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scribeofmorpheus · 2 months ago

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Var Lath Vir Bellanaris

PART 1: Vi'Revas Warnings: Veilguard spoilers, Solavellan spoilers, angst, yearning, the feels! Words: 2.5k, not proofed, straight word vomit. Sequel to: Harellan (post-Trespasser) & Not Some Fanciful Story Recommended song: In Cold Light NOT PROOFREAD

The sky was blackened. The spire covered in the entrails of Lusacan, the last Archdemon. So much of that moment reminded her of the final push at the Valley of Sacred Ashes, of the last fight to save all of Thedas.

“Bind yourself to the Veil,” Rook’s voice carried as clear as a bell. “…stop it from falling.”

Revas’ blood turned to ice, a gasp fighting its way out of her quivering lips.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her future, crippled, heartbroken, beaten-down from losing friend after friend to the blight in the south. She hadn’t expected to survive her encounter with Corypheus all those years ago, but she had always imagined hope would endure if she fell in that battle; hope that there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

There was none of that now.

She’d felt it when she walked the streets of Tevinter, seeing so many feet sway above the hanging post, nooses digging through skin. Cries of loss trickled from near every home and it was worse back home. The Free Marches. The Dales. Denerim. There were no more roaming halla. The aravels were gone. Cities, older than she would ever be, were lost to the blighted growth of endless decay, lost to the sourness of rot and the heat of death. Skyhold remained. And the sick, the poor, the wounded, they all flocked to her walls. Last she was there, they had turned the rotunda into an infirmary. She’d watched as countless strangers and friends had erected a wall of remembrance over the frescoes. Drawings, letters marked with the names of loved ones, red hand prints, every creative indicator of loss was mounted on those walls, a candle lit by the feet each night.

She had hung up the letter from Briala a few months ago, the one that spoke of the loss of the Dalish clans and city alienages, the loss of what little elvish resistance had begun to rise in the face of human tyranny. She had cried when she’d added the title of Last of Clan Lavellan to her speeches, rallying the dwindling number of her troops to their death as they tried to save Grand Enchanter Fiona and her Circle mages, and then the Arl at Redcliff, and then the entire city of Halamshiral. Walking the palace she had once danced in, seeing barely a soul, hearing no music, it broke her.

The morning after each hard-fought battle, when she went to count the new dead amongst the half-living, she’d hear the curse she’d once foolishly cast on the very walls that stood as the final bastion against complete ruination.

I hope, wherever you are, 'ma vhen'an, that you are as miserable in your lonely hunt as I am miserable in this broken body, carrying the weight of two hearts. May the dinan’shiral break you, for that is the only way I could ever hope to see you again; or let this cruel world open its maw and swallow me whole, into nothing, past the Fade and out of memory so my sadness can never touch another again.

Regret. O, such a dagger, blunted and rough, pushing past bone to tear at your insides. She understood it better than she did joy. Because why else would the world try so hard to tear itself apart if not to answer her prayer?

Was his dinan’shiral not breaking them both?

A week ago, she had placed a Chantry necklace at the foot of a pile of jewellery recovered from the dead for Mother Giselle and Charter. And then the letter from Varric… she had carried it with her, through everything. Her last shred of hope.

I found him, Freckles.

She had cried as she held the paper in her hands, Dorian’s hand pressed to her back as Rook walked out to face the last of the Evanuris.

Revas should have been used to losing. All those lessons of Wicked Grace she’d had with Varric, all the sparring matches with Bull, the debates with Dorian, the arguments on Circle infrastructure with Vivienne, talk of belief in the Maker with Leliana, belief in elven gods… Crestwood. Losing should have been as easy as breathing, but every breath was a shard of glass to her lungs, a battering ram to her spirit.

There were no ties left to bind her to her home in Thedas.

There was but one choice to make.

Revas looked down at Elgar’nan’s body, disappointed at what rotten fruit the ides of godhood bore. There was always someone bent on breaking the world. Uncertain, she looked ahead, dismayed by just how much the tide had turned in a few months.

It cut her deeply, to know that it was her heart that stood at the helm of this unending cycle.

From where she stood, she could see the Veil gouged open like the slit of a tired eye; poised to waken, yet still full of the promise of further sleep. That same light had once shone from her very palm.

Despite everything, she found herself fighting off the pull of a smile. Herald of Andraste here to face the very maker of the Veil. It was poetic enough to make a religion out of it. Varric would’ve made a killing with a twist like that. His best and last seller for all of Thedas. A love story.

She paused by the doorway, watching him ascend the steps slowly, unsure of what it was she was hoping to see, but when Solas bowed his head in that very same manner he had done before he bent to kiss her that last time, she knew the words that would fall from his lips before they even had a chance to grace the air.

He couldn’t do it.

Not on his own.

Thirteen steps. That was all she needed to surmount. Not a high dragon. Not a blighted, ancient Tevinter magister who had walked the Black City. Not the fall of the South. It was just thirteen steps across the divide, past Rook and past every decision that led them to this point.

Back turned to her, wrecked and ravaged by a hard fight, Solas’ body was wrapped beautifully in armour stripped down to its barebones, a remnant of the one she’d watched gleam through an eluvian, wolf pelt slung on the side in place of a sigil. It made him look vulnerable. Nowhere near as regal as he’d been in the Fade, yet neither draped in humility as he’d been in Skyhold.

When Solas climbed the final step, dagger balancing dangerously in his open palm, he declared full of regret: “I cannot.”

His voice, quivering and mournful, sent tremors through Revas.

She quickened her pace, half afraid she’d turn into a shemlen in the process.

He was so close. So close to touch. Her every muscle ached to reach out and be reunited with him, her chest heavy as though she could feel the very weight of him pressed against her bones. Yet, despite how much she desired it, she could not run to him. She had to take each step carefully.

Rook gave her a look of warning, but shifted to the side, letting her pass.

They would work together on this.

Revas would have her shot.

Until she wouldn’t.

The ground seemed to stretch farther with each step, creating even more distance the closer she got. The air, acrid with the smell of blight and blood, grew thick, electric in that habitual way the Fade had felt when it coursed through the anchor, when it bound her every fibre to a spark of light and used her very spirit as flint to cauterise the tears in the veil all those years ago.

Three steps left.

She could practically feel what it was like to be beside him, to be near his magic.

They had once been like ice and thunder. Her, this brewing storm like the kind that kissed the horizon on the Storm Coast. Him, the kind of avalanching cold that could rival the fall of Haven.

Whenever she’d been close to him in battle, feeling the strength of his barriers, nearly impenetrable, she’d felt unstoppable. And at the mark of terrifying blizzards that’d turn the skin of any enemy brandishing a blade against her to glaciers, she’d feel so possessively loved.

That is what she had to hold onto. Not the pain or the betrayal or the losses. The love that was always there, slipping through the cracks, chipping away at his polite mask, bolstering her with the knowledge that she was not so easily avoided, no matter how hard he’d tried to steer clear of her.

Elfroot, ozone and poultices. The scent of an apostate. A teacher. He was only three steps away.

Solas stared at the Veil, his back holding fast with purpose, his fingers twitching by the dagger's grip. He took a breath, and without looking back at Rook, he pressed on with his reasoning: “To stop now would be to dishonour those that I’ve wronged to come this far!”

Solas raised his hand, dagger’s edge close to his bleeding eye, and she knew not to wait any longer. This was it. The moment when she’d test how well she’d kept his heart.

Time went still. His body turned ridged as he turned to face her the moment she spoke.

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He looked so utterly broken. Revas watched in relief as she saw just how much of an effect those simple words had had on him.

Solas’ lips parted ever-so-slightly, his brow moving up a fraction, showing a hint of familiar awe—that surprise at having been affected so deeply by her. It was good to see that things didn’t change. And for a second, she imagined he’d smile. But then he bowed his eyes, snapping his eyes away from the heat of her gaze, turning his head to look downward.

Shame.

He was ashamed.

In a solemn breath, one meant for reunited lovers, not opposing forces at the end of the world, he whispered her title; her name; her place in his story: “Vhen’an…”

That simple word was enough to knock the wind from her, but Revas would not give him the satisfaction of being backed into a corner by pain. Not like in Halamshiral. Not again.

Her heart quickened as she took another step forward, “You think you’ve gone too far to come back but you’re wrong. I am here,” she gestured to the desolation around them, beseeching, “walking the dinan’shiral with you!”

Slowly, he lowered his dagger, his temples burdened by the dawning of his actions, by the gravity of what she’d just said.

“I lied,” he urged, trying to draw on any nerve that might still be raw, unwilling to believe she truly meant the words she’d spoken. “I betrayed you.”

And what did that matter?

Through everything.

How could that matter when she was beginning to remember what it was like to be in his gaze, to hear the tremors in his voice, to feel the power of his yearning across those steps?

“I forgive you!” She felt her voice crack. “All you have to do is stop!”

Please, for me, my heart, stop.

Solas turned to face her completely, his head, once high, was brought low in reverence. Humbly, as was his way all those years ago, he bowed before her and her heart broke.

“Ir abelas, vhen’an, but I cannot.” His head rose up, his eyes hardening, replacing humility with purpose. “Long before we met, I failed my oldest friend. She died for my failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have… She will have died for nothing.”

He turned back to the tear in the veil, raised the dagger once more, and was halted by the cry of a raven—a creature Revas had once held sacred as a Keeper of Dirthamen’s Secrets.

Morrigan transformed before him, her entrances as memorable as always. She approached Solas with ease, speaking to him with the cadence of an old friend.

Revas took another step forward, mind focused on him. Always him. All she could do was push; pushing past the doubt that tried to claw up her spine when she witnessed him shrink with the realisation that he was not speaking to Morrigan entirely; pushing past the wrenching in her gut when she heard how torn he’d sounded as he’d spoken Mythal’s name; pushing past the anger as she learned of his corruption at her hands, past the devastation as she watched him crumble in the last light of forgiveness before Mythal vanished.

The petrifying sounds of his sobs sent her to her knees beside him, as he had knelt for her when she’d been wracked by pain when the anchor tried to rip its way out of her.

Finally, she would say the vows she had dreamed of saying.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhen’an,” she could see him shake, hear him whimper, but it had been enough.

With a clenched fist, Solas resolved to stand tall, his hand ghosting the deep bruise near his forehead as he tried to control his sobs. With a steadying breath, he found the strength to turn to the Veil and do what must be done.

In the blink of an eye, he brought the lyrium dagger to his palm and sliced clean through, holding his fist up as he made his oath.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures. The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.”

Solas placed the dagger in Rook’s hand, finally turning to Revas to say his goodbye, “I will go and seek atonement.”

Then he paused in front of the tear, and Revas was certain this was where her path would always end.

“But you do not have to go alone,” she walked up to him, hands outstretched.

There was that look again. Awe. Disbelief, Adoration.

When next he spoke, he sounded so small, so mortal.

“Ar gelass vir banal,” she shook his head, his eyes gleaming with tears that were barely being held at bay. Soft. So unbelievably soft. Revas would not be talked out of this.

“Tel banal arama,” she refuted his excuse.

Solas swallowed down another sob, except this one was half laughter. Because, of course she’d cast aside any fears he might have used to persuade her otherwise. His hand pressed down on hers, hopeful, full of need, and she complied.

As a child, she’d heard lovers exchange the vows of eternity during marriage ceremonies. Once, she’d dreamed of uttering them to him, when they’d been in the Inquisition. Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris. The words had sounded so beautiful. Inevitable, even. But knowing what she knew of the Old Gods, if she were to make a vow of forever, it would not be in Sylaise’s name. It would be in honour of the distances they’d spent apart. The journey.

“Vir shiral ma’lasa, bellanaris,” she sealed the vow with a kiss. Gentle, compassionate, tangled with relief. They had endured. As Ar Bellanaris had, the burial grounds in the Dales, through war and occupation, an untouched beacon of old Arlathan. Bellanaris. Eternity, come what may. They had made the journey, and now all that remained was the love.

Solas deepened the kiss, wincing through it as he carefully moved his cut lip against hers, the taste of blood shared between them.

When they finally parted, they were one. Bound. Spirits entwined. And then they became the heartstone of the Fade. The place where Cole was from. The place where they had shared their first kiss. As Revas had made Skyhold a home, made Thedas a place worth living in, for however short a time, she knew Solas would do the same for her. A home for a home.

The Maker returned back to his beginnings, but he was neither alone, nor surrounded only by regret. He was with his bride. The Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Revasan Lavellan, the Last of Her Clan; a Paragon of Freedom.

Now all that needed to be done was face the regret.

#dav #dav spoilers #solas #solavellan #solas x lavellan #dragon age #veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #solavellan fic #the love WAS there #she changed everything #and will continue to #colour will bleed into the Fade #Harellan #revasan lavellan you are literally committed to myth #a love story for the ages

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galadrieljones · 6 months ago

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Are you taking writing prompts from that list? If so, then, uh, how about Traveler's Inn, a folded letter, and hopeful for the lovely Sene?

Thank you ^_^ Here is Sene Lavellan and Thom Rainier in the Hinterlands, not long before the events of Veilguard.

Solavellan | 1600 words

Lost and Found

She sat at the bar, at the Red Fox tavern in the Hinterlands. She had been to the Red Fox many times, had once lived there, in fact, several years before, when she made it a regular habit to visit Lace. That month, she was bored, so she had started a little a hunting class, in the village, teaching a group of children, sitting in a circle by the lake. She showed them how to fletch arrows and how to build long bows from simple things in the environment. She showed them how to shoot arrows into clay jars. And each day, when she was all finished, she came back to the Red Fox, where everybody knew her name, but not in the diplomatic sense. In the neighborly sense, which was a comfort.

Thom Rainier was also in town. She remembered how he first showed himself earlier that day, standing off to the side as she taught her little class, sipping some sort of brandy out of a wooden cup. He knew to meet her there, as he'd been caught by one of her many couriers running messages to friendly faces in the area. Something she liked to do whenever she traveled anywhere. The thing about being Sene was that, even as much of her old people had gone their separate ways in the years before, nearly all of them still, to some extent, found home here and there with the Inquisition, and if Sene was nearby, they would come to meet her. Building bridges in Ferelden, reconstruction efforts in Orlais, natural disaster relief, diplomatic negotiation, bandit management, etc. etc. Even when she was alone, she was never truly alone.

That week, Thom was in the Hinterlands on an errand from Josie, who had sent him to negotiate an Inquisition treaty with a local group of separatist mages, just south of Redcliffe. Sene saw Thom and Josie often, as they spent a great deal of time at Skyhold, but she, herself, rarely spent extended time at Skyhold. Her nomadic roots had won out over the years. She liked to travel around, stay at inns with the commoners. Of course she was always escorted by a heavy detail of intimidating Inquisition soldiers, all of them still under Cullen's command, but other than that, it was almost like being normal. Almost.

The Red Fox Inn, if you'll recall, is inside a cave, and that night, it twinkled with lovely, magical candlelight, and it had a tree inside, growing all the way up, up and out the top, a natural skylight, which the moonlight poured through on clear evenings. Surface dwarves and free apostates loitered here. It had a cozy atmosphere, if not witchy, with warm brews and bartenders who tended toward magic. There was always a bard, who sang late into the night.

Thom showed up around nine-thirty. Sene was drinking her champagne, alone, mostly staring at her hands and listening to the music. They'd had a plan to meet, after his negotiations at the separatist base, but he was late. When he sat down, he ordered a whiskey, up, and seemed tired. When Sene asked what was going on, he sighed and handed her a letter, on stained paper, folded in quarters.

"It's from Lace," he said. "Postmark is Minrathous."

"Where did you get this?" said Sene. She took the letter, but she didn't want to open it.

"I stopped at Lace's house, to pick up her mail, as humbly requested. Imagine my surprise to find a letter, sent to her residence, but addressed to you."

"I spend a lot of time there," said Sene. "Especially when Lace is away. She probably thought it would be faster than trying to reach me at Skyhold."

"You should read it," said Thom. The bartender gave him his whiskey, and he swallowed it in a single gulp. He ordered another. "Right now."

"Did you open it?" said Sene, surprised.

"I might have."

"Thom."

"I was curious," he said, dropping his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Sene, but I know why they're there. Solas, he was my friend. He is my friend. It's been almost ten years. I just want to know."

"You want to know what?"

"If he's alive," said Thom, emptying a few silvers onto the bar as he was served another. "That's all. So, read it, won't you? I may have opened the envelope, but I was too guilty to actually read the thing myself." He took a long gulp, slower this time. His eyes were watery as he looked at her. "Go on, Sene."

Sene did not want to read the letter. Her stomach hurt as the bard switched songs. It was a love song, one Sene had heard before. Somewhere nearby, a group of fancy tourists from Orlais, sharing their third pitcher of mead, burst into raucous laughter.

"I still feel him," she said, holding the letter in her fingers, imagining the old days, when he would have been there with her, at the Red Fox. It was one of his favorite haunts. "In dreams. I let him in. I just do."

"What does it feel like?" said Thom, understanding. He finished his drink. "Or do I want to know?"

"It just feels...familiar. It didn't used to. I used to be angry with him, all the time. But now, whenever I feel him, I think about Haven, because I think I miss Haven the most. I can tell he likes it there. Everything is so simple. We talk, sometimes. Sort of."

"Have you been back to Haven?" said Thom. "Since it all went down?"

"Yes," said Sene. "I went once, with Abelas, years ago, right before the Exalted Council. I went back with Ameridan, too. It's empty, forgotten. But in my dreams, it's like it used to be."

"I remember once, at Haven, I got so damned drunk at the pub, Solas carried my ass home, all by himself. I was leaning against him so hard, thought I might break him in half. But you know Solas. Strong as a bloody ox. He snarked at me the entire time. Maker, I miss those days."

"Me, too."

"So, open the letter," said Thom. "And, please, Inquisitor, drink your bloody champagne. I don't want to be tipsy on my lonesome tonight." He signaled the bartender for a refill. "Fucking separatists. The treaty succeeded, but not without considerable...diplomatic stress."

Sene smiled at this. It was funny to her, the lengths to which Thom was willing to go to learn diplomacy, for Josie. She took a long drink. So long, the bubbles filled her head with stars. Then, she looked at the letter, and she unfolded it slowly.

"What's it say?" said Thom.

Sene stared at the words. The handwriting, it wasn't Lace's, or Varric's for that matter. She was shocked. Her heart felt high up, like it was beating in her throat, and in her forehead. She felt dizzy all of a sudden and had to steady herself against the bar.

"Sene?"

"It's not from Lace," she said, looking up at Thom. She showed it to him, put it right there in front of his face on the bar. "Thom, it's not from Lace."

"Who the hell is it from?"

"It's from him," said Sene, seeing the words, the dark ink, how it bled off the page in places where the letter had been stained and dampened on its journey, all the way from Tevinter. "He's in Minrathous. It's from Solas."

Together, they read the letter, which was not long. It said:

Dearest Sene. I have heard it is easiest to reach you by way of Scout Harding these days. I know you spend a lot of time in the Hinterlands, and in some ways, so have I these past several years. I don't know why I'm writing you. It's been so long. I have been alone under these ancient, wounded skies. It will be best if this letter is lost on a freighter, while crossing the Waking Sea. Maybe shredded by pirates. If it never reaches you at all.

But should it reach you, then perhaps that is a sign. If, like me, it finds itself lost, then found again. What I must do, it will be soon, vhen'an. Keeping you safe, and all of our friends from the old days, that is the one thing I have considered most of all. Ensuring your safety is, in fact, why this has all taken me so long. Again, I don't know why I am writing this, other than to say, I have enjoyed our dreams together. The scent, the sounds of them. The fireflies in your hair. Your hair, which is always the same, even when I can tell you've tried to change it. I still love you, Sene.

-Solas

"Maker's fucking balls," said Thom. He seemed overwhelmed, as if this was absolutely the last thing he expected. He took Sene's hand. She had begun to cry. "Sene. Are you all right?"

As she cried though, she did not feel sad. She felt hopeful. Just to hear from him, directly. To know it wasn't all just dreams and quiet inklings in the middle of the night. Much of Sene's anger, she had put it away years before. Save for on rare occasions, when it consumed her, as the briefest blaze. Mostly, she had found acceptance, but she did not expect this letter. She folded up the letter and put it in her pocket. Then she dried her tears on her sleeve. "Yes," she said. "I'm all right, Thom. Let's have another, shall we?"

She ordered two more whiskeys, up, and they drank them in jovial remembrance, telling stories about the old days, as they listened to the bard play a familiar song.

#dragon age #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: inquisition #solavellan #solas #sene lavellan #fen'harel #solavellan fanfic #who are you now? prompts

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starrose17 · 2 months ago

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Ohhhhh I've just had an awesome canon divergent thought.

What if Rook became a new elven "God".

I play as an elf mage. Elger'nan wanted to be worshipped and was so powerful even Solas couldn't stop him, but what if at the end, when the two are fighting, Elger'nan finds he's being over powered by Rook because of prayers going out to Rook from across Thedas!

The Inquistor has been spreading the good word about Rook going up against the Gods, and the dying South in their final blighted moments, from Orzammer to Denerim, are praying Rooks name that he'll succeed. That everything Rook has done in the North has his name on everyone's lips as they fight across the land, and the combined prayers are boosting his magic so much that his power overtakes the most powerful God there ever was.

Elger'nan is lying at his feet near death, looking up at this one, pathetic, pointless elf, who is standing over him bathed in this warm light from the magic pooling across all of Thedas straight to him, becoming the most powerful and good mage that has ever been.

And Elger'nan dies, bathed in the light of the new God who defeated him.

And it would have been so awesome to have dramatic music as the screen pans across Thedas, dropping in on well known places and people from previous games, praying hard to Rook to save the world. Redcliffe, Kirkwall, Skyhold, Orlais, the dalish, the dwarfs, bringing a sense of complete togetherness as every race helps Rook win.

#dragon age: the veilguard #datv #dragon age the veilguard #da:tv #da rook #Elger'nan

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minakoaiinos · 7 months ago

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If you don't think the sex was off the rails and so serious you hate women

#like i know they exist in like five chapters or tv episodes whatever they last an arc #but they're literally doing the iwtv situation but as women it's that toxic and all consuming #if only this website liked women sigh #for the musical especially the press shots were soo sexy i didn't post all of the ones i was looking at but.#kuroshitsuji #redcliff #madam red #grell sutcliff

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fairyspheres · 2 months ago

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i love hearing the music from inquisition tied into the music of veilguard. like ive just met dorian and im pretty certain that the music playing is the same track that plays when he and inky get thrown through time in redcliffe. and all the bards playing the bard songs from inquisition makes me so emotional

#*my wittering #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age spoilers #veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers

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heniareth · 1 month ago

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24, 12 and 6! If it's ok to pick more than one :) If not, feel free to choose what you like best!

Hello hello how are youuuu!!! Long time no talk!!! 🤩🤩🤩🤩 Thank you for the ask, I'll get right to it ^^ I'm gonna answer for my Dragon Age OCs if that's okay

OC most likely to...

6. to lose their keys repeatedly

Ciar Ainsley! They are a Dragon Age Origins OC, intended to function as a possible human commoner origin. As to why Ciar is the most likely one to lose their keys repeatedly... well, see for yourself with this snippet set at the beginning of the Redcliffe quest:

The chantry door flew open with a loud bang. Several of the townspeople flinched and jumped up. Someone screamed. The chaos died down, however, when the figure in the doorway immediately stepped back.

"Sorry, sorry!" they called out. The voice was clearly apologetic, but even so held a note that almost sounded like laughter. "So sorry, didn't mean to startle you all. Anybody want to help me with these ducks?"

"Goodfellow Ainsley," bann Teagan said quickly. "A moment, if you please?"

"Oh!" Ainsley looked at their hands. "Sorry. I just... I had to wade through mud. I'll wash my hands. So sorry, my lord!"

The door shut again, and once more it did so loudly. Bann Teagan stared at it with unmitigated surprise. So did everybody else; nobody made a sound. Only Morrigan let out a little scoff.

They are chaotic 😌😌😌

12. to sing when they think they are alone

Marelas Lavellan! He has a lovely singing voice, rich and warm (if not deep). However, outside of stipulated rituals and other ceremonial occasions, he doesn't sing in front of people. He was incredibly anxious as a younger man and this is a holdover from that time. If he tries to sing in front of people just for fun, there is a chance his voice might just lock up and he won't be able to get a sound out. When he's alone, he enjoys singing very much, and I imagine Dalish day to day life to be full of singing and handiwork that invites singing to help pass the time.

24. to drag the other's to the dance floor

Astala Tabris. She loves herself a good dance, and she loves dancing with people. It's fun, they're all more or less in sync, she can move around to the music without thinking about any of the many things that make life hard, and just enjoy herself. And she wants to share that with the people around her, especially those she cares about. So, want to dance? She can teach you the steps ^^

(Ask game is here)

#ask game #for fun #astala tabris #warden tabris #inquisitor lavellan #marelas lavellan #ciar ainsley #human commoner origin

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sweetjulieapples · 5 months ago

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"Dear Commander" - Chapter Eight: Bold In Deed.

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The potential of a mage alliance has everyone on edge.

full chapter below

TW: alludes to physical abuse.

Commander, We have arrived at Redcliffe Village and have met with Grand Enchanter Fiona . There is much to discuss on this matter. I’ll explain further in my report. We require more soldiers to maintain The Inquisition’s presence in the area . I fear that

Streams of black soaked the parchment as it slowly flowed from the topped ink pot. Juliette hadn’t noticed her clumsy mistake, nor the stains on her hand that rested on the table.

“Uh, you might want to pick that up,” Varric suggested, watching Juliette closely with concern. The absent expression that she held was unfaltering while people spoke to her. Her gaze held steady across the tavern, fixated on a woman leaning against the wall.

The low chatter of patrons and the soft lull of music swirled around while her mind remained miles away. Her eyes saw in present time the ornate embroidery of the robes, her memory wallowed in their touch. Their heaviness while she ran through the halls, the laughter and girlish innocence in mild disobedience. It was as though she was back in her dormitory, the sound of the boar-bristled brush against her scalp, loud in her ears. The dim light of candles and the scent of rosewater, the memory so fresh it was almost real.

“Please can you talk to Jonathan?” pleading whispers echoed in Juliette’s ears.

“Not this again.” Juliette’s own voice so familiar that she almost felt it on her tongue.

“They share quarters! Perhaps Jon could slip a note to him or —”

“The templar with the black hair and blue eyes?”

“Yes!” Her guilty smile and rosy cheeks left Juliette without choice.

Reluctantly she agreed, “Are you crazy? If the senior enchanter finds out about this…”

Juliette stood slowly and looked down at the mess that she had absent-mindedly caused. She put the ink pot back in its upright position and used her coat to wipe her hand. Without a word to the others, she slowly began to walk across the room, as though mesmerized. Patrons danced and drank so nonchalantly that one could be forgiven for forgetting that this was a place of refuge. An intoxicated stumble triggered a painful memory when a man bumped into The Herald on her way past.

Piercing screams and cries rang out within the tower walls. The sickening slap as the girl was flogged for her disobedience, stirred panic within a young Juliette.

“Stop them!” she squealed. An Enchanter tugged at Juliette’s arm, ushering her away from the violent scene. “Why are they standing there? Do something!”

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be young lady! Do not think that I’m unaware of your involvement in this.”

“No! Why aren’t the Templars stopping him? They are supposed to—”

“They are supposed to ensure order. They are not to be bothered with foolish letters and childish games.”

The screaming was almost unbearable, until suddenly, the noise was no more. Silence.

Words that still haunt Juliette spoke of her friend’s fate. “When she wakes, see that she is made Tranquil and end this madness.”

The Enchanter hurried her footsteps, dragging Juliette along “Hush, if they know you’re here —.”

“Enchanter?” His voice was chilling and dark. They had been caught.

“Yes Knight Commander?”, the Enchanter answered.

“Take that girl back to the apprentice quarters at once!” With a nod, the Enchanter obliged. “…And for the love of Andraste, keep your Trevelyan away from mine.”

With a deep breath and a shiver, Juliette shook free from the memory and continued towards the woman who had piqued her interest. Her eyes were set on The Herald, like a hawk watching her every move.

“You’ve been staring at me. Why?” Juliette asked with folded arms.

“Of course you don’t remember me. I’m Linnea?” she rolled her eyes. “I’m staring because you are The Herald of Andraste,” Linnea replied sarcastically. “Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?”

Cassandra stood from her seat, flinging her chair back roughly. The squeak of the chair’s legs caught Varric’s attention, his eyes were no longer fixated on his drink. She watched closely, observing The Herald. Trying to focus on her conversation was challenging with the thrum of the tavern. Between the patrons that continuously stumbled in her line of vision, Cassandra could see Juliette using large gestures with her hands while she spoke. Her fists clenched and her head shook. The Herald’s hostility was evident and Cassandra was ready to pounce.

“Something’s not right,” she muttered before stomping off.

“A little early for a bar fight, isn’t it?” Varric remained seated. He figured Cassandra had this one handled.

The mage that appeared to be arguing with Juliette glared with distain. “Marked by Andraste, ordering Templars about. Must be nice.”

“That’s not what —”

“We’re with Tevinter now!,” Linnea yelled. “Where people respect every mage.”

The argument was beginning to draw attention. All eyes were on The Inquisition from the start as they quietly retreated to a corner of the tavern. Now the people were listening.

“Surely you don’t believe that, Linnea! The Inquisition —”

“The Chantry says what they think will scare us, and your Inquisition is no better.”

“Will you stop interrupting me and let me speak?” Juliette spoke behind grit teeth in a hushed voice.

“You haven’t changed,” Linnea scoffed. “You always got away with things because of your name, now you’re throwing around Andraste’s.”

“I’m on your side! I want to make sure that we’re never locked away in circle towers again!” Juliette shouted. She took a deep breath, ready to add to her statement. The words died on her tongue when Cassandra snatched her hand, pulling her backwards.

“Are you mad? “ Cassandra growled. “You might as well have just signed our alliance by yelling that out loud.”

“No, I had it handled,” Juliette whispered, trying to pull her hand free. “She thinks that Alexius will save them. She’s from my circle, perhaps I could try to convince her…”

“I think you’ve done enough, Herald.”

Varric jumped up from his seat when he noticed Cassandra dragging Juliette towards the door. She glanced at him on the way past and snarled, ”We’re leaving! Now!”

Cullen slammed his eyes shut tight. The sun was reflecting from the snow and the light felt like it was getting more intense by the moment. His head ached as though he wore a helmet, getting tighter and tighter until it crushed his skull. He inhaled a shaky breath and pinched the back of his neck. His muscles were tight where he held tension. He wanted to lay face down in the snow.

“Commander, let me help,” a worker rushed to his side, grabbing hold of the cart that was loaded with building materials. Cullen had dragged it most of the way to its destination, only stopping momentarily.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, frustrated at showing signs of weakness. His strength wasn’t an issue, rather his ability to keep his eyes open long enough to see where his hands were. “Thank you,” Cullen added. He let the man help, realising that he may have sounded more annoyed than intended. Together they pulled at the cart’s edges, gaining traction.

“Many hands make light work. My mother always said,” the man spoke proudly.

“Horses would make for much lighter work,” Cullen replied. “These carts weren’t designed to pulled by people.”

“I can’t argue with that.” the worker laughed.

When the men arrived at the construction site, a messenger called Cullen aside. “Commander, a message from Sister Leliana.” He accepted the note and nodded to the messenger.

Cullen, Leave the trebuchet construction to the workers and come to the chantry at once. -L

“She couldn’t have told me herself?” he asked out loud and sighed.

When Cullen entered the war room, Leliana and Josephine were both deeply immersed in reading reports. “What is it?’ he asked impatiently.

“The Herald has sent news…It’s concerning to say the least.” Leliana handed the paper to Cullen as he took his usual place by the table, standing over Ferelden.

While Cullen skimmed over the report, Josephine remarked of the speed in which they had travelled. “It’s because she took all of the bloody horses!” he complained. “Our men are out there carrying building materials by hand, all the way to the Hinterlands!”

“Each horse had a satchel I believe,” Josephine explained.

“They didn’t need all twelve!” He handed the report back to Leliana. “The sooner they finish those watchtowers, the better.”

“There’s more worrying matters at hand,” Leliana spoke with concern. “The Venatori are a threat not to be taken lightly. We can’t let the mages fall to their servitude.”

“All the more reason to disregard an alliance.” Cullen sighed in frustration. “It’s just one thing after another. We must bolster our defence and focus on sealing the breach before it kills us all.”

“We can’t just charge in unprepared, Commander,” Josephine argued. “We need more allies and support from across all of Thedas, not just Ferelden.”

Leliana folded her arms, “If we lose the mages to this magister, Alexius —”

“We don’t need the mages!” Cullen interrupted.

“We certainly don’t need them against us.” Leliana's words were ominous. Neither Cullen or Josephine could disagree.

The next morning, Cullen woke with the sunrise, grateful for a somewhat decent night of rest. Though not without waking several times, he found that the moments where he did sleep were an improvement. Perhaps Adan’s peculiar remedies were working.

The recruits were improving drastically with each passing day. There were many matters relating to The Inquisition that irritated Cullen, but his soldiers were not one of them. He was incredibly proud of their progress and his confidence in himself was beginning to improve as a result.

“Wonderful,” he praised as he weaved between drills. “Remember to angle your shield towards the ground, that way you will be able to deflect debris from explosives or magic.”

“Commander, they’re descending the pass now!”

Cullen looked over his shoulder and smiled. The Inquisition’s bannerman was positioned behind The Herald , perfectly aligned so that he couldn’t be seen. Just her , atop a horse with hair blowing in the wind and The Inquisition’s flag soaring behind. He thought that if an artist were to depict The Herald of Andraste, this would be the perfect moment to capture. She was the vision of power, strength and beauty.

Juliette listened closely as the officers talked. The return to Haven was surprisingly pleasant. She loved riding her horse steadily paced while chatting with her companions. Juliette found comfort around the men and women that served their travelling party , and took great pride in hearing their tales while on the road. Most were Ferelden, former farmers and hunters that were trained fast enough to serve in a convoy for The Herald’s travels. It was nice to be around good people and in that moment she felt truly happy.

Surprise took her when she noticed that The Commander was standing aside the path that led towards the base. He appeared to be waiting for their arrival which was unusual. Typically Cullen was busy elsewhere, over working himself in some capacity. As her horse approached at a trotting pace, she began to examine his posture. He stood with folded arms and an air of vigilance which seemed so very characteristic of Commander Cullen. This time however, his typical stoic expression was replaced with a dampened smile. Juliette’s hand hovered above Romeo’s reins, the temptation to slow her horse was strong. It felt like the polite thing to do, if he were indeed waiting to speak with her. She wasn’t looking forward to the discussions that would inevitably come regarding the potential alliance with Redcliffe’s mages. Cassandra was disappointed enough with Juliette’s willingness to make an agreement on first contact. Maker knows that Cullen would be less impressed. The options rattled through her head, each second her horse closing the gap between them. It seemed too late to pretend that she didn’t notice him standing there, but speaking with him wasn’t something she was prepared to do yet either. With a guilty smirk, Juliette tapped her foot against her horse and picked up speed.

“Herald, welc—”

“Commander,” Juliette greeted with a distant, formal voice as she galloped past leaving a haze of snow in the air. The soldiers and officers that accompanied increased their speed to keep up with their Herald. The thundering of hooves rapidly approaching made Cullen step back to avoid being trampled. Juliette glanced over her shoulder to witness The Commander standing alone with a crestfallen look on his face.

After reaching the entry to the base, Juliette remained saddled while she spoke with the officers that greeted her upon arrival. Her voice was calm and kind, her smile genuine. Juliette was mid sentence when she paused from the interruption of shouting.

“Herald!”

She turned her head and softly gasped at the sight of The Commander jogging towards her. His cheeks were flushed and his hair a little messy from the wind and snow. Juliette stared with wide eyes, wistfully watching his movements. She shuffled her thighs against the saddle and cleared her throat quietly. In her mind she prayed that the feelings of arousal stirring within would quickly dissipate.

“You’re back,” he said with a low, breathy voice.

“Cullen?” Juliette gave him a baffled look. “Did you just run after us?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I mean…uh…yes.” He sighed heavily with a step forward before freezing at the sight of The Herald’s palm extended in an authoritative manner.

“Don’t come any closer!” she shrieked. Cullen looked around himself, trying to asses any danger. The soldiers watched her attentively, seemingly confused also. He glanced back up at her with questioning eyes. She held her hand out firmly and her serious glare softened into a smirk. “You’re here to knock me from my horse!”

“What?” Culled chuckled. The amusement in his laugh wavered when he realised that the soldiers and officers were eyeing him with suspicion. “No!” he yelled at them with a rising pitch to his voice telling that he took offense to such allegations. “Maker’s breath, Lady Trevelyan! These are my men!” She let out a victorious giggle and the soldiers relaxed. Cullen moved towards her, ignoring the request to stay away. “They’ve given you far too much power,” he mumbled. He extended his hand in gesture to help The Herald down from the horse. She hesitated for a moment, glaring at him with a wrinkled nose and a pout that couldn’t resist turning into a grin. Cullen released a deep chuckle from his throat when she finally surrendered and accepted his offer. Although they both wore gloves, the feeling of Cullen’s hand firmly gripping hers made Juliette consciously aware of her quickening heartbeat. She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to linger. His touch made her feel delicate, when she noted the size difference in their hands.

Trying her very best to dismount the horse elegantly, Juliette asked “Why are you here, Commander?” As soon as both feet were on the ground, she snatched away her hand and turned her back to him. Her face was rapidly growing red from his touch and she tried to hide by pulling the fur lined hood over her head.

Why? Cullen had asked himself the same question. It was an impulsive decision to approach Juliette , more so to chase after her. A greeting at the war table would have sufficed for a professional relationship, yet there he was. The image of her descending the mountain trail had left him with muddled intentions.

Cullen was grateful that she had turned her back because he was becoming flustered while he desperately thought of an answer to her question. “Some people think it is polite to greet a colleague,” he replied cautiously.

“Oh,” was her response. Juliette turned to the side slightly, her face mostly obstructed by fur in a pristine white. “Do you not think of me as polite, Commander?”

While Juliette handed the reins of her horse to the sable hand, Cullen stammered half a response of “No, I…I—”

“Well, this is a fascinating surprise!” a voice sang out rescuing Cullen from his lack of words. “And there I was thinking that the charm of chivalry was lost on Southerners.”

Cullen stepped back with folded arms, “You must be Dorian.”

Juliette spun around so quickly that her hood fell back, revealing her tangled hair. “Yes!” she answered with exaggerated excitement. “Dorian, this Commander Cullen - he leads the Inquisition’s forces and helps ladies from horses,” she paused and pursed her lips at the realisation of her rhyming statement. “Apparently,” she giggled awkwardly, placing her hand on Dorian’s arm. Juliette’s nerves were still heightened from the earlier interaction and she felt embarrassed by the way that she carried herself - a silly girl, giggling like a fool. “Inside the gate you’ll find the main building. Ask for Josephine and she’ll see that you’ve had a meal and are shown to your quarters.”

As Dorian walked away he asked, “Tell me that your people serve more than soup and watered-down mead?”

“I wouldn’t have too many expectations going forward,” Juliette laughed, falling back on humour as a defence mechanism.

The moment that Dorian was out of sight, Cullen remarked with folded arms, “He’s a mage.”

“Oh, what gave it away? The big stick strapped to his back?”

Cullen sighed in frustration, “You never mentioned that he was staying with us in your report.”

“He’s staying with me not us,” Juliette clarified , walking away. “Dorian is a guest of mine, Commander.”

“It’s irrelevant how he was invited, Herald. I think that we should exercise some caution when letting mages into Haven unchecked,” Cullen replied, following after her.

Juliette stopped and turned slowly. “So that’s why you’re really here. To ask about the mages?”

“No, not entirely.”

“Don’t worry about Dorian, he’s got a good grasp on his magic if that’s what you’re afraid of,” Juliette folded her arms, unconsciously mimicking Cullen’s stance.

“That is …never mind,” he sighed. “We need safeguards in place to protect people against possession. For that, we need to be prepared ahead of time.”

“ Safeguards? You’d have us all guarded?” Juliette asked with a glare.

“No, that’s not what I meant! We need to be watchful, yes.” Cullen tried to explain although he was beginning to see that his words were falling upon deaf ears. Juliette scoffed and turned her back to him, ready to walk away.

“Next time, tell me when you’re planning on bringing a mage home.” His voice was firm and loud.

A shrill laugh escaped Juliette’s lips. “Is that a command?”

“Yes,” he affirmed. Cullen watched her with a heavy gaze, conveying a sense of authority.

Juliette shrugged her shoulders and replied with a sarcastic “Yes, Commander.”

“If there was just one abomination amongst us —”

“Oh would you give it a rest, Cullen!” Juliette snapped. “Save the anti-mage bullshit for the war room. Maker knows you’ll have plenty of opportunity to oppose me.” She stormed towards the gate, turning to glare at Cullen one last time. He squeezed the back of his neck and stared at the ground, unsure how to respond. Deciding that it was best not to say a word at all, he unleashed an aggressive sigh and walked away.

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