#s: invitis canibus venari

[wiltf]

rain doesn’t break until they’re around the threshold of the camp.

and it is beautiful.

amell is captured in the seared taste across her lips — sweet ash, as catapults meet their feet across the bridge. running, as fast as they can. met by survivors who cry foul play, their words lost in the screams of stone falls and their fellow man down below. but for one moment,

catch of breath. hood pushed back. sweat and blood and rain, sweet and soft rain upon her brow. it does not burn in the rivets that have formed down her cheeks. salves applied, magic saved for combat, and in truth. amell does not want to leave it behind.

thunder carries them up the tower. hairs on her arms stand up, as she points her staff and sends that lightning forward. eventually, it is knocked from her hands, so she reminds the darkspawn why they insist on removing a mage’s hands.

burning of decayed flesh. a smell that she refuses to allow in, even as there are screams, arrows. brick that falls and amell is,

flying.

rain on her face.

accompanied with the last fading thought that it was still just,

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

#relationshipgoals [flirting][the future]    

ao3//

“So… you two have really gotten close, huh?”

Zevran was surprised, truly, that it had taken Alistair more than a week to come back around for another set of comments. And here he had put money on it taking at least three days. With a click of his tongue, he stops mid polish, staring up to where Alistair’s head might’ve been. Back towards the fire, so late in the night. Their watch.

Perfect time to strike.

Gently settling blades aside, Zevran focuses on wiping his hands. Drawing out the tension, to either give Alistair an out, or himself enough time to think. So many ways to block and parry the questions that were no doubt spilling over. But Amell was a far better mind reader than he, and she had been left to snore gently.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Uncertain on his feet, Alistair shifts weight. Back and forth. Eventually settles for seating himself on the same log as Zevran’s, a professionally courteous distance between them — both in striking distance and likely long taught manners. Wringing his hands, though his eyes never quite leave Zevran’s.

“I—no. Not at all. I just overhead her speaking to Wynne the other day about you two…”

Yes, Zevran too had been regaled with the older mage’s apparent concerns about them. About duty and what would be the right thing to do. “I didn’t know that they had spoken,” he lies, instead. Believable in that Amell might’ve kept something.

That to those outside, it was skin deep, and not at all confusing. Not the kind of thing that would have a man allowing the sun to find gold, to roll it around in his palm. To think, for one whole moment, that there was a future and a feeling. To force it all away, for duty and the right thing.

“Oh, really?” Alistair seems to bounce back a touch, ever thriving on idle camp gossip. Once, Leliana had joked that if it wasn’t an overall disdain for Orlesians, he would do well as being the palace gossip.

Leaning back, his eyes rise, recalling minute details he would not entirely divulge. “Mmm, it got pretty heated. I mean, as much as it would for mages without magic, y’know?”

“What was it they said, exactly? No doubt about yours truly!” played off with a smile and a laugh, kick back to hold himself up. Ever the part that was needed and necessary.

Alistair twists into something vaguely smug. Zevran knew better.

“Wynne mostly said that you were a distraction from her ‘Grey Warden Duties’.” Words rounded out with fingers, to emphasise and bolden. Mimicked in a voice not unlike Wynne’s. “And she countered that she well…”

“Hm?”

“She said you were special to her. And she didn’t want to change that.”

No words leave him, so Zevran opts to keep his mouth shut. Frown, at the fire, at Alistair, as he rolls it around in his mind those words. Perhaps they should be meaningless. Amell had not spoken of feelings, at least not out loud. Hands would linger and he awoke in her tent, despite promising that this would have been the night he would finally leave.

Weighty and gold in his pocket. “Is that all? She said much of the same to Leliana.”

“And Shale.”

“Yes, thank you for that reminder.”

How many hours until their watch was over? Zevran blinks, once, twice, thrice. Ignores how Alistair seems to mull over something deeply. How he slides across the log, just a touch closer, a touch more intimate. Fereldens and their strange mannerisms — wouldn’t talk about sex, but would happily invade someone’s space.

“Look, Zevran… she’s told me before that she cares for you. I asked her before Orzammar about it and—and she’s serious.” There is a slight pause. Orzammar. Deep Roads. Broodmothers and the cautionary steps around what might’ve truly happened down there. “I might’ve only really known her a few weeks before you tried to kill us all, but—”

“My friend, I don’t need a pep talk.”

“Shut up for a second. Briseis cares for you. And I think you care for her, too. Wynne was trying to do her weird Circle logic on her — it backfired.”

Finally, Zevran looks over at Alistair. Hands just a touch outstretched, moulded around words, making them more real. More tangible than just a wink and a nudge. Building onto the mounting pressure, that perhaps there was something under it all. Buried under ribs and politics, that Amell could love and be loved in return. Zevran could see the world, just there, in how Alistair may not have considered himself much of an orator, but the persuasion was real.

A touch of emotions, and Zevran knew what he was going to do. Shift of feet, one over the other, and he is perhaps already a man cared for, he had not taken notice. “Thank you, Alistair. Your insight has been most illuminating.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” Pause, frown. “Did you really think she didn’t care for you?”

Low chuckle, from deep somewhere in his chest. “I think I didn’t want to acknowledge it, truthfully.” Elbows resting on knees, Zevran holds his face in his hands. Watches the way Alistair puts all the words together, and perhaps he does understand. Or he was too young, too idealistic, never loved and lost. He doesn’t question it, no remorse in admitting those words out loud, because his companion smiles — not with pity, but with care. “You tell a soul about this, of course, and I will have to kill you.”

“Considering how poorly you did last time, I’ll take my chances.” Alistair reaches over, threshold breached, a slight shove of Zevran’s shoulder.

The smile doesn’t diminish. Not even as dawn breaks, and she wakes, sleepy and warm under the thin Ferelden sun. As he is hyper aware of the little golden thing, that sits from pocket to pocket, remaining undetected and close. Much like the future, no longer out of reach.

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

candlelight whispers [opening up][pillow talk]    

ao3//

There is one bed. There is one bed and a candle burning out and the rain hitting the windows. There is one bed that is a touch too small, so their knees bump if they try to move, and their noses brush when they sigh. It is the set up to all the books that she had read, long ago, where the heroine is vulnerable and safe and in love.

Perhaps that is not so wrong to believe. Except Amell crosses lines through the words, holding back over the third. Fourth. Did she consider herself a heroine, or the unfortunate? A series of interlinking events that lead to a grand game. One she had been playing with herself for the last few months, from first cross of blades to last link of fingers.

“You think loudly.” Sleepiness peppers Zevran’s voice in a way he would deny. It is too raw, crackling on the last note. And this comes from the man who promised to stay on guard, lest they attract any unsavoury sorts.

He knows her better, too. Finger against her lips, eyes opening now. Silencing her in one swift movement. “No apologies for it, remember.”

“Easy to say to someone who has had thirty years to develop a habit.” Amell’s words are slightly off around the pressure from his touch, but perhaps her remark made some sense to him. Or, gave him more room, to sink that little closer.

“And they say habits are easy to break.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but I think you may have been lied to.”

Click of his tongue, and Zevran stretches out his arm, to push under her, pull her closer. Such ease, as if they had been lovers for years. “Those dastardly Crows… when will their lies end?!”

They snicker, at the way he holds his free hand against his chest. And though the sleep had not left his voice, he looked all manner of wounded, as if it was the middle of the day and Morrigan had slighted his delicate demeanour. Amell does not question herself, as she shifts forward just a fraction more. Nor when his arm curls around her completely, holding her there.

“It’s been a while since—since I’ve been held. Like this.”

Comment that was supposed to be a thought. Yet she speaks the words into existence. Zevran looks at her curiously, which stretches on far longer than she was ready for. “Is it too much?”

Amell frowns. Probably quicker than she should’ve. Pushing herself up, she stops there. Right where her hair falls to form a curtain, hiding them both away. It is dark, inky black in the candlelight, but Zevran still glows. Soft and warm and whole, golden.

Almost perhaps what a heroine would think.

The brush against her ear, to where the finely jewelled earring sat. It does not startle her, so much as has her lean into the touch. Strange reaction, stranger feelings. “This is perfect.” Amell couldn’t tell if her lips actually parted, but her voice is around them. Contained to this little pocket of the world.

“I’ve had lovers,” idle thought, fingers that brush loose hairs from his face. “But I’ve never had love.”

Trace, down lines that cut along his cheek. Hard and bold, like a heroine should be. “Thank you, for taking the time to love me in return.”

Zevran is quick and quiet, in how he sits upright. Encourages her to let the light in, so that they may hold and be held. Arms that wrap tightly around each other. Enough to sink into the embrace that Amell can forget, for one whole moment, that there is one bed. One candle. One heroine. And her lover that loved her so deeply, he whispered it true, just for them.

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

"oh maker” [faith][first times]    

ao3//

Beside him, Amell shifts, mouth drawn into a flat line. Immeasurable discomfort present on her face, more weight shifted onto either knee. Back again. Lifts herself onto her arms, trying to stay up — and finally, he can’t help the smile.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you weren’t used to this.”

Inhaling deeply, she releases the air with a little more force than necessary. “Honestly, I’d forgotten what it was like to kneel for this long.”

Oh, it was just so easy to say something, but she drives her elbow into his side before he gets a chance. “I know what you were thinking. Don’t say it.”

“I was merely going to suggest that a cushion is always helpful.”

Amell closes her eyes, and if it wasn’t for the way the corners of her mouth picked up, the average person might’ve thought her annoyed. The lack of a response has Zevran turn his attention to where an idle chanter continued to drone on. From what he remembered of the chant, they should be nearing the point where the Chanters may have changed, or finally ended their attempt at singing.

“Do you remember Haven?”

“Mmm… which part exactly? A lot happened between the cultists, the dragons, the Guardian—oh and the puzzles!”

She snorts at that, nudging him again. Softer now, all of her. More akin to a bundle of warmth, with how she ignores the chanter, eyes on him. Zevran was never sure how he was supposed to feel. “When you were talking about Hessarian and Maferath, I meant.”

“Ah, yes, the moment when no one believed I had set foot in a chantry before! I remember it well, as that was around the time Leliana ruined my dreams about becoming a brother.”

At the clearing of a throat somewhere ahead of them, Amell turns back. Apologetic, unable to fight her grin. Low whisper aside when one particularly ruffled woman harrumphs enough to have them both shine like apologetic cherubs, above their heads in golden script written ‘we can do no wrong’.

“I believe that was the first time I’d heard you say that, you know?”

Smiles that match each other, long since ignoring what was going on around them. Even taking to slouching, just a little, hiding their heads together. Such a casual moment, Zevran could forget what they were here for. “That I did attend the chantry?”

“That you actually paid attention.”

Hand over his heart, Zevran feigns hurt. Almost going so far as to collapse to the side, Amell reaching to right him up. There is no smothered laughter here now, just a couple of titters and clearing of throats. Eyes that mean nothing for the way she can’t open hers, too caught up in her own laugh.

Eventually, eventually, they quieten. Watch the change of chanters, catch their breath. Feel a different kind of energy now. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Such as right now. Are you ready, my dear lady, for this?”

Sound of many people standing now, and her words are almost lost into the sound. “First time for everything.”

Zevran grins, as they lose themselves in the crowd, target just up ahead.

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

eye of the beholder [identity][admiration]    

ao3//

“What did I do to be graced with such a look, oh fair warden?”

And with the words that left him, Zevran found himself greeted with a softer smile. Humoured, at the title, as he could tell by the glitter at the corner of her eye. Laughter that was smothered by the campfire and moonlight. If only due to current company, and the rather hefty dinner that still sat in his bowl.

“Nothing.”

“Surely it was not nothing.”

Amell studies him. Always in such a critical manner, where wrinkles form between her brow and Zevran would liken it to how he found her studying various books they picked up along the way. Dissection wrapped up in fascination, coated with a heavy amount of sheltered upbringing. That was how he read the turn of expression. One of many.

“I was just thinking about what you told me last night.”

“Many things were shared. You may have to be a little more specific, hm? What specific hour are we referring to?”

That earns him a snort, from Amell and surrounding company. “Well and truly before, Zevran. About your… last job.”

“Ah.” His turn to frown. Stare. Watch and wait for the next words that don’t come, allowing for him to clear his throat. “I did not realise you had more questions. Of course, I should have realised. With you, it is question after question, until you seem to exhaust all options for the night.”

Cheeks colour, but Amell does not let herself be deterred. If anything, she slides just a touch closer along the makeshift bench — a tree they had felled when finding a clearing for the camp. It had taken her one swift movement to cut, another to catch. Not unlike the moment now, where her hand was against his, little finger overlapping.

“I was thinking,” low voice, just the two of them. Not like it had been any other way since. “That I admire you — for what you’ve done, who you’ve become. You told me all these stories, which I think was you trying to scare me off.

“And whilst I do think you are the luckiest bastard this side of Orlais… I don’t know. I just find you remarkable. Remarkably admirable, even.”

There was no grin, as if her intent was to embarrass. That would have been easy to understand and handle. No emotion Zevran knew, as Amell’s eyes finally leave his face to stare into the fire. Just the soft smile, echoed words. Lump in his throat, that grew and grew. Such a strange place to be in, where he could do little more than watch, unravelling her words and holding them close.

[wiltf]

for now, for now, let us stay

“The price we have to pay to pretend, my lord.”

Those words will haunt her for years to come.

ao3//

Few times could the Storm Coast be called calm. Amell didn’t mind taking a moment to enjoy it. Hand raised, watching docked boats gently rock just out from shore. Clear sun, not a cloud in sight to ruin this moment. Nothing like sitting in the middle of Lake Calenhad, or Jainen, with the ever persistent thunderclouds and rain.

To be back within it all soon.

Same sort of feeling. Grip of ice along her spine, reminding her, even under the unusually warm Ferelden sun. Thoughts and feelings that were to be shoved aside, as Amell spied the growing shape of a parasol drawing nearer. Held at a dainty angle, telling of weeks of practice.

Young lady Emhyr Trevelyan, as it were, from across the Waking Sea. Accompanied in part by an arrangement of Marchers, determined to make good on their relationships with Highever. Heart of the noble family, with one’s that wished for a little girl. Politics and movements that were not Amell’s priority. All she was told to do for the duration of this visit, for the last leg of her duties as tutor, was abide whatever wishes the lady had, make sure the young lord Cousland did not make a fool of himself after finally returning home — and to not annoy any templars that may deign to make their presence known.

Simple enough steps that were lost in seconds of bright smiles, no shoes. Toes pushed into wet sand, hem of her dress already soaked and dirtied. Lord Cousland was not far off, looking more like he had fallen into a stream, rather than taken a stroll across the beach.

“Lady Amell!” Shouted, enthusiastic, as she clambered over rocks to where Amell continued to stand. “You should’ve seen the flowers along the river!”

Smiling at the politeness, given rather liberally for someone of her position, she turns. “Lady Trevelyan, I would take care for stepping over these stones. You may find yourself in the water.”

And at that, there is a misstep. One which Amell had found, and fixed, as if she was right beside the girl, holding her upright. Except that it was the wind that catches her, and there is the look of delight that Amell found herself amused at. Oh, she could imagine just what the Trevelyans of Ostwick would think, of such a cavalier attitude towards magic from their youngest and most noble. They may have insisted on grooming the elder sons for such a position of ruler, but each and every one would be pushed aside for Emhyr. So different from the rest.

“Can you see the future?” Same question, just a different age. Fergus found his words, careful footing, to be close enough in wonder. Remembered at least a foot shorter, in Denerim, watching the show of magic from beside the Royal family.

Shake of her head, and Amell reaches over to smooth the creases along Emhyr’ shoulders. “As I have told you before, my lord and lady, I seemingly lack that ability.”

“And yet you knew what would happen!”

“Simply a guess, seeing how I know you so well, my lady.” Amell finished with a wink, righting her hat now. Moving on to smooth the collar of Fergus’ shirt. “Just how I know that you, perhaps, have become quite well acquainted with our dear visitors from the Free Marches. I should’ve known those stories about princesses would’ve left an impression on you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Such an outcry, combined with the rush of scarlet to his cheeks, it was hardly convincing. He would have to do better at that in future. Amell would’ve thought years in the King’s court was education enough.

Fergus had returned not three days prior, flat and bored, staring out his window, until the Marchers had arrived. Put energy back in his step that wouldn’t fix heartbreak, but Amell could only guess what had happened in Denerim for him to still have that look in his eye.

“So that wasn’t you I saw earlier, firing three bullseyes in a row, hm? Making all the hearts flutter. Did you give a flower, like we had practiced?”

Emhyr can’t fight the grin, all degrees of smug that her mother didn’t approve of, as Fergus floundered. Not nearly the quiet and well-kept girl that many and all believed her to be. Amell offers no more, finding her answer in both their reactions. Hands that settle once more on her shoulders, before sliding down to her wrists, where the gloves had fallen. Buttoning and affixing where she went.

“Come along you two. A danger together, but I don’t trust either of you to walk yourself back to Highever unscathed.”

One of the soldiers seemed to have been protecting Emhyr’ shoes. Ones that only made it back onto her feet after some mild complaining. Followed by light magic touches, to clean and scrub away any evidence of having wandered from the path. Not unlike Fergus’ grandmother spitting into a handkerchief and rubbing his cheek, as he likened it loudly, rubbing fingers over his face.

“The price we have to pay to pretend, my lord.”

Tongue stuck out. Wiggled fingers and a threat of being turned into a toad, enough to get him to let his eyes fall to the ground. Gates open, calls are made, and they are ushered through streets. Harried ladies and more than one suspicious look sent her way, but Amell still waves as they are pulled away from her. Duties to be returned to, even as she shakes her head when they try to protest.

Celebration tomorrow, for the official return of Fergus to Highever. Amell was sure there wouldn’t be much in the way of her participating entirely, not when three templars move in — left, right, behind. All sense of civility gone, to return her to her given quarters in the castle. Fine. She would not argue, not now.

Especially when the door was allowed to remain open, leaving her to work with people walking by. Still afraid to cross the threshold of a mage’s room, save for those who should know better. As she catches Emhyr peer in once, twice, conversations that don’t quite make it the entire way through. Fergus, leading on the younger Cousland, every bit trying to imitate the older brother.

As she finds herself smiling at that. Tapping a finger against the edge of her book, as the statues are immoveable. Always with a close eye. Just like she had thought on the beach, Amell takes a moment. One, out of the many, to look past them. Remember this, both in thought and in word.

There was no idea of returning. Even with the Cousland family, so bold in opening their doors to a mage, no longer had need for her. She would disappear back into the Tower, and that was that. So Amell writes, until they walk past, one last time for the night, to wish her sweet dreams.

Thinking of the Tower doesn’t scare her as much now. No more than the templars, who close the door behind them. Grip loosening on her spine. And Amell blows out her candle,

good night.

[wiltf]

herne

 Just as easily brought down. They will tell stories of his quick reaction, to meeting a solid strike, lightning in a blinding white, against the flat surface of his axe. Undeterred by any such feat, taking the distance between them as easily as climbing the steps to the seat of Kirkwall.

When they tell her story, the fear will be forgotten.

ao3//

Hawke gets mere seconds to turn her head towards the ceiling. To get out her apologies and guilt, the way she thinks I’m sorry for stealing that pie in Lothering, and a solemn sorry for diddling that sister behind the pews. Get as much of it off her chest, as the Arishok seems to grow in size. Heavy weaponry, newfound respect in narrowed eyes.

In comparison, her choice of sword is paltry. One-and-a-half hands, ended with an orb ripped from something forgotten and broken in the Amell basement. Allegedly enchanted to stay ever sharp. if there had ever been a time to test that theory, Hawke would’ve considered the long climb up to the keep the point where she should’ve tried.

At least once or twice.

Not when she swallows loudly, last prayer. Couldn’t afford a passing look at Isabela, or she might’ve ran. Twists steel around her body, hearing it whistle under her hands. Perfect. Almost sounded as threatening as the room was towards her person.

There are as many templars as there are nobles and qunari. Scattered in between, who watch her dodge and dive between swings. Matching each and every blow, only to be knocked away without a thought. But Hawke doesn’t lose her grip, even as she breathes through her mouth sharply, all air taken, with a foot that finds her gut. Kicked back with enough force that pillars are her only support.

Held up. Again. Sword that finds nicks in the armour, drawing loose amounts of blood. Never enough to bleed a man dry. Even with the way she crushes smoke in her hands, allowing her seconds of cutting upwards, between the grey. Missing the chin of the Arishok with disbelief. Ever sharp. Ever missing.

Ever in the position, where she is wide open. Bloodied and open. In her mind’s eye, she can see the axes. Swung under and up, to cut in such a way that she had seen before. Lothering, the way the darkspawn had latched onto the farmer the next house over. She had covered Bethany’s eyes then, pulling her blindly through filth and fire.

Figuratively. Literally.

It must’ve been the Maker himself gracing her with his presence, for her guts to not spill out on the floor before her. Just blood and darkness, swimming vision. Sword falling from fingers, as Hawke finds the gaping flesh, torn clean through. Air humming with the way the Arishok held his hands high above his head, blood that flowed in patterned lines.

Something about seeing her fingers come away red made it all too real. Where red turns blue, and as she falls against a pillar, even the Arishok seemed to pause. Sweeping under her feet, was.

What?

Hawke needed to throw up. That’s the feeling she associated with it. How her stomach churned, magic overwhelming. Stitching her back together. No replacing the blood that saturated her shirt, but she could live without that. No more shake in her hand. Finds the edge of steel.

Spirits hadn’t deemed her righteous or virtuous before. Refused to even whisper back when she held her hand against the green. Fucking conditions, is what she thinks, when the hilt didn’t fall this time. Solid, orb lighting up now. Renewed power. Little bolts of lightning that made her fingers numb, arm shaking, as she pulls across her body in a slash, that is met by a block, parry, stagger.

Two steps forward, half a step back. Licks her lips, now. Tries to not see double. Just move, move move move! Run and a roll, to the side, watching the tiles break so close to where she had just been.

Too slow. Pushing herself another foot back, force and blindness. Just as easy to shove the Arishok back, with such an eagerness that it causes him to stumble. And such an action is so easily taken in, swallowed whole. One big breath, as footing is regained, one weapon now. Stronger, more solid.

Just as easily brought down. They will tell stories of his quick reaction, to meeting a solid strike, lightning in a blinding white, against the flat surface of his axe. Undeterred by any such feet, taking the distance between them as easily as the steps to the seat of Kirkwall.

Hawke only lets it go, because she can feel the haze. Pushes herself off the ground again, around the pillar, more distance. More freedom. To hold little bombs of smoke between her fingers, drop them along the way. The spirits were receding, bored now, unamused. About to let herself fall upon her own sword, in no manner that could’ve been considered gracious.

This was all a part of her plan, right? The running part. Careful movements and mindful steps, and now it was her drawing more blood. Just a touch more, cut that rounds the outside of his arm, as she gets in too close. Watched the others fight too many times. Too much fire in her palm, but it does the job against his neck.

She will never be able to forget the way he howled. Not enough time to consider it agony, but perhaps frustration. Anger. Burning kind that has her swiped at with a free hand, trying to catch her now. Not in such a figurative sense, but Hawke knew, perhaps. That it would’ve been more personal, to feel her life be taken away.

And that terrified her.

So much so, that the smoke finally grows around them. Hiding them from view, until she couldn’t see her hand in front of her. Hawke closes her eyes, lets the hilt fall until the orb, resting in red blood that swirled, grew warm. Welcoming her touch, just like it had once before. Not unlike ice, pushing in under her skin, does the feeling grow. Pressure, right temple.

Found her. In the smoke, his presence had only grown. Shadow, that was to swallow her whole. Find her fate in the edge of his blade, as quickly as he had promised. Yet in the steel, she could see her eyes.

Inhuman. In the strike. Upright, under the way he brings his arm down. To where the Arishok holds the axe, centre of her forehead. Finality. That’s what Hawke feels, as the blue had turned black in her blood, thick and slow. Iron on her tongue, as her sword was buried under his chin, comfortably in the skin of his neck. Air leaves her lungs, smoke dissipates.

Hawke does not recall the sound that leaves her, as she pulls. Rips. Tears into the skin until a thread held head to shoulder. Cuts through sinew and bone, arm dropping with a clatter. Time does not slow down, but it surges. Violently and loudly, filling her ears with the way feet clamour towards her. Hands that want to catch her as she leans her weight now.

Shaky hand. Bloody hand. Kneels in a pool of his blood, intermingling of it all that does not capture the way her hair stands on end. As the spirits fall silent once more, satisfied by events that transpired. They will write poetry about this moment, Hawke knows. Faces that meld together, sing nothing but her name.

She will be haunted by it.

[wiltf]

ring

She had never seen a human splutter, which she supposed was the most apt term. Read about it, certainly, but watching the balk and passing annoyance on the Commander’s face changed her again.

ao3//

When I finished Awakening last week, I kind of got caught on something with Nida. Also I asked the bot in the server who I should have in this fic. That’s my excuse sorry Velanna.

Vigil’s Keep couldn’t have been closer, even if Velanna had wished it. Slow departure from Amaranthine’s gates, far too overcast with a suddenly sombre Commander, swallowed by fur and a deepening brow. Not even Anders — with his attempts at wit and humour — seemed to stir her from whatever thought had taken her.

Did little in the way of confirming this was the correct course. Belly full of darkspawn spittle and blood, Velanna found herself picking at a particular scab on her knee, reins in the other hand. Just the two of them pulling to the front of the entourage. Whatever had happened at the inn, neither Sigrun nor Nathaniel contributed any answers.

Creators, there was that curl in her gut again, knee-jerk reaction to just cut her losses and run. Velanna knew she shouldn’t, ultimately, definitely. Even if there was the itch, to just direct her horse far left, back to the mines. Shove past a cave-in, return to the deep. Hadn’t they visited an entrance further west? Or underneath the Keep?

Finds herself staring ahead again, distracted. Hundred different path and outcomes, yet she still leads her horse beside the Commander’s. Closer now, several paces ahead of the rest, with whatever privacy that may have offered. Velanna can feel herself forming the question about Seranni once more. When would they look? Where would they look?

Yet her Commander surprises her first. “Did you mean what you said—in the mines?”

Not quick enough to hide her surprise, Velanna can only allow it to pepper in her voice with a, “what did I say in the mines?”

Half smile and a snort. Long look, side of eyes. “We did say many things. I was speaking of Keenan.”

The name meant nothing, until it did. “The warden who died?”

“The same one. Gave me his ring. Told me to give it to his wife.”

Suddenly, things were piecing together. It was no surprise that such duties would sour a person’s mood — Velanna had seen it happen on occasion with hunters who had been taken by surprise. When shems had been vicious. Bite at the end of her tongue, to say that since she had the mantle, she should have expected such duties. Yet she swallows it whole, and holds the words now. Follow through, she tells herself. They helped you. “I assume you found his wife at the inn, then?”

“Mmm, she was with another man. Said some things.”

“And these things have managed to upset you?” No, she shouldn’t. “I am surprised, after seeing you threaten peasants into submission and personally dealing with assassins, that a widow hurt you.”

The Commander actually laughs. More of a short bark and not filled with so much humour, but it was enough. “No, no. I think I scared her more than anything. But she did give me something to think about.”

Should she ask further? If Velanna had learned anything with her time amongst the Wardens, there were always questions. For anything, from why was there dirt beneath their feet, to who did they think their god was. Bounced off each other and the walls, till late at night in the keep, exhausting all possibilities and retiring. Until the next day, in front of that statue of Andraste once more, did the Commander Amell stand there with Anders and question it all again.

“You don’t have to comfort me, Velanna. I do not wish to burden you with my complaints.”

“I feel as though if I don’t ask, they,” and she tilts her head behind them, to where the rest of their group trailed, “will know. And I don’t wish to listen to Nathaniel pester me about feelings.”

There is a smile under the layers. It is bright and broad and true, enough that fur is pulled away from her face, pulling at different lines. Another face sits before Velanna, more than amused at the comment about their resident nobleman, only to be buried again under a heavy sigh.

“She… Nida, Keenan’s widow. She told me of how they upended their life in Orlais to come here… and he ends up dying not a week later, almost. Leaving her behind.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Commander Amell makes a face, once Velanna could not recall seeing before. Perhaps this was regret, guilt. “I. My husband, I suppose. It made me think of him. How I’m here still, and he’s still in Antiva.”

Velanna finds the tangled threads, and takes a stab in the dark. “Are you cheating on him?”

“Maker, no!” She had never seen a human splutter, which she supposed was the most apt term. Read about it, certainly, but watching the balk and passing annoyance on the Commander’s face changed her again. All sorts of shades of emotion now. No one could complain later that Velanna had not taken interest. “It made me miss him. A lot.”

A long pause stretches before them, and the others are drawing closer. With one long breath released, Velanna finally responds. “So, a woman who cheated on her husband and didn’t accept his ring — which you offered to return as his dying wish — made you miss your husband?” Saying it out loud didn’t make it any better, if the wince was anything to go by.

“Something like that.”

“I don’t understand humans.” Finality in her voice, ended with a smaller smile. Private for the brief seconds before,

They were no longer alone. Amell speaks up a little louder, a little more reassuring. “I appreciate you taking the time to listen to one complain, at least.” The kind of tone that only invites curious looks and questions.

Velanna ignores it. Grips the reins a little tighter, as she sidesteps Sigrun with a practiced ease. Takes off, paces ahead, Vigil’s Keep gracing her vision as if it kept itself hidden for the sake of conversation. How strange a concept, how human a concept. Over her shoulder, does she spy though, the warmer smile, directed at her.

Thank you, mouthed around laughter and noise. And, Velanna notes, that it was genuine. Confusing in sentiment. Strange in how it lodges in her throat, short nod, too sharp to be polite. Facing the gates, and she does not consider.

Anything at all.

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

bloodstained clothes [injury][dressing up]    

ao3//

Rialto is glitter and glamour and whirling skirts. Sea salt as water hits the cliffside, the spray barely noticed, but appreciated, as she grins behind the mask. Eclipsed by the movement, in how they drew closer still.

Two step. One, two. Back again, arms outstretched, dipped low. Quick movements, dashing in a circle. Following beat and rhythm and how it catches and falls. All around, where if she listened closely, she would hear the movements of materials, silk that pulls against metal and she’s already tilted.

Finds gravity as most becoming so far down; Zevran had always been deceptively strong. Amell is lost in the movements, guiding hands. Fingers that touch, where she follows hard lines and imagines them, just across the room, to where a man may choke. How she holds Zevran close, leg around his hip, and parted lips. Captured breath. Slide of eyes to watch how the man wheezes, clawing at a throat that would not part.

They are not the only ones who have noticed. Too close, and the first dagger finds home upside a helmet. Buried and pushed in as she is spun out once more. Compromised. Known. Swords leave sheathes, but her barrier holds until it cracks.

Zevran is the quicker. The stronger. Sliding to breach, between the fractures of magic. Amell does not question the increase in his artillery — two more, each a solid throw. Deep without hope of health and longevity.

Too slow. She misses the swing. Through the barrier like a warm knife, and she throws it. Herself. Back into the ground. Magic dissipates around her in a familiar green, that is neither cold nor familiar, as the mask breaks and fractures.

There is heat on her face. There is heat on her face and on her attacker’s, burning through metal and screams. Amell could seal the wound with hardly a glance, but it is the fuel and the fire she needed. Where a white dress runs red, and the tide will turn soon. Out of the shadows will come the dark.

For he is ruthless as he finds his target. Whisper, just for those who could listen. Zevran holds the sword, and slowly, effortlessly, leans forward, until the gurgle is no more.

“In peace… Vigilance.”

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

antivan bad boy [tattoos][kink]

ao3//

Thumbs push into the skin, dragging up as if to loosen muscles. Subtle scent of rose, and Amell has to snort, just a little.

“So you were being truthful, before with Alistair?”

Zevran’s smile is far more amused and soft when directed at her. Something she was becoming more and more aware of by the day. “When have you ever known me to lie, dear warden?”

“Surprisingly, never.”

Massaging the skin probably more than necessary. But they had never denied such a touch, not yet, until he begins to sweep a cloth over her arm, drying the skin. Careful and practiced motions that do not betray the conversations that had happened, do happen, will happen. Zevran knew what he was doing, and she trusted him completely.

“Did you think on what you wanted, hm?”

Truthfully, Amell hadn’t. Not even a passing thought, as she eyed the tools beside Zevran. Deep whorls and carefully thought out lines decorated his skin, in many ways he had described to Leliana. And then there were those whispered about, under the blankets, that other Crows had carried. The kind that were experimental and deadly. Ones accompanied with a glint in the eye.

“Not at all,” she says, as he holds the needle over her wrist. “I still maintain that you should surprise me.”

He has that look again. Incredulous in the way it has his brows draw in tight. Definitely not the first, nor the last, to ask whether she was right to trust him so completely. Fingers tighten over her wrist, left, writing hand. One of two that required her to draw upon magic.

Holds her so delicately, tracing veins down to where her joint sat. “I may have an idea.”

“Then by all means.”

Settling back against the log, fire at her feet, Amell smiles as Zevran does not require ink to form the idea. Doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, he says, but he holds the needle, asks, last time. “Do you trust me?”

Yes.

[wiltf]

zevwarden week 2020

la petit mort [death][weak spots]    

ao3//

“Raise your shield as I’m about to strike. So you block, see?”

Motions repeated again, as they had been for hours. Alistair was surprising many with his apparently saintly patience, considering his cries that he simply did not belong in the Chantry. Now, Zevran wasn’t so quick as to call any man a liar, but with how the younger man lifted Amell’s elbow once more, to imitate a block, well. It was all there, wasn’t it?

Beside him, Leliana nursed a makeshift mug of tea, or juice, or even wine. At their feet, Oghren had joined them, having apparently deciding that for the night, his attempts at helping the wardens was done. Abandoned weaponry lay about, and it was a rather hilarious sight, if they didn’t all collectively wince when Amell seemed to stagger.

“You know, Zevran, you could probably help her.”

Not so much a look out the corner of his eye, instead watching how the shield clatters to the ground. Fingers push sweaty hair from forehead, and chest rises and falls. “Why is it that when you start a sentence in that manner, I am given a suggestion, hm? Should you not also help our dear Warden in the way of combat?”

Leliana grins at him, he knows. He refuses to look. “Maybe I have watched you two long enough to know better. Or, having seen her burn up a bow in anger, I know I won’t have any luck. And you are the luckiest man in Thedas, no?”

“I’d almost ask if that was flattery, but knowing you, it wasn’t.”

“You’re catching on.”

“I like you like this.” Zevran slides off the back of the cart, where they had made themselves quite comfortable. Already long defeated in any manner of talking himself out of such a trial. It had been weeks since they had left Haven, and something about Redcliffe had left Amell asking for martial training. Only a matter of time. “There’s a snap to your words. Reminds me of—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I was going to say a bowstring.” And Zevran fakes a gasp, walking backwards now. “Leliana, where was your mind?”

The glare was worth it, if only as he turns just upon watching how Amell sighs once more. Done. Defeated and if only this had been so easy, months before. Give her a stave and point her at some darkspawn, there was never an issue. Apparently, not being immediately gifted at handling a sword was a sore spot for the mage. Zevran didn’t push the obvious into a joke, of course. He handled his manners well.

Like how he scooped up the spare swords laying around, twirling them in his hands. Light and barely sharp. Would take a few turns to truly do some damage beyond bruising. That would work fine. Behind her, Alistair sighs, in an oddly affectionate sort of way, taking his leave with a ‘I actually hope you can help’.

“Are you here to offer some wonderfully obvious ideas, too?” Amell is six shades of annoyed, from the way the red covers her. Blotchy, unkempt and there’s all kinds of smeared dirt from when she had hit the ground.

Ironically, Zevran found her more attractive like this. But he would keep that little tidbit to himself, especially when he raises right hand, left behind his back. “Sword at the ready, my lady. We have no use for shields.”

“I’m not sparring you.”

Compensating for the sharpness, Zevran’s smile is wicked. Left hand coming around, to find a staggered block, nick in the handle. Amell’s hands hold the weight there, flat against the blade. Ignoring the right. Until she steps back, hiss leaving when Zevran catches air. If there was some magic at play, he doesn’t comment, as it was so easy to back her around, where she would be,

“Dead.”

Pointing end finding the lower left of her back. Close enough that Zevran could spy curled hair at the base of her neck, beads of sweat, the way colour crawls up her ears. Embarrassment was a funny look, as he assumed she wasn’t quite familiar with the feeling.

And he was not, with having her and possibly a settled future in his hands. A little further. He could go back. But there was no drive, not even as she steps forward, clicking her tongue as she inspected the sword. Like a weakness he had wrapped up in teases and turns of phrase.

Interesting. Not wholly appreciated, but interesting.

“Warden, perhaps it would be best to consider the unconventional when it comes to weaponry. Have you considered using your staff to bat the enemy?”

[wiltf]

what we were

“I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past. “She kicked three knights and you said—” “That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”

They survived.

ao3//

When they meet again, it would be so bold as to assume they were almost perfect strangers.

And perhaps it would be best if they were. For Anora moves left, and Fergus moves a perfect right. Mirror image, reflective of years since past and long lost youth. When he had run through the halls, little shorter than Maric’s chest, and she had been leading the charge.

Clearing his throat, Fergus steps back. Extends an arm, with a passably apologetic smile, and encourages Anora first. Even as their roads diverged, she was always two steps ahead. A conscious decision on his behalf, when they move into a private room. Magically sealed, carefully examined.

Quiet.

“You survived after all.”

Anora’s voice is unshakable, but her hands move to sit in front, wringing her fingers that betrayed her manner. Part of him would comment on it, how she would then go to move her hair, where that one curl always managed to get loose, but he holds back.

“Aye, Ano—your majesty. We were… incredibly lucky. I believe my brother told you about what happened.”

Do they still stand? Sit? Fergus isn’t sure if he should fold his arms, or hide his hands at his back. It was different, when Cailan was still there. Easier lead to follow, with that certain amount of jovial attitude that lightened the mood. Remarkably like his father, in that sense, from what Fergus could remember. Except Maric’s presence was always around the corner, and Cailan’s disappeared without a trace.

She was still dressed in black. He should not think of the deceased king in such a way.

Finally, Anora sits. Practiced and graceful and pinched. Too stiff in the shoulders, hands still clasped. Like she was meeting with any other dignitary. Ah, so he should follow suit. One hand on the arm rest, politely resting. Slower movements. Will the nerves back.

Such stunned silence would be the joke of Denerim, before she. Smiles. Right hand, going to cover her teeth. A reminder of when one would-be squire commented she had an ugly one, right before she kicked him in the shin. Kind of comment that stuck, never leaving. Fergus shouldn’t have been so relieved to see it, as she tries to force her face back into a mask of neutrality, but her muscles don’t listen.

“I’m so glad that you are here, Fergus.” And had he been anyone else, he might’ve commented on the slight gasp, hiccup, whatever other name some book might’ve called it. “I didn’t want to lose you as well.”

Leaning forward, it was bold of him to reach out for her hand. Something she doesn’t hesitate to offer. Calloused fingers, hers, his. Nothing that could be replaced. “I’m sorry for not being here. For the war, the Blight… for Cailan.”

“You couldn’t help it. It was his orders, after all.”

Neither comment on the lingering feeling there. Sore spot, still too raw, even years after she had told him of her betrothal. The night he had left for Highever, determined on never returning to Denerim again. Was it bitterness? Fergus swallows it down.

But she interrupts, fingers tightening around his. “I’m sorry. For Oriana and Oren. For letting Howe live how long he did. I knew, and I did nothing.”

“Anora, I—”

“I let them use me, all for the sake of being a good daughter, and a good wife. That’s not who I am, Fergus.”

Anora Mac Tir did not cry. And it was not merely a matter of being poetic or sincere. Time did not change that, even if her eyes narrowed and her nose ran red. There would be no tears for those who passed. Nor any spared upon seeing Fergus returned. In a manner of speaking, it seemed to settle his heart, if only a little. Things had not changed. She was still the girl who unseated him in a joust. Still the woman who did her duty.

“You have always been a lot of things, Anora.” Careful with her name. There was a time when he could shout it with a laugh. “But I hate to say it: you’ve never been a good daughter. Or wife. Do you remember when you hitched your skirts up, got on horseback, and had the guard chase you through the forests until you were blistered and bruised?”

Another smile, one not covered. Broken and true. “What was that horse’s name?”

“Lady Violet. You wanted to name her ‘violent’, but your madam refused.” And it was Fergus’ turn to laugh. “Fitting, almost.”

“I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past.

“She kicked three knights and you said—”

“That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”

At some point, their fingers had intertwined. Right in left. The skin where her wedding band might’ve once sat was lighter. Fergus hadn’t had the heart to remove his, not just yet. Nor the necklace Oren made, of string and material, wrapped around his arm, safe and warm under layers of fur.

“How did you remember all that?”

“It makes quite an impression on you.” He does not mean to turn their hands, so that he was able to draw his thumb over her skin. Linger on the space where a ring should’ve been. “You’ve always been good at that.”

Fergus’ voice trails off, until all that was left was the sound of a crackling fire. One he had not even noticed. Where to from here? It had been more than a year, since they had last seen each other. When Oriana was still alive, at his side, and he had loved her deeply and sweetly. Still did, in that he felt cold, when she was no longer there.

“Will you return to Highever?”

The question of a lifetime. Only three times had he set foot in the walls, since they had emerged victorious from the Blight. To bury wife and son. To settle affairs. To find the brooch that Anora had gifted, all those years ago. It was not the place he remembered. It would never be the same.

“No, not for now… if you’ll have me, allow me to stay in court.”

When Anora says ‘yes’, it is with more than just sincerity. Fergus finds it comforting, when it was likely wrong to assume it to be. That there was still some familiarity in what remained. They made quite the pair, he muses, dressed in black, dyed a deep orange from the flames. Silence where there had once been nonstop chatter. When they were simply nothing more than the fostered noble and the future queen.

Now they sat, widowed too soon and too violently. No pieces to be held, no game to play. Anora looks through him, sees into a part he does not wish to touch. Not yet. Still too raw and open, wounded further with the pitying looks that he received. How his brother does nothing more than apologise, had he been stronger, had he been quicker.

But he was young, and he had learned. It did not matter if he was stronger or quicker, a coup succeeded in strength, and Fergus would be daft to overlook how Howe’s plan worked just so. All for his guts to be spilled, but that was planning and crafting. Years worth, for the one moment to strike. Perfect in execution.

“You always used to get lost in thought. The tutors would rap you on the knuckles for it, remember?”

“‘Fergus Cousland, it will be a wonder if you ever manage to find ground enough to rule one day’.” Voice pitching, mimicking the way that they had once talked. With a grin, right at the end. “I remember.”

“You haven’t changed.”

And, he breathes, thankfully, “neither have you.”