#night and day compared to fane X'D

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Hello, all! Happy Wednesday, and I hope everyone’s had a decent week so far! :D I’ve still been getting over a lingering head cold, so what I have to share is short! Writing is hard when your brain is laced with cold medicine. X’D

Thank you @noire-pandora for the tag! <3

So, I’ve been replaying through Dragon Age in anticipation and as such, the idea cauldron has been bubbling! May I present my dear Warden daughter! *flourishes with hands*

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Elise hated letters.

The sight of the Vigil’s carrier bird filled her with dread on any given day, reminding her of the world outside and all its fatal trappings. Sometimes messages only relayed the going-ons of farmholds, small scouting patrols, or the city of Amaranthine’s reconstruction. Those forms of letters only made her sigh with equal parts anxiety and exasperation.

Anxiety, for had she lost a group of men, squandered their lives chasing false leads of darkspawn that still lurked and ravaged? Exasperation, for the nobles of the Bannorn were relentless in their pursuit to see her crushed, to the garden she was attempting to revitalize trampled, entirely forgetting it was they who nearly destroyed themselves and all of Ferelden with their petty politics. She enjoyed neither feeling, but be it anxiety or exasperation, she would not forsake her duty, her commitment. She was Warden-Commander, and she had faced far worse to bow her head like she used to, locked away with nary a thought beyond stone walls and blazing insignias. Sadly, there was…one form of insignia that would forever take her back to the days of meekness, of crippling anxiety, of near subservience.

And that insignia was the crest of the Crown–of Fereldan royalty.

Elise currently sat upon the battlements of Vigil’s Keep, bundled up in the thickness of velvet and heavy fur. She leant her back upon one of the stone blocks, body wedged in the narrow, but not too narrow space afforded for the placement of archers and their bows. The position she was in, legs pulled up to her chest and arms tucked into her sides, would make most people cringe, thinking it uncomfortable. However, she found safety in it; she always had.

Only a year hence had she done the same in the Circle Tower, seeking out the quietest, smallest, most unnoticeable nooks in the library, and whittling away the dull hours between lessons and never-ending scrutiny with a pile of tomes and scrolls. Jowan or Anders would eventually find her, eyes full of exasperation and voices full of reprimand, but eventually, they would only smile. Elise missed those days, when the cage was still gilded, still pure to her eyes…

But, the crest between her hands, wax deep upon parchment, reminded her that there was no going back. Not to the Circle, not to its libraries, and not to the arms of the lov–of the king she so firmly scorned. Decisions had been made, a life had been spared, and she would not regret either. Death would not and should not be delivered with death; that was her firm belief. Although, every letter she received from Denerim made her feel as if she were dying a slow, painful one.

And perhaps that was the point. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth…

Elise let out a shaky sigh, a puff of cool air exiting past her lips. She wasn’t cold, really; she had gotten used to the coast’s winters, and how frigid their winds could be. It was more that she was...composing herself. Oh, she hated letters. If only she could burn this one to ash, but she couldn’t–she couldn’t.

“Why do we continue this battle, Alistair? Why is it you who writes these letters? Why not let Anora?” Elise whispered to the chilled air, tilting her back so that her gaze was skyward and her head rested upon stone. She let her fingers curl around brittle parchment, letting the sound of it satisfy her need to destroy it. “...And why do I keep reading them, abundantly aware of what they’ll say?”

Elise let out another shuddering sigh, gently shaking her head against stone, and not at all bothered by how the length of her hair caught upon grain. Any amount of discomfort didn’t compare to the amount she felt when reading any letters from Alistair. The ink that stained them was irate every time, words upon words of veiled disdain. Each sentence pretended to be formal at its base, but she read between each and felt their fire, their pain. Every letter was a hate letter to her, to what she had done at the Landsmeet, but Elise read every. single. one. She had to read them, but Maker, how she wished she didn’t have to.

How she wished she could burn them.

I heard there’s remaining darkspawn parties along the coast. I wish I could help, but royal obligations and all that take precedent.

Elise’s fingers tightened around parchment, visualizing the words in her head if not with her eyes. So much was unsaid in that tiny sentence, but she knew the words even if Alistair hadn’t the heart to write them. How she desired to tear vellum to shreds, to watch each torn piece flutter away...

I guess I should start addressing these letters to ‘Warden-Commander Amell’. That’s your rank now, right? I bet Duncan would be proud.

Her hands began to shake, tremble. Duncan–Warden-Commander before she. Her mentor, the one who took her from the tower and showed her a world she had only ever envisioned in her dreams. A man who had met his end due to the actions of the general she had chosen to save. Would he be proud of her? Would he have looked on with a smile instead of a sneer of anger? Would he have nodded at her, and said, ‘I understand.’? She didn’t know... What she did know was that all that was needed was a spark of will, a thought of flame, and all of it would be gone.

Anora mentioned Loghain was at the Vigil when she arrived. Had nice chat with him, she said. She also mentioned the Wardens had taken some heavy losses, nearly getting wiped out a second time. Sounds like your general is doing what he does best.

Elise let out a heavy breath, pulling in on her legs up further. She leant forward, squeezing her eyes shut and burrowing her face into her knees. The letter was tucked between her thighs, crumpling up, but not burning how she wished it would. She didn’t need to hold back anymore, or keep her head down, or her mouth shut, or her hands still. If she wanted to burn it, she could! Just like if she wanted to spare someone, she could! Death would not be delivered with death! Loghain had deserved another chance! Just like Jowan had! Each had done what they believed had to be done! Whether it was wrong or right was a matter of perspective, a difference in morality! They weren’t murderers or beasts or traitors! They had been people backed into a corner, people who had had their sense of love and protection spiral out of control! Maybe if they had had received support sooner, then the lives at Ostagar would have been spared, the templars would have been none the wiser to Lily and Jowan! But, no. Each only received judgment, persecution.

Just like she was through rigid ink and paper she could not find the will to burn. How she hated letters...

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All my children torture themselves in some way. *side eyes* 

Tagging (no pressure!): @oxygenforthewicked @little-lightning-lavellan @dungeons-and-dragon-age @dreadfutures @rosella-writes @for-the-ninth @fiadhaisteach and anyone else! <3