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dragonologist-writings · 14 days ago

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Title: Matters of the Heart Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: Inquisitor Genevieve Amell-Trevelyan, Vivienne Ships: Inquisitor/Vivienne Additional Notes: Animal (Wyvern) Death, Vivienne's Personal Quest, Repressed Feelings, Yearning Word Count: 3.2k Summary: Genevieve gives Vivienne a heart. In return, Vivienne gives her a ring. At some point, she starts to wonder what it all means.

Femslash February #8: Abatina (right person, wrong time)

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The blood of the wyvern is warm on Genevieve’s hands.

Her cuts with the flaying knife are deep and precise, but wyvern scales are tough, and it takes some sawing before the proper vein is located and opened. Eventually, however, Genevieve does hit her mark, and she stands back to watch as the creature’s blood drains out to the swampy ground, the bright red mixing with damp, murky green.

As she waits, Genevieve spares a moment to wonder how the past version of herself- that girl from Ostwick, who had never seen a swamp and would never want to- would feel about the work before her. Maker, what would Evelyn say, if she could see Genevieve now?

They’d both be slightly horrified, Genevieve thinks. The Circle didn’t feature many practical lessons of this nature- of any nature, really- and Genevieve had never exactly longed for the opportunity to stick her hands through a creature’s innards. She kept her hands clean back then, neat and proper with her books and her theories that never went past the library.

She still misses that library, sometimes. But she is the Inquisitor now. Going up to her elbows in swamp muck and wyvern blood is far from the messiest thing she’s done.

The blood has slowed now; it’s time to proceed with the dissection. Genevieve had been careful in her killing of the beast (it need not be fresh, Vivenne had said, but it must be intact), and now she must be careful in her retrieval of her prize. She kneels next to the drained wyvern, knife in hand. It’s an exhausting and gory process, cutting through the protection of pristine white scales to muscle, then through the tough layers of muscle to pearly bone.

But when it is done, when Genevieve has pried her way through the ribcage, she is successful. A sense of accomplishment rushes through her, warm and heavy like the heart sitting in her hands.

Vivenne lights up when presented with the bloody gift. The infamous Madame de Fer is a master of masking her emotions, but Genevieve has known this woman for some time now, and she catches the flash of genuine relief which slips past her polite smile.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says, as she takes the carefully wrapped package from Genevieve’s hands. Their fingers brush; Vivienne’s skin is cool, reminiscent of the ice she summons so easily. “I trust the retrieval was not too much trouble?”

“Of course not.” Genevieve hovers on the edge of further questions, questions which she knows Vivenne will decline to answer. Why was this request so urgent? What have you been working on these recent weeks, all alone in your study? What is it that requires such a powerful restoration potion?

She gives voice to none of these. She has asked, and has been declined an answer; she will not ask again. Living one’s entire life in the Circle instills a certain value for the rare privilege of privacy. Vivienne deserves her own, should she desire it.

“Do you need anything else of me?” she asks instead, and there is something rare in the smile Vivienne gives her in response.

“You are a treasure, Inquisitor, but you’ve already done plenty. I’ll handle things on my own from here.”

Vivienne’s work keeps her occupied for the next few days, and Genevieve sees little of her. When she finally emerges from her study, it is with a potion bottle in her hands and a determined glint in her eyes. Only then does she explain her intent, as she invites Genevieve with her on the journey to Bastien’s manor. Genevieve sees no option but to accept.

Some part of her had thought that Vivienne was perhaps exaggerating the severity of the situation; such a thing would not be uncommon amongst nobles, especially Orlesians. Yet as soon as they reach the estate it’s obvious just how sickly the duke has become.

Genevieve watches numbly as Vivienne administers their potion to Bastien. She has never seen the woman move so tenderly; she raises the bottle to his lips, pats his fevered face with a handkerchief, whispers comforting words too soft for Genevieve to hear. Genevieve glances away, feeling as if she’s intruding upon something far more intimate than she has any right to.

Yet she cannot help but watch, if only for what she tells herself is academic curiosity. Bastien is in remarkably poor condition; she cannot tell if he even registers Vivienne’s presence. As the seconds tick on, however, some color returns to his face, and his troubled breathing grows less labored.

It’s not enough. That much is clear. This man is not long for this world, and as Genevieve’s gaze drifts to Vivienne’s face, she sees that knowledge reflected in Vivienne's mournful eyes.

“Rest, darling,” Vivienne murmurs at last. “I will be here when you awaken.”

Afterwards, Genevieve and Vivienne sit in the parlor, sipping at tea which Genevieve does not taste. Her attention is wholly commanded by Vivienne, silent and distant beside her.

At first glance, the Enchanter is polished and elegant as ever, with her dignified posture and graceful movements. Yet her inherent loveliness is betrayed by the worry lines which have etched themselves into her skin, and all the confidence in the world cannot hide her lack of sleep. Her eyes continuously flicker back to the hallway doors as she awaits any sign that Bastien may be waking up.

“Bastien is…” Genevieve says, and then stops. For all her recent study of spirits and necromancy, and for all her recent experiences with death and loss, she still does not know what to say in moments like this.

“He is dying,” Vivienne finishes. She places her teacup, still full, on a nearby table. “That cannot be denied any longer.”

“How long has he been sick?”

“For some time now. His illness began before the Conclave. I harbored the hope that he would recover, but as you can see…” Vivienne presses her lips together, her eyes downcast. “The potion was my last hope. A slim one, but a hope nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry-” Genevieve begins, but Vivienne does not allow her to finish.

“I do not require condolences, Inquisitor. I accepted this truth long ago. All I can do now is wait.”

Genevieve takes another tasteless sip of her tea as she tries to fathom what Vivienne must be thinking. That is not always an easy task, but some things are obvious. Vivienne’s brow is creased, her mouth a tight line; she has never liked sitting and waiting, and her current frustration is palpable.

Yet there is more here than mere frustration. A very real unease rests below her annoyance.

“You must care for him a great deal, to go through all this,” Genevieve ventures.

“I’ve been with him for many years,” Vivienne says, soft as velvet. “And he has given me much. It would be most unkind of me to turn my back on him now.”

This is, somehow, the most Vivienne has ever spoken of Bastien. Genevieve has always been wary of broaching the subject. She knows what mages must endure for the sake of safety, and though there are those who would do worse, she has never been fond of the nobles who would pluck from their towers like flowers cultivated for a bouquet.

She’d always been content in the assumption that Vivienne held a similar view, tinged with pragmatism rather than Genevieve’s ow stubbornness. The way Vivienne speaks of it now, however, leaves her uncertain.

“Did you love him?”

Vivienne is quiet for a moment, and Genevieve berates herself for such lack of tact. “I apologize, I shouldn’t-”

“Do not apologize,” Vivienne interrupts. “It’s unbecoming of a person of your authority. As for Bastien…have I told you how we met? It was my first visit to the Imperial Palace. I was sent with a group to entertain the nobility, and I was in awe of everyone and everything. It was all so grand. So unlike what I had known before.” She sighs, rubbing a thoughtful thumb against the polished rings on her fingers. “I looked across the room, and…there he was. Our eyes met, and that was that.”

“The way you tell it, it sounds like a fairytale,” Genevieve says, thinking back to the romance novels she and Evelyn used to giggle over when they were young. The memory hurts, for more reasons than Genevieve cares to decipher right now.

“It certainly felt like that at the time. He may not look it now, but Bastien was quite the dashing rogue in his youth.” Vivienne pauses, her eyes wandering over the opulent parlor they sit within. “And any defects he may have had were well made up for with his rank and importance. He opened up quite the world for me, Inquisitor. I’m certain you can understand.”

“…I do.” More memories of Evelyn come unbidden, gripping at Genevieve’s chest. Perhaps, she admits to herself, that is also a reason she has not delved into Vivienne’s personal life. Any reciprocation would be far too painful to entertain.

But now here she is, in the estate of Vivienne’s dying lover, and fair seems fair. “I loved someone, once. She had a way with people that I could never aspire to, but we…we were good together. Then the rebellions hit, and we were separated.” Genevieve pauses, fighting against a sudden lump in her throat. Separated is not the right word, and she knows it, but now is not the time to reflect upon the choices they both made when the Circle fell. “She was at the Conclave. We never did get a proper goodbye. You are lucky to have that with Bastien, at least.”

“You are lucky you did not have to sit at this woman’s side for months as you watched the life slowly and painfully choke out of her.”

Heat rushes to Genevieve’s face, her skin suddenly prickling with static as mortification threatens to overwhelm her. But Vivienne closes her eyes and shakes her head at her own words, and says, “That was unwarranted. My patience is thin, and I fear I am ill-practiced at receiving comfort.”

Genevieve takes a shaky breath and centers herself. “As ill-practiced as I am at giving comfort, it seems.”

“If that is how you feel, my dear, then I’m afraid I must correct you again.” Somehow, Vivienne manages a weak smile. “The potion I made Bastien was not enough to cure him. But he is sleeping peacefully, a feat he has not managed in months. If he is soon to pass, I can at least take comfort in knowing that I did all I could to ease his suffering. And I have you to thank for it- so thank you, Inquisitor. You’ve been a welcome companion in these trying times.”

Genevieve still wishes that she could do more, that she could find better words to say, that she could turn to her books and unearth some last-minute miracle to clear the pain from Vivienne’s heart. But though she is a mage, though she is the Herald, though she is the Maker’s Chosen, miracles are not something she can summon so easily.

Bastien passes away later that night, peaceful and quiet as Vivienne holds his hand.

Vivienne allows herself perhaps half an hour of private grief. Then she emerges from her bedroom, dry-eyed and composed as ever, and without a stumble in her step she begins giving out orders for the funeral arrangements.

“If there is anything I can help with,” Genevieve offers again, “anything at all, you need only ask.”

“No, my dear,” Vivienne says in reply, “I promise you, I have everything in hand. You needn’t worry for me.”

She pauses, then, and for a moment she looks-

Not small. Vivienne is never small, not even now. But she has drawn into herself, somehow; her shoulders are tense, her expression shuttered. Her hands are clasped tightly together, and Genevieve must fight the urge to reach out and take those hands in her own.

The moment passes, and Vivienne collects herself before Genevieve can do anything too foolish. The unmovable Madame de Fer lifts her chin high and in an easy, steady voice she says, “The arrangements are hardly a trouble, and I do prefer to keep myself busy. It is no hardship to handle these things myself.”

“I know. But I am still here, should a need arise. That will not change.”

Vivienne softens at the declaration. She places a hand on Genevieve’s shoulder, her touch so feather-light that Genevieve wonders whether she is merely imagining their contact.

“I know. And I am glad of it, Genevieve.”

Not Inquisitor. Not my dear.

Genevieve.

It’s much later, after the funeral and the memorials and the hosting of the Duke’s family at Skyhold, that Vivienne asks Genevieve to meet her at their usual balcony.

The view is a familiar one. Genevieve can see the whole of Skyhold courtyard from here, and if she and Vivienne sit in quiet, they can hear the faint fragments of visitors gossiping in the hallway below. Today, however, is not a day for people-watching and eavesdropping.

Today, Vivienne meets Genevieve at their balcony, and she presents the Inquisitor with a gift.

“It’s been enchanted by the Formari,” she explains as she holds out the small, silver ring. Tiny etchings of runes have been engraved along the band in a careful, intricate pattern. It really is a thing of beauty, which is no surprise; with Vivienne involved, it could be nothing less.

“It’s lovely,” Genevieve says softly, and Vivienne smiles with obvious pride.

“Such gifts used to be customary amongst the Circle. Mages would grant these to their…” she drifts off then, in a rare moment of hesitation. “…allies. And friends. And I daresay you’ve become a very close friend to me.”

Something shifts then, as Genevieve takes in those words. Friends. Close friends. It sparks a lightness within Genevieve- but it also doesn’t feel quite right.

Oh. Oh, Genevieve. You fool.

“I am aware of the tradition,” she manages to stammer out. “I consider you a friend as well, Vivienne.”

Liar.

Maker. Not for the first time, Genevieve wishes she could cut the feelings from her chest, just as she’d cut the heart from the wyvern. Whatever desires have been awakened within her are surely ridiculous; she harbors no delusions of being the one to melt the ice Vivienne has formed around herself. Even if she had it in her head to try, now would undoubtedly be the worst time to make such an attempt.

Even so, she wants to, and that desire burns like an ember in her throat.

And what would Evelyn have to say about that?

Genevieve pushes the thought away. She is aware of Vivienne watching her, surely taking measure of her reaction, and she tries to stay natural as she reaches for the ring. But as she does, Vivienne catches her hand, so that she may slide the ring on Genevieve’s finger herself.

The metal of the ring is cool and smooth, an echo of Vivienne’s touch as their fingers briefly intertwine. It’s a perfect fit.

“Exquisite, as always,” Genevieve murmurs, breathless.

“Only the best for you,” Vivienne says lightly, but her fingers linger. Her eyes lift to meet Genevieve’s, thoughtful and searching.

“I met Bastien when I was quite young, as you know. Our affair caused something of a scandal. Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course, but then, I had little to lose. My connection to him put me in the orbit of the Court, of Celene. With time, it even brought me to you.” Her thumb brushes softly against Genevieve’s palm. “And now I can offer the Inquisition the full power of Bastien’s family, which is no small thing. All because of a youthful romance. Connections such as this are delicate things, yet they can change the course of a life. You understand this, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Especially with you in line to be next Divine.”

“I am a still a very faint prospective candidate, my dear. You know as well as I do that there are many who still balk at the mere suggestion of a mage’s name.”

“All the better reason to be cautious.”

“Caution is not always the best course of action,” Vivienne says, somewhat rueful. “Joining your Inquisition was no cautious act, nor was allowing you to submit my name for Divine. Yet in this case, I believe you are correct.” She takes a moment, the slight waver in her eyes the only betrayal of emotion through her mask of contemplation. “I cannot say all the things I wish to say to you, Inquisitor. Genevieve. But I do want you to know that I treasure your presence.”

She does a fine job of walking around the heart of the matter, that cannot be denied, but Genevieve sees what she means. It’s partially on her own shoulders, for championing Vivienne as the next Divine- a decision she still stands by, for Vivienne would perform marvelously, and sitting a mage upon the Sunburst Throne would be vindicating beyond words.

Even if it means she misses out on…whatever this is, that she and Vivienne are skirting around now.

You should not want whatever this is to begin with, the voice in the back of Genevieve’s head whispers, But then, you were never so good at propriety as you liked to pretend.

“I’ve come to care for you as well, Vivienne,” Genevieve says, hoping the effect of these thoughts is not evident in the waver of her voice. “And I understand.”

As soon as she says the words, Genevieve fears she has horribly misinterpreted Vivienne’s intentions- which of course she has, for Vivienne’s lover has just died, and it doesn’t matter how long he’s been sick or how close they’ve grown in the meantime. As she attempts to pull away, however, Vivienne’s fingers tighten their grip on her hand.

She seems about to say something, but in the end she just lifts Genevieve’s hand to her lips and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. Goosebumps rise over every inch of Genevieve’s skin, and she knows then that she is truly hopeless.

“I’m fortunate to have such an ally at my side,” Vivienne says, withdrawing back into her typical reservation as she gently extricates her fingers from Genevieve’s, with only the slightest hint of reluctance in the lingering brush of her touch.

Genevieve allows her hands to drop back to her sides, the ring on her finger still cool against her skin. Her heart thumps in her chest, for utterly foolish reasons; this is no confession, nor is it a promise. Even now, she swears she feels the weight of Evelyn’s gaze, disapproving as it so often was in those last days they had together. Some part of her knows, deep down, that this is not meant to happen.

But when Genevieve traces her fingers over that ring, when she recalls the glow of Vivienne’s smile, she finds that she cannot extinguish the lingering hope and desire that perhaps, someday, it will.

#fanfic #femslash february #femslash february 2025 #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #vivienne #vivienne de fer #matters of the heart #oc: genevieve #trevelyan

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