#return to halamshiral

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART ONE ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1]

♕

“I cannot believe you’ve talked me into this, Hawke.”

Fenris, frowning, fidgeting uncomfortably in his velveteen guardsman’s uniform. It was the closest thing either of them had for formalwear - Hawke, being a man of habit, had smuggled some amount of finery out of the Hawke Estate when they’d escaped Kirkwall that night so long ago, but, much like Hawke’s usual escapades, he neglected to pick up a few key items - such as britches that actually matched their doublets, and shoes. Any shoes. At all.

“I think you look handsome,” Hawke smiled, impishly, knowing that Fenris, while grumpy, had a little room left in him for some light teasing. Unlike Hawke’s usual methods of heavy teasing, which typically led to even heavier petting when the two were left alone.

Fenris didn’t take this well, but he merely sighed, tugging the uniform so its creases unfolded. “My least favorite part of going undercover,” he said, solidly and glumly, “is that the rest of us have to play-act while you always get to be yourself. Do you remember when we went to Chateau Haine? You had to accompany that awful Tallis, and Varric and I were assumed to be your manservants.”

“I remember,” Hawke chuckled. “You almost threw that guard in the moat outside the formal gardens.”

“I should have!” Fenris pouted. “Manservant. The gall.”

Hawke turned, and swept Fenris up by the waist. He smiled, from ear to ear, and Fenris - very briefly - forgot what he was mad about. Briefly.

“I promise. This ball will be better. And if anyone calls you a manservant, I’ll punch them in the face,” Hawke smiled.

Fenris, despite himself, let out a crooked smile, too. “That would blow your cover, I think.”

“Who’s to say the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t go about punching random nobles in the face for calling his boyfriend a manservant?” Hawke said, defensively.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, but he didn’t let go of Hawke. Or stop smiling.

-

The gardens at Halamshiral were abuzz - it was a hot, breezy, summer night, and the fireflies were out in full force. The sun had set not but an hour ago, and the coolness of the evening had just begun to lay down on the stuffed shirts in attendance at the Winter Palace. The hum and splash of the magnificent fountain, forming the centerpiece of the front gardens, made for a soothing backdrop to the idle chatter and excited gossip of the guests. This was a much less fussy affair than the Winter Ball - but as an afterparty of sorts, to greet guests cordially as one of the first “informal” parties of the social year, and to introduce the Empress Celene and her recently reconciled lover, the elven Marquise Briala.

Hawke and company, however, had alternative goals in mind.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke,” Varric muttered, feeling rather out of place at the soiree.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” Hawke replied, a little suspiciously. “You’re not one for parties. Well, not this kind of party, anyway.”

Varric sighed. “Just - trust me when I say I’m glad you’re here, all right?”

This time, unlike at Chateau Haine, Varric was wearing an unusually formal shortcoat, and he seemed ever so slightly nervous, shuffling from one foot to the next - which piqued Hawke’s interest, as his best friend almost never showed any signs of things getting to him. Especially social affairs.

Bethany was dressed in an Orlesian gown of periwinkle blue and white, in lush velvet, with a high collar in delicate gold filigree, embellished with designs of leaves and rings, reminiscent of the Circle. It had been a gift from Leliana, sent by courier when she had heard the Good Lady Bethany would be attending her first party at the Winter Palace. Hawke had interpreted this as a nice gesture, but Varric was quick to point out that the Nightingale had probably gifted her the dress as a sort of measure against the Inquisition’s acquaintances, however distant, being played as rubes in the dangerous machinations of the Game - especially when debuting.

Varric seized a beignet from the tray of a passing masked server, staining his gloves immediately with powdered sugar. The server either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Are those the ones with the chantilly cream?” Hawke asked, with interest. “Last time I was in Orlais, they had these tiny little beignets full of chantilly cream. And dusted with sugar, just like that. Only I think they had little swans made of gold foil on the top, too.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Nobles,” he said, scoffing. “Always trying to outdo one another.”

Varric bit into the beignet, and made a face. “Nope. No cream. It’s filled with something, though.”

“Hmm,” said Hawke, eyeing the server who’d gone off with the tray. “I could go for some something.”

Before he could pop off in search of the most ridiculous food the party had to offer, Varric grabbed him by the coat.

“Have you noticed,” Varric began, very slowly, “That this party is filled to the brim with people who have pissed off the Tevinter Imperium?”

Bethany, who had taken a beignet of her own and was nibbling with interest, nodded along. “Isn’t the majority of Orlais an enemy of the Tevinter Imperium? That’s like saying the Qunari and Tevinter are in a little spat.”

“No,” Varric continued, slowly, looking around again. “I mean, this party, specifically, is full of people who have made specific enemies of the ruling magisters of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Hawke, listening, subtly reached for one of his sheathed daggers, which he’d kept on his attire for an emergency. Most people saw it as a bit of a Hawke-esque flourish, just another quirk of the Champion of Kirkwall. But it comforted him - as both an accessory and an accessory to a quick escape.

Varric, who had finished his beignet, patted down his coat as well - just to make sure Bianca was in play. “We’ll keep an eye out. Could be the Empress just keeps really good company.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a who’s who of people I’d like to meet,” Hawke said. Was that even a hint of being impressed in his voice?

Fenris, in the meantime, had not let his guard down for one second since entering the gardens, and was stationed just to the back of Hawke, in a position, he subconsciously realized, to thwart any surprise attacks on his charge. What was he to call Hawke, now that they were together, but he still felt compelled to protect him? What did Donnic call Aveline, do you think?

“I don’t trust a thing anyone at this party has put forth,” Fenris said, muttering, darting poisonous glances at the nearest group of nobles, who huddled together and began to giggle, which only infuriated Fenris more.

“Keep it together,” Hawke advised, patting Fenris on the arm. “They’ll probably kick you out if you try to rip out their organs. Although it is rather salacious when you do.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke winked, boyishly, and he found himself smiling, despite himself.

Towards the group came a meandering group of ladies, all dressed in triplicate; the Empress’s Ladies in Waiting each curtsied lightly, one after the other, like a set of ascending piano keys.

“Messere Hawke,” the first one said, curtseying lowly. Her golden mask glinted in the gaslights that dotted the garden’s walls.

The second one giggled at Varric, and bowed to Bethany, who began to wave, then began to proffer a hand, then, finally, attempted a sort of curtsey, which was rather hard to tell in the voluminous dress Leliana had lent her.

“Why didn’t Mother ever prepare us for this sort of thing?” Bethany hissed, turning ever so slightly to Hawke.

“Mother was trying to run away from this sort of thing when she met Father, I think,” Hawke said, with a smirk.

“It is most pleasurable to see you, Lord Tethras,” the second one continued, to which Varric immediately held up his hands, which were still powdered with beignets. 

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Varric. Thank you. This is hard enough.”

“We’ve read the Tale,” the third one said, nodding at Varric, who - Hawke could tell behind his mask - was already sheepishly shrugging in extreme apology for the fracas that he was about to invite.

“Yes, the Tale,” the second one went on, animatedly. “Is it true, then, that the Champion really defeated the Arishok in hand to hand combat?”

“Well. It was more knife to knife,” Hawke shrugged, with a lopsided grin.

“And is it true, too, that your fellow Isabela ran off with the sacred texts of the Qun?” the first one asked, leaning in, with genuine curiosity.

“Just one book of the Qun, but yes,” Varric admitted.

“And is it true,” the third one said, earnestly, leaning in even further, “That you fought a High Dragon on the outskirts of the Bone Pits?”

Hawke, shrugging again, gave them a bit of a grin. “Fenris was there for that one. Varric, too.”

Tittering, the Ladies all looked at each other, flapping their fans at premium speed. A quick rush of whispers went through them, before they turned again to Hawke.

“We shall have to return, then,” the first one said, smiling coquettishly under her mask.

“And hear more of you and Lord Tethras’s stories,” the second one went on, as Varric winced at the “Lord Tethras” comment once more.

“It was a pleasure, truly,” the third one said, and all three of them curtsied, deeply, again, as Hawke bowed as they took their retreat, into the throng of the gardens.

It was as if they’d narrowly had a brush with a storm - or a windfall.

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Remind me to never tell people who I am or what I do, next time.”

“...Did they ignore you?” Hawke asked, looking back at Fenris, who was still standing a small distance away, his heavy, two-handed sword almost dragging in the garden lawn.

Fenris, sighing, barely looked up at Hawke as he dusted off the sword’s hilt. “I believe they are accustomed to people of your stature bringing elven servants as part of your coterie. Perhaps it would have been impolite to acknowledge my existence.”

Frowning, Hawke crossed his arms, glaring after the trio of Ladies-in-Waiting. “Perhaps it’s impolite to ignore you, at all,” Hawke said, scoffing.

Sighing heavily, Varric dusted the last of the beignet sugar off his hands with a clap.

“Well, I’m going to get just drunk enough to forget what’s going on, while being sober enough to remember why I’m here,” he said, stalking off with the firm purpose of a man who’s on a mission for nothing but the worst Antivan wine.

“And I would like to meet some new people,” Bethany said, with enthusiasm. “Is that the Marquess du Pompadour? Do you know her? Can we be introduced?”

“No, but I’m sure she’d be enchanted to meet the great Lady Bethany of House Amell,” Hawke smiled, as Bethany squeezed his arm excitedly before bounding off to introduce herself to Orlais’ best and richest.

“Have fun,” Hawke beamed, wagging his fingers at Bethany as she bounced to the next group of nobles, who already began chatting with her excitedly about the gold filigree neckline and the status of the party’s hors d’oeuvres.

Looking back at Fenris, Hawke frowned - but not at him.

“I don’t mind. Truly,” Fenris said, but his anger betrayed him in the way he wore his face.

Hawke frowned even harder.

“Well, I do,” he said, crossing his arms again. “One of the reasons why I agreed to come to this silly thing was to make up for Chateau Haine in the first place.”

Now, it was Fenris’s turn to frown. “Chateau Haine? I had assumed we came here to pry information out of the Inquisition. To assure their allegiance against the magisters. Or whatever strange twisted plan Varric has fished up.”

Nodding, Hawke waved a hand in the air. “I’m as eager to fight some magisters as the next man,” he said, continuing, “But I really wanted to come and show you a good time. I don’t like how things worked out at Chateau Haine - and I know how you feel about Tallis. I just supposed - perhaps - I wanted to take you to a party, and have you by my side. Properly. For once.”

Hawke looked rather embarrassed at this, and shrugged a little, in his reclaimed part-Hawke Estate part-leftover-guardsman-formal-uniform combination of attire.

“Hawke…”

Fenris’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He reached for Hawke’s arm, and squeezed it.

“If you wish to have me by your side, you need only ask.”

Hawke, smiling, sweetly against the honeyed air of the garden, squeezed his hand back.

“I always need you by my side, Fenris,” he said, softly.

-

Meanwhile, at the other end of the party, Dorian Pavus was getting drunk. Very, very drunk.

He had harangued Josephine for an invitation to the Inaugural Ball, and, despite her best efforts, he had finessed his way into blackmailing, cajoling, and, in one case, outright bribing assorted members of Skyhold staff into bugging the Ambassador straight into sending Dorian one of the Inquisition’s coveted invitations to Empress Celene and Marquise Briala’s first ball, formally thrown together. Not counting the last one, of course. He felt he deserved it, after all, since he was both the life of the party and present for when they got together. The second time, anyway.

Dorian was engaging in one of his favorite pastimes - flirting with the masked drinksman serving the flutes of violet cocktail - when he was jostled by another patron, elbowing his way in.

“Ale, please. Not dwarven. Please tell me you have ale that isn’t dwarven. Everyone says it’s top notch but it just tastes like piss, and I know it does, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. That voice. It sounded weirdly familiar. Weirdly… Fereldan.

Looking over, the man next to him, wearing a simple silver mask with blue silk piping, slumped over, sighing, putting his head in his hands. His dirty blonde hair was just barely poking out of the back of the silks of the mask, and he had the stature of someone who had spent a long, long time training as a warrior - and an even longer time sitting around afterwards, getting all antsy as those muscles waited for their next workout. The man tapped his fingers on the table - and his heavy rings clanked against the delicate, white-lacquered wood. One demon head ring, as big as two knucklebones. One thick, silver sigil, like the symbols carved on the tunnels in the Deep Roads marking the location of Darkspawn. And, on his ring finger, a delicate, tiny silver band, with the smallest of silver roses, inlaid with flakes of mother-of-pearl and red ruby.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not very subtle, Your Highness,” he said, leaning against the bar, rolling his R’s. Loaded, like bait.

Startled, the man turned around, coughing and straightening up, making sure his mask was covering his face.

“We’ve met,” Dorian went on, somewhat relishing in the man’s uncomfortableness. “However briefly. I believe you know my paramour, Lord Angus Trevelyan? He has nothing but good things to say about you. King Alistair.”

The man, startled, whipped his head back around to the bar, to make sure nobody was listening, then, as best he could, made an extremely frustrated gesture at Dorian, hunching over, clearly annoyed.

“Have we met?” he said, irritably. “Because you are absolutely blowing my cover, here. …Which would make you, I suppose, a likely candidate for Angus’s new boyfriend. Which is who I suppose you are.”

Alistar sighed, and put his elbows back on the bartop. The server returned with a large flagon of ale, and Alistair placed several sovereigns on the bar. The server sniffed.

“We don’t take Fereldan currency, messere,” he sneered, pushing the coins back towards him. Alistair - even with a mask on - looked utterly defeated.

“Here,” Dorian said, hiding a smirk, pushing a handful of shiny Orlesian gold pieces towards the server, who nodded curtly, and disappeared back behind the bar.

“Thank you,” King Alistair groaned, putting his head between his arms. “You would not believe the amount of social faux pas I’ve racked up tonight. If I’d gone as myself, Orlais and Ferelden would be back at war by now.”

Dorian looked at him curiously. “Why are you here, if I may ask?”

Alistair shook his head. “Ale first. State secrets later.”

Dorian laughed. “You’re cute. I see why you’ve got the whole country wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do?” Alistair said, surprised.

“Not this one. They seem to think you’re a gauche little imp, here,” Dorian said, airily.

Alistair frowned.

“Ferelden,” Dorian clarified. “I hear you and your little wife are something out of a fairy tale, a Grey Warden King and Queen alike. Must be some sight to see. Does seem rather romantic, in a way.”

Alistair paused, then, slumping even further, let out a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of Halamshiral, let alone the bartop.

At that moment, Dorian remembered the other thing Angus had told him about Alistair - the important thing.

“Ooh. Ah. Sorry. I - I know it must be difficult, with your wife missing, and all. I’m sure - I’m sure she’s busy doing, ah. Grey Warden. Things.” Dorian thought about this for a moment. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Alistair looked hopeless, but downed his entire ale in a resolute gesture of bravery. “Lord Dorian of House Pavus, right?” he said, straining his last Kingly muscle to make the most out of the situation.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone I’ve so successfully put my foot in my mouth,” Dorian said - charmingly. As charmingly as possible, under the circumstances.

Alistair sighed. “You’re part of the Inquisition, then. You - were at Adamant.”

Dorian shook his head. “Not personally, no. …And don’t get me started on how I feel about that. Have you ever had your boyfriend go off into the Fade and have you think he was dead for almost twenty-four hours? No, I suppose not.”

Alistair gave him a withering look.

“...Right, missing wife, right,” Dorian said, hastily. “Here. I shall buy you another ale, and I’ll answer everything you wish to know about our visit to Adamant, as told by Lord Trevelyan himself. But no promises on me remembering everything correctly. I’ve had quite a lot of champagne.”

Alistair sighed, then nodded, solemnly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Finishing off his ale, Alistair motioned to the bartender for another, while Dorian slipped over another handful of silver coins.

“Then let’s begin,” Dorian said, with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

-

[invinciblerodent]

[A codex entry reading:

"Elsewhere, around an anatomical sketch:

Reclaimed. Though damaged beyond repair, the Anchor's condition-- used both to mend and destroy-- is fascinating. A detailed study will consume what remains. But it may also yield the final elements that have eluded me."]

Solas stole my fucking hand

[callahanisms]

inquisition companions react to the inquisitor missing half their arm

because bioware didn’t wanna give it to us, i decided i’d just do it myself. (insert thanos meme) even though i am like years late to the hype.

the game is like 9 years old at this point, but spoilers ahead.

do keep in mind this is my own personal interpretation of each character. it may not be accurate to your own interpretations. (also i know leliana is technically not a companion in inquisition but i included her anyways)

cassandra pentaghast

if cassandra could plunge a knife into the heart of solas, she would. she would not let him get away with betraying you and taking the anchor along with your arm. you had basically fallen into her arms when you emerged from the portal and she had to carry you back to halamshiral. for the days you were unconscious, cassandra was anxious and extra prickly. there were many times where cullen would have to talk her down from her anger. even varric did too.

dorian pavus

the first thing he did was crack a joke. the atmosphere was tense and it just slipped out. “i asked you to come back in one piece, not missing one.” safe to say, the other companions did not approve of his joke. dorian was set to return to tevinter after being notified of his new position as a magister, but he delayed the return to his homeland for you. he sat in your room as you lied unconscious, barely breathing, leg anxious bouncing up and down. when you awoke, you were immediately met with a large and tight hug from him. he knocked the air out of your lungs from that.

blackwall

blackwall admires you. in fact, everyone would go so far as to say he adores you. he thinks of you as strong, capable, almost infallible. you closed rifts, you closed the big green tear in the sky, and you defeated corypheus! what couldn’t you do? all your feats proved to him that you were the strongest leader he could ever know. and yet, you were still mortal. you left the eluvians mortally wounded and exhausted beyond belief, your eyelids so heavy and ready to close so you may drift off into the black void of sleep. blackwall would not let you, not until you were taken away to be cared for. you found him sitting besides you, awake and on guard. your mortality was his reminder that you and him were the same, even if your lives appeared to be completely different. and he understood that the world would need a leader like you and that is dangerous.

iron bull

the bull could feel a stronger kinship with you that day. it appears that the both of you lost something. he betrayed the qun for the inquisition, thus losing a part of himself, his people. you lost a literal part of yourself, something you had to come to terms with after having the anchor for two years. to say iron bull was shaken up would be an understatement. he was getting cassandra to hit him with sticks for days on end while you lied unconscious. he wondered what would’ve happened if he was with you, if maybe...he could’ve stopped solas. but reminiscing never did anyone any good.

cole

as much as he wanted to help you, cole couldn’t. he also understood that you wouldn’t accept his help, no matter how much he insisted. so instead, he did the best thing he could do: help tend to your injuries. what was curious was that he could feel very little of your pain. when he felt your pain two years ago after forming the inquisition, it was concentrated in your hand and forearm. with it gone, you felt at peace. the primary source of pain for you had been washed away. perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, he thought.

sera

sera’s immediate reaction is, like dorian, to crack a joke. everyone is used to her eccentricity. but it felt different this time around. while you laid unconscious, recovering from the long battle, she occupied herself. she had to busy her hands and her legs, keep moving, keep her mind busy. because if she sat too still for even a second, then her mind would think about the worst outcome. she would get images of you, dead, because solas had betrayed you, betrayed her, betrayed the inquisition. hell, he betrayed the world! that knob! thinking he knew what was best! sera’s all the more relieved when it’s revealed you survived. she bursts through the door to see you and hug you tightly, complaining about how much you scared her.

varric tethras

in all honesty, varric should’ve been more prepared to expect...well, the unexpected. he had expectations of you coming out unharmed, untouched. obviously, that was not what happened. and he wondered if he was responsible for this. he had been one of the many people to support you as the inquisitor two years ago, suggesting it. he wondered if he made the wrong decision. but also, part of varric was relieved. he lost someone close to him two years ago. he didn’t know if he could handle losing you too.

vivienne de fer

the court would devour tales of the eluvians and how you managed to survive. that was vivienne’s first thought. people would be talking about you for centuries to come, certainly. and yet, she knew in her soul that was not what you would want. she does her best to minimize what rumors spread when you first emerge from the eluvians and help give you privacy. behind closed doors, vivienne checks on your injuries. part of her is amazed that the anchor was removed so cleanly.

josephine montilyet

josephine has seen many things ranging from serious to just plain absurd. when she was alerted that you had returned with many serious injuries, including the loss of half your arm, she sent messages to get the best possible doctors in all of orlais to help attend to you. the woman was definitely stressed beyond belief. but when she wasn’t trying to get everyone from backing off from you or getting people to look at you, josephine was attending to you herself. you awoke to find her wiping some sweat off your face and when she noticed, she muttered about how great andraste was and embraced you tightly.

cullen rutherford

your knight-commander appeared to take the news very well, much to the disapproval of cassandra. but the moment cullen was alone, in private, he flipped a table, causing everything to crash. all he could feel running throughout his body was regret, guilt, and anger. regret and guilt for not having gone with you. he should’ve. because if he did, maybe you would have came back alright. anger directed towards solas because the apostate had betrayed you, the inquisition. and everything you and him had worked towards was going to crumble. all of his hard work, leliana’s, cassandra’s, josephine’s, it’d all be for naught. cullen ends up spending a lot of time alone while you’re unconscious. he prays to andraste and the maker to distract himself from any wandering thoughts going towards lyrium. certainly the new mabari hound he decided to adopt on a whim helps with distractions at least.

leliana

the woman has seen many things in her lifetime, having experienced the fifth blight itself and been part of that fight against the archdemon. still, things aren’t easy when you come back from the eluvians missing half of your arm. even if it goes against all her duties, leliana stays with you until you wake up to make sure you’re alright. you’re the inquisitor after all and it’s vital that you’re still alive.

solas

he’s the one who took it. you think he cares?

in all seriousness, it gave him no pleasure to remove your arm for the anchor. even if his plan was...well, shoddy we should say, the anchor was going to kill you. he had no choice. carrying your hand and forearm around felt heavy. he could carry it just fine but what made it heavy was the burden that came with his plan to tear down the veil and bring doom upon the world in a desperate attempt to bring it back to what it once was. and also, the burden of having harmed you.

[evanhereonearth]

VEILGUARD ENDGAME SPOILERS

He collapses the moment the rift closes behind us.

I fall with him to the floor, my own strength giving out after these long years, and I draw the Fade around us like a nest. In a heartbeat we are surrounded by soft grass, growing shamrocks, plush moss. A bower of branches cradles us, gentle and alive.

My arms pull him to me, into the embrace of my form and the forgiving earth where I can enfold him in every bit of love I have stored away for him. My hand smooths his face where Elgar’nan’s archdemon battered him. Traces the tear tracks in blood.

“Are you—truly here?”

His voice is hoarse with the ravages of what he has endured.

“Where else would I be, vhen’an’ara?”

The softness in my words seems to shatter him, and his eyes fill once more. “I did not want you to see—”

“I have seen all there is to see of you, my heart. My spirit recognised yours all those years ago. There is nothing you have done that makes you unworthy of my love, Solas. Nothing you have endured, nothing you have survived, that could make me love you less.”

“Vhenan…”

“You found my messages.” I watch his eyes, tinged with violet amid the grey-blue. He blinks, but no tears fall, only soak his lashes. He nods. “I found yours.”

He doesn’t speak, but his throat bobs as he swallows.

“I learned our first time at Halamshiral your other names,” I tell him. “I learned your true name not so very long after Halamshiral the second time. How much it must have tortured you to see yourself written on my face every time you looked at me, inked there in service of the one you loved who returned such abuse.”

Solas flinches from the word, but he is past dissembling. I remember Cole, in a panic, begging Solas to bind him. “It’s not abuse if I ask!” And I remember Solas’s rebuke.

I touch the scar above his brow where he burned Mythal off his face.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” I say to him, the phrase he once said to me when he removed Mythal’s vallaslin from my face, the phrase she was too cowardly to use herself. Too proud to say she was sorry even as she set him free.

Something in him unfurls, unclenches.

“I told you once why I chose her vallaslin,” I say.

He dips his chin to say he remembers. “A reminder of what we do not know, you said. That we can learn.”

“Yes. But I did not tell you all of it.” I pause, sliding closer so my face is level with his—I do not wish to be looking down on him. “In that temple, everywhere I looked, your wolf statues sat adjacent Mythal. Anuon told me I was blaspheming to say perhaps we did not fully understand you; I chose that vallaslin because of you, in a way. Because even before we met, you challenged what I believed to be true about my world, about my history, about myself.”

He reaches out and places his hand over my heart, like I once did for him in our bed high above Skyhold. I mirror him with my own. His face relaxes in increments, whatever remnants of the mask of Fen’Harel that linger melting into an aching tenderness so wholly for me that my own eyes prickle.

“I never left your side,” I say, my soft words barely above a whisper.

“Nor I yours.”

For the first time since Dragon’s Breath, Solas reaches for me. The gentle firmness of his touch brings with it warm tears spilling over my eyes to cool upon my cheeks. Without a word, he tilts his head upwards to kiss them away.

“The spirits have named you,” he tells me after a moment, almost bashful as he searches my face, still looking for any hint of regret. “That was the single hope I have clung to, the only one I allowed my heart when I thought of you, vhenan. It is why—it is why I left you the letter. So you would know that…so you would be certain my heart was still yours, regardless of your choice.”

I know what they have named me, but I want to hear him say it.

“You have always been Sileal,” I tell him. Wisdom. “What is it they have called me?”

He touches my face like I touched his, tracing my freckles, my dimple, my scar.

“They call you Enaste, da’lath’in,” he says. “The spirits of the Fade call you Grace.”

[loquaciousquark]

[Fic] Lavellan, A., Pavus, D. [1/1]

Rating: G Characters/Pairings: Solas/Lavellan, minor Dorian/Bull Fandom: Dragon Age Word Count: 6.2k Summary: Dorian and Adahla exchange letters and write an academic paper. Set post-game, pre-Trespasser.

—

Dear Dorian,

I’m glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Minrathous. Leliana’s scouts informed us some of the caravans north had been waylaid by bandits, but I should have known with Bull and the Chargers along, nothing could delay you. Everyone sends their love except Sera, who’s instead defaced every page in this sheaf and then run laughing up to the roof. The rude gesture in the corner is from her.

Varric has asked twice now in his offhanded way if the Inquisition might be traveling along the Imperial Highway in the next few weeks. He’s eager to return to Kirkwall, even if he’s allergic to saying it straight out, and Vivienne has wished to speak with a band of Aequitarian mages in Val Royeaux for some time, so I expect we’ll bivouac our own way north shortly. Please post your next reply to Halamshiral and we’ll pick it up on the way.

As regards your last letter: I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite all right. I know I was unlike myself on our recent adventure into the Deep Roads, but your forbearance with me (and my uncharacteristic impetuousness) was very generous. I’m fully recovered now, I assure you, and have put all distractions behind me. My solemn oath to stop jumping off ledges without looking is inscribed here for your approval.

Speaking of approval, please look over the changes I’ve made to the Ameridan paper (enclosed). The green ink is addition, the red revision, and the blue strikethroughs have been cut. In particular, please review the section on Ameridan’s known—and most incontrovertible—history, especially the citations from Renaures and Bescond. There’s a Genitivi monograph I’m trying to track down which would do a great deal to preempt Chantry objections, but I’m having difficulty laying hands on an unaltered original. I have high hopes one might be hiding in a University of Orlais library, but until I can coax the librarian to pack it in goosedown and ship it east, Renaures is our strongest advocate.

—

Links: FF.net, AO3

[lafaiette]

The level of disappointment I feel for the new dragon age game is just so consuming. Like I'll admit that after so many years, I didn't think it would hold true to what the previous game set up. But I hate that I was right, and I hate that a game series I loved so much sas turned into what it is now. I didn't buy it at launch because I wanted to wait for a sale, but with all that I'm hearing I'm wondering if it's even worth it. I'm just so sad for how this all went and I wish it hadn't happened. It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

This is also one of the most painful parts for me, together with the way they handled - or ignored - a majority of the established lore.

In Veilguard, we learn that the majority of the South is basically gone: Denerim is lost, Redcliffe is under siege, getting help from the dwarves of Orzammar, who are already stretched thin. The ruler of Ferelden is never addressed - what happened to them? Are they still alive? Are they defending Redcliffe? We'll never know.

Orlais is also lost. Val Royeaux and Halamshiral are barely holding on, and a noble faction decided (for some stupid reason) to join the Venatori and spread even more chaos. The ruler of Orlais is never addressed - are they dead? Did the rebel nobility kill them? What happened to Briala's elves? We'll never know.

Kirkwall has fallen, and Aveline has been forced to evacuate the city and move the few survivors to Starkhaven. We know that Varric is dead, so Aveline or someone else will have to take his place, if Kirkwall can even be recovered (doubtful at this point).

The Blight is back in Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds, too, with only some Avvar and Alamarri clans keeping things under control while in a temporary truce with Ferelden.

Everything we ever accomplished in DA:O, DA2, and DA:I is gone. They turned the South into a blank state so they can leave it there, ignoring it, now that the focus will be on Those Across the Sea, as the secret ending slide shows. This blank state will also allow them to return to the South, should they ever wish to, but without the need to take into account the players' past choices, because everything we knew, everything we built and fought for, is gone.

"Oh, Ferelden changed so much in the last twenty years or so, ever since that terrible Blight caused by the elven gods!"

"Orlais isn't the same anymore, there is another civil war because we lost our previous ruler. Who was it? Oh, I don't know, I wasn't born yet, I couldn't care less."

"Pity about Kirkwall. I heard it was a shithole, but the beer at the Hanged Man was apparently pretty good."

^ This is what we will get in the future.

[dalishious]

Reclaiming Independence of the Dales

Before anything else, I’d just like to clarify that that vast majority of this is made of my own ideas, based on interpretation from the little canonical information provided, and a little inspired by my own people’s history and governing structure. Additionally, what I am presenting here is an ideal situation, not necessarily what I think is an immediately realistic outcome in the world-state established. So, please keep that in mind.

The Dales were established as a homeland for elves—a small piece of a continent that was once called their home in its entirety, before the humans colonized it—by Maferath in -165 Ancient. This was in reward for the eleven people’s participation in the fight against Ancient Tevinter. But in 2:10 Glory, Divine Renata I broke this treaty and declared an Exalted March against the Dales, ending in its annexation by Orlais.

[Related Post: All You Need to Know about the Exalted March of the Dales]

If Solas has very low approval with Inquisitor Lavellan, and Lavellan accuses him of not doing enough to help their people, he will say the following: “You could order Halamshiral returned to the Dalish, if you wished. But ultimately, you know that would fail. That even you cannot solve this.” I hate this with a burning passion. The reason I can’t do that, Solas, is because it’s not an option in the game! Why are you as a character angry at me, the player, for not doing something that is not an option for me to do? Why was this written? Just to push the point that it’s not worth it to try and fight back against oppression? Because if I refuse to accept hopelessness in real life, why would I in accept it in a video game where the story is made-up, and therefore anything is possible if the developers so wish it.

Regardless, according to Solas, the Inquisition has enough power to support the reclamation of an independent Dales. I imagine this would require a lot of political maneuvering within the Orlesian governance, and therefore I think the best opportunity to do this would be with Briala ruling through Gaspard. This would then later open the door for Briala to be the leader of the newly independent Dales, too. I would like to see Briala as ruler of the Dales not just because she is a favourite of mine, but because I genuinely believe she is the best established character fit for the job. She was trained in everything Celene was trained in, has first-hand experience in court, has extensive connections, and has demonstrated her ability and desire to utilize these skills and assets for the benefit of elven kind.

Briala’s blackmail on Gaspard may help prevent Orlais from invading again while under his rule, but to last longer, the Dales would need to establish itself as a strong, independent Nation with allies. This is why I believe it would also be important to have Leliana as Divine Victoria in such a world-state where this could happen. Leliana re-canonizes the Canticle of Shartan, and in making it available for the common person to understand, would ideally help sway the minds of the average Andrastian into supporting the Dales’s independence. The nobility would of course be much trickier, because they and the Chantry are the ones who actually benefitted from its annexation—but there is little they would be able to actually accomplish if they did not have the power of the people behind them.

As far as allies go, Ferelden could only gain from Orlais losing control of the Dales, because it would mean cutting Orlais off from a lot of Ferelden’s border, therefore reducing the threat of another invasion. Additionally, a leader with just plain good morals like say, Alistair, would easily accept the elven kingdom’s return. But even Anora is willing to grant part of the Korcari Wilds to the Dalish if Mahariel requests it, and while this sadly doesn’t last, it does show a positive sign into her potentially being open to the idea of an independent Dales as well.

I sincerely doubt that all Dalish clans would return to the Dales and re-settle down. After all, they have developed differentiating cultures over the years of wandering in separated groups, with different ideals and different ways of life that they might not want to give up. But many would return, and that would likely create conflict between the elves coming from the Dalish clans and the elves coming from the cities. We know that some prejudice exists against “flat-ears” as some Dalish call those from the city, and we know that city elves have adopted a lot of misinformation from humans into their views of the Dalish. It would take time and positive leadership to reconnect the people, without risking falling into some sort of hierarchy based on origin. This is why I do not believe one group or the other should single-handedly rule alone. Rather, I think there should be a Grand Council of High Keepers made up of those voted into the position each to represent a single district of the Dales. (I like the idea of there being seven High Keepers, not just because there are seven traditional districts of Mi’kma’ki, but because it works out that there seven of the Creators. So it makes sense that there would be seven High Keepers.) The Grand Council would meet and make decisions together, with one appointed leader at the head to act as the Council’s chair.

In terms of protection and order, the Emerald Knights should be reformed. This would include the Fade Hunters, to protect the people against demons and maleficarum, with there being no Circles or Templars.

Restoring the independence of the Dales would lead to a revival of elven culture in ways that could never happen before, because they would actually be free to pursue re-learning the language, re-discovering the history and culture, and sharing it all amongst each other. They would not have to fear arrest the crime of simply being an elf.  

But what of the other races presently living in the Dales? I see no reason why they would have to leave, so long as they would be willing to follow the Grand Council’s leadership. I imagine many nobility would flee to Orlais, simply because they would not stand for it. But for the average human or surface dwarf, their life wouldn’t really even change much; they’d still be managing their farms the same as always. Hell, it might even improve things for them, assuming the Grand Council gives fairer treatment than the nobility previously.

[songofamazon]

A Circle Unbroken

This was inspired by a prompt from @thedissonantverses Challenge Weekend: "A Circle Unbroken." That was begging to be a later scene in "Iron and Ice," my new-ish Neve Gallus x Vivienne de Fer fic.

It will definitely be edited to reflect whatever happens between chapter 1 and this once I get there, but I had fun imagining this bit today.

(1612 words)

Vivienne gazed down from her balcony near the peak of the White Spire of Orlais. The imperial palace had fallen, and soon after the Grand Cathedral. Smoke, Blight, and chaos wreathed the streets below, but somehow, the Circle still stood.

Somehow?

No.

Vivienne knew exactly how. She had seen to it that the White Spire would hold against the torrents of terror and violence outside its walls.

Leveraging Divine Victoria’s influence and her own authority over the Circle’s mages and templars, Vivienne transformed the fortified tower as a place of refuge for all who wanted it and were willing to leave any conflict at the gates.

Now, hundreds of clerics and other chantry staff tended hundreds more refugees from all races and walks of life right alongside the Circle’s mages. Templars and mages from more remote loyalist Circles, and even some from the so-called College of Enchanters, joined to their numbers. Living quarters were cramped. Blankets and curtains made temporary living spaces in the dungeons for those who wanted more privacy.

Mages healed the sick and renewed the wards against the threats outside. Templars guarded the gates and more precious storerooms, now that their duty of collecting and tagging refugee weapons was complete. There would be no fighting in this tower. The Divine’s most trusted clerics worked alongside Vivienne’s most level-headed templars to insure that. Existing Spire staff as well as capable refugees saw to food, sanitation, and cleaning in the tight spaces. And a single Gray Warden who had been traveling through Val Royeaux when chaos struck offered her services in ensuring that no Blight found its way inside.

Their operation was carefully monitored and adjusted at each level, and, so far, it worked. Sealing the gates five days earlier had been both the most important and most soul-wrenching act under Vivienne’s command.

Could they have fit a few more? Perhaps.

Would allowing entry to more have reunited more families and brought more supplies? Also perhaps.

But it could have just as likely brought conflict and Blight into their midst.

Vivienne already had too many in her care. She owed those charges security and well-being. She could not risk it.

She gazed past the smoky haze to the east. There had been no reply to her missives to Halamshiral in too many days. Fair few of her messenger birds from anywhere returned. Could the awakened Blight snatch a raven out of the sky? She shuddered at the thought.

And to the north? The horrible red light of the weeks-long eclipse cast shadows of blood.

Only divine-like power could have moved the moon and held it in such perfect, obscuring orbit—divine like magic already demonstrated by the unleashed Evanuris.

Vivienne would not speak those suspicions aloud. She left interpretation of the signs to the sermons of the Divine and her clerics. It was better that way. Let people have hope in their Maker.

As for her?

The Maker and his Bride felt more distant now than ever, with the earthly presence of the two ancient elven gods claiming divinity, power, and dominion for themselves.

Even Solas’ awakened power far out-stripped her own.

While Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain took their seat of power in the North, it would not be long before they cast their blighted gazes South. Neve and her Veilguard would need all the power they could get to hold it back—without Vivienne.

Nothing good moved on that northern horizon. No messenger birds there, either. Only blood, fire, and death.

“Worrying about your allies?” the Divine observed as she approached.

Vivienne’s fingers went to the intricately worked though false gold and brocade collar necklace that Neve had bought off a hawker in Minrathous what seemed like an age ago. Vivienne had changed back into proper Orlesian fashion upon her return to the Spire weeks ago, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to put away the trinket.

Fine robes rustled at the doorway between her suite and the adjoining suite she had lent to the Divine.

“Always, your Radiance,” Vivienne admitted, “And my charges, the refugees, and the state of the world.”

“Vivienne! How often must I tell you? It’s Leliana in private,” she chided. “But as you say, it falls to all of us to worry, to pray, and to serve those who need us.”

“As we do here.” What did Leliana want from her today? Or rather, what need had the clerics—or her spies—identified within the Spire? Neither woman had the luxury of idle chatter these days.

Leliana smiled knowingly at her. “You express more than you think, Madame de Fer. And I was once an accomplished player of the Game.”

“But I think,” Leliana started impishly as she joined Vivienne at the balcony railing, “You are missing your lady love most of all.”

Vivienne jerked her hand away from the necklace. “I have uttered no such—“

“You never stopped, my dear.” Vivienne favored her with a weary smile.

“Just don’t tell my clerics. But you’re deflecting,” Leliana teased, then sobered, “But there is never anything wrong with worrying for those you love—or in loving at all.”

“My dear Leliana, you know as well as I do that women of our responsibility have naught the time nor the risk of vulnerability for love.”

“So you say,” Leliana hummed to herself. “Don’t fear. I hold secrets close. But, you haven’t heard from them recently?” She shifted subjects so quickly, Vivienne had not time to protest. Leliana had that infuriating knack, which she deployed so cheerfully.

“No,” Vivienne admitted with a sigh, her gaze tracing north again, in some desperate, frivolous hope of a messenger bird. “Not since the eclipse started. All of us—those of us mages with sufficient skill to sense it—are certain the power that wrenched the moon from its place came from the north. Likely Tevinter.”

“Where your Scout Harding and the rest of her team have been working,” Leliana nodded solemnly. “I have heard nothing from her or any of my people outside of Orlais either. I don’t think my birds can get past the miasma.”

Vivienne forced herself to turn away from the balcony edge. “And so we focus on what is here, and try to plan for a future past this ruin, do we not?”

“One day at a time,” Leliana agreed, then drifted back towards her suite’s door. She paused suddenly, half-way across the common room. “Vivienne? I believe your closet is knocking.”

“What?” Vivienne strode towards her, hearing the polite knocking of a hand against wood as well. The eluvian! Her fingers shook as she pulled the keys from her belt and rushed to the doors. Drawing them open, her heart sank.

A young woman with Dalish tattoos not unlike the Inquisitor had once worn stood silhouetted in the dreamy shimmer of the elven mirror. She wore the colorful, gilded leathers that Vivienne had come to recognize as one of the Veil Jumpers.

Looking only a little shaken, the Veil Jumper announced, “Correspondence for Grand Enchanter Vivienne de Fer.”

Masking a disappointment that she would not name, Vivienne replied coolly, “I am she.”

“Then this is for you,” she produced a folded letter addressed to Vivienne with a shaky, childish penmanship.

Rook.

Vivienne broke the seal and skimmed the note. There was no mention of Neve, but the child who called herself the leader of the Veilguard yet lived, and the ‘god’ Ghilan’nain was dead. There was hope.

“What is it?” Leliana asked, drawing nearer.

“A council of allies is being called to the Lighthouse in the crossroads,” Vivienne replied, “To plan a final assault on Elgar’nan’s seat of power, to which I have been invited, as Grand Enchanter of the southern Circles.”

“Do you wish to send a reply,” the Veil Jumper asked, adding an awkward, “My Lady.” This one had obviously only ever heard of court.

“You will go, obviously,” Leliana said.

“You assume much, your Radiance,” Vivienne countered, “My people need me, here.”

“Your allies up north are going to assault the throne of a god,” Leliana stepped closer. Her playful lilt had been replaced by the steel of a spymaster. “They need you! Maker, Thedas needs you! They need us, the whole White Spire.”

“But—“

“I will not be interrupted, Grand Enchanter,” Leliana’s hair fell freely around her face in the privacy of their rooms, but all the regality of the sunburst throne hung on her countenance. “Your system of care for the refugees here can practically run itself, and what cannot, I will see to. The mages, templars, and any others who would wish to fight this new world order deserve a chance to do so. Your eluvian crossroads and ‘council of allies’ provide the chance to do so. Would we not regret giving all we could to save this world we love—who we love—if our help could tip the balance from defeat to victory?”

Breathless, Vivienne’s heart raced. She pushed away the memory of a Tevinter woman’s wry smile, those lips on hers.

“If that is what the Most Holy decrees,” Vivienne dipped her head in a bow. It was a show for their visitor, of course, but perhaps just the reminder she needed.

“It is.”

“Then,” Vivienne turned back to the messenger, “Please inform dear Rook that she can expect my presence as soon as I assess our resources and settle matters here.”

The Dalish woman gave a shaky smile of relief. “I will convey your reply.”

“And we will make ready.” Vivienne waited until the messenger retreated back into the Eluvian to lock it up again.

There was much to do, but—

I’m coming. Neve, I’m coming.

[tevivinter]

Hiii

For Marel Lavellan/Dorian from the pinning list: actual hearteyes

- asexualtabris 💜

thanks for the prompt! <3 here's a pre-relationship pavellan for @dadrunkwriting

Dorian had expected a peaceful, quiet afternoon in the gardens; just him, his glyph studies, and perhaps a glass of wine later. Birds chirped in the distance, dipping into the fountain. The sun bathed Skyhold in a warm, golden light, and Dorian found a pleasant spot beneath a tree, the shade cooling his skin as he opened his book.

It would have been the perfect setting to focus — if not for Marel.

Of course, it wasn’t as though Dorian’s entire attention gravitated towards him. That would be ridiculous. Clearly, the reason he had read the same paragraph five times was that the glyphs were particularly intricate. It had absolutely nothing to do with how the Inquisitor moved across the garden with Josephine.

They were practicing dance steps again, a necessary preparation before Halamshiral. Dorian had heard about their sessions in passing, but this was his first time witnessing them. And now that he had the chance to observe, it became clear that Marel would need more than a few days. Perhaps a few months, at least.

Dorian winced as the Inquisitor stepped on Josephine’s toes for the third time, his movements possessing all the elegance of a drunken nug. Josephine, ever patient, guided him with gentle corrections, but Marel remained stiff as a door, his steps forced and unsure.

It was almost physically painful to watch. And yet, Dorian couldn’t look away. Not because of the dance, per se, but because of the rare vulnerability hidden in Marel’s face.

The Inquisitor’s brow furrowed with concentration, his gaze fixed downward as if this would stop him from trampling Josephine. His grip on her hand was careful, as though he feared he might hurt her. For all his intimidating presence and sharp tongue, there was a gentleness beneath it all. A man who tried, despite his discomfort, because he cared.

Dorian’s chest tightened. He forced his gaze back to his book, though he read nothing.

Josephine eventually stepped back, offering a polite smile. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I have a meeting to attend. Shall we continue tomorrow?”

Marel nodded, though his frown deepened. “Of course.”

As Josephine disappeared into Skyhold’s halls, Marel exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face. Dorian considered returning to his studies, but then Marel’s voice drifted across the garden.

“Am I doing that terribly?”

Dorian blinked, meeting his gaze. “Pardon me?”

“You’ve been watching the entire time,” Marel strode toward him, arms crossed. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then shut it. He composed himself, closing his book with exaggerated calm. “I'm afraid I don't. I was quite busy.”

Marel glanced at the book, then back to him with a deadpan expression. “You’ve been on the same page for half an hour.”

Dorian felt heat creep up his neck. “Well, these are very complex glyphs.”

“Sure.” Marel arched a brow but let it slide. He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen — Josephine is a wonderful teacher, but she’s... too polite. If I must dance at this damned ball, I need someone who will tell me when I look like an idiot.” He paused, scanning Dorian’s face for an instant. “Will you teach me?”

The question caught Dorian completely off guard. He recovered quickly, however, masking his surprise with a smirk. “How could I refuse when you ask so nicely?”

Dorian stood, brushing off his robes. He approached Marel, positioning his hand on top of his arm, the other holding his palm. He glanced up, meeting eyes that were the color of molten gold.

“The first rule to survive Halamshiral is knowing how to waltz without offending anyone,” Dorian explained. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Marel pursed his lips and started to move, his form decent but stiff. His eyes soon flicked to their feet.

Dorian squeezed his hand lightly. “Keep your eyes on me,” he instructed. “And do try to relax. You look as if you’re bracing for a demon attack.”

Marel’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Isn’t that what dancing with Orlesians is?”

Dorian chuckled. “Perhaps. Although, with demons, you can stab them and call it a day. Sadly, that won’t be an option at the Winter Palace.”

Marel exhaled, his shoulders finally loosening. They found their rhythm, the dance slowing into smooth rotations. The small distance between them was maddening — with their hands linked, Marel’s warmth seeped into Dorian’s skin, his heartbeat racing with the contact. Dorian’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep his composure.

The Inquisitor was an attractive man, surely. But it was the way he softened in these rare moments that made Dorian’s chest clench with something unknown. Beneath the hardened exterior and the scowl was someone who cared deeply. And when Marel smiled like this, genuinely pleased, Dorian felt the rest of the world fade away.

They danced until the sun began to dip below the mountains, laughter following their steps, teasing remarks filling the spaces between. And for a little while, there was no Inquisition, no Orlesians, no looming threats.

Just them.

And the quiet rhythm of their feet in the garden.

[luzial]

WIP Wednesday

Yet untitled Halamshiral business:

Solas paces, clipped footsteps on tile floors, around the periphery of the ballroom. He intends to walk slowly, to make it less obvious that he is circling the room with a gravity that should cut a trench into the marble beneath his feet. But each time he slows himself, his feet involuntarily rush to return to the tempo of the waltz a few paces later. He breathes through his nose, holds it for as long as he can, releases it. He does this again and again though it provides no ease from the pounding of his heart against his ribs. His eyes are on his boots. His eyes are on shadowed alcoves. His eyes are anywhere but on the ballroom below. Hunt well, he told her. And she has. She may as well wear their pelts like trophies across her shoulders.

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART TWO ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1] [2]

♕

“Dorian?”

Angus, leaning over himself in the library under the rookery at Skyhold, muttered into the flipped-open sending crystal his boyfriend had given him. He should’ve attended the party. Why did he let Josephine talk him into staying behind? And Leliana had been rather keen on him staying at Skyhold, too. Angus had long ago begun to put two and two together about “the safety of the Inquisitor”, but he was starting to get lonely in Skyhold, all alone, this evening. Even Cullen had gone off to the party, or, possibly, given up in defeat and was drinking alone in his carriage waiting for everyone to go home.

Angus waited, hoping Dorian would be in a quiet enough place in the party to hear him through the crystal. He knew Dorian wore it around his neck everywhere they went without each other - if only so Dorian could update him on the assorted social and/or fashion disasters he encountered on his many trips back to Minrathous.

“Dorian? Doriannnn. Come onnnn.” Angus, uncharacteristically, whined into the crystal. Next to him were several empty miniature novelty bottles of Seheron dry, which he insisted he hadn’t drank all by himself, and half a glass of whiskey. The whiskey, of course, counted as dessert.

Meanwhile, back at Halamshiral, Dorian could hear a faint buzzing coming from the locket he wore around his neck, as he continued to prime Alistair for more information - and pump him full of more ale. Unfortunately, the ale was indeed dwarven and watered-down, which meant he’d have to feed him much more of the stuff to get to the juicy bits.

Holding a finger up to Alistair, who was mid-woeful-rant, Dorian flipped open the locket, and strained to hear Angus’s soft, Marcher accent over the loud hustle of the party.

“Yes, my dear amatus?” he greeted, over the crystal, holding the rest of it towards his ear, frowning at the background noise.

“....come home soon so I can tell you I miss you… …bet you look good in your formal coat.. ….osephine left so many of these bottles here for the guests, can you believe….”

Dorian sighed. He could barely hear a thing, although it seemed like Angus, at least, was keeping occupied.

“Amatus,” he repeated, holding the crystal closer to his lips. “I can see you’ve had a lot of fun without me, and I can’t wait to get back to Skyhold to see how my Inquisitor wants to handle his lack of handling, but - you’re never going to believe who I’m talking to right now.”

Alistair watched, as Dorian continued his conversation, one-sidedly.

“Yes. No, not you. I know I’m also talking to you, but - yes. Mm-hmm. You know, next time I’ll just ask Josephine to put some mixers in with the wine for you to slow it down. No, you’re rotten. You are. …. Keep that up and I’ll really have to leave the party early.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes and sighed again, in defeat, taking another swig from his ale as Dorian’s conversation took another turn.

“You know just how to push my buttons. All right. But no necromancy this time. We both thought it would be funny but it just ended up being unsavory.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. Dorian, it seemed, finally remembered why he’d interrupted Angus in the first place.

“But you haven’t guessed who! Right, right. Remember the meeting you had back at Haven? Yes! I know! That’s what I asked him!”

Dorian clapped a hand over the crystal, and turned to Alistair. “Angus wants to know if you’ve found your missing wife yet.”

Alistair gave him the most despairing look yet. Dorian perked up.

“Right! Right. That’s what you were telling me.” He turned back to the crystal. “No, he hasn’t. And he’s asking us if we know where she’s gone. I know. I told him about Hawke going to Weisshaupt. He is? He has? He - is - are they all here? …I’m going to murder Varric.”

With that, Dorian clapped the crystal locket shut, and carefully slipped it back under his shirt.

Giving Alistair the slyest of smiles, he leaned coyly over the bartop.

“Today, I think, is your lucky day,” Dorian smiled.

Alistair felt himself involuntarily skip a beat. Whatever was coming was sure to be something big.

-

The lowly music of the single harp played through the open courtyard, the golden light of the strung-up candles glinting off the gold and augments of the gathered Orlesian nobles, craning their necks to get a good look at the plucky minstrel who was chiming classic folk tunes, her belting lighting up the entire garden.

Away from the huddled crowds, in a secluded cloister, were Hawke and Fenris - and only one of them seemed to be having any sort of a good time.

Clutching one of his many beignets he’d tucked away, Hawke smirked. “You think the words are the same in Orlesian?”

“What?”

“They could be saying anything, you know. I don’t speak Orlesian. I wager you don’t, either. They could be singing about how all Marchers are freeloading anarchist backwater pigs, for all I know.”

Fenris glanced sideways at Hawke, who was grinning. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile back. “I doubt that.”

“That’s what I’d do,” Hawke said, breezily, waving a hand at the bard. “If I was supposed to be entertaining a bunch of jackasses all night, I’d definitely try to take the piss.”

“That’s why we don’t let you entertain,” Fenris smirked.

Inside, the orchestra was starting to begin its triumphant wailing, the music coursing through the echoing halls and out into the gardens, just faint enough to mix with the bard’s singing.

“They’ve begun the formalities,” Fenris muttered, barely able to contain his scowl. “If they’re not entertained at every turn, they’ll start to turn on each other.”

“I can understand that,” Hawke said, thoughtfully, face full of beignet. “If I were a noble, I’d want my attention grabbed at every second. No point being bored, I bet.”

“Hawke, you are a noble,” Fenris replied, a bit despairingly. “I must admit, I wonder if your enchantment over snacks and lute-playing won’t betray a more deep-seeded sense of entitlement in the future, judging by how all these Orlesian courtiers act.”

“Me? Entitled? Over a title? Don’t be silly, goose,” Hawke grinned, elbowing Fenris playfully in the side. Fenris didn’t quite scowl, but he didn’t quite grin back, either.

Looking to either side of him, Hawke’s grin widened. Fenris could see the gears clicking together in his head, in ways that made him slightly suspicious - and even more trepidatious.

“Fenris?” Hawke ventured, with a sideways grin. “Can I make up for the Chateau in another way?”

Fenris looked wary, but his expression betrayed his true sense of curiosity. After all, he wouldn’t have followed this idiotic lug of a man all the way here if it weren’t for his morbid sense of passion.

“Make up for it how, Hawke?”

Hawke grinned even wider, and bowed, deeply and theatrically, like a footman. He extended a half-gloved hand to Fenris, without stooping back up, and smiled.

“Would you accompany me to the ballroom floor, milord?” he grinned.

For a brief second, everything froze. Fenris felt his face crack a little, as time came to a whopping halt, and Hawke immediately sensed he had done Something. Not necessarily something wrong, mind you, but the world didn’t come screeching to a standstill with the worries of a thousand centuries plastered across your beloved’s face for nothing.

“Hawke,” Fenris ventured, his voice cracking, like the first jolt of dry lightning in a canyon wracked with drought.

Hawke looked up at him, perplexed, then, immediately, read the expression on his face, backtracking as fast as possible.

“Sorry - I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I didn’t -”

Fenris, as if coming out of a daze, shook his head, rather firmly. “No, no. It’s just - not with - there’s all these people, Hawke-”

“Wait. Wait. I have an idea.”

Hawke got that mischievous glint in his eye - the one that meant he was about to get them both into massive trouble.

“Hawke - what - ”

Pulling Fenris by the hand, Hawke led him down the hallway into the vestibule, through the halls of the public appartements and out into the garden, where even more various nobles had gathered, listening to the dulcet tones of one of Orlais’ most talented bards. For a moment, Hawke could have sworn it was Maryden Halliwell’s voice, singing in the Orlesian tongue, but he chalked it up to his time spent at Skyhold having taken quite a toll on him.

Tucking into a cloister to the side of the garden, just out of sight - and just in the shadows - for naught but the nosiest of nobles to be seen, Hawke let Fenris go, and placed his hands on his hips, looking rather pleased with himself.

Fenris, bemused, placed his own hands behind his back.

“Plans, Hawke?”

Hawke, with a flourish, took a great, theatrical bow. “Indeed, my dear,” he said, putting one arm behind his own back, and extending the other in a deep, dramatic gesture, offering his open palm to Fenris like a noble on the ballroom floor. Which, for all intents and purposes, he was.

Suppressing a laugh, Fenris cocked a smile at Hawke, who looked up at him - still stooped - through his brow.

“Well?” said Hawke, raising his eyebrows, and tottering a little. “I’m starting to get a little sore, here.”

Letting out an actual chuckle - or, to Fenris’s denial, an actual giggle - he placed his hand in Hawke’s, and Hawke raised himself back up to full height, romantically sweeping Fenris in towards him by the small of his back.

“Your hand goes on my shoulder, I think,” Hawke smiled, teasing, a little primly, but full of warmth. “Unless you don’t want me to lead. Which I always offer, but we know how things usually go,” Hawke winked.

Fenris, glancing away for a moment, braced himself. For a second, he flicked his eyes towards the gathered nobles, through the shadowed cloisters into the well-lit gardens, entranced by the lute-playing of the bard and the thick, scented air of the evening. They were so occupied with their own, brightly-lit world, that they scarcely - if at all - noticed Fenris and Hawke, hidden in the depths of the marbled shadows.

He looked back at Hawke, his eyes expectant.

“I’ve - I’ve never actually danced. With anyone. Before,” Fenris ended, somewhat lamely. He looked away again, but his hand was still firmly placed in Hawke’s.

Despite himself, Hawke burst out in a brief spurt of laughter. Fenris, annoyed, looked back at him, but Hawke was clearly gazing at him with the look he only reserved for the man he loved.

“What, never? Not even at a party? Not even as a joke?” Hawke went on, tucking Fenris in closer by the waist.

Fenris, getting more annoyed by the minute, sighed. “No. It’s not something I had time to do in Tevinter. At all.”

“And in Kirkwall?” asked Hawke, holding Fenris’s hand aloft.

“Kirkwall is not exactly the place that makes one want to dance,” Fenris said, bitterly. “Despite any claims.”

“No one ever asked you?”

“There’s never been such an occasion. And I doubt I’d want to dance with anyone. At all.”

Hawke pouted, a little comically. “Not even me?”

Fenris, finally looking back up, saw that Hawke was trying his damndest to cheer him up. And he couldn’t help but smile.

“...Perhaps you’re the exception.” Fenris flicked his eyes downward, then back up at Hawke, their verdance as clear as ever.  “….You’re always the exception.”

Smiling, Hawke finished pulling Fenris in, and, laying a hand on his arm, gently guided it towards his shoulder.

“I’m not a very good dancer, I’m afraid,” Hawke said, as Fenris lay his hand against Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s stubble - which he was very bad at shaving consistently - poked through the thin Orlesian cotton of his upcollared formal shirt.

“Would I have been able to tell?” Fenris replied, smirking, flirtatiously.

“No, probably not. I should just keep my mouth shut,” Hawke said, laughing.

“Don’t,” said Fenris, softly.

Slowly, smiling, Hawke, holding Fenris by the hand, stepped in a graceful circle - as gracefully as he could - as the bard continued her enchanting rhyme. In the shadows of the cloister, nobody could see the two, slowly revolving, like planets gathered around a burning star.

Fenris, trepidatiously, laid his head against Hawke’s chest, as they turned; Hawke immediately clutched him closer, lowering his own head so it tucked gently into his.

As the song wound to a close, Fenris found his head still resting on Hawke’s chest, and he could hear Hawke’s heart beating at a breakneck speed. His fingers wrapped around Hawke’s collar, as he could feel his breath, hot as the night air was cold, burning down Fenris’s own neck.

Hawke, still holding Fenris in one muscular arm, the other hand wandering its way back down towards Fenris’s waist, felt the elf press closely against him, the clink of his armored shoulders and arms rubbing up against the thick fabric of Hawke’s formal coat. Fenris pushed against him, pulling him closer, and as Hawke felt Fenris’s cold, gauntleted fingers close around his neck, he grabbed him even more firmly, crushing him against his chest and hips, feeling the elf open up underneath him as Fenris intensely pushed his body against his, pressing every inch of himself against Hawke’s, as Hawke nudged his knee between Fenris’ legs - both of the men like pendulums in an imminent swing - if either of them moved, even one inch further, the whole thing would come crashing down. 

Hawke, breathing heavily, scarcely dared to move Fenris from his position, lest he lose control completely and pin him to the ground, disgracing this entire social affair - and probably causing the fine bard singing in the garden to completely lose her footing.

“Hawke,” Fenris breathed, roughly, in Hawke’s ear.

Hawke felt his heart skip a beat.

Intensely, softly, without breaking eye contact, Fenris pushed one thumb against Hawke’s Adam’s apple, biting his lower lip. Hawke gulped, feeling Fenris’s fingers press against him, barely choking him, the pointed backs of his gauntlet scratching the back of Hawke’s neck as his hairs stood on end, and he stood at attention. He knew that, at any moment, he could break Fenris’s hold, sweep him up by the legs and pull them both against him, pull his head back and take control, let Fenris drive him to the wilderness of extinction. He hoped that Fenris wouldn’t think he was too uncouth for already planning lines about needing a lot of help with handling his oversized, two-handed warhammer, since that was Fenris’s specialty, after all.

Hawke locked eyes with him, and Fenris’s eyes glowed with an intensity that sent the usually confident Hawke into a venusian, cloudy-headed rabbit hole.

“Perhaps it is my turn to surprise you,” Fenris growled, with an insistent half smile.

Hawke, losing control entirely, pressed his face against Fenris’s, biting on Fenris’s lip before sending himself into a spiral, flicking the inside of Fenris’s mouth with his tongue, holding him in place with one arm while running the other up and down his back, then his side, then down the front of his hips.

“Wait,” Fenris breathed, his voice still guttural, putting a single finger to Hawke’s lips. “Not here.”

He held Hawke by the hand, this time, and pulled him towards the end of the cloister, where a latticed wall covered in nightblooms anchored the corner between the palace and the gardens proper.

Indicating the wall with his head, Fenris withdrew his finger from Hawke’s lips, smiling with an intense, mischievous grin. Letting Hawke go, he backed up into the lattice, where Hawke, cottoning on, began grinning himself, helping Fenris up and over the garden wall with a light foothold, making a step with his cupped hands.

Following him over the wall, Hawke paused for a moment, at the top of the wall; one foot in the party, the other imminently in the outer gardens - and examined the scene.

The whole of Halamshiral spread out before him, the excitement, the romance, the buzz of the party, the ham that tasted of despair, the tittering gossip of the nobles, the rampant fireflies and the clink-clink-splash of caprice coins being thrown in the fountain - all accented by the intoxicating scent of jasmines and Andraste’s Grace - and he sighed, with great contentment.

Truly, really, it did not get any better than this.

He looked back down, at Fenris, who was already playing with the top buttons of his guardsman’s jacket, giving Hawke the most smoldering look he could manage.

Hawke grinned. Perhaps the night had great potential, indeed, for getting even better.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

20 Questions for (Fanfiction) Writers

Tagged by @serbarris thank you!! :)

How many works do you have on ao3? 20 published! don't... just don't ask how many are on my computer hard drive.

What’s your total ao3 word count? 187,071. I'm going to be honest guys I did this with a calculator from my 'Works' page and only after the next question did i remember the 'Statistics' page exists and i did not have to do all that.

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Fallout from the Fade | DAI | 780 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 90k; In progress/hiatus: what if Hawke manages to survive being left in the Fade, but then has to deal with the aftermath? -- My angsty longfic darling, my outlet for cliffhangers and torment. This fic is on "hiatus" in that I have decided to stop posting chapters until I finish writing it to the ending. But it's not abandoned, just secret progress only due to the Agonies and Horrors and all that (grad school).

Provided it tied you down first | DAI | 527 kudos F!Trevelyan x Solas; 17k; Complete: Solas & Trevelyan have to go undercover in a Tevinter sex dungeon, and Trevelyan can no longer hide her secret desire for Solas -- what? yeah. i wanted to try writing porn for the second time and just looked through the kink!meme prompt list until i found a funny but challenging one. sometimes the fun of writing is taking something unbelievable and working backwards like, ok so what WOULD it take to actually lead to this otherwise out of character situation? also i ran out of birth control and became Compelled to write something horny. to everyone who asks for a sequel i'm sorry i went back on the meds too fast.

Lost to Night | DAI | 227 kudos Solavellan; 11k; Complete: Solas and Lavellan slip away for some alone time after the events at the Winter Palace, but before the party really ends. -- Obligatory Halamshiral hookup fic. This was my first attempt at writing smut, i would do things somewhat different now but I like the fic. The most important thing of course is the Angst is still in there.

Less a man than a wild cat | DA2 | 263 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 15k; Complete: Hawke & Co are out drinking while Fenris is away on business, but then a grey cat with white markings that look extremely familiar turns up hissing at Anders and demanding attention from Hawke. -- this is the closest thing to fluff I'lll ever write, probably. just some silly fairytale style fun.

Letters to Fenris | DAI | 200 kudos F!Hawke x Fenris; 1.6k; Complete: a selection of letters that can be found in Fenris' room, after Hawke leaves to help the Inquisition. -- Short & sweet, my favorite hobby is making readers smile and then punching them directly in the gut. Yay!

What fandoms do you write for? Dragon Age and Mass Effect (look... i know I only have one ME fic posted, but I did write a lot more than that. just never shared it). For me personally... fanfic is most interesting when it's for exploring customizable characters & their relationship to the world of the setting. Or the NPC characters in a world that's shaped by the choices of the player. I've never really gotten into fanfic for things like books/movies/tv for this reason, just rpg's.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Hoooooo so like... i do wish i was the kind of author who thanks everyone who leaves a comment and replies thoughtfully within a reasonable timeframe. I wish it!!!!! however the 6-12 months after I started writing fanfic, pretty much every weekend for me looked like this:

stay up all night Sunday writing a chapter

Once finished writing, reward myself with respond to comments on the previous chapter

post the new chapter at 4am with minimal edits if any

sleep for 2 hours then drive to the USGS office, get in the fieldwork SUV, and take a Car Nap on the 6 hour drive to Death Valley or wherever

spend 5 days wandering the desert measuring plants with NO cell service or internet

return to Civilization covered in sand and sweat on Friday, terrorize the locals of Vegas/Moab at the grocery store, and spend 1 day recovering and checking the internet/reading all the comments left over the last week/getting filled in by friends on whatever internet memes i missed while away

now it's Sunday again and repeat this entire process

Anyway this got me in the habit of like... commenting was something i did only after i finished the next update, rather than as people leave them (since I only read them in bulk when I got home). like as a reward to keep me motivated to finish the next chapter so i can talk to people back!! and it's been 3 jobs and 10 years(🙃) since then but the habit persists. but then if it's been more than a month the last update it feels like i'm Too Late to reply anyway so i often don't. idk! maybe part of it's also that i take a LONG time between chapters nowadays bc of Life, so, i am also hiding from the fact that i'm not ready to post the next bit yet. like if i don't reply maybe you can't see me spending 7 hours per day on tumblr wasting time, and be mad that i'm not writing. i know i'm the weird outlier about a lot of fanfic things and processes haha. i do love getting and reading people's comments, sorry i'm so shit at addressing them!

What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Probably Reunion, my pre-DATV release (so no spoilers) Solavellan one-shot where I wanted to make myself as sad as possible imagining a potential outcome for them. What's worse than one half of your ship dying? Maybe both of their psyches getting locked together and one subsuming the other, so what remains is neither fully the individuals or someone new, just a shattered amalgamation left to cope with all that.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Staring at this like. do i ever write happy endings?? probably the Fenris-is-a-cat fic, but even that i left kind of open. i think my Hawke-deals-with-Leandra's-death fic has a pretty hopeful ending, but the fic itself is a grief exploration, so...

Do you get hate on fics? Every now and then someone leaves a comment like "I'm so sad this fic was abandoned" which, is not really a very motivating way to phrase that. and i've only really abandoned like 1 fic, i consider the others just "perpetually on the back burner", but once you get past a year with no updates I don't blame people for the assumption. my writing and hobbies are on a geologic scale rather than the fast-past biologic scale of the rest of fandom. sorry to make this about geology again.

Do you write smut? Yes... though I've only published 2 pieces and have a 3rd currently being posted. A dozen or so more exist but don't yet have fully fleshed out stories to put them inside lol (sorry Rookanis...). whoops!

Do you write crossovers? I have not. Actually wait, one time I wrote like 2000 words of Mass Effect x Animorphs in a tumblr reply and then the page refreshed and i lost it all and the Murderous Rage about that was too overwhelming to rewrite it. someday though...

Have you ever had a fic stolen? I don't think so. I don't think my writing is popular enough to get noticed like that. Though I also write more than I read so if it did happen, I probably would never notice.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! Both Fallout from the Fade and Letters to Fenris were translated into Russian by a very kind reader :)

Have you ever cowritten a fic before? Nope. I think I'd be pretty miserable to collaborate with. I don't even use beta readers for this reason.

What’s your all time favourite ship? Listen. I know this is my dragon age blog for dragon age things but I'm breaking character for a moment here. for all my love of sollavellan and shakarian and fenhawke. My real otp is FitzChivalry Farseer x The Fool from the Realm of the Elderlings series by Robin Hobb. these books broke me. they changed how i think of storytelling and how i think of love. i cannot emphasize how insane the relationship between these two characters is, and i read the last trilogy AS IT WAS RELEASING, i waited YEARS for the resolution #iykyk. there is no greater love story in my heart than this one. "is it actually gay" it would take me 10 years and 10,000 words to answer that don't worry about it just trust me and read them. yes there's 16 but that's not relevant just read the first trilogy at least and if you have the brainrot you'll be happy for the rest and if not you can just stop there and be satisfied with a solid fantasy story.

now. i do not actually read OR write fanfic for this series. this is because it does not need it. to me the frustrations and agonies and disbelieving joy i get out of FitzLoved are part of what makes it perfect. I have basically nothing to add that is not already covered in the books and the ending, to me, is perfect.

this is the second time ive used this image in 3 days AND I'LL DO IT AGAIN as often as needed!!!!!!!! until everyone in my life gives in and reads them

What’s the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Of things I've somewhat posted: the Trevelyan x Corypheus fic i got off the k!meme randomly-generate-a-pairing-and-situation post. I wrote a chapter or two more, realized it was shaping up to be Way too long to actually commit to at the time for crack-treated-seriously, and it's been backburner ever since. I would like to go through and sketch out something that is at max 15-20k so i can put a cap on it because i DO think it was really fun as character exploration for Corypheus who is otherwise a CRIMINALLY underutilized villain. he's great ok. the timing in DAI just... doesn't do him justice. also his best dialogue is locked to the Templar route which almost everyone else in the tumblr DA fandom skipped.

Of things i've never posted, a ME: Andromeda fic focusing on the relationship between Ryder & Sam. I got like--15k? or so into that and again realized it was gonna be a 100k endeavor for something probably no one but me would read, due to weirdness and tiny number of people who stayed active in MEA fandom. so i tabled it for a future ME obsession period that has not yet come to pass.

i'll also sneak in here my confession that I now have over 20k of words written for Rookanis and yet have not posted anything to AO3/only a 500 word snipped to tumblr. and probably several of these starts/sections will never get fully formed fics. but i DO intend to finish and share... something for them at least.

What are your writing strengths? I think I am pretty good at building tension, and making the reader feel invested enough to be sad/stressed/nervous when i want them to. my favorite compliments are often the ones like "i don't usually care about this character/trope/whatever but you sold me on it" because that's a harder target than someone already invested.

What are your writing weaknesses? Editing and then sharing it lmao. I'm GREAT at writing as in typing a bunch of things all in a row. everything after the process itself is done? not nearly as interested. I also have a hard time transitioning between sections/scenes and tend to overwrite the in-betweens to get from bit to bit--something that could probably be fixed more in editing if i bothered to do that part.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic? I think if it's more than a few short phrases or single sentences you can guess from context it can get annoying, reading wise. if there's some sort of in-line translation or hover-over-alt-text that makes it nicer. however i do write this anyway myself bc i love the idea of lost language/reverting to old habits or selves/etc too much, so like, just because it's kind of annoying to have to read through doesn't mean i think people shouldn't do it/it's not worth it. i sure won't stop.

First fandom you wrote for? Dragon Age: Inquisition lol. the first fanfics I ever wrote are still on my account. i wince at them now, but i think it's nice to have that proof of my progress/growth there. i don't need my AO3 to be a greatest highlights reel, just an archive.

Favourite fic you’ve ever written? Like Teeth Against His Heart, my Solavellan DAI-era prose poem weirdly formatted ficlet ♥︎ (on tumblr as the zine pages here, and on AO3 here). I am slowly Marinating the Trespasser & DATV sequels to this in my heart, but it will be slow to get them fully formed on paper.

whew 20 is a lot and i talk too much, this got long oops! Anyway tagginggggggg @baejax-the-great @m-m-m-myysurana @sageadvice @songofamazon @loquaciousquark @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai but i love reading writing-meta stuff like this so if any followers wanna do it, go ahead and do so & tag me so i can read everyone else's too :)

[evanhereonearth]

Ilaana thinks she knows, but she doesn’t.

She will.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, she traces the lines between the map of hints, learning, always learning. A stray word from Cole, her intuition strong enough to work out the impossible secret her love was hiding and instincts loud enough to scream that if his secret were simply names, he would have told her here.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” from the mouth of Fen’Harel the night she lets an empress die for the genocide committed against an alienage.

Through the Temple of Mythal, through the whispers of the well, through Morrigan explaining the ancient elves to the ancient elves themselves, her love among them, through Crestwood when he walks away, through the second Breach and broken orbs, through her naked face where Mythal’s vallaslin once lay like spring green upon her skin, through Wisdom to Pride and back again, into the depths of the titan’s truth, through his silence in the blue glow of lyrium, through Ameridan and Telana dreaming, dreaming, searching, grieving.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, quiet whispers in the Inquisition as spies from outside trip over one another, no sign of Solas except what she senses in waking and in dreams, that there has to be more, and everything she has pieced together points to the veil.

“What would you have me do?”

“I would have had you trust me!”

She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. She still doesn’t know. There is a difference between knowing and knowing, and she is still years off knowing.

“Let me help you, Solas.”

“I cannot do that to you, vhenan.”

“But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone.”

“I walk the din’an shiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

She thinks she knows. She will learn what she does not know.

But he also thinks he knows. He will learn too.

Banal nadas. Ar lath, ar lath, ar lath.

He takes her arm; he frees her from the Well’s compulsion, what remained after he broke the unwitting bondage of her vallaslin. She feels something different but does not understand what, not yet.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral and then beyond. Into the depths of the Fade, seeking as he taught her to seek. Into the depths of the earth, seeking as he feared she would seek. Into the depths of her heart, seeking a truth he dared not seek himself.

Echoes of a dead empire.

Spirits who know his names.

Memories. Remnants.

Those she does not trust fall away. Varric she lets return to Kirkwall, where she visits, pushing at the edges of his stubbornness where she can, fruitless against what he feels to be true about the world. Vivienne she keeps as close as an enemy should be, Vivienne who front-loads her barriers and calls Cole a demon because she understands so little in her expertise. Sera she helps flit away, never challenging, never letting closer than a prank or two.

Cullen, she treats with gentleness. She helps him with his templars, teaches them a softer side of magic, how to breathe through their fear, why their blood sings out for connection to something they don’t understand, how they can find that connection in transcending the terror. Tiny challenges, chips in the bulwark of the Chantry’s prison of lyrium, slow healing with the hand of a friend between their shoulder blades.

The Seekers sow new seeds with Cassandra, and she helps them, too. Helps them understand that their existence is intrinsically touched by the Fade, that their discipline and their training circumvents the fears of the templars to remake them, shows them that their incorruptibility is built upon the foundation of spirits who are and always have been here to help.

She sends Thom on with grace, receives a griffon feather in a letter, closes her eyes against the knowledge of the Wardens’ weaknesses and prays that little feather is a symbol of rebirth.

She seeks from Amaranthine to the Anderfels, from the Avvar to Antiva, and she finds out, crumb by crumb and step by step, what she didn’t know in Crestwood. What she didn’t know the day the Anchor almost killed her.

Cole comes to her to say goodbye, lets her see him back to the Fade. “I need to go where I’m needed the most,” he says, and she knows who he means and sends him with a message in the form of Compassion.

She shares this only with Merrill and Leliana and Dorian, and that only reluctantly. Trust grows with their sharing of knowledge. A circle within the inner circle, and when the Iron Bull can no longer tolerate Dorian’s growing trials in Tevinter, Dorian lets him go with the Chargers, to a simpler life without the Qun but without fear of what may be coming next. She holds Dorian while he weeps, as he has held her so many times.

They walk this path together.

Josephine connects her to places her remaining hand could not otherwise reach, annals and archives locked behind luxury and privilege. Josie knows there is much she herself does not know, but the Inquisitor is an arrow fired from a bowstring stretched between two points in time at Halamshiral, and while Josie may not understand, something in her whispers that she must trust.

The Dalish feel so distant to Ilaana now, but she goes to them. She goes to Keeper Hawen in the Exalted Plains, to Keeper Deshanna and Clan Lavellan, to the Arlathvhen and gathered clans, to the Dalish who have faded into forests. She shares what she can, knowledge gleaned from walking the Fade just as he did in the Inquisition. Some chase her away as she tells them the truth of their gods, sometimes with words, sometimes with arrows.

But some listen.

Whispers reach her over the years of some few vanishing, of ventures into Arlathan Forest, of villages.

And that is where Morrigan finds her.

Like Ilaana, Morrigan has been humbled by learning she did not know what she was sure she knew.

“You were justified in making me the fool,” Morrigan says to her one night as they observe the fledgling Veil Jumpers, unseen by the elves. “And you were justified in demanding the Well.”

Morrigan is…more now. A fragment of Mythal. She tries once to compel Ilaana, at Ilaana’s bidding, and fails. Ilaana’s triumph feels hollow, regardless of the relief.

“Fen’Harel was adept at breaking every bond but his own,” Morrigan murmurs. “But to be certain your will is your own, allow me to release you from my service.”

There is nothing left to release, but in that moment, Ilaana finds another ally.

“I would not see him fall,” Morrigan tells her softly. “’Tis monstrous to mould Wisdom into a weapon. I have her memories, tempered by lives lived through a human lens. I would make what amends I can.”

She is beginning to know.

The moment of epiphany comes on the back of betrayal, as it so often does.

Precious possibilities stolen from her soul, Solas all but lost in an instant, and oh, what follows is knowledge.

She walks the trail of the Evanuris, released rabid from their prison, watches the monsters they leave in their wake. She watches as an unrelenting nightmare blooms in blight from Arlathan to Antiva and beyond, and she cannot stay her hand.

Ten years of searching, seeking, learning. Ten years of quiet coded messages, of desperate trust, of Dorian and Leliana and Morrigan and Merrill and Hawke. Ten years of rebuilding Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches. Ten years of midwifing the birth of elven rights and free mages. Ten years of defending those left defenceless while powers parade about in privilege and audacity. Ten years of learning, living, bleeding.

Ten years of messages left in the Fade for one who will find them, in hope he would hear them. Ten years of trying. Ten years of deciding. Ten years of indomitable focus.

And now…ruin.

Rivers roiling with blight, Antaam and Venatori making a mockery of the red lyrium fever dream Corypheus brought to Redcliffe: a real nightmare is born when the blight takes Denerim. Hard-won recover bashed to bits against boils of poison and death. The healing herbs of the Hinterlands she once gathered for refugees wither where nowt will grow again.

Ten years of fighting for the people of this world turned to ash in a matter of weeks.

Ten minutes of fidgeting, waiting for the person who loosed it on the world to wade into a truth she’s waited ten years to tell. Dorian held her again, held her together, preparing to let her go even now but holding her close just a little longer. He has been beside her, always. He knows.

So she sits down with Rook to talk, to sow seeds of hope. Not to shame, not to blame—those impulses, Ilaana keeps locked away. She dances around the topic as if tiptoeing, watching Rook’s amusement turn to genuine surprise at Ilaana’s words.

“Or maybe I’m the prideful one, imagining his broken heart so that I never have to face my folly: that I loved someone who made such grave mistakes. That I may love him still.”

Twisting her words like he does, the truth twining between hedging phrases that bury the ache of her bone-deep exhaustion. She will save this world first, clean up someone else’s mess yet again, but now…only now does she finally know.

Why he walked away. Why following had to be her will and hers alone. Why he would not do such a thing to his heart, to allow her to follow when she did not know what she does now.

So she fights. And she waits. For a little while longer.

To show him she is not alone. To show him he is not alone. Ten years for her to hear the truth in what he told her once.

“If you are cracking, vhenan, it is does not mean you are about to shatter, but that you are about to be reborn.”

[riddleredcoats]

Was looking for something I once said on another hellsite, unrelated to this lmao, and came across someone saying how Briala and Celene's relationship is toxic (sure, I can see that) and how Celene has so much control over Briala and that's the issue of their relationship when.... no. No.

That ain't it.

Celene and Briala, for all their issues and there are many, in the way Weekes writes their relationship is far more balanced than people give it credit for.

To the point that when it isn't balanced, it jars.

(More under the cut if you're interested.)

To get this out of the way; yes, Celene has more power than Briala. That is a fact we can't deny and even if you reunite them, while the power disparity does lessen, it doesn't go away. Celene is, by virtue of her position, always going to be more (politically) powerful than pretty almost everyone else in universe.

However, the way Weekes turns this on its head is by having Briala have more agency.

It is Briala that comes back to Celene out of her own volition every single time. She comes back to Celene after Celene sends her away when they were young. She comes and goes to Celene's bedroom at her own pleasure. She spies for Celene because she wants to - and enjoys it. Briala is the one that rekindles their reconciliations in the novel; after Halamshiral Celene doesn't even try to talk to Briala about what happened, respecting Briala's imposed distance, and only when Briala opens the door does Celene enter the conversation. It's even Briala who comes back to Court - after having rejected The Game and Orlais - with the intent of, at least, returning to Celene's side during the war: they- Well, Briala really, was already planning to work with Celene.

It is always, always Briala.

This isn't because Celene loves Briala less - it isn't, because we can see she's much more emotionally compromised than Briala due to her reliance on Briala to function like a normal human being. It is merely because Briala has the space to act towards Celene as she wishes, more or less.

The one time in the novel Celene does try to use her power to control Briala - having her arrested, so she could spend a few lavish years in prison... which yes, it is fucked, but even that panic-driven decision-making is shown to be a testament to Celene's emotional vulnerability, not necessarily her desire to dominate - it goes horribly wrong.

It - they - don't work when the relationship is THAT unbalanced and they have been working together for 15 years. That moment showed how their relationship falters when it becomes too unbalanced.

Celene and Briala aren't unconscious of the power difference. They work around it.

Especially, Celene.

She constantly says she does understand if Briala wants to leave her, she reassures Briala over and over that leaving her won't have repercussions to Briala's most dear cause. Celene's brain is always so aware of it that she always tries to give Briala the space she needs if she wants to leave. I will take joy in my love finding her people, even as my breast aches with every heartbeat I live without you. Those aren't just words, that is how the relationship works. Which is why Celene's most consistent and ardent belief - when she's being a rational human being and not the Empress of Orlais terrified for the fate of her country - is that Briala needs to be free to act as however she wills.

It's why those are the last words they say to each other.

It's why them getting back together - or the possibility of it - was almost a forgone conclusion.

Ultimately, Briala’s autonomy within the relationship is one of it's defining characteristics. She may not have the political power of an Empress, but she holds the agency to act - which is why always needed to get those Eluvians; she's the only one who CAN use them, but that's another conversation. While Celene, for all her power, respects Briala’s independence and choices, and is often hamstrung by her lack of freedom in choosing what she can do - something she pointed out in the novel as well, even though its often misinterpreted.

TLDR: This relationship is not defined by Celene’s control over Briala, but rather one shaped by Briala’s autonomy, Celene's understanding, and their shared emotional connection.

[daitranscripts]

Vivienne: Deleted Dialogue

Miscellaneous

Vivienne Masterpost

—

After IYHSB

Vivienne: There. Much better.

—

Favors the First Enchanter

Vivienne: I’ve heard rumors of lost Circle tomes being found. Care to investigate?

Vivienne: Our information suggests the tomes are in the Ferelden Hinterlands.

Vivienne: We believe they’ve been taken to the Dales.

Vivienne: We suspect they’ve been taken to the Western Approach.

Vivienne: Rumor has it they’re in the Nahashin Marshes. The conditions will be dreadful for delicate old books.

Vivienne: I’ll send my information to the war room.

Vivienne: We’ve located a templar vault containing the phylacteries of Circle mages. Vivienne: My sources have found another stockpile of phylacteries.

Vivienne: It’s in the Ferelden Hinterlands, in the arling of Redcliffe.

Vivienne: We believe it’s in the Dales near Halamshiral.

Vivienne: It’s suspected to be hidden in the Western Approach.

Vivienne: It’s somewhere in the Nahashin Marshes.

Vivienne: I’ll send the location to the war room.

Vivienne: If the Inquisition is willing to help us retrieve these phylacteries, the Circle of Magi would be most grateful. Vivienne: If you’re willing to assist us again, my dear, the Circle would be most grateful.

Dialogue options:

Investigate: What’s a phylactery?

Investigate: What will you do with them?

General: I’ll do it.

General: Not this time.

Investigate: What’s a phylactery? PC: What are phylacteries?

Vivienne (human mage PC): Did no one tell you? Some of your blood was taken when you first came to the Circle. When you passed your Harrowing, the templars took it from your tower to a secret location of their own. If you had ever fled the Circle, they would have used it to track you.

Vivienne: They are amulets containing the blood of Circle mages. Everyone who belonged to a Circle has one. The templars use them to track mages who flee or go missing. Now, with so many of the templars working for Corypheus or hunting mages for sport, the phylacteries are a risk to us all.

Investigate: What will you do with them? PC: What do you intend to do with the phylacteries?

Vivienne: If nothing else, they must be kept out of the red templars’ hands… or many innocent mages will die.

Vivienne: I thought I might put them all in a big pile and jump into it. PC: Really? Vivienne: No.

Vivienne: They are the best chance we have of finding Circle mages alive. And I prefer to find them quickly to make sure they remain that way.

Dialogue options:

General: I’ll do it. PC: Leave it to me. Vivienne: Thank you my dear. I’ll leave this matter in your capable hands. ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: Not this time. PC: I don’t think so. Vivienne: As you wish. ㅤㅤ ㅤ After returning:

General: It’s done. PC: Your phylacteries have been recovered. PC: Your little problem has been taken care of.

[martyrmarked]

kisses while pulling them into your lap!

she would say getting everyone together is akin to herding cats but sidri does find that a bit disrespectful to cats. rather, managing to seek out everyone scattered across the decadent rooms of halamshiral feels like herding cats and directing a fleet of mabari. some servant seems to appear underfoot as she turns each corner within the maze-like corridors of the hallway eager to offer themselves up as a messenger to the inquisitor only to be politely but firmly turned away.

this is something that is best coordinated solely by herself.

it is good to see everyone again, she thinks. the brief pleasantries and eager hugs where desired had been all too fleeting. the solemnity and severity of the exalted council had loomed over them and her the most heavily, having overhead throughout the day like some dismal raincloud. the first day's proceedings had gone as well as anyone could have expected in no small part to thanks to josephine's careful planning and leliana's unspoken influence despite the supposed neutrality of her new title and position. now, as the keep quiets and the diplomats and their entourages assembled from the south have mostly retired from a litany of dinners and meetings, she does feel as though she can breathe like herself again for the first time since dawn.

invitations are quickly extended to each and every member of the inner circle with a meeting time promptly at the eleventh bell, beverages and what food can be arranged from the kitchens without raising too much suspicion to be provided. the final invitation is extended to vivienne and met with a delighted, bewildered laugh from the iron lady and immediately declined. after all, if she had decided to forgo those evenings back in skyhold when there had been little else to do but stare up at the cobwebs decorating the keep's soaring arches or acquaint herself with some hideously dusty tome in the library, there was no interest in attending tonight when she could take a long, warm bath and perhaps even receive a massage after the stress of the day's events.

everyone else had, of course, accepted.

varric has managed to find a motley assortment of chairs to accompany the two tables haphazardly shoved together by the time she returns. the decision had been made to organize this in the courtyard outside of her quarters, thankfully flanked on all sides by tall hedges to guard against curious eyes, and the flickering torchlight seems to bathe the grass and marble columns with as much light as the twin moons above.

they are, of course, her quarters in name only. immaculately tailored tunics and boots large enough to swallow her feet had been placed alongside a tapestry of dresses and cloaks at first change.

"it's not the herald's rest," sidri surveys the scene with a firm nod, "but it has its spirit, don't you think?"

varric sets the last chair down. "well, it definitely has better wine than the rest ever did. i was able to scrounge up some brandy by saying i was hoping to host some trade discussions and leliana procured the bottles by way of apology for her absence, but i figured asking some poor servant to roll a keg or two in here would've been a bit too obvious."

she leans down to quickly kiss his cheek. the scratch of two day old stubble has been replaced with a soft beard that she'd been invited to witness in jader. he'd waved a hand and stated that bran had insisted a beard was more dignified than a clean jaw but she smiles to know it's there entirely for her own delight. "it's everyone but viv coming."

"she'll be missed," varric laughs and reaches for her hand, "but i can't say i'm surprised."

sidri tugs him forward to move a chair away from the already crowded table for her absence and counts the rest in her head. she grows still for a moment and her teeth pluck at her lower lip. "you've one extra, love."

she had long ago given up hope that the elf would suddenly reappear on skyhold's towering steps bearing an explanation for his sudden absence. there had been no word since corypheus' defeat, not so much as a letter, and even the best of the inquisition's scouts have been unable to procure even a rumor of his whereabouts.

for that, she hoped against hope that perhaps he would appear here, that perhaps she would be given the chance to mend whatever offense she had clearly accidentally given.

"hey," varric lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her palm before turning it over gently to kiss the backs of her fingers, "you didn't do anything wrong, sid. besides, you know if you actually had, solas would've been certain to make you perfectly well aware of it, in absurd detail, before up and disappearing to who knows where."

any regret quickly dissipates, however, as the courtyard quickly grows more crowded. blackwall is the first to appear, early and with some whisky that smells strong enough to curl paint off of wood, and there is a small but genuine smile to see him. time, it seems, had started to set that wound to knit. bull and dorian arrive not longer after, followed by cullen eager to announce he will not be drinking half as much as the last time, and then cassandra with only half of that scowl solely reserved for the dwarf already holding court at the head of the table.

she smells the acrid tang of maxima's cigarettes on the air before the woman saunters into the courtyard with her usual poise. josie arrives in a rush of silk proudly hoisting an exquisite bottle of antivan red and sidri nearly blinks to see cole walk in rather than the sudden electric rush to the air that had preempted his appearance for so long back in the keep. wine is uncorked and brandy is passed between hands as they sit down around that crowded table in a flurry of conversation and laughter.

sidri makes sure to sit next to varric, as she had even from that very night when those gilded cards had flashed in the tavern's candlelight, and grins as the deck is cut and split amidst the meat and cheese and fruit courtesy of the palace's kitchen heaped on the table.

she's missed this, she's missed all of them.

"remember what we said about talking to the cards last time, kid?" varric nods to cole as he pats a card into his hands.

sidri slaps his arm and leans across the table reassuringly to cole. "it's alright, cole, you must tell me if they say anything interesting back."

"oh no," bull laughs loudly and slams his glass against the table, "you're already cheating off of one person at the table, inquisitor. two? now that's a bit too much."

cassandra looks up from her hand aghast. "cheating? you were cheating?"

"she's cheated every night from the start," josie huffs and sips her wine, thumbing through her cards appraisingly, "and as with all things involving our viscount, she did not do it particularly subtly."

varric is smug enough at that to warrant her nails briefly digging into his ribs as she rolls her eyes. he swats her away but laughs as cassandra makes a distinct sound of disgust high in the back of her throat.

sera crashes from somewhere far above the hedges by the time they're on their second round. sidri searches briefly in panic for any flurry of bees that accompanies her and sighs deeply in relief to see none. pouring herself a glass of wine large enough to house several fish within it, she moves next to maxima and varric looks highly entertained at the unexpected seating.

it's a good night, a night that polishes the memories of the inquisition well enough to remove some of the tarnish of horror, the stain of grief. the wine and drinks flow freely, eagerly, and though the hedges may hide the sight of them she suspects the laughter rings through the palace to give them all away. cullen loses horrendously as usual, though he seems relieved to be allowed to keep his clothes, and to his credit cole is no longer distracted by the face cards so as to be a bystander rather than participant in the game. maxima, not surprisingly, proves a skilled foe.

she's on her third (or fourth) glass of wine, that tell tale flush lighting high up in her cheeks, when the imagery so intricately painted onto each card in the dwarf's hand begins to blur. sidri leans down to squint openly and unapologetically at them. josie, on a win streak, protests loudly and varric pulls her into his lap with a laugh. his arms settle firmly, solidly around her waist and her cards flutter from her fingers as she leans into his kiss eagerly. it's gentle and fond, yes, but beneath it there is a distinct promise of more to come later.

cassandra groans and when sidri opens her eyes, hair slightly messied as she makes herself comfort in his lap, her head is in her hands. "must you both?"

"we were on our best behavior back in skyhold, seeker," varric muses while his thumb draws idle circles against her thigh, "we're overdue for this."

"you were not on your best behavior," josie objects with a raised finger, "and you both know it."

"to be clear, they still managed to trick most of us." dorian snorts and lifts his wine glass delicately, inspecting it beneath the moonlight. "which i suspect is more a statement as to our sheer obliviousness than their careful planning."

varric presses a kiss to her shoulderblade and flips his remaining cards over. "everyone was looking at cullen and expecting him to trip over his boots anytime our inquisitor walked into the room. that made sure no one picked up on the fact i was already in the room and looking right at her."

she blushes to hear it and turns, a hand resting gently to his cheek before she leans down to kiss him once more. cassandra all but erupts with another noise of disgust.

the night ends shortly thereafter as the reminder of an early morning is announced courtesy of cullen. everyone treks back to their own quarters and when they're left alone, sidri turns in his lap to face him after collecting the cards littering the table like fallen leaves. her heart leaps to look into that familiar gaze once more, that intelligence and cleverness gleaming amidst hazel specks that catch and keep the noonday sun without fail. "thank you for this, varric."

"i figured we should try and sneak one last night in." he pauses and his smile grows somber as he brushes loose hair behind her ear. "you could have as many more nights at the rest as you wanted, sid. if you're not ready, i-." varric runs his tongue over his lower lip and continues softly. "i'd wait as long as you needed."

"oh, my love." sidri shakes her head and leans to press her brow to his. she drinks in the nearness of him, the warmth and the certainty, and how very unimportant all of it feels against this. "we've both waited long enough. i want to go home."

there is the promise of a life waiting across the sea, of a daughter whose wild curls should be woven with sky blue ribbons and endless mornings waking by his side without fear of the dawn. there is the certainty of a finale to this great and terrible task, this burden she has been gifted for reasons she does not think she will ever fully comprehend, and the gift of an ending to this chapter in the sprawling pages of her life.

it is all close enough that she can reach out and feel it brush against her fingertips. just a bit longer, just a bit more.

varric's response comes by way of him standing and sweeping her up into his arms. she shrieks with surprise and her foot collides with an empty bottle that goes flying into the lawn, though her grip tightens to match his. varric looks at her with that tenderness that she swears etched new chambers into her heart. "can i stay-"

"yes." she interrupts and contents herself with lowering her head to kiss along his jaw, finding and centering on that spot that she knows always makes him sigh. "and you're ridiculous for even asking."