline by a missing Commander and kept so by her lieutenant. Nathaniel looked that much older, and it wasn’t just the Blight paling his skin, starting to paint his black hair in grey at the temples. Command didn’t really suit him: he could do it, he had been grown for it. It was clear as day, knowing him, that he didn’t like it.

“I hope she is.” He answered, tone lowering. “What are we going to do if she isn’t?”

Morrigan considered. She didn’t want to, but it’s been seven months since the last time anyone had any news from Mahariel. The whispers in her ears told her nothing useful: tales and whispers of Deep Roads, and creatures slain, something stirring, deep down. The possibility that it was too much, even for Alyra, was concrete. More than concrete.

But she knew perfectly well what she would have answered.

“We stop being stupid about it and go on.”

He laughed, bitterly, and couldn’t but agree with her.

They went on, but Morrigan still didn’t feel like leaving, even if everything told her she should not stay any longer, she was being stupid about it, waiting for a person that would have never come back.

She once thought that her plans wouldn’t have allowed her to stay more than a handful of months in one place, but as per now, she wasn’t sure what were her plans anymore.

So, she just listened to the voices from the Well, concentrated on them and tried to interpret them.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but all she could devise was one word.

Stay.

It seemed a fitting excuse to be stupid about it and listen.

---

Something was  on the bed, crawled into her arms.

She sighed and shifted, still more than a half asleep, she shifted her arms on the figure, rested her chin more comfortably on the head, thinking it was Kieran.

“Another nightmare?”

“He had one, but he’s asleep, right now.”

It was enough to make Morrigan jolt awake, every trace of sleep instantly gone. She snapped her fingers and a ball of fire started in the air, balanced on the palm of her hand to illuminate the rest of her bed.

Red hair, glinting orange and golden in the firelight, carefully braided in an intricate motive to stay out of her face. A practical style, a travelling one. Dark tattoos marking her brow, making her features less minute and delicate than they were. Beside her eyes, usually, but tonight those eyes were mellower than their usual.

“You’re-” There were at least ten thoughts in her head, but the whispers were loud and insisting, hissing about alarms and danger and wrongness, and she grew distracted. “Am I still dreaming?”

It was all that she managed to spit.

Alyra Mahariel, the Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, survivor of yet another mission everyone with some brain would have deemed impossible, frowned at her. She rose on one elbow, the shoulder of her nightsuit daintly slipping off a shoulder. Muscly, but less than Morrigan remembered. She looked thinner, more ghastly, the bags under her eyes were darker and her cheeks looked hollow, and the Witch knew it wasn’t just the light. If all, the light masked how more grey-ish her skin had gotten.

“it depends.” Alyra extended a hand, hesitating just a moment, just to see a nod from the other, before cupping Morrigan’s cheek. “Is it a good dream?”

A thumb caressed Morrigan’s cheekbone with tenderness, the pressure barely perceptible. The elf slid forward, very slowly and carefully as if she was afraid of startling a wild animal. Her face grew closer, her lips parted, but still she stopped at but a breath space from a kiss. She brushed her lips with her own, and waited for the other to consent. As she had done from the start, inviting but never pressing.

It made the glomp in Morrigan’s throat only bigger, as she realized that it was really Alyra, not an impostor. Her breath on her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on her cheek were not a dream. The whispers were more pressing, insisting on the verge of deafening: they spoke of decay and death and wrongness, and danger. Morrigan had seen her slice so many throats, kill enough people in cold blood to say the Well was wrong.

But that wasn’t the whole of it.

The Well knew many things, but the Well didn’t know everything. Not the care in which she cupped her face, not the love in which she still waited for Morrigan to take the first step, without forcing her or making her feel trapped or pressured. That little choice she gave her, knowing how important it was for her.

She waited in Amaranthine for 7 months, and for 7 months she endured and kept strong, hid under the carpet all the negative.

Only then, 7 months after Corypheus had been slain, 9 since she drank from the Well and lost her freedom yet again, in front of that little tenderness, Morrigan allowed herself to cry.

She folded forward, and the fact that she was met with a solid shoulder and arms that held her, made her cry more. She circled the other woman’s bust and held her with all she had in her. She didn’t remember the last time she cried like that, so loud and intensely. She held Alyra like she would have disappeared again if she let go, and squeezed her past the point of comfort. She had missed her, missed her so much that the voices in her head felt more distant, more quiet.

“What happened?”

She asked her, tenderly combing her hair with her fingers -stiffer than her usual, Morrigan didn’t want to know whether she was just tired or her mission had failed and the Blight was starting to get hold of her. She couldn’t face it, now. As the elf patiently waited for an answer. Morrigan felt the deep, satisfied sigh, her frame melting against hers, as if she too hadn’t relaxed in ages and was waiting for it.

“I-” She started, but the words died in her throat. She didn’t want to know, but she had to. She needed at least one thing to go right, in the grand scheme of things. “… Did you succeed?”

She didn’t need to specify in which exactly. And she hated the whiny tone the question came out from her mouth with. It was pitiful and pathetic, and she wasn’t a person who begged. She could care later, tho.

“Avernus has it. A last round of control.” Alyra answered, her arms holding her tighter. “… I have the Cure.”

Morrigan started crying again, fat tears surging instantly to her eyes, as some weight she didn’t realise she was carrying lifted from her shoulder. Alyra disentangled from the hug, still as quick and agile as ten years ago in her prime, and moved to cup her cheeks and delicately pull her head so she was looking in her eyes. Her eyes were shiny too, and she looked tired. Bone-deep tired. But less stoney than she had seen her ever since she first met their son. She pushed forward and gently nuzzled her nose with her own, stopping as usual but a breath away from her lips. Morrigan, this time, didn’t hesitate: she filled the distance and kissed her, her taste all so familiar and soothing. Finally, after three years.

“What happened to you?” She broke the kiss, but didn’t stray far, delicately kissing tears away from her cheeks. “You’ve missed me before, but you haven’t ever cried like so. Not even when I told you I couldn’t follow you through your mirror.”

Morrigan sighed, pressing forward until her face drowned in the crook of the other’s neck. Alyra shifted, urging her to lie down after a while that they hadn’t moved. Her back ached, she said: she had ridden fast and hard all day, and they weren’t all that young anymore.

She settled them under the covers, tugging the hem on Morrigan’s shoulder with just one hand. The other arm held her close all throughout, as if she knew she needed to be this close, hear her steady heartbeat under her ear, when she moved.

Satisfied, she settled more comfortably around the witch, holding Morrigan as she kept combing her hair with her fingers, absent-mindedly. Tracing circles on her skin. Pressing a kiss where she could, every now and then. On her cheek, jaw, neck and shoulder. She even started to humm a song: a familiar tune she had sung to Kieran every time she was there to tuck him to sleep.

Three years since they last saw each other.

Morrigan could have written more, or could have travelled to meet her. She could have travelled with her, even. She could have stayed in Amaranthine, 10 years ago when they met for the first time after the Blight. Alyra couldn’t move, but Morrigan could have stayed. She wondered what could have been, if she had. Kieran growing up happy with people he could have called family.

She could have done so many things more for the woman in her arms, the woman she loved.

And yet, as cruel and ruthless and unforgiving as her fame said, Alyra Mahariel never put an ounce of blame on her. She was crying, so Alyra held her and soothed her until tears stopped.

She wondered if she would have done the same knowing what she did at the Well of Sorrow. Knowing that she took the Well away from two Dalish. The Well and the voices whispered she was theirs, that the illusion that she belonged with her was just that. She belonged to them, now. It was foolish to hope anything else. Such was the price she paid.

Bile rose in her throat, the thought of losing her love unbearable and anguishing.

But once again, she had to know.

Hunger for knowledge was what would have brought her demise, ultimately. And it was better now than later, she thought. Even if it was the most terrifying thing she had ever done.

Her hands fisted in the cotton of her shirt, a silent plea not to go, to stay where she was. Four words that weighted like the whole castle slowly creeped out of her lips.

“I made a mistake.”

[pinayelf]

this is 100% their dynamic nate will stand with his cancelled wife no matter what lol

[infinityoftwo]

A Continuation?? Redraw?? of this. Velanna finally got a coat

[inquisimer]

Happy DADWC!! if it strikes your fancy how about "you need someone. let me be that person. let me be what you need" for Cousland x Nathaniel? I'm absolutely weak for this ship. Or for any ship that inspires you!

thank you for the prompt! I am also weak for this ship, it's just got so much Potential in so many directions. A little ✨tension✨ for @dadrunkwriting tonight >:]

-

Ember drove her sword against the training dummy. Again and again, spinning and ducking around imaginary assailants that were all too real in her mind. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin, soaking through her loose cotton shirt.

"Ember? Are you--woah, woah!"

She hadn't heard the door open and on instinct whipped around, bringing her sword straight to Nathaniel's throat. He held up his palms, holding her gaze as she panted, the haze in her eyes fading as she came back to herself and dropped the blade.

"What is it?"

"I saw the lights," Nathaniel said, tracking as she filled a small dipper with water kept cool by a frost rune. "It's late. You should be asleep."

"Can't."

"Is this going to help?"

Ember shrugged. "Can't hurt."

"Em..."

"Oh, don't start," she scowled. "Of all people, you know why it's like this. I'm doing what I can."

"I know you are." Nathaniel came to her side and gently caught her by the shoulders, spinning her to face him. "But there are better ways. Ways that aren't physically exhausting yourself to avoid thinking. You just have to ask."

"Ask who?" Her voice was pained and she closed her eyes. "You?"

"You know that you can--"

"How, Nate? How is that fair to either of us?"

He smiled at that; she heard the little chuckle that accompanied it.

"Haven't you learned by now?" His voice was much closer than she expected; Ember's eyes snapped open as his breath ghosted over her lips. "The world won't be fair. We don't have to play by those rules."

And then he was kissing her. His hands slid up and tangled in her hair, already knocked half loose from its knot by her exertion.

Caught off guard, she was still and unresponsive for just a beat too long, then there was a loud clatter as her sword fell against the stone and she kissed him back, a messy tangle of teeth and lips. She hooked her thumb in the waistband of his trousers and nudged him back until he hit the the closed door. They broke apart, gasping.

"This is," Ember murmured, tongue chasing the taste of him on her lips. Nathaniel's eyes traced the movement hungrily. "A terrible idea. For so many reasons."

"Don't you ever stop thinking?" Nathaniel growled. She opened her mouth with a sharp retort, but he swallowed it, swiping his tongue into her mouth. The kiss was both forceful and gentle; underneath his assertion, she could feel the concern and worry he was masking. She jerked away, nipping at his lip and smirking when his hands tightened in her hair.

"Can't stop thinking," she said. "That's a good way for a Warden Commander to die."

One of Nathaniel's hands slid out of her hair, down her neck and the length of her arm, and came to rest against her hip. With fingers so deft she didn't even feel it, he pulled her badge from the clip she always wore there. He held it up between them, the reflected torch light glinting off the silverite.

Then he threw it across the room. It smacked a training dummy in the face and clattered to the floor.

"Take the night off," he said, and spun her around so he could kiss her thoroughly against the door.

[sulky-valkyrie]

Happy Friday!! For DADWC, maybe "I thought you said we had something worth fighting for- was that just another lie too?" for Anders/Nathaniel? 🥺

haiiiiiiii Gin, have a sequel to this for @dadrunkwriting

screenshot yoinked from this video, which is a delightful animated banter compilation

Trusting you was a mistake.

Anders’ parting shot and rage in his voice would've broken Nate's resolve if Loghain hadn't grabbed his elbow.  This contingency plan had been his wretched idea, brought up last night while they'd listened to his frantic pacing one room over.  Anders had said getting Karl out was the goal, that he'd burn the city down to see him free, so Nate had agreed to it as a last resort.

A last resort.  Not a bargaining chip to be tossed out at the merest hint of disagreement.  He barely heard, barely cared about Loghain and the Knight Captain's conversation as they walked through the same gate Anders had been dragged through moments before.  

“There's a list of the recently Harrowed in the Knight Commander’s –”

“Not necessary,” Loghain interrupted.  “I want someone seasoned.  A known quantity.  Already trained, not some barely housebroken robe barely able to tie his boots.”

Anders was more than that, you bastard.  He is more.

The Knight Captain cleared his throat.  “Traditionally, Wardens recruit from the Circle those who haven't yet proven themselves assets due to the risks of losing such valuable skills.”

Nate opened his mouth to snarl that they aren't assets, they're people, but Loghain stepped on his foot, grinding his mailed boot against the bone with an insincere apology, before sighing at the Knight Captain.  “A spirit healer should more than make up for any loss of revenue.  I want a list: men who've been Harrowed for at least five years with no disciplinary history.”

“Men only?” The Knight Captain's eyebrow arched up curiously.  “Are they better Wardens than women?”

Nate briefly entertained a fantasy of watching Velanna melt his eyeballs from his sockets as Loghain made up some drivel about recruitment quotas.  In truth, men made less dangerous Wardens, not better ones, but darkspawn breeding habits simply weren't a thing to discuss with the uninitiated.  

The Knight Captain sighed and changed course.  “Elsa would know best.”

“A moment.”  Loghain paused to fish a sealed letter out of his pouch.  “Give that to our former companion.”  He glanced at the Knight Captain.  “I assume he's been taken to your holding cells?”

The wax seal was imprinted with Brosca’ own signet (a stylized middle finger) and it wasn't addressed to Anders, but Nate.  He took the letter and he hid a frown.  This hadn't been in the plan.  In fact, they'd barely had a plan at all: trade Anders for Karl if they had to, then break Anders back out.  Details hadn't been important when they'd discussed hypotheticals last night, but now, the hypotheticals had become practicals, and only Loghain seemed to have any idea what was going on.  “Yes, ser.” He glanced at the Knight Captain, then quickly away.  The expression on his face when he'd cast that smite on Anders had been nothing short of cruel glee, more sickening to see than the way Anders had gone gray and stumbled into his captors’ grip.  “Where are the cells?”

“Up the right, down the hall, and on the left.”

Nate beat a hasty retreat.  An older Templar with steely gray hair was guarding the cell, though guarding it was a generous description.  He sat on a chair with his back to the opposite wall, arms folded, and head tilted to rest against the stone.  “Ready?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“For what?” Nate asked.

The Templar sat up in shock.  “Then you’re not…” he trailed off as his eyes traveled over Nate’s Warden armor.  “My mistake.  Knight Templar Emeric, at your service.”

What the void is going on?  “I’d like to speak to An – the prisoner.  In private.”

Emeric didn’t argue with him, just stood up and nodded crisply.  “Take your time.”  With that, he walked out.  What the void is going on?

Nate unfolded the letter as soon as the jingle of Emeric’s armor faded down the hall.  Another paper was inside, unaddressed and sealed.  Nate tucked it behind the message as he read Brosca’s blocky handwriting.  And read it again. 

Carta smuggles lyrium in through Templar barracks.  Been paying out my own pocket so they smuggle some other things out too.  Find the one who knows about Harrith. Give the other letter to Anders.

Did Brosca plan this?  Or just plan for it?  Did Loghain know?  Is that why he insisted on coming along?  The Commander hadn’t even been at Vigil’s Keep when they’d left, so he must’ve had the letters already.  

With more confidence than he felt, Nate approached the bars.  “Anders, I’m getting you out.”

The cell didn’t even have a bed.  Just two stools and manacles embedded in the walls.  Anders sat on one of the stools and stared at the ground.  His left arm hung limply at his side, shoulder still dislocated, and, even in the flickering torchlight, Nate could see a bruise darkening his cheek.  Maker, he's been in custody barely twenty minutes.  “Fuck off, Howe.  Just take Karl and go.”

“Loghain's taking care of that.”  I hope.  “And I'm taking care of you.”  I hope. 

“Taken care of me enough, I think,” he snarled.  “Don't worry, they'll finish the job.”  He hiccuped and covered his mouth as he shuddered.  “They must lace their magebane with something; even if I had mana, it'd be hard to cast when I feel like I might throw up any minute now.  Good thing for the both of us, I guess.  Asshole.”

Nate held up the smaller letter.  The movement caught Anders’ attention, and he glanced up before flicking his eyes away with a scowl.  “Brosca sent this.  For you.  Loghain had it.”  He tossed it into the cell.

Anders watched it flutter to the ground but made no move to pick it up.  “Don't want it.  Don't want anything from you.  Or them.”  He turned away, wincing when his arm brushed the edge of the stool.  “You didn't have to come.  Neither of you.  Could’ve just let me go, and probably got the same result: me, gone.  But no, you had to tag along, and for what?  Just make sure they did it properly?  You going to stay and watch the branding?  Report back that the infamous apostate and troublemaker is done for?”

“It wasn't –”

“You said you cared, Nate,” Anders interrupted softly.  “That we – that Karl and I had something worth fighting for, and, Maker damn me, I believed you.  When did it change? Or was it always a lie?  Would you rather see me dead than with anyone else?  Was that it?”

Nate rubbed his face.  “I'm trying to get you out, Anders.”

“You fucking put me here.”

The clank of Templar boots startled them both. “Just read the fucking letter,” Nate hissed before turning around.

It was Emeric again.  He was sweating and his cheeks were red, as if he was unused to running.  “I said take your time, but the Knight Commander is not happy about your choice of conscriptee.”

Nate glanced down at the message again.  “I’m looking for someone who knows Harrith?”

“Thank the Maker,” Emeric sighed.  He pulled out his keys and unlocked Anders’ cell.  “Nothing to be done about the magebane, I’m afraid.  Or your arm.”  He frowned as Anders stood up.  “Or your face.  Wilmod and Mettin are… overzealous.  It wasn’t like this when I joined.”  

As he stepped out, Anders muttered something that sounded like, “heard that before.”  The letter was in his hand and open.  He didn't look pleased about its contents, but Nate couldn't care less what he thought as long as it got him out.

That said, he couldn’t simply ignore his injuries.  He pulled a small healing potion from his pouch and held it out.  Anders stared at it for a few moments then rolled his eyes.  “The void am I going to do with that when I can't use my fucking arm?”

Asshole. “Generally, you drink it.”

Emeric shooed them down the hall.  “Keep going, lads; the tunnel is behind my wardrobe and it gets harder to move myself every year.  You know, I haven't done this since Maddox's – nevermind.  Used to be one or two a month before Commander Stannard and her roll calls and mandatory counts twice a day, and when Maurevar was doing it, we could slip out one a week to the Collective.”  He paused at the door.  “Harrith visited when he was dying.  Lyrium, you know.  It kills us all eventually, either from too much or not enough.  They told me everything.  The Carta, the Collective, the deals.  It's never been enough, but it was the best we could manage.  I took it over…  oh, about six years ago.  Easy money, I thought.  But it wasn't.  Instead I just see all the mages I can't help.  The ones the Collective doesn't know about.  The ones who can't pay the Carta for protection.”  

He shook his head as he walked to the edge of the wardrobe and pushed.  It barely shifted an inch, and he sighed as he glanced at Nate.  “That Warden strength might come in useful right about now.”

Nate stuffed Brosca’s letter in his pocket, then moved next to Emeric.  “Where's it going?”

“Just away from the wall.”  Emeric stepped back and grabbed a lantern.  

It scraped on the floor as Nate shoved it across the room to reveal a stone archway.  It looked like the opening had been plastered over years ago, and he ran his fingers over it skeptically.  “Your entrance is lacking.”

Anders snorted.  “That's what she said.”

“You think a smuggler tunnel would survive if we just hid it with furniture?” Emeric chuckled.  He turned to hand the lantern to Anders, frowned at his limp arm, and set it down on the desk.  “It's a rune.  Designed by one of the first mages Maurevar helped.  Said he learned it from the Wardens.”  He pulled a knife off his belt and slashed his hand.  “Responds to lyrium infused blood, so only a Templar can open it.  And no Templar would be foolish enough to wound himself in the presence of an apostate, of course.”  He cut the back of his wrist, then smeared it on his fingers before touching them to seven spots on the wall.  It glowed green, then vanished into mist as he gestured toward Anders.  “The tunnel leads down to a small harbor.  Take the skiff and follow the shore away from Kirkwall until you reach a cave marked with dwarven carvings.  The Carta know the boat, and will take you wherever you need to go.”

Nate grabbed the lantern.  “Let's go, then.”

Anders shook his head.  “Get Karl out.  I'll meet you at the inn, Andraste willing.”

“You're just – what if it's a trap?” Nate spluttered, then glanced at Emeric.  “No offense intended, of course, just – Anders, are you certain?”

“Get. Karl. Out.”  He pressed the note into Nate's palm.  “We'll figure the rest out later.  Or not.  I don't care.”

He looked down.  More blocky script.

If he doesn’t bring you back, he dies.  My word as a thief.

“Well,” Nate mumbled.  “And here I was thinking death threats were behind us.”

Anders grinned sadly.  “Welcome to the Wardens.”  With that, he ducked under the archway and disappeared into the dark.

[justagayfish]

With Dreadwolf (Veilguard?) taking place after such a big timeskip, it felt right to introduce a hypothetical elf baby into my Warden's life

[Nathaniel (he/him) x Sorthorn (any)]