#so like who is Corypheus trying to impress here. like yes you did find the Throne empty. some in the Chantry already say you did.

[wardensantoineandevka]

I always find it a little funny and amusing the common "Corypheus's For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty! is such a raw line, it goes so hard" because I've always been DEEPLY unimpressed with it. it comes across for me as super tryhard and edgy. I can't be impressed with it because it feels like it's TRYING to impress me, it's straining too hard to be A Good Line that it sounds forced. like, I don't even think it's the best line of that MONOLOGUE, let alone the whole scene.

[hyperbali]

Bear with me, I turned into a Pepe Silvia meme for this.

(I was also proud enough of it that I felt I needed to share it here, lmao)

I am of the opinion that Andraste was a mage - especially given that weird "incident" from her childhood that killed her half-sister and made her see auras and hear voices. Sounds like magic onset to me!

Then there's just how powerful both her ashes and the security put in place in the Temple are; as much as she fought the Tevinter Empire and declared "magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him," I think she meant it in a literal sense - not that it's a bad thing in and of itself, but that it's a tool that should be used for the benefit of the people, not oppress them. If she was a mage and had a contingency of mages in her army, she was trying to practice what she preached.

On reading more about her visions of the Maker in the Chant, and knowing that the Veil was already up by then… I think she might have been seeing one of the Evanuris. If I had to guess which, I might wager Elgar'nan; both he and "the Maker" are heavily tied to aspects of the sun, and Elgar'nan's symbol looks a lot like the Maker's.

Given the circumstances of how and why the Fade was created/the Veil put in place, I can definitely imagine an incredibly pissed off and eager to leave Elgar'nan finally finding someone who can hear and see him in the Fade and convincing her that oh, yes, he was the one who made this place, and he left the world behind when he was displeased with mankind… but if she can convince the people to come together, he'd forgive them and they can bring him back, so he can create a paradise! Wouldn't that be nice?

So… does the Maker exist? Insofar as the Evanuris did/do. Is he a god? Insofar as they were, supposedly.

Was Andraste chosen? As probably the first person Elgar'nan/"the Maker" could finally get to acknowledge him in eons, yeah, he picked her to try and get him (and presumably the rest of the Evanuris) out.

Was the Inquisitor chosen? By circumstance, I suppose. The players all happened to line up at once: Fen'Harel, the one who sealed the Evanuris away, gave the (depowered) means to let them out to one of the magisters who committed the "Second Sin" to the Maker, Corypheus, in hopes that it would provide the power necessary to rip the prison apart.

(Small pet theory that Solas might have been under the impression that a person who managed to break into the prison once before could probably do it again.)

BUT… since you don't have to be a mage, and you don't have to be a race that can usually access the Fade, I don't think the Inquisitor could have been "nudged" to show up by Elgar'nan or the other Evanuris. And since you can be from any number of backgrounds, I think you as a character just kind of happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear Divine Justinia screaming for help.

….But.

If Andraste still exists, in some capacity, it would be as a spirit - and with the draw of such a powerful artifact that probably has Fen'Harel's magic signature all over it, it would be an instant magnet for any of the Evanuris with any kind of pull left. Elgar'nan is likely the most powerful of them; if he has spirits under his control, especially Andraste's, he could have flung her there to go see what the hell happened.

At that point, after you're already stuck, she probably could've helped you get back out. You could be the "Herald of Andraste" as a result of you winding up in the thick of this mess - but you weren't before you got pitched into the Fade. How much religious belief you put into that depends entirely on how high a regard you lend to the power of magic and spirits.

(I do know, as well, that DAI specifically tells you that Justinia helped you out, but it's not Justinia herself who tells you that - it's a fragment of what she was, a spirit in the form of her. Spirit Andraste theory stands.)

tl;dr: Sort of, but only in the intensely complicated way that DA likes to do things!

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Complicated

Chapter 8 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up on AO3! I’m a couple chapters ahead of my posting schedule and starting to get confused about what’s been posted and what hasn’t so here enjoy another early chapter sorry

~6390 words; read here on AO3 instead.

**********************

Tamaris slept poorly that night.

Her head was buzzing with a jumbled mixture of thoughts. Felassan was at the forefront of them, naturally; her unruly mind kept reminding her of his playful tone when he teased her and the spine-tingling sound he made when they kissed, and the darkness behind her eyelids was put to shame by the memory of the lambent magic and lust in his eyes after she’d leaned away from his lips. 

He made her uneasy. 

No, that wasn’t fair; Felassan wasn’t doing anything to make her feel uneasy, and she was undeniably attracted to him. But somehow, that seemed to be the problem. It was the attraction that was making her feel uneasy. Her desire was diluted by some kind of weird trepidation that she was not at all accustomed to. She was drawn to Felassan, with his shit-eating smirk and his casual stories and his warm amethyst eyes. But when she thought too hard about getting more intimate with him, something inside of her quailed. 

It was fucking frustrating. She hadn’t had this same kind of internal push-and-pull before sleeping with Bull, so why was it different with Felassan? 

Furthermore, why was she obsessing about this when nothing should be happening between her and Felassan anyway? No matter what he said, his lust couldn’t genuinely be focused on her. It was the Tranquility cure and nothing more, so the point was moot. 

So why the fuck was she still awake over this? 

Felassan wasn’t the only problem keeping her awake, though. She was also anxious at the thought of the mana-building exercises that she was supposed to help him with in the morning. It had been years since she’d done the exercises that Solas had taught her. Not only was she rusty at them, but she wasn’t sure how well she’d be able to teach them to Felassan. 

If Tamaris was totally honest, though, it wasn’t just her long hiatus or the teaching situation that concerned her; it was the thought of doing something that would be such a visceral reminder of Solas. There was a reason she’d stopped doing these exercises, after all. 

As it turned out, that visceral reminder came sooner than Tamaris liked. In her haste to escape from Felassan earlier tonight, she’d forgone their usual nightly ritual of a cup of dream-blocking tea. So of course, as sheer luck and fucking irony would have it, this was the night that she had to dream of him when she finally fell into a fitful sleep. 

She narrowed her eyes at the six-eyed wolf from atop the battlements at Skyhold. No matter how far away he was, whether it was the Frostback Basin or the Hissing Wastes or some strange verdant land she’d never seen before, it never felt quite far enough. 

She glared viciously at him but didn’t say a word; she had never been able to find the right words to say during these rare and fragmented dreams. Instead of trying to speak to him — or more accurately, to yell at him — Tamaris had somehow decided that if she stared at him for long enough, she’d figure it out. If she kept her eyes on him, forcing him to meet her furious gaze, then maybe she’d finally see.

When she woke up the next morning, however, her half-awake mind was already losing the fragments of dream that she’d collected, and she could no longer remember what it was that she was trying to see in the first place. All she could remember was the impression of a sad and watchful wolf.

The unwanted dream of Solas, contrasted with the very wanted and oddly intimidating memory of kissing Felassan… it felt like too much to cope with first thing in the morning, especially with her usual awful morning headache. She was of half a mind to avoid Felassan by foregoing breakfast to sit on the roof and smoke instead, but she ultimately decided against it; avoiding him would just make her seem both churlish and childish. 

It was thus a very surly Tamaris who made her way down the stairs for breakfast. 

As usual, Felassan was lounging on his nest of silk cushions in front of the fireplace with This Shit Is Weird. Without saying anything to him, Tamaris went to the kitchen to fetch her breakfast. When she came to sit at her usual spot at the dining table, Felassan looked up.

His lips were curled with a knowing smile. Tamaris wilted slightly and dropped her eyes to her plate of fruit-and-creme-filled crȇpes. He was totally within his rights to say something about her abrupt departure from the roof last night — she had acted like a complete ass, after all — but that didn’t mean she was prepared to talk about it.

“I have a question for you,” he said.

She slumped even further and popped a bite of crȇpe in her mouth. “Mm?” she mumbled.

To her surprise, he didn’t ask about last night. Instead, he tapped the book in his hand. “The orb. The one that Fen’Harel gave to Corypheus. He doesn’t have it, does he?”

She relaxed slightly and swallowed her food. “No. It broke when we were defeating Corypheus. It was an accident, but I’m fucking glad now that it broke.”

Felassan nodded. “I suspected as much. I wonder where we would be now if it hadn’t broken?” He rose to his feet and came to sit beside her.

“We’d be dead, obviously,” she drawled. “He’d have ripped down the Veil by now if he had that stupid orb.”

“I wonder,” he said thoughtfully.

She looked up from her delicious crȇpes. “You really think he wouldn’t have done it? Seriously?”

“He hasn’t done it yet,” Felassan replied. He poured a cup of tea from the enchanted teapot on the table.

Tamaris eyed him incredulously. What was he trying to imply? “He probably doesn’t have the power. Which is fucking terrifying, really, considering what he was like when I last saw him.”

Felassan slid the cup of tea over to her, and she raised her eyebrows. “What, no coffee?”

He smiled at her. “We’ve been living together for barely more than a week, and already you’re a pampered princess?”

She blinked at him, then snorted. “Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. These are amazing, by the way.” She tapped her fork lightly on her plate.

“Thank you,” he said graciously. “Drink that tea. It’s medicinal.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is this the tea for my withdrawal?”

“Indeed,” he said. “Chock full of fresh herbs: your favourite.”

His smile was endearingly mischievous. She huffed and offered him a little smile in return. “You really do pamper me, you know.”

“If pampering you brings the rare beauty of a smile to your face, consider yourself perpetually pampered,” he replied smoothly. 

She snorted and rolled her eyes. Despite his flirtation, she was starting to feel as relaxed as she usually did in his presence. There was nothing expectant or heavy behind the usual mischief in his eyes, and they’d been sitting here together for a good few minutes now without him bringing up the kiss. Maybe he was going to let her off the hook about it.

She lifted the cup to her lips and took a little sip, then grimaced. “Is this supposed to taste awful?”

He tsked. “Yes, Tamaris. Put some honey in it.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “It feels more medicinal without honey to cover the taste.”

He smiled faintly. “Wise of you. The good things in life don’t always come in the sweetest packages.”

She glanced at him. His tone was light and breezy, but his gaze was a bit pensive now as he surveyed her. 

She dropped her eyes to her plate and took too big a sip of the tea, scalding her tongue in the process. Felassan, in the meantime, turned the conversation back to Solas. “So Fen’Harel had acquired additional power in the time between his departure and your meeting again. Power enough to remove the mark from your hand, it seems.”

His words were a statement, but Tamaris could see the question in his face. She sipped the tea again and gave him an arch look. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll spoil the ending of This Shit Is Weird if I answer your question?”

He grinned. “Terrified. I do love a good surprise ending. But I’ll forgo the surprise in this case.”

She sighed and cut another piece of crȇpe. “Yes. He was way more powerful when I saw him last than when he was with us. Petrifying qunari and setting off huge explosions…” The memory sent a shiver down her spine. “He must have done a lot of fancy fucking Fadewalking during the time he was off plotting our collective murders.”

Felassan nodded slowly and tapped his fingers idly on the table, and Tamaris paused with a bite of crȇpe halfway to her mouth. “You know something about how he got so powerful, don’t you?” she asked.

“I have a theory, but… I honestly cannot say for sure,” he said.

Tamaris lifted an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me the theory?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll spoil the ending?” he said teasingly.

She gave him a flat look and wiggled her metal fingers. “This is the fucking ending, Felassan.”

He chuckled. “You make a strong point. I will tell you if you wish, but I would actually recommend that you be patient with me and let me read more of that book first.”

“Why?” she said suspiciously.

“Because at this point, it’s as fantastical a theory as a fire-breathing nug with halla’s feet,” he said. “I might as well read to you from a children’s book.”

Tamaris exhaled in annoyance, and Felassan lifted his eyebrows. “I’ll tell you, if you like. But I might end up being incorrect later.”

She stared hard at him for a moment longer, then relented and picked up her fork and knife. “Fine. Then tell me something you do know for sure.”

“Such as?”

She cut another piece of crȇpe. “Tell me… tell me what it was like for you when you first woke up.”

He chuckled. “Ah, when I first woke up, ever so long ago. All right. I mentioned to you that I was woken about twenty-five years ago. I—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “Woken? You were woken up?”

“Yes,” he said.

“By what?” she asked.

He raised one eyebrow. “You mean by whom.”

His expression was rueful, and Tamaris gaped at him. “Did… wait. Solas woke you? But — how is that possible? He was in uthenara too!”

“Yes,” Felassan said, “but uthenara is…” He paused and let out a soft exhale. “It may be one of the most subtle magics from our time, and the formation of the Veil made it… complicated. But suffice it to say that those in the long sleep of uthenara are able to communicate with others within the Fade.”

She raised her eyebrows. This was very strange to think about, but she supposed it made sense, especially for a somniari like Solas who had more mastery of the Fade than the real world. “Okay. Go on.”

“Fen’Harel came to me in the Fade when it was my turn to walk this world.”

Tamaris interrupted again. “Your turn?” she said. 

He tilted his head chidingly. “If you allow me to tell the tale, I’m fairly sure I’ll answer any questions you have.”

She made a little face. “Right, right. Sorry.”

He settled back in his chair and folded his hands comfortably over his abdomen. “Fen’Harel roused me from my refreshing nap about twenty-five years ago, when it was my turn to begin gathering information in this world. I’m by no means the only ancient elf to stroll inconspicuously among the shems, you see.” He waved his hand carelessly. “There were hundreds of us, all with a singular goal: to gather information for Fen’Harel here in this world while he gathered what he could from the spirits who observed this world from the other side.”

Tamaris couldn’t help herself; she interrupted him again. “There were hundreds of you?”

He gave her a reproving little smirk. “May I continue the story?”

She tsked impatiently. “Yes, yes. Go on.”

“There were hundreds of us,” he said, “spread over several thousand years — so we were more scarce than you are thinking, I’m sure. We were woken in waves to take our turns gathering information for as long as we could before our time came to an end.”

She frowned slightly. “You mean… you mean before you died?”

He nodded an acknowledgement. “I just had the fortune of being woken shortly before things got exciting.”

She huffed quietly. ‘Exciting’ was one way to put the shitshow of the past couple of decades. “Are there other ancient elves running around now?”

“Most certainly,“ he said. “But I can’t say exactly who they are. Only Fen’Harel knew who he was going to rouse and when.”

She frowned more deeply. “So… but… you never tried to find other ancient elves since you woke up?”

 “We were instructed to work alone so as not to arouse suspicion,” he explained.

Tamaris snorted. “A strange elf all on his own is pretty fucking suspicious, don’t you think?”

Felassan chuckled. “You are not wrong, avise. Nevertheless, those were our orders.”

She shook her head. “That’s… pretty shitty.”

“Is it?” he said mildly. “How so?”

“It must have been lonely,” she said. “Working on your own for all that time.”

A hint of softness entered his expression. “It could be, at times. Hence the hobbies.” He gestured at the pot of tea with a smirk. “But we all wanted what Fen’Harel wanted. We were committed, and we trusted his judgment. And so I did as he asked, right up until I didn’t.”

Tamaris nodded slowly and thought this over while she finished her breakfast. When only her tea was left, she crossed her legs and picked up her cup. “Maybe there was another reason he didn’t want you to meet with the others.”

“What reason is that?” Felassan asked.

“Maybe he didn’t want you to start talking amongst yourselves and change your minds about helping him.”

Felassan’s expression lifted into a broad smile. “You know Fen’Harel better than you think,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you think that’s really why he kept you apart, then?”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I have considered that. I even confronted him about it once, but he seemed… genuinely shocked at the suggestion. If it was his intent, he either hid it very well, or he wasn’t even aware of the intent.”

Tamaris scoffed. “You know what, I fucking believe it.”

“You believe what?” he asked. “That he hid his true motive, or was unaware of it?”

“Both,” she said. “Either. He’s always been convoluted that way.”

Felassan’s beautiful smile grew even wider. Then he let out one of those rolling laughs that made her heart flip. “I like this,” he said warmly. 

“What?” she said faintly. 

“Talking about him with you,” Felassan said.

She huffed in amusement and brought her cup to her lips. “Say what you really mean. You’re enjoying shit-talking him with someone who also knew him well.”

“Don’t act as though you aren’t enjoying it too,” he retorted.

She shrugged and sipped her tea, but she couldn’t help but smile in response to his mirth-filled tone. “All right, yes. I am,” she admitted. “It’s nice to have someone else to be a petty bitch with.”

He chuckled, then gave her a fond look. “You really do think you are a bitch, don’t you?”

“I am a bitch. There’s no ‘thinking’ about it,” she said. She shrugged again and idly swirled her tea. “It’s not always a bad thing. I got a lot done in the Inquisition by being a bitch. And when it backfired, well… that’s what having a spymaster and a pretty human ambassador are for.”

“You must have been something to see,” Felassan said. 

She glanced at him. His smile was soft and his eyes were warm, and she got stuck in them for a moment before a wriggle of anxiety in her belly made her look away.

She swallowed hard. “Look, I… I didn’t ask you about the waking-up thing because I wanted to talk about him.”

His face slackened with surprise. “Oh. Should I not have brought him up? We’d spoken of him before, so I thought–“

“No no, that’s not what I mean,” she said hastily. “I just meant I… I was wondering what it was like for you to wake up here alone. Solas briefly mentioned what it was like for him. I wanted to know what it was like for you.”

“You wanted to know how I felt waking up here alone?” he asked. 

His eyes were wide with surprise now, and Tamaris didn’t really understand why. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I mean, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.”

He raised his eyebrows further, and Tamaris put down her cup, bemused by his reaction. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all. I… you surprise me, that’s all.” His eyes moved carefully over her face as though he was studying her. “You are the only person in ages who repeatedly asks how I feel about things.”

Tamaris frowned. “Briala didn’t ask?”

“I discouraged her from asking,” he said. “I had to discourage her from asking a great many things.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “The agents of Fen’Harel are nothing if not practiced dissemblers.” 

“Oh. Right,” Tamaris said blankly. “What about… what about Solas himself, then? Didn’t he… he didn’t ask how you were doing with all that alone-time?” 

“He was preoccupied,” Felassan said wryly. “Several millennia’s worth of self-blame can be rather preoccupying.”

“He was your friend,” Tamaris said in a hard tone. “He should have asked.”

Felassan’s smile grew wider. “Are you saying you and I are friends?”

She gave him a sardonic look. “I’m not in the habit of sharing close quarters with people I hate, so yes, I’d call us friends.”

Felassan smiled at her for a moment longer, then shook his head and chuckled. “You know, the more time we spend together, the more endearing I find your bluntness to be.”

She rolled her eyes and idly flicked the handle of her mug. “Maybe I should start being all sweet and polite instead, then.”

“Please don’t,” he said. “I enjoy you as you are.” 

His tone was friendly and light, but his words lifted a sudden pulse low in her belly. I enjoy you...  Obviously he’d meant he enjoyed her company, but her stupid perverse mind was now presenting her with the idea of Felassan enjoying her in other, more carnal ways. 

He was still studying her as though she was something unique. She swallowed hard and abruptly stood up. “Let’s, um… those mana exercises. Let’s — we can practice in the library.” 

He nodded and rose to his feet, and Tamaris turned away and hurried through the study and up the short flight of stairs to the library.

The library featured two plush couches and two matching armchairs, a thick angora rug, and a couple of large silk cushions for lounging on — most of the cushions having been stolen by Felassan and moved to the space in front of the fireplace in the main room. Tamaris sat cross-legged on the angora rug, then looked up as Felassan sauntered into the room. 

He ran his fingers idly over the spines of a few books on one of the heavily-laden shelves. “Did I tell you I started reading Swords and Shields?”

She barked out a laugh. “You didn’t really.”

“I did,” he said with a smile. “I had to.”

“You had to?” she said drolly. “Why?”

“I couldn’t imagine my education about the last five years would be complete if I didn’t read it,” he said. “I’m a third of the way through already. Remind me to pass my compliments on to Varric.”

“No fucking way,” she said. “If you compliment him, he’ll write a third one.”

Felassan grinned wickedly. “Then I’ll be extra sure to compliment him.”

“Enabler,” she teased. “You’re a bad influence.”

He placed one hand on his chest and gave her a little half-bow. “Thank you, Tamaris. I try my very best.”

Tamaris scoffed and waved him over. “Come here and sit the fuck down.”

He sat down across from her and crossed his legs. “All right. Teach me the magical ways of Fen’Harel.”

As always, his tone was irreverent, and she shot him a chiding look, but she couldn’t help but appreciate the sight of him. His clothing, as always, was simple and comfortable: breeches and a plain linen shirt rolled casually to the elbows and lazily unlaced to the middle of his sternum, topped with a simple woven vest of light green. But his clothing was still somehow flattering, fitting his body as though it was made for him despite the fact that Tamaris could likely buy the exact same clothes at any clothing stall in Lowtown. He had loosely braided the sides of his long black hair before pulling it all back into a ponytail at his nape, and the effect of it all was a picture of dignified elegance, even though he was sitting humbly on the floor across from her.

“Is this part of the exercise?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

His lips curled suggestively at the corners. “I might go up in flames if you continue to inspect me in such a manner.” 

Fuck, she thought. She hadn’t meant to stare. She scowled at him. “Close your eyes, you brat.”

“Ah, insults,” she said cheerfully as he closed his eyes. “Always an excellent way of teaching.”

This time, she wisely ignored his words. She closed her own eyes as well. “All right. The idea is basically that people spend a lot of our time focused on the world outside of ourselves. But when you channel magic, you’re focusing inwards to draw on your mana and connect with the Fade. So… um, yeah. That’s the idea behind it.”

“Go on,” Felassan said quietly.

“Okay,” she said. “Well… the way Solas taught it to me was to start by just breathing. I mean, slow purposeful breathing. And then to sort of focus my attention on my own head, or in it. I mean, to pick a point on my head and to sink my focus there. And when I could feel the vibration of my own mana, that’s when I could try a spell.”

“Focus on your head?” Felassan asked.

She opened her eyes to find Felassan gazing curiously at her. “Yes,” she said. “He said that some mages focus on other body parts, like their hands or their heart or even their diaphragm, but most commonly the hands. But since I had the mark, he thought it would be less confusing to focus elsewhere than… than my hands...” She trailed off and scowled. Something had just occurred to her.

She sighed and dragged her fingers through her hair. “That asshole.”

Felassan’s eyebrows rose. “What’s the matter?”

She glared at him. “He purposely told me focus elsewhere because he knew I was going to lose my hand eventually, didn’t he? That fucking…” She clenched her jaw and looked away.

“Tamaris,” Felassan said.

His voice was soft. She took a deep breath to try and calm her anger before looking up. 

Felassan was gazing seriously at her. “You have two hands,” he said. “And you do not need them for this.”

She took another deep breath and nodded tightly. Felassan nodded as well and rested his hands humbly in his lap. “Will you show me how this process works?”

She inhaled again and nodded. “Sure. I’ll… I haven’t done this in a year or so, so bear with me.” She closed her eyes and breathed, and after a few minutes, when her anger had faded and she was focused on the ebb and flow of her own breath, she drew her attention to the center of her forehead. 

She imagined her mana there, like a faint glow of green: the same shade of green of a simple healing spell or a simple barrier. When she could feel the mana in her forehead, like tendrils reaching toward the Fade, she pressed her will into her right palm.

A small burst of energy lifted the fine hairs on her arms, and she sighed softly in relief. She was still able to make barriers, then. It seemed that the year she’d spent neglecting these exercises hadn’t totally eliminated her weak but hard-won magical abilities. 

She opened her eyes to find Felassan watching her with a distinctly wistful smile. “Nicely done,” he said. “That barrier was very cute.”

She recoiled slightly. “Cute?”

“Very,” he said. “Just like its maker.”

She scoffed. “Fuck you. My barriers are actually useful for being so small.”

“I imagine they’re extremely useful,” he said, and his tone was more serious now. “That barrier would deflect, what, one projectile or weapon strike?”

She eyed him shrewdly; he was exactly right. “Yes, if the strike isn’t too forceful.”

Felassan nodded. “Non-mages would not be able to feel that barrier. Even other mages might not detect it, depending on how strong they are. I imagine you used that often to throw enemies off? Fool them into thinking you’re making a reckless rush attack, and when their first blow glances off, you attack with your daggers?”

She raised her eyebrows, impressed despite herself. “Yes, exactly. How…?” She narrowed her eyes. “You figured all of that out just from seeing me make that one little barrier?”

“It’s a clever trick,” he said. “I am extremely fond of clever tricks. Especially when they involve cute barriers.”

She wrinkled her nose. “My barrier isn’t cute.”

He grinned. “It’s positively adorable. And its adorableness in no way detracts from its utility.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fuck’s sake, fine. My barrier is fucking precious. Now it’s your turn.”

Instead of closing his eyes to practice the exercise, however, he continued to gaze thoughtfully at her. “This process of focusing your mana. Does it not remind you of anything?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It doesn’t remind you of any other gift you exercised in the past?”

“Oh,” she said. “You mean talking to spirits? Well, yeah, but that’s different. That’s — I’ve always been able to do that.” She frowned thoughtfully. “With that though, I find I’m focusing just past this spot on my forehead instead of…” She trailed off and gave him a shrewd look. “Wait a second. Why are you asking?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Tamaris scowled at him. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know this method already, don’t you?”

He hesitated, then pulled a little face. “I do,” he said apologetically. “It’s the method that’s first used to teach young children to do magical feats on purpose instead of by accident.”

She stared at him, then slumped and rubbed her forehead. “Of course it is. I can do baby magic. Great.”

“I didn’t say this to infantilize you,” Felassan said. “Quite the opposite, actually. Fen’Harel must have been proud when you learned to do this. How long did it take you to learn this? Six months?”

“Something like that, yeah,” she muttered. 

“That’s impressive,” he said.

“Shut up,” she said sourly, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eye; her face was hot with humiliation.

He shifted closer and tapped her knee. “I mean it, avise. I found it hard to draw from the Fade when I woke, and I have — well, I had considerably more power than you. This is… more than I would have expected.”

Tamaris grunted. “That’s what he said.”

“What did he say?” Felassan asked.

“He said… well, not my magic exactly, but he said I was not what he expected.” She scoffed and idly rubbed at the tiny dent on her metal arm. “I still don’t know what the fuck he did expect.”

“Ridicule,” Felassan said. “Rejection. It sounds like you showed him neither.”

She finally looked up at him with a scowl. “You’re always defending him.”

“Explaining is not the same as defending,” he said calmly. “And I suspect that I’m not saying anything you don’t really know. From everything you’ve said, you did know him better than you believe.”

She glared at him for a moment longer, then shrugged irritably and looked down at her palms. “Well, I wish you’d told me this was magic for children before I started showing it to you.”

“It is not just for children,” he said forcefully, and the vehemence of his tone made her lift her head. “That is my mistake, Tamaris. I misspoke before. It’s not magic for children. It’s a foundation that needs to be mastered in order to do more subtle and intricate things.” He gestured at her forehead. “Your ability to connect with spirits is the same. You were just lucky to be born with that ability in this time rather than needing to practice rituals to do it.”

She nodded silently and looked down at her hands again, humbled by the kindness in his tone. After a moment of silence, she looked up at him again. “Did you ever talk to spirits in this time after you woke up?”

He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “I was just thinking that maybe you wouldn’t have been so lonely if you had. They kept me company sometimes when I was young. Before I learned that I should avoid talking to them in front of the others in my clan.”

His expression softened, and he nodded. “Yes, I spoke to spirits at times. But they were not as easily accessible for most of the time that I was awake.”

Tamaris understood. “Oh, you mean before the Breach. I get that. But what about while dreaming? Solas took a lot of Fade naps to spend time with spirits.”

Felassan raised his eyebrows, then tutted and shook his head. “So he wakes up in your world, and that is when he learns to relax? He really is an ass.”

Tamaris snorted a laugh. Felassan smiled at her, and the warm complicity in his face made her heart thump unnervingly.

“To answer your question, no,” he said. “I’m not especially partial to ‘Fade naps’, as you charmingly call them. Furthermore, I was tasked to learn about this world, so this is where I spent my time.” He shrugged and stretched his legs out on the carpet. “I did spend some time with spirits when I was asleep, though, and it did take the edge off of the loneliness at times.”

She nodded, and they were both quiet for a moment. Then Felassan tilted his head quizzically. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, really,” she said. “It's just... nice having someone to talk about spirits with.”

Felassan nodded in acknowledgement. “He spoke to you at length about spirits, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did,” she said. “Honestly, it was the main thing that brought us together. And when he was telling stories about the Fade, that’s when he was the most approachable. The most… loveable, really.” She huffed in a self-deprecating way and rolled her eyes. “That asshole seduced me with all his fucking stories about spirits.”

“Hm,” Felassan said thoughtfully. “Maybe I should talk about spirits with you more often, then.”

Her heart flipped at his provocative words. There was no way he could have meant that; it was way too bold a thing to say. 

She shot him a guarded glance. His ears were flushing a dark pink, but his clear violet eyes were steady and intense.

She huffed and dropped his gaze. Her heart was suddenly pounding. With a single focused look from Felassan, her pulse was rising, and she couldn’t decide if it was from excitement or from stupid, inexplicable fear.

“Rein it in, will you?” she said irritably. “It’s your turn to do these exercises now.” She gestured vaguely at him. 

“Tamaris,” he said quietly.

She pressed her lips together and didn’t reply. When Felassan spoke again, his tone was even softer. “Tamaris, look at me. Please.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. His expression was still warm, but it was sympathetic now in a way that put her even more on edge. 

“What?” she said tensely.

He studied her for a moment before speaking. “I am being unconscionably bold, I know. I seem to have lost my ability to seduce you with any kind of charm. But I meant it when I said my interest in you is genuine.”

She tsked. “That’s… that makes no sense.”

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“It’s… I’m…” I’m a fucked-up mess, she thought with a pang. But it was one thing to say this to Varric, and something altogether different to say it to Felassan, especially when he was looking at her this way. 

“Things are… complicated,” she said lamely.

“I know,” he said gently. “And I cannot say I know exactly what trials you’ve been through. But I know what it is to love the Dread Wolf. I know what it is to suffer terrible harm at his hands. Your past with him is complicated, and so was mine.” He gestured between himself and her. “This does not need to be complicated. I enjoy your company a great deal. This doesn’t need to be more complicated than enjoyable company of a more… physical kind.”

His tone and his smirk were suggestive, and she stared wordlessly at him with her heart in her throat. Uncomplicated, enjoyable company of a sexual nature… it was a tempting offer, and one that Tamaris would have easily agreed to in the past. It was what she’d had with Bull, after all, and it had worked out nicely for both of them without disrupting their working relationship or their friendship in any way. She was clearly capable of having a no-strings arrangement, so it made sense to have that arrangement with Felassan, especially since she was too scarred for anything more. 

So why did the thought of a no-strings liaison with Felassan make her feel like crying?

She looked away from him and didn’t speak. Once again, he was the one to break the awkward silence, and when he did, his tone was jocular once more. “Of course, it’s possible that I’m reading you completely incorrectly, and you are not interested. In which case, you should work on these magic exercises so you can learn to throw ice at me when I repeatedly come on to you.”

“Or when you put your fucking feet on the table while I’m trying to eat,” she muttered.

“An excellent idea,” he said heartily. “That too.”

She shot him a tiny smile, then sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “Look, this sounds like a fucking cliché, but it’s not you. It’s…” She sighed again and gave him a frank look. “I’m obviously attracted to you, okay? I admit it.”

“I figured as much,” he said complacently. “That kiss last night was certainly not powered by disgust.”

A sudden memory of his tongue in her mouth flashed across her mind. She ignored the ripple of heat it triggered and tutted at him. “Shut the fuck up. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not — you’re not the problem. I’m… I need to think.”

He bowed his head graciously. “Fair enough. If you decide you want to take this further, then you have only to encourage the terrible lines I’ll continue to use on you.”

She laughed despite herself. “Your lines aren’t that bad. I’ve heard much worse.” In truth, Felassan’s accidentally-flirtatious lines were quite smooth. 

Very smooth, actually. She could only imagine how seductive he could be if he was actually doing it on purpose.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I genuinely can’t understand how anyone in this time is able to seduce each other in the common tongue.”

Tamaris blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“This language is very literal,” he said. “Everything means exactly what it sounds like. It’s exceedingly boring.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. And flirting in ancient Elvhen is so much better?”

He smiled at her — a slow, knowing, predatory smile. “Yes, avise. Bedroom talk in our tongue is much better.” 

She swallowed hard. His voice was low and lilting and smooth, and it triggered a toe-curling bloom of heat between her legs, followed by an immediate panicked feeling of falling off the edge of a cliff.

Smug gorgeous brat, she thought desperately. She dropped his gaze and shifted away from him on the carpet. “Do your fucking mana-building exercises.”

He chuckled and crossed his legs. “Oh good, cursing. Another time-honoured teaching technique.” He closed his eyes and rested his hands palms-up on his knees, and Tamaris let out a quiet exhale of relief. It was so much easier to think when he wasn’t looking at her. 

This was the problem now, though. She’d told Felassan she would think about having sex with him, which meant she couldn’t keep deflecting him and storming off to her bedroom every time he unbalanced her. 

Which meant Tamaris needed to figure out why exactly he was unbalancing her so much. 

She studied him for a moment. His eyes were closed and his brows were drawn in a faint frown, and an unexpected little pang of fondness plucked at her heart.

She took a deep and slightly shaky breath, then closed her eyes. She’d think about it later. For now, she would focus on helping Felassan with his magic. 

[vickyvicarious]

DA:I musical episode

Varric: Narrator of the open/closing numbers, kind of tells the story of how we got here. Also has a song about how he's seen it all before; both serious fear/guilt over the red lyrium and Corypheus, and humorous comparisons to adventures with Hawke in a 'well, it can't be worse than the time...' kinda way. Funny and irreverent.

Dorian: Badass Venatori-killing song, with lots of pyrotechnics action. Softer, wistful heartbreaking part about the Tevinter he loves, the one it could be but isn't - then lots of corpses/spirits play backup to the furious determination to make his people better, starting right here killing these Venatori.

Iron Bull/the Chargers: Fun and straightforward drinking song about the company, mostly led by Krem. Everyone chimes in with how they joined or what they like about it, the chorus the one from that one cutscene. Bull keeps trying to tell about killing a dragon but they never let him finish.

Cassandra/Cullen: A training montage song, very inspiring. They sing about how their respective orders have gone wrong [mage ally playthrough] and how they will become better than before. Training recruits/building the Inquisition all the while. Interrupted before the grand finale by Iron Bull who takes over the final verse about being able to handle the fight together, rid the world of at least this ev-DRAGONS, Bull bursts in, did you hear I killed a dragon?! There was something sexual in the power of its roar... and he finally finishes that story at last.

Leliana/Josephine: Also an Inquisition-building song but more focused on connections, knowledge. High ground/low ground. Open/secret. Josephine sings about working the nobles a little coin here, a party there, you wouldn't want the world to know of your mistress / a knife in the dark, a spy in your house, no one will ever miss you on Leliana's end. Probably called something like 'Send A Raven.'

Vivienne: A precise enumeration of the issues she sees in the Inquisition, dear. I support the cause of course but see some areas ready for improvement. She's not happy with the mages being free allies, there's rubble everywhere, do you know how much you slouch in your judgement chair? Put velvet on the cushions, impressions make such a difference, darling. Manners, take care, be controlled-

Blackwall: He's woodworking, humming, muttering about shaving off the bad bits to make something new. Turns into a whole song that is clearly a poorly-veiled metaphor for himself, for Gray Wardens, and eventually the metaphor collapses as he waxes eloquent about making yourself anew... Horsemaster Dennet walks by as he holds a triumphant note, casually says, "you missed a bit there" as he points out a flaw in the work. Blackwall sinks into his chair, laughs a little, one more quiet line back in the woodworking metaphor as he goes back to work on it.

Solas: [context note: in this playthrough we have a running joke that hobo-looking apostate Solas hid who he was from Cullen and pretends to be just a farmer around him. As we are almost at Winter Palace and have never seen them interact we are milking this crack for great amusement.] An eloquent soliloquy about the Fade. Spirits he has met, the joys of learning, histories and mysteries and so much that has been lost. Magic as knowledge, walking in dreams... Back in the days when the elves were - and then Cullen walks through looking for Leliana, and Solas quickly shifts gears to some awkward line about farming in a terrible accent. The music goes all twangy till the Commander is gone (this happens several times).

Cole: A short, soft, wistful number about wanting to help and to find a place. Uncertainty about himself and wishing just to ease others' pain - cut off by a much louder number (probably Sera's). He will wander through the background of other songs helping, for example a one line cameo in the training montage to help a scared soldier feel better.

Sera: A quirky, fun song about pranks she is pulling, both against friends and for Red Jenny. Mostly weird and silly stuff, very funny and lighthearted, until at the end she learns something truly awful a noble has done to some innocents and gets furious, ending the song with a quickly sung rant as she fires many many many arrows into his chest. Panting in the sudden silence.

Inquisitor: Elven reaver seems to hate singing. Actively avoids joining in with the advisors though they try to appeal to her love of firm physical solutions (Cullen/Cassandra) or the importance of being a symbol for the world (Leliana/Josephine). But out wandering in the wilderness, she perks up when the search bings with a resource. Begins singing with great joy, much to her companions' surprise, about collecting rocks, hunting wildlife and gathering herbs. Yes, I know I have a duty to try and save the worl - ooh! Is that nugskin Fade-touched? Look here I see some elfroot, I think that shape's a stone. Hey Varric get me in here I can sense more booooooze~!

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 8: Earning Favor

After word has spread that the Inquisitor was almost killed by a rogue Venatori party, Lady Josephine does her best to restore their noble supporters’ faith in the Inquisition. One tiny problem: the Inquisitor hates nobles. Like, a lot.

Also, it doesn’t really help that Dorian has been avoiding him for some reason.

Read here or on AO3!

*************

Tristan’s dagger tore through the top of the envelope with a satisfying hiss. It was a letter from Comtesse Lucienne, who had visited Skyhold about a month back. Her thanks for her stay, as well as her wishes for his swift recovery were written in elegant, flowery letters. Even the vellum she had written on gave off a heavy flowery scent. Those Orlesians certainly knew had to make an impression.

He idly fingered the scar on his neck where that Venatori blade had cut him. Word of the Venatori almost killing him had quickly spread across Thedas, and the well-wishing letters were coming in a steady, incessant flow. Replying to them was tedious and time consuming, but he was sure Lady Josephine would have his hide if he didn’t reply in a timely, and most importantly respectable fashion. The Ambassador was polite and patient enough to rile a mule, but a stickler for formalities. It irked Tristan to no end.

He let out a heavy sigh as he took a scone from his plate and dropped a generous helping of the raspberry jam the cook had sent up to him for his breakfast. Admittedly, it was quite good. He licked his fingers and sifted through the letters while he chewed. Most were from Fereldan and Orlesian houses, a few from the Free Marches and some minor families in Denerim. He was indifferently scanning their sigils, when he suddenly froze.

It was a long and thin envelope, of the finest cream coloured vellum he had seen in a while. The sigil on it was one that he knew like the back of his hand. The stark and steady penmanship on the back of the paper sent icy tendrils down his back.

He tore the top of it open and snatched the letter out. His vision went blurry as he read the first few lines.

My dear Tristan,

It has been far too long since we have spoken. I have written repeatedly to your Ambassador to congratulate you for your appointment as the leader of the Inquisition. It was with great regret that I learnt of the recent attack to your person. I….

The letters were jumping in front of his eyes. He blinked furiously, trying to keep his head about him, but it was no use. Reading that letter was like hearing his mother’s voice inside his head, and that froze him to his very core.

He remembered all too well the last time he had heard her voice.

He was in the grand ballroom of the Trevelyan mansion, more than two years back. It was crawling with people, all the esteemed members of the Chantry and the Ostwick nobility, dressed in their finest funeral outfits. They had come to pay their last respects and wax lyrical about the dearly departed, perfumed handkerchiefs at hand to wipe tears that were not there. It was an affliction of the worst kind, surely, for the daughter of a distinguished family to meet such a tragic ending.

“May the Maker take pity on her soul” they would whisper, already eyeing the closest trays with smoked salmon and fine Antivan wine.

From his corner in the ballroom, Tristan downed glass after glass of wine, his resentment increasing along with his inebriation.

Vultures. Scavengers. Pitiful excuses for human beings, the lot of them.

He had watched his mother converse with them, no doubt arranging new deals and alliances. No better time to get people to support you than at your time of need. At least she had the decency to look sombre and grim underneath her dark veil. It wouldn’t be proper, after all, to be smiling given the circumstances.

How her eyes had narrowed and her nostrils flared as she watched the empty wine glasses gather around him. She had glided to his side, all polite bows and fake smiles for those she passed by. “Our family has been disgraced enough” she had hissed under her breath once certain she was out of earshot. “Is it too much to ask that you at least try to look mournful and spare everyone your drunken antics for one day?”

It had been such a violent shock, and oh, so painfully predictable. He had done his best and failed to stifle a bitter laugh as his eyes fell to his hands, to the everite band that circled his finger. The only thing keeping him sane in a world of madness. “Forgive me, mother” he had whispered, fixing his gaze on her dark blue eyes, that were so much like his own. So much like Tilly’s. “Forgive me for being the one that’s still alive.”

The memory settled on him, like a dark and heavy blanket. His breakfast scone now tasted like ash in his mouth.

He tore the letter to pieces and flung it in the fire. He didn’t wait to see it being consumed by the flames before he stood up and walked to the tray where he kept his drinks. He pulled the cork out of a bottle of… something -he couldn’t really bring himself to care what it was, as long as it was strong- and poured some in a glass. It burned his insides when he downed it in one gulp, his heartbeat steadying slightly. Another one, and his fingers blissfully stopped trembling.

That was better.

“Inquisitor?”

He jolted and spun around, spilling half his drink in the process. The agent that had walked in was looking at him with wide eyes. Tristan hadn’t even heard her knocking. “F-forgive me, my lord, I didn’t mean to intrude.” She blinked awkwardly for a moment and looked around. Then, as if remembering herself, she stood at attention and knuckled her forehead. “Sister Leliana has asked me to remind you of the war council meeting today, sir.”

“Right” Tristan said breathlessly, smoothing a palm over his white shirt. He would have to change it now. “What time is the meeting?”

The woman gulped nervously and fixed her eyes on the wall behind Tristan. “They are already waiting for you at the war room, sir.”

Damn it.

“Very well” he sighed. “Tell the sister I’ll be there presently.”

“Yes, sir.”

She knuckled her forehead again and turned on her heel. Tristan muttered curses under his breath as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed in on his bed. The one he slipped into was thinner and stretched across his chest, but it would have to do. He doubted Leliana would wait another moment before sending another agent to drag him to the war room by his ear.

Oh, being the Inquisitor truly was a blessing.

**

Leliana sifted through the reports at the table in front of her. Her hawk-like eyes scanned the lines of dense writing in what seemed like seconds. Tristan, Cullen and Josephine stood silent as the small crease between Leliana’s brows deepened while she read. Finally, she set the piece of paper on the war table and glanced up at Tristan. “News of your near death has spread to the furthest reaches of Thedas. This is not good.”

“I know. I have been getting mountains of letters every day. It takes me ages to get through them all. Don’t these people have anything better to do?” Tristan said, his voice edging with annoyance. He tried not to think of his mother’s letter as he twisted the ring on his finger.

“Yes, that can… be a problem” Josephine said, shooting him a sidelong glance. “But, unfortunately, it’s not the only one. I have received several letters from our noble supporters as well. Letters of concern and wishes for a full recovery, mostly, but there are those that have expressed their concerns that the Venatori managed to get so close. Many believe that they are becoming more and more aggressive, and that the Inquisition is not cutting them down as… swiftly as we should. Widespread doubt about our forces does not add much to our claim of being the only power able to withstand the forces of Corypheus.”

Cullen shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly. “It hardly matters what some primped up nobles think. If they have doubts about our power, a walk through our battlements will prove them wrong. The important thing is that the Inquisitor is safe and sound. Anything else is irrelevant.”

Tristan could only barely bring himself to care about what the nobility said about him, but the fact that he had almost died under the hands of Venatori was indeed troubling. That he had only himself to blame for them getting so close did not make things any better. He let out a short huff. “I agree that the Venatori are very dangerous. We should double up our efforts in rooting them out. Lord Pavus has been very kind as to use former acquaintances of his to find information about their camps, but it’s not enough. We need to find as many as we can, as quickly as we can. And, Lady Josephine” he added decisively, “if there is any discontent about my actions, I would like you to forward those letters to me. I will be responding to them personally.”

We’ll see if they will be talking so openly after I’m done with them, he thought mirthfully, but kept that bit to himself.

Josephine’s brows furrowed for only a moment, before she gave him a polite smile. “I… would rather keep answering the letters myself, if you don’t mind. Surely you have more than enough to busy yourself with these days.”

Leliana glanced at Tristan, then at Josephine. Tristan thought he saw a small smile widening her lips, but he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure with Leliana. “In any case, we should indeed renew our efforts in finding Corypheus’s agents. I’ll put my agents to it straight away.”

“So will I” Cullen added. “We should increase the number of soldiers at our outposts, and have them thoroughly comb the areas they are covering. Should they find any evidence of Venatori activity, they will forward it to us immediately.”

“Good” Tristan agreed. “Crushing a few more of their parties should be enough to restore the public’s faith in us. They seem to be occupied with little else these days, after all.”

“Indeed” Josephine chimed in. “It can be a hindrance, but also an opportunity. I think we could use the public’s attention to us to our advantage.”

Tristan regarded her coolly, with reserved curiosity. “How so?”

“Since your appointment as leader of the Inquisition, it’s only natural that there is increased attention drawn to our affairs. There are many people that are expecting our response regarding the war between the mages and the templars. Shifting the attention from the attempt on your life to a public announcement about the war could serve us well.”

“The Mage-Templar war ended when the Inquisition allied itself with the free mages” Tristan replied flatly. “What else is there for people to know?”

“There is still the question of what is to happen with the mages. As you surely know, there are those that believe that the mages should return to the Circles and that order should be restored as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Tristan crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned at his advisors. “If I’m not mistaken, the three of you seemed to be of the same opinion not a very long time ago.”

Leliana shot him an icy frown, while Cullen clenched his jaw. Josephine looked startled for only a heartbeat before giving him a polite smile. It never reached her eyes. “What we believe is of no consequence, Your Worship. I merely wanted to make you aware of the sentiment among the people and our allies. Whatever we, or rather, you decide” she said, stressing every word, “it is crucial that we have the support of the nobility of Thedas. If I may speak bluntly, we require every alliance, and every bit of coin that we can get. The Inquisition is in dire need of both.”

Ah, yes. Gold. It always came down to that. He let out a soft sigh and allowed his hands to fall by his sides. “You’re right, as always, Lady Josephine. What do you suggest we do?”

“The decision on what is going to happen with the mages is up to you. However, I have taken the liberty of arranging a few meetings for you with esteemed members of the Orlesian nobility, to garner as much support from them as possible. You are to travel to Val Royeaux in a week with a small group of our finest negotiators to aid in the discussions.”

“I… see.” Tristan twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully. “Do you think that the nobility will aid our cause? We are still a rebel organisation, as far as the Chantry is concerned.”

“There are those that are opposed to the Chantry, and condemn their involvement in the Mage-Templar war” Leliana said calmly. “I would suggest that you go to those meetings with an open mind, Inquisitor. Our prospective allies might pleasantly surprise you.”

**

Leaving the war room, Tristan’s head felt as heavy as a ripe watermelon. Lengthy meetings with his advisors usually had that effect on him. He wasn’t sure what it was about them; the sheer multitude of tasks that always needed to be done and never seemed to lessen in the slightest no matter how many were tackled in each meeting, or the fact that decisions that could affect the lives of actual, real people fell squarely on his shoulders? He couldn’t rightly say.

He crossed the long corridor leading to the throne room lost in thoughts. The Venatori truly were a pain, but they didn’t annoy him half as much as the nobles did. And he would have to spend Maker knew how many hours conversing with them, all while being sober as a judge, as Lady Josephine had expressly demanded. Tristan was quite good a bartering, truth be told, but negotiating was an entirely different story.

He was not going to enjoy this trip. Not one bit.

Walking out in to the crowded throne room, Tristan saw Dorian coming out of the rotunda from the corner of his eye. Their gazes met momentarily. The smallest of smiles curled Dorian’s lips. A twitch, really. Tristan quickened his step to catch up with him, but he turned away and hurried towards the yard.

Tristan stopped dead in his tracks. That was odd. Since his accident in the Hinterlands, he had the distinct feeling that Dorian was somewhat… distant. As if he was avoiding him for some reason. Of course, that wouldn’t make any sense. Nothing had happened between them that should warrant such a reaction. Not as far as Tristan remembered, at the very least.

He rummaged in his brain for something that he might have said to upset him during his drug induced haze, but could find nothing. There was that brief moment they had shared in the tent, though. The memories were now quite fuzzy, but he did remember reaching out to him. He also remembered Dorian pulling away from him as if he had been scorched.

The thought brought an icy chill to his stomach. Swiftly, he brushed it away. He was probably overreacting. Perhaps Dorian hadn’t even seen him approaching. Yes, he told himself, that must be it.

With a sigh, he pushed the door to the undercroft open. Harrit, the blacksmith, had sent him word that the new dagger he had commissioned was ready.

The din of hammers on the anvil echoed through the wide room. Harritt lifted his eyes from his work as soon as he heard the door open, and nodded sharply. “Inquisitor.”

Tristan stood at the stair landing for a moment, glancing about the room. Every time he came to the wide workshop, there seemed to be more and more unusual and complicated contraptions filling every corner.

Harritt gestured at one of his assistants, and the man walked swiftly towards a low table where an array of weapons were laid out. “Those gems you brought this time were very fine” the blacksmith said, turning to Tristan. “The dagger turned out excellent, if I may say so myself.”

“It’s good to know that those Venatori did something well, at least.”

“Yes, well, they seem to have done a lot of things right” Harrit said, glancing at the scar on his neck.

Tristan bristled for a heartbeat, and felt his back straightening as if by instinct. There really wasn’t one person in Thedas that wasn’t talking about him and those Venatori. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the scar on his neck.

The man returned holding the dagger. He presented it to Tristan as if it was a rare and holy treasure. He picked it up carefully, turning it around in his hand to inspect it. The gems embedded in the hilt glittered beautiful in the light. Drawing out the blade, he was satisfied to see that its sharpened edge gleamed cleanly. He placed the dagger back in its scabbard, giving Harrit a nod. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me” Harrit replied. “Nhudem here made it all by himself. He said he needed to repay you for something.”

Tristan glanced at the young man before him. He was of medium height and well built, with dark hair and a bushy black beard. A jagged scar ran from his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and his smile was the widest Tristan had seen in a while.

“You” Tristan breathed. “I remember you! You were in that burning hut in Haven!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes, my lord. You saved my life then.”

Memories of Haven surged in Tristan’s mind. Memories of ash and dust, the sickly glow of red lyrium in the Venatori’s eyes, people screaming and begging for mercy as they bled out on the fresh snow. For a moment, he could smell the smoke from the burning buildings and the thick scent of blood all around him.

He swallowed thickly, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were and forcing a reserved smile on his face. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“Thank you, Your Worship” he said, a tad breathlessly. “I’ve made it my life’s purpose to serve you, my lord. To serve Andraste’s will.”

“You are doing quite well then, I think” Tristan said. “This dagger is very well made.”

The man shook his head, as if Tristan had misunderstood. “I want to help protect you, sire” he pressed. “To become a member of Skyhold’s guard.”

“He has been going on and on about you ever since Haven” Harritt said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You might as well give him a chance, or he’ll give me no peace.”

“Right. I see” Tristan said reluctantly. The man was looking up at him with glittering eyes. What harm could there be if he asked to become a guard? Cassandra and Cullen trained hundreds of recruits every day. One more would hardly make a difference. “Very well” he said finally. “Go to Commander Cullen and ask him to start training. Tell him I sent you.”

Nhudem’s smile was so wide, it seemed as if it would split his face in half. “Thank you, my lord. Andraste preserve you.”

Tristan nodded sharply and turned to leave, when Nhudem took his hand in his and lowered his head. “I humbly ask for you blessing, my lord.”

Tristan stood still as if stunned. He glanced at Harritt, who shrugged indifferently. Maker, he never knew what to say in these situations. He ground his teeth as he wondered whose bright idea it had been to call him the Herald of Andraste.

He looked at the man, who was still reverently holding his hand. “Uhmm…” he hesitated. “Bless you?”

Nhudem beamed at him, just as Harritt rolled his eyes. The blacksmith let out an impatient huff and turned around. “Excellent. Now that’s done, I’d like to get back to my work.”

Tristan did not exactly sprint out of the undercroft, but it was close. He went straight to his quarters, clutching his jewel encrusted dagger close to his chest. If anyone else asked for his blessing ever again, he might as well scream.

********

Lying on the spacious sofa in his quarters, Tristan tapped his finger on the glass in his hand. It was way past midnight, and the bottle of Orlesian red was almost finished. He let his head fall back as he stared at the ceiling.

Another night that he had no sleep.

He stifled a big yawn. The book on the Fereldan Circles of Magi he had found in his library was open on his lap, but he had long before stopped reading it. It was outdated anyway. If he had to brush up on his knowledge of the Circles, and how they worked, he would need something much more useful than that. The future of the mages of Thedas, at least of some of them, lay squarely on his shoulders after all.

He tipped the last remaining contents of his drink over his lips and set the glass down on the low table. At that time, no one should be in the tower library, so no risk of anyone seeing him. He let the book close and set it aside before climbing down the stairs.

The throne room was blissfully empty, and so was the rotunda. Even Solas had apparently retired to his room for the night. The quiet rang oddly in that vast keep, but Tristan welcomed it for a change. He walked up to the library, satisfied that there would be nobody to trouble him as he perused the shelves.

The trembling light of a candle greeted him as soon as he turned the corner. Dorian was sitting at his desk, a multitude of papers and books strewn around him. He turned around as soon as he heard Tristan’s footsteps. A tentative smile spread on his lips, and he set his pen back in its fountain.

“Inquisitor” he said, standing up. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The cream coloured coat he was wearing was freshly pressed, and fitted him snugly around the shoulders and waist. The shiny silver buckles on it reflected the light as if they had only been polished that morning. And they probably had been. Dorian took great care in looking presentable at all times. After returning from the Hinterlands, Tristan had noticed that his clothes were just that little bit flashier than before. He had only been able to appreciate them from afar, most days, but it felt as if Dorian was trying to make even more of an impression than he usually did.

“Fancy indeed” Tristan replied. “I thought that everyone would be asleep at this time of night. How come you’re up so late?”

“Well, you’re up too, aren’t you?” he said, folding his arms casually in front of his chest. “I’ve been working on my research.”

“Oh.” Tristan glanced at the desk, the wood almost entirely obscured by the papers. Even had he known anything about magic, he doubted he would have been able to make out even a fifth of the shapes and equations on them. “I’ve distracted you. I should probably leave.”

Dorian hesitated only for a moment before waving his hand in a placating gesture. “Nonsense!” he said cheerily. “I was about to retire anyway. Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with. I was just looking for some books on the Circles of Magi and their history.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Interested in joining, I take it?”

“What? No, it’s not that. It’s just… Well. I have some important decisions to make. I thought it would only be fair to educate myself. Just so I know precisely what I’m up against.”

“Ah. A scholar after my own heart.”

Tristan gave his ring a small twist as he watched Dorian gather his papers. His back was almost entirely turned towards him, but he couldn’t help but notice a certain tenseness about his movements.

“Is… everything alright, Dorian?” he heard himself asking.

The mage shot him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He straightened up, his work tucked safely under his arm. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, I just… I thought…” He swallowed nervously. Dorian’s gaze on him felt very heavy all of a sudden. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Nevermind.”

Dorian waited for a heartbeat. When Tristan didn’t say anything more, he took a step back. “Well, in that case, goodnight to you, Inquisitor.” He gave him a small smile before he turned to leave. It was polite, as it always was, but considerably reserved. Not an ounce of the warmth he had seen other times permeated its edges. It was… aloof. Uneasy. Tristan could use a lot of words to describe Dorian, but uneasy had never been one of them.

Maker, he was definitely avoiding him.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught Dorian’s arm. Dorian’s eyes darted about the empty rotunda, as if by instinct, before fixing themselves on Tristan. An unspoken question lingered in his gaze, but he seemed too startled to even voice it.

Tristan gulped. “I, uh…” His mind spun like mad, but he could not make anything come out of his mouth. Dorian’s brows drew closer and closer as the seconds drawled on impossibly slow, watching him with increasing curiosity.

Damn him, he had to say something. Anything!

“Do you want to come to Val Royeaux with me?”

Perfect.

Tristan was certain all of his blood left his body to gather on his cheeks. Of all the things he could have said, this was possibly the last one he should have said. Dorian was evidently doing his best to stay out of his way, no doubt because of some ridiculous thing or other he had done and hadn’t even realised. And now there he was, asking him to go to Val Royeaux. Just the two of them. If the earth under his feet suddenly split in half and engulfed him, he should die a happy man.

Confusion passed over Dorian’s features, then his eyes widened as understanding slowly dawned on him. He twisted his body slightly so he was facing him. Tristan realised his fingers were still closed around Dorian’s arm, and he swiftly let go.

Dorian looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Are you asking me out on a trip, Inquisitor?”

Tristan gaped at him. “No! Well, yes. I mean…” Hoping he wasn’t blushing as furiously as he thought he was, he straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I will be occupied for most of the day, but I plan on doing some research during my free time. I would appreciate the company. And your insight. That is, if you want to come, it’s certainly not obligatory, I just-“

“I’d love to.”

Tristan blinked at Dorian’s sudden response. Something akin to satisfaction flashed in the mage’s eyes, and curled the edges of his lips. He actually enjoys seeing me flustered, Tristan realised with some irritation. Even though he had been more than eager to get away from him a moment earlier, he couldn’t resist teasing him just a little, it seemed.

A wide smile bloomed on his face before he could stop it. Tristan hadn’t looked forward to something so much in a very long time.

[daughter-of-the-prophet]

Malcolm Hawke (TV Tropes)

Ancestral Weapon: The Hawke's Key is the weapon he used to reinforce Corypheus's seals.

Badass Baritone: Once you hear his voice, you'll never want him to stop speaking.

Badass Creed:

"Be bound here for eternity, hunger stilled, rage smothered, desire dampened, pride crushed. In the name of the Maker, so let it be."

As well as his own personal mantra:

                Malcolm: "Magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base."

Badass Bookworm: Larius remembers him as a learned man, fascinated by the construction of the Warden prison.

Badass Teacher: In Legacy, Bethany says the other mages in the circle are very impressed by the extensive magical training she received from Malcolm.

Blood Magic: He was a blood mage, though a reluctant one, and he is regretful of that.

Dark Is Not Evil: Of all the Dragon Age franchise’s blood mages, he has the most understandable reason for ever using the stuff. He used it to seal away Corypheus, a tremendously powerful darkspawn. And he did this because the Grey Warden-Commander Larius threatened Leandra, whom the World of Thedas books confirm was pregnant with Areida Hawke at the time.

Call to Agriculture: When the Hawke family settled in Lothering, Malcolm hung up his staff and became a farmer.

Comes Great Responsibility: A lesson he lived by and taught his mage daughter, Bethany. If he were a Circle mage, he'd be the poster boy for the Aequitarian Fraternity.

Cursed with Awesome: He appears to have considered his magic a curse and it's revealed he deeply hoped that his children would not be mages, so they would be able to live a normal life. Things didn't turn out that way for at least one of his children, but he was a good dad anyway.

Dark and Troubled Past: According to the codex, Malcolm's past had more than its share of bloodshed and gave him lifelong nightmares. The most he was prepared to say about it was: "Freedom's price is never cheap, but that was a hundred leagues and a lifetime ago."

Deceased Parents Are the Best: His family practically worships his memory (even Carver). Every recollection is a positive one, and even negative revelations about him in Legacy are given a positive spin. Yes, he used blood magic to help the Grey Wardens imprison Corypheus, but he only did so because he was strong-armed into it when they threatened to kill Leandra and his unborn daughter.

Disappeared Dad: He died 3 years before the start of Dragon Age 2. 

Family Eye Resemblance: Malcom’s striking blue eyes are the most noticeable physical feature that his eldest daughter inherited from him and how people could tell she was his daughter.

Generation Xerox: Areida is said to greatly take after, and physically resemble, Malcolm.

Guile Hero: A capable fighter and smooth-talker without using magic.

Heroic Neutral: See Call to Agriculture. Word of God is that he didn't actively work against the Circle like Anders; he just wanted to get out and have a quiet life. Larius had to threaten Leandra for him to help with the Corypheus issue. Malcolm made him both promise safe passage and pay through the nose for the work.

Heroic Vow: "Though I have left the Circle, I made a solemn vow: Magic will serve that which is best in me, not what is most base."

I Just Want to Be Free: Malcolm was an extremely powerful and knowledgeable mage, but wanted nothing more than a quiet life with his wife and children.

Magic Knight: Although he was always better at magic.

Magnetic Hero:

Malcolm seems to have been this, having close friends who were��Templars and leaving such an impression that even after 25 years, Tobrius is instantly able to recognise Malcolm's children.

In Mark of the Assassin, Areida subtly implies that Malcolm was one of the few with whom the Chasind would barter when coming to Lothering in order to trade, always treating the Hawke family with honour, despite the fact that many Fereldans consider the Chasind to be "barbarians".

Multiple-Choice Past:

Leandra tells her daughters that Malcolm was a Junior Enchanter in the Kirkwall Circle. However, a codex entry says he was a mercenary who was only in Kirkwall on an assignment.

Another possibility is that he either claimed to be a mercenary during his early courtship to Leandra, or the tales of his mercenary past were entertaining stories he made up to tell his children, since he didn't want them going to the Circle.

Or, finally, it's possible that both are true. It's possible that Malcolm was in the Circle, escaped, became a mercenary, came to Kirkwall for an assignment, met Leandra, fell in love, and then they ran away together and eventually built a new life in Lothering.

Mysterious Past: We know nothing about his life before he met Leandra, besides that he was a Circle Mage once. He refused to even speak about it to his wife or children. Legacy reveals that early in his relationship with Leandra, he was coerced into briefly working with the Grey Wardens, which he kept secret for a very good reason.

Odd Friendship: With Ser Maurevar Carver. Friendship between a Templar and an apostate.

Forbidden Friendship: Strongly implied. They had to send letters to each other through Tobrius to prevent the Templar Order from finding out.

The Paragon: Just like his eldest daughter, Malcom was a selfless, caring person who always put the needs of others first. His benevolent personality was the reason why Leandra fell in love with him.

                       Anders: “What was your father like?”

                       Areida: “A good man, patient. He never yelled, but you knew when he was disappointed.“

Parental Favoritism: Not maliciously, but Legacy reveals that he had the closest relationship with his youngest daughter, Bethany, due to training her with her magic.

Posthumous Character: He's dead by the time Areida Hawke's story begins, but his presence is felt throughout.

Precursor Heroes: Especially in Legacy, which involves his daughters carrying on the work he left behind.

Pro-Human Transhuman: Though born with incredible powers, Malcolm avoided trying to be like the Tevinter-esque mages, who viewed their magic as a privilege to be abused and used their power to oppress and lord over their fellow people. Instead, he spent his life trying to be a decent and moral human being, and he tried to teach his magically-talented daughter, Bethany to be responsible in the mastery of her abilities.

Retired Badass: After settling in Lothering.

So Proud of You: In Legacy, Malcolm gives a posthumous one through Bethany. He naturally had to spend a lot more time with his only mage child, but she tells Areida that he was still deeply proud of "his little scoundrel and his little soldier."

What Beautiful Eyes!: Malcom had striking blue eyes that a lot people found attractive. 

What If the Baby Is Like Me?:

Malcolm did not want his children to have magic, lest they take on the burden he has dealt with his entire life. It happens at least once with Bethany.

To the man's credit, his daughters are quite surprised to find out he did not want a child with magic, and imply that he never let this interfere in raising them. He and Bethany especially were very close.

What Happened to the Mouse?: It's implied that he bound four demons in the past, yet Areida only fight three of them.

[allisondraste]

How close did Niamh get to figuring out what was really going on with Solas during the main game events? Any scenes where he said just a little too much and had to backtrack and "I saw it in the Fade" didn't quite cut it for her?

Well, I started with an idea and the story kind of just… ran away with itself.  Thank you for this lovely prompt.  I have missed Solavellan a little too much.

The relationship was a selfish endeavor that he should not have encouraged or pursued.  At least, that was the comfort Solas offered himself in his decision to distance himself from the inquisitor.  He furiously scrawled lines across blank parchment, charcoal dust covering his hands as he worked.  Lines became shapes and shapes became a form, her form, with all its beautiful values and intricacies, the detail of the her freckles, the shimmer of light reflecting from her eyes.  As he brushed away the excess charcoal, he saw her as she had appeared when he told her she was important to him, eyes intently locked on his own.

He was not yet certain which was worse:  the lack of eye contact or the nauseating sensation he experienced when her eyes did happen upon his, still filled with the same anger and hurt they held that night in Crestwood.  Try as he may to distract himself, he could not keep his thoughts occupied enough so that they would not wander to her.  The image of her tear-stained face contorted by betrayal was emblazoned on his mind like Mythal’s marks that remained upon her forehead.  

“She feels her face, marked, marred without malice. She didn’t know. She thinks it’s why you walked away.”

Cole’s words that rang in his ears were like a knife twisting more deeply into his chest.  She had every right to be angry with him. She deserved a truth that he could not give her.  Perhaps if he had told her that he was Fen’Harel, she would have understood and even welcomed his decision.  An entanglement with the villain of tales told to strike fear into the hearts of her people, tales she knew by heart, was likely not what she had imagined when she first kissed him in the Fade.

Yet he could not bring himself to tell her, as part of him desperately did not want her to know. It was the part of him that wanted him to abandon his plan for restoration of his people.  It was the part of him that still trembled at the memory of her touch.  Telling her meant risking her rejection of him, a reality he was not yet prepared to face.  The high level of emotion and tension between them was better than nothing at all.

“Solas,” a familiar and commanding voice jolted him from his rumination. Her voice.

He shuffled his drawing under some other sketches that he would not be as embarrassed for her to see.  He stood to face her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw clenched in an attempt to appear aloof, a stance at which he had previously been very adept.  She would see through it.  She always did.

“Inquisitor.” he stated coldly, watching her frown from the formality.  The title was as bitter on his tongue as tea and he detested it equally as much.  It brought him no joy to deepen her wounds, but it was necessary.  Her name was an intimacy he could no longer allow himself.  His will was fragile and it would be so easy to falter.

“Don’t do that to me,” she pleaded, her voice cracking, “Don’t you even dare.  I came here to have an honest conversation with you, and I do not need this fucking facade, Solas.”

“How can I help,” he asked, his voice still  distant.  His heart plummeted into his stomach as she looked at him with utter disbelief.  

“Help,” she retorted with a bitter laugh, “You think I’m here for advice? Really?”

“If you do not wish for my assistance in preparing for your battle with Corypheus, then I am -”

“No need to finish that sentence,” she interrupted, “If you can’t drop this act - because I know its an act- and talk to me about what happened, and why it happened, then we are done here.”

She turned abruptly to walk away.  

“Niamh, wait.”

Panic seized him at the thought of this being their last conversation, and he reflexively grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to him.  For a moment, they stood just feet apart, looking at each other.  Her gaze softened, the crease between her coppery brows fading, and Solas presumed she had seen it in his eyes, the anguish he felt.

“I promise you, I am not going to question your decision, not this time,” Niamh assured him, “I just need to know… I need to understand.”

“You will,”Solas answered, “In time.”  He knew it was a pathetic defense, but he could offer her nothing else.

“No, that’s not good enough,” she snapped, her voice elevating again, “You have some really weird views about the elves, views that match absolutely nothing I have ever been told, nothing I have ever read about anywhere ever.”

“This knowledge is something that one can only acquire from journeying deep into the Fade,” he explained, “It is not something that - “

“Yes, yes.  I know,” she said sarcastically, gesturing emphatically with her hands, “These wonderful spirits of the Fade just flocked to you to bestow upon you boundless knowledge of a people that you do not consider yourself to have anything in common with.  Whether that is a lie, the truth, or some bastardized form of the truth, I was able to accept it.  It at least made sense.”

Solas watched intently as Niamh paced about in front of him while she spoke, appearing to become increasingly agitated as the conversation progressed.  Holes in his story that had once been small were widening, rapidly.  She would figure him out if she had not already.  He did not know whether to be relieved or terrified.

“You know what doesn’t make sense,” She asked rhetorically as she stopped pacing and stood directly in front of him, “How you, the man who refuses to associate with elves as a whole, seems to have some unspoken kinship with an ancient sentinel who is quite possibly thousands and thousands of years old.  Did the Fade do that to?”

“I empathized with Abelas,” Solas stated.  It was the truth, even if it was flimsy.

“Are you sure about that,” Niamh asked irreverently, “Because, I think everything confusing about you would be much better explained if you happened to be some kind of ancient being yourself.”

Her eyes locked directly with his, piercing through him entirely.  He blinked a few times and looked away.  He wanted to say something, to tell her that she was right and offer her an explanation for why he had been subversive.  Yet, he could not find the words.

“You don’t have to say anything.  I know that you won’t, anyway,” she said matter-of-factly, “But I sincerely hope that I’m right.  Everything is a lot easier to understand and forgive if that’s the case. It’s better to think you’re out of touch than an asshole who thinks he is better than everyone else.”

Again, he did not speak, but he did allow his gaze to meet hers again.  She smiled and shook her head.

“If I was wrong, you would be arguing with me,” she said with a laugh, even as a tear rolled down her cheek, “You love telling me when I’m wrong.”

“Vhenan,” he faltered, impressed by her intuition and touched by her emotion.  He reached out and wiped the tear away.  

“Goodbye, Solas,” she said solemnly.  She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his cheek, before turning and slowly leaving the room.  She did not glance back at him, not even once.

Tears burned in his own eyes as they started to fall freely.  He doubted that he would see her again before the battle with Corypheus, and whether she survived the encounter or not, he would not be present when she returned.  Once he regained possession of his foci, his duty would call him elsewhere.  Heartache was a complication that he had not anticipated.  He had never imagined that he could love someone from this world as he loved Niamh Lavellan.  He had misjudged her.  Perhaps he had misjudged everyone.  

Alas, it was too late to turn back now, with his plan already in motion.  

He returned to his desk, sat down at his chair, and pulled out his drawing.  He smiled as he traced the lines with his fingertips..  He opened one of the drawers on his desk, removing a decently sized bundle of parchment tied together with twine.  Pulling the knot loose revealed several other sketches of his love that he had done in the past year.  He placed the newest piece on top,  tied the twine as it had been before, and returned the bundle to the drawer.

On a blank piece of parchment, he wrote:

                    You were right, although I wish that were not so.

                                     You changed everything.

                                              Ir abelas.

He tossed it in the drawer along with his drawings of her.  Perhaps she would see them when she returned.

[shannaraisles]

In Marcher Fields - Chapter 15

Poppy Hawke was never the daughter her mother wanted, the sister her twin preferred, the hero Kirkwall desired. They do not see the woman who stands between them and the chaos that threatens. No one takes the time to look, until she crosses the path of a certain Knight-Captain with demons of his own to battle …

[Read on AO3]

Chapter Fifteen

9:41 Dragon, Kingsway

"What's in this stuff?"

Poppy tried to twist to look at the Lady Seeker, but Cassandra laid a firm hand on her head and turned her face away again, concentrating fiercely on the strangely citrus paste she was working through the length of the Champion's hair. It seemed an odd way to spend the evening after a day that had included fighting a dragon for the Inquisitor's party, but it appeared that Cassandra had been itching for an opportunity to strip the hideous black dye from Poppy's hair for a couple of weeks now.

"It is something the mages make for the same purpose," Cassandra informed her, working the paste carefully through with a bone comb. "There is no need for you to travel disguised any longer. Had I known our search had sent you so deeply into hiding, I would have put a halt to it."

Poppy guessed that she'd shot a dirty look at Varric during that comment, smirking as her dwarven friend chuckled and offered up one of his patented innocent looks in return.

"Tell you the truth, Seeker, that's the third dye she's used in as many years," Alex volunteered from where he was lounging by the campfire, up on his elbows and ankles crossed. "The red was a nightmare to get out."

"Red, Hawke?" Varric looked impressed. "You should have kept that one. Tiny here has a thing for redheads."

Tiny - or The Iron Bull, as he had introduced himself - lifted his head from his own business, namely sharpening the nicks out of his battleaxe. Poppy shifted uneasily as his gaze focused on her. He wasn't the Arishok, she knew that, but he was Qunari, and he did carry an enormous axe. The similarities were too obvious not to make her just a little uncomfortable around him.

"She doesn't have to be a redhead to get my attention," the Qunari rumbled, and there was the difference that helped her separate him from his fellows. This Qunari had genuine emotion and feeling in his voice, and spoke like everyone else she had ever known. There was no painful formality in him. "She took down the Arishok in single combat, or so they say. That's impressive."

"Looking for a new conquest?" Alex asked, a little nastily. "She didn't do it entirely on her own, you know."

"Oh, you want to be conquered instead?" Bull asked, apparently just as interested in the brother as the Champion. “Happy to oblige - you look like you could do with a good fuck.”

Poppy erupted into laughter at the suddenly hunted look on Alex's face, not even trying to keep her mirth under wraps for once. And, Maker, it felt good to laugh again - not just to smile a tight-lipped smile, weighed down by all the worries of being vulnerable on the road and in the open, but to truly laugh and mean it. It felt good to have companions again, even if they weren't actually hers. She didn't see Alex watching her as she giggled, a small smile playing about his lips at the sight of his twin really being his sister for the first time since they had left Kirkwall.

"Varric has told me a great deal about you," Cassandra said then, ignoring the teasing that continued on the other side of the fire. "I have read his book of your exploits, as well."

"Yes, I heard about his retelling for your benefit," Poppy said quietly, her mirth fading as she met Varric's gaze.

He'd kept it close to his chest, all of it, and she knew it couldn't have been easy for him. Though no one had physically harmed him, days of interrogation could so easily have broken his spirit, interrogation followed by a virtual kidnapping, removing him from the city he loved so much and bringing him into Ferelden. If Corypheus had not revealed himself, would he ever have given her up? She didn't think so. Varric was the best friend she had ever had. And unfortunately for the Seeker, Cassandra was the reason he was here at all.

"I-I ..." Cassandra faltered behind her, and she heard a quiet sigh. "It was not well done," the Seeker admitted softly. "I did what I thought I must."

Still holding Varric's gaze, Poppy watched him squirm a little before she responded. "You're companions now," she said. "You should trust each other to guard your backs. Let it go, both of you. Xena needs you not to be at each other's throats."

She caught the flicker of Varric's glance toward the tent where Xena was sleeping off the worst of her own injuries. That dwarf was almost as insane as Fenris in a fight - Poppy had watched from the hillside as Xena charged the dragon virtually solo, her party scrambling to keep up with her if only so she didn't get herself killed in her excitement. If Poppy hadn't been keeping guard on the approach to Alistair's hiding place, she might have joined in herself. Dragons were a surprisingly fun fight, with the right people at your side. Xena clearly agreed, but there was more to Varric's glance than just responding to the mere mention of her name. Poppy could have sworn her friend liked more about the Inquisitor than he was letting on.

"You are correct," Cassandra agreed, and to her credit, there was no audible sign of reluctance. "Varric, I ... apologize for my treatment of you. It was unfair and unnecessary. But I am ... glad ... you chose to remain."

Varric's brows rose, impressed and vaguely alarmed by the apology. "Well, shit, Seeker, now I'm going to have to write another chapter for you."

"That means he's sorry for messing you around," Poppy translated with a grin. "What serial is this we're talking about?"

"Swords a-"

"Nothing, it is nothing!" Cassandra interrupted sharply, cutting through the quiet snickering that went up around the campfire.

Poppy bit down on her own smile. Apparently the Seeker didn't want her knowing that she read the romance serial. She wondered if she should tell Cassandra that the real life inspiration for the guard-captain was nowhere near as smooth or charming as the character in the book. Nice night for an evening. And her own snicker broke forth, remembering the disaster that had been getting Aveline to be honest with Donnic. She hoped they were still as happy with each other now as they had been back then. She hoped they were still alive.

"There's nothing wrong with enjoying a little romance, Cassandra," she heard herself say. "But it isn't all candles and poetry. Romance is where you find it ... in the little moments when you are entirely yourself with the person you love."

There was a momentary pause, a pause filled with a significant glance between Alex and Varric, and the sensation of Cassandra moving just a little closer to her back.

"You speak as though you know of such things," the Seeker said hesitantly. "Yet no one has ever ... I mean, there is nothing to say that you have ..."

"I have." Poppy felt her heart sink even as she said it. "I did, once. Life got in the way."

"There's a light in his heart that he doesn't want to go out, honeysuckle in his dreams chasing the demons away. Soft eyes, gentle hands, peace in her arms ... I'm not the man she needs, the man she deserves. I will live as she would want me to, and it will have to be enough."

All eyes turned suddenly to the young man who spoke, crouched at the edge of the firelight, his pale eyes fixed on Poppy. Cole, that was what they called him - a spirit made flesh, or so it seemed, a being who could look into your heart and read what was there in compassion. He held Poppy's gaze for a long moment.

"He misses you," he said quietly. "His heart never let go."

Thickness choked her throat, stilling any words that might have come in response. Cullen.

Andraste's tits, but she missed him. She ached without him, not even missing the physical so much as the calmness that came when she had been able to speak to him, to lie beside him, to watch him sleep and know he trusted her to be there when he was at his most vulnerable. Every scrap of news from Kirkwall had been examined, studied, held close to her heart, pride filling her at the way he had risen from his prejudices and past torments to take charge and extend care to the whole city. She knew he had allowed the mages to flee, that he had turned his focus to the innocent who had suffered in the wake of the cataclysm. And she wished she had been there to help him. But the Seekers had come, and with them the rumor of an Exalted March to be called on the Champion of Kirkwall, and the decision had been made without a second thought. To protect Kirkwall, to protect her friends, to protect him, she had run away. Yet every day she had looked back and wondered if he would ever forgive her for what she had allowed to happen. For what she had been made complicit in, because of her blind loyalty to a friend.

The strange boy's words had quieted the camp around her. Poppy was aware of eyes watching her, some covert, others openly, witnessing her struggle to keep tears in check as she looked down at her hands.

"If you have the chance for love, you should take it," she said thickly, glancing over her shoulder at Cassandra. "It never fades, even when all hope is lost."

The Seeker laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Cassandra likely couldn't begin to understand who Cole had been referring to, but Varric and Alex definitely could. Judging by the raised brows and concerned eyes, they would not let this rest, either. Poppy drew in a sharp breath, straightening her shoulders.

"So, how long does this stuff have to stay in my hair for?"

[a-templars-vice]

A Templar’s Vice

Side Story - “The Witches"

A Cullen Rutherford x F!OC Apostate Witch Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfiction.

Rating: pg (sfw)

Warnings: mentions of traumra

“The Cloth Witch and Morrigan meet at the Orlais peace talk summit at The Winter Palace “

OC witch photo source (mask added by me - I do not own) / Morrigan in her Orlais ball gown photo source

Link to Master List

--------------------------

The Cloth Witch walked around the ball room balconies. She was wearing a long black lace dress, an eye mask that looked like a raven, and a long black cloak with a hood.

She was trying to stay hidden in the shadows and passed by all unnoticed– Well, almost unnoticed…

…

The Cloth Witch had found a spot overlooking the ballroom, and no one seemed to notice that she was there. 

 She watched the inquisition group consisting of:  Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian, Leliana, Iron Bull, Josephine, and The inquisitor– Were talking then disbursed. Apparently, there was a plot to have the current Empress of Orlais assassinated. Tensions were on high tonight– Especially for the inquisition… They had to investigate and find out who the assassin– under Corypheus’ command was… 

 “My, this is certainly interesting… and exciting”

The witch thought to herself.

 It was normal for the Tirvinter arosotracy and nobles to have in fighting and assasination attempts… especially at the grand parties they host. It seemed to be a part of the “entertainment” and to see if people could get away from being killed. It was a kill or be killed kind of world there… And here it seems…

She watched as Cullen had a gathering of Orlesian Nobles around him. She chuckled to herself. He was absolutely hating this. She did not have to read his mind or surface feelings to know that. Well he was a big boy and could handle it…

She was standing there for a while, and then she heard a voice speaking directly to her.

“My… I was not expecting to find a small dark bird– stalking about…”

The Cloth Witch turned to the voice that clearly was calling her out.

There was a lady with raven black hair, fair skin, yellow piercing eyes and wearing an orainte red dress that was embroidered with golden thread. Looking right at the Cloth Witch with her strong gaze.

"Ah… It’s a pleasure to meet you… Lady Morrigan.”

The Cloth Witch politely bowed.

“I return the sentiment. Not often I come across other witches… I heard rumors that you have joined the inquisition…”

“Those rumors are true Lady Morrigan, I was sent a request by Lady Montilyet to make the outfits for the representatives of the inquisition attending this summit…”

The Cloth Witch gestured to the inquisition group that were currently gathered together with her fan.

“Impressive work. As usual.”

The Cloth Witch chuckled.

“I see my reputation precedes me… am truly flattered my Lady… for there is no higher praise I can receive than yours~”

“Mmm yes… tell me…”

The room seemed to dim a bit and it was as if everyone else disappeared.

The Cloth Witch was surprised… but of course this was Lady Morigan after all…

“What kind of thing has possessed you?”

“A demon my Lady– to whom you are speaking with now…”

“Hmm… What kind of demon are you?”

“I am a demon of desire.”

She is an extremely powerful witch so detecting demons was probably in her wheelhouse.

“I see… I have a question for you, desire– What do you, a demon of desire, desire?”

“I desire to be free…”

“Free?”

“Yes… Free to go wherever I wish in this world, and do what– and who I want as well.”

“I see, and I would also like to know… the human girl’s body you possess… was it consensual?”

“Yes, she summoned me, a long time ago… she was young and in a very bad situation under the order she was forced to be apart of… a life she never wanted…”

“Hmm I see… well so long as you don’t cause any trouble, which you seem to have not, I see no issues with that…”

“Thank you Lady Morrigan. I am grateful for your understanding…”

“Yes..”

There was a long silence between them. Then the Witch of the cloth spoke…

She sounded like she was somewhere far away, but still here…

“I used to be a spirit of love… but the poor mage girl who called to be so loudly… changed me into a demon of desire, because the pain, anguish and despair was so great… it changed my very being when our existences merged…”

Morrigan did not respond. She was processing what the Cloth Witch had told her.

Then after a long silence Morrigan spoke.

“Well… I do have to get going– The empress is about to give another speech and I should be at her side… things are… tense tonight… Take care and I do hope we will meet and speak again…”

The Cloth Witch bowed to Morrigan.

“I look forward to that… I wish you well… until then. Lady Morrigan.”

Morrigan left and the Witch looked on as the Empress began her speech…

The Cloth Witch looked on, and wondered if things will get “interesting” tonight…

...

Contine to Part 10

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [193]

“Hey, Inquisitor. Nice night?”

“Varric,” Lavellan says slowly, easing up and then fully dissipating the spell in her free hand, “What are you doing in my sleeping chamber?”

“So,” Varric says, laughing nervously, “How would one go about the process of getting diplomatic protection and sanctuary in the Dales?”

Lavellan eyes him as she sets her candle down on the wooden dresser and crosses her arms, “What did you do and to who, Varric?”

Varric grimaces. And well - he figures he can trust the Most Holy of the Dales, right? She probably won’t turn over what he said in confidence - turn him over.

“Hypothetically,” Varric says lowly, “If I hypothetically did something to circumvent Pentaghast and, let’s say, deceive her for a great length of time, do you think I could hide out in the Dales until her fury passes?”

“What kind of deception, Varric?” Lavellan pauses and then her mouth quirks up, “And you assume that Cassandra’s fury can pass instead of just build. It’s best to get it over with.”

“I’d like to live, I mean. That’s sort of the point of the whole Inquisition, right? Making sure we all don’t die due to unnatural causes?”

“Varric, what did you do?” Lavellan asks with a resigned sigh, casting a longing look towards her bed. “It is late, there is a very long day ahead of all of us tomorrow, and I - for one - find there are very few greater joys than sinking into your bed after a very trying day and ignoring that it must all start over again when you next wake.”

“I’ve been keeping contact with Hawke and Hawke is currently hiding out in one of Skyhold’s busted up towers and looking for an audience with you,” Varric says. She did say to just get it over with, right? And Lavellan isn’t exactly the same type of person Cassandra is, but Varric is pretty sure that the straightforward path with her is the most appreciated. He imagines that being the leader of the Dales would be annoying enough that she’d appreciate any blunt straightforwardness.

Lavellan’s eyes are sharp when she turns back to look at him, a very slow turning of her head, “Repeat that.”

And that is a definite order from the Commander of the Emerald Knights.

“Hawke is here and wants to talk to you,” Varric says. “And Cassandra Pengathast is definitely going to find out and I will definitely need to not be here when she does.”

Lavellan studies him for what feels like a very long time. Varric feels like day old bread left out in a market stall being presented to a very intimidating customer.

“For one thing, I cannot provide you sanctuary. It is not within my powers,” Lavellan says.

“It isn’t?” Varric gapes.

“No, sanctuary is provided on a case by case basis with certain criteria that a majority vote of the Elder Council decides after a case is presented to them. My only role is to provide either my testimony which the Council can and has ignored. I also have power in case of a tie. I could present your case to the Council but that would take too long and I doubt that they’d agree anyway. My power, contrary to what most of you believe, is not absolute. The land of the Dales isn’t an absolute monarchy, Varric. That is how you lead to corruption and faulty chains of command.”

“That’s actually pretty fascinating but in the mean time - for one thing?”

“For another, Varric,” Lavellan looks almost fond, “You are very theatric, as expected from a world famous charlatan and rogue. I would love to host you in the Dales when this is over. I imagine you would be quite a popular visitor who’s attention is much sought after. Varric, one would think that you enjoy baiting Cassandra. I may be a poor judge of such things, but there are better ways to make friends, I should think.”

Varric sputters, “This is not how I make friends.”

“Are you absolutely certain about that?”

“I am going to be murdered in plain view of everyone within probably two days, given how shitty Hawke is at staying out of people’s attention, and you’re just telling me that I’m bad at making friends.”

-

“Lots of reading material?” Bull asks, tilting his chin at the stacks of official looking letters at Lavellan’s side.

“I could say the same for you,” Lavellan says, eyeing the books and paper under Bull’s arm. “You no longer work for the Qun and yet your workload has only increased.”

“Leliana is putting me to work,” Bull says.

“Good,” Lavellan nods, waving for him to join her at the table she’s commandeered for herself in the library. “It is not the most…preferred place to work on official matters of state, but no one will bother me here. The sanctity of libraries, I think, is respected across all cultures.”

“Tell that to Pavus, he seems to think that this one is garbage.”

“Dorian has a very high standard and I look forward to seeing how he will reshape this space into one of his own image,” Lavellan says, “The libraries of Tevinter are very impressive, after all.”

Bull gives her a considering look. Lavellan’s smile is a lightning flash. He decides not to ask the obvious question.

“My seconds in command are very upset,” Lavellan says, motioning at the letter in front of her. “The Elder Council is most disturbed the reports that return to them and they wish for me to return immediately.”

“They do realize that the future of the entire world hinges on you doing work over here, right?”

“Mm,” Lavellan hums, eyes narrowing at the letter, “Yes but they also seem to think that our people can handle this entirely without the Inquisition. We are a very self reliant people. We are also a very insular and stubborn peoples. I had plans to slowly work on that over time, but this - “ Lavellan waves her hand, the Anchor flashing between her fingers, “ - has thrown a sparkler into the mix and now they are panicking like children who’ve lost hold of their mother’s skirts.”

“That’s a colorful image,” Bull says, setting up his notebook and the pages of letters Leliana wants him to decode and locations she wants him to try and suss out based on clues within the stolen letters. She also wants him to forge a few with minor Inquisition approved changes. Forgery isn’t his strong suit, but he’s pretty sure he could do a passable - by Leliana’s standards - job until he gets back into the swing of it. “And what do your seconds say?”

“They say to leave it to them and to not even think of going back unless it is to mount a full on assault on Corypheus and his little band of glory-dreamers,” Lavellan says. “They are, of course, concerned, but at least they understand that there is a bigger picture that our nation will not survive if we turn inwards.”

[somevirtualnolife]

Frostbitten

2120 Words Rating: G (T if you count the word tit) Pairing: Male Mage Trevelyan x Cassandra Summary: It’s cold out there, looking for Skyhold.

Previous One Shot: Flatterer

Author’s Notes: More like Frost-smitten amiright. Some more slow-burning fluff between my Inquisitor and Cassandra. Apologies for any typos and the like.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I dun believe you,”

“It’s true,”

“My tits are already freezing under all these layers, and you’re trying to tell me that you don’t feel the least bit cold with both of your actual tits exposed to these winds? Do you believe him, Cassandra?”

“I want no part of this conversation,”  

“What are you three on about on about now?” asked Reagan, walking up from behind three of his companions; Sera, Iron Bull and Cassandra.

“Well, if it ain’t the Boss, himself! The healers finally gave you the okay to walk on your own?” the large Qunari gave the mage a firm pat on the back and almost sent him falling face first into the snow.

It had taken some time for Reagan to fully recover from the encounter with Corypheus at Haven. Part of him was still surprised he managed make it out alive. Call it Andraste’s Grace or just pure luck. Either way he was still alive. Needless to say, it had been a difficult period. Haven was currently under a mound of rock and snow. Lives were taken from them suddenly. The Breach was closed, but the darkspawn magistrate showed no signs of weakening. Arguments were fierce between the War Council members to what their next move should be.

But not all was lost. If what Solas said was true, there was a fortress, hidden in the northern mountains. If they could just make it there, then perhaps there was still a chance for them. They could still turn this around. They could still save Thedas.

The trek was not easy however. This was not just a party of soldiers. Many were civilians or injured as well those who had just lost their homes. They were not prepared for such a journey which slowed them down quite a bit.

At least today, despite the below freezing temperatures, the sun and blue sky were out today, making the journey a little more bearable than usual. Just a little.

“Honestly, I’ve been fine for the past three days. They weren’t listening to a word I was saying, until I finally convinced them that I heard the divine voice of Andraste. That she ordered me to go to the front and lead our people right at this very moment,” the mage wasn’t entirely sure if he should’ve said that. That might’ve been a little bit blasphemous, but what was done was done. If there really was an Andraste out there, surely she would’ve understood.

“But you still haven’t answered my question; why are we on about Iron Bull’s tits?”

Cassandra groaned and rubbed her temple. “Please do not encourage them,”

“Oh don’t listen to her. We’re having real conversations, right?” Sera’s eyes sparkled with a certain excitement. “We’ve been walking in this bloody cold weather forever, and Iron Bull is out here, no shirt, tryin’ to tell me he just keeps warm by sheer willpower,”

“It’s true,” Iron Bull said, laughing loudly. “I’ve dealt with much worse, believe me,”

“We all have our own ways of trying to steer away this cold bite,” Reagan said, not entirely sure if what Iron Bull said was actually possible. “I’m pretty sure Blackwall has grown his beard out even more to keep himself warm. I wish I could do that,” grown man of 28 and he could barely get past a stubble.

“Ha! You with a beard. Now that’s a laugh,” the elf snickered, no doubt imagining him with one. “Alright then. If Blackwall’s got his beard, an’ Bull’s got his willpower or whatever, what about Vivvy?”

“The finest Orlesian coats,” Reagan answered. “Or she full embraces it,”

“Cole?”

“He’s a spirit, isn’t he? Do they even get cold?” Iron Bull said.

“That’s a good point,” Reagan nodded. “Hmm. Dorian?”

“Blood magic,” Sera cackled. “Solas?”

“He’ll say that it’s warmer than the Fade. Varric?”

“Chest hair,” Cassandra finally said, surprising all three of them.

“Ha! So, Cass does have a sense of humor. Well done,” Iron Bull bellowed.

“Well, that one was very obvious. I’m surprised he wasn’t the first on your list,” the Seeker responded with a shrug.

“Alright then. Trevvy,” Sera said, looking back Reagan. “What’s your trick for keeping warm? That freaky hand of yours? Andraste bless you before you fell out of the sky?”  

“Well, I did study fire magic extensively back at Otsiwick, so-”

Sera managed to make both a farting and booing noise simultaneously. “Boring. Also cheating. And stupid. Out of all the stories we have and you end us with that one?”

“That was a legitimate and honest answer!” the mage protested.

“Yeah, but it’s no fun if it’s just basic magicky magics,” Sera made another farting noise. “Cassandra, what you got?”

“As though Cassandra has a better answer than-”

“Well, obviously I just punch the cold,” she responded before the Herald could finish, leaving him stunned once more. She really did have a sense of humor.  

“And Cass is two for two! You might have studied the flame, Boss, but it looks like our Seeker here is on fire today,” the large Qunari grinned even wider.

Suddenly, the sound of a loud horn echoed across above them, signalling that it was time for the group to take rest.

“Ugh, finally!” Sera groaned. “I’m gonna go an’ see if I can snag some extra blankets or jumpers from one of the caravans,” and with that the spry elf girl ran off, cursing under her breath about the cold.

“As for me,” Iron Bull stretched. “I’m going to go and see if any of these lovely ladies might need a hand or more in ‘keeping themselves warm’, if you catch my drift,”

“We didn’t need to know that,” Cassandra replied, shaking her head.

“Yeah you did,” the Qunari gave another firm pat on the back to the Seeker and mage before he two disappeared off into the crowd. Well, not really disappeared. He was a big guy, so all he did was just get slightly smaller than he normally did.

And so, it was down to Reagan and Cassandra again. They hadn’t really spoken on their own since Haven was attacked. With his injuries keeping him in one of the caravans with the healers, and everyone else on duty he didn’t get a chance to chat with any of his companions.

“Fancy grabbing some stew from the cooks?” he said with a bit of a grin, pointing at another wooden caravan nearby. “Or are you fine just punching your fists at the winter cold?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes at the comment, but nodded.

--------------------

“How do you actually stay warm?” Reagan said as he passed one of the tin mugs to Cassandra and then walking finding a large, snowless rock for the two of them to sit on, overlooking the group.  

“I don’t,” she said with a sigh, bringing the mug close to her face, closing her eyes. “I just don’t see any sense in complaining about something that you cannot change,”

“So, I’ll take it that you’re freezing right now,”

“I feel as though my fingers my fall off,” she said in an irritable voice. “I do hope that Solas is right about this fortress. If he is attempting to trick us in anyway-”

“I trust him. I doubt he has little to gain from leading us astray,” Reagan replied, taking a sip from his own mug.

“And yourself? You do not seem like the type who would enjoy such frigid temperatures. Yet, you don’t seem nearly as bothered as you should be,”

“It’s as Sera says. I’m a cheater,” he with a small shrug. “Even before I knew what I was, I knew how to focus the heat into the palm of my hands. Think of a small flame. Just enough to feel a slight tingle in the palm of your hands, ”

“That’s impressive. I can’t imagine too many children being able to focus their magic like that when they don’t know what they are,” Cassandra responded, her eyes brows raised in interest.

“Don’t be too impressed. One day, the flame I thought of was a little too large and I set our estate’s tree on fire,” he laughed. “Yet, I still managed to lie about it and didn’t get found out for another year. I just told my parents I was playing with match sticks and only got a firm spanking,” he still remembered that day very clearly. 11-years-old just playing outside in the snow when he pointed his hand to the large oak tree in the garden. And just like that, several flames appeared around it and it became nothing but black charcoal. In hindsight, his parents must’ve knew it was magic. There’s no way a small match in the snow could do that.  But maybe they were in just as big denial as he was at the time.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” Cassandra closed her eyes and gripped the tin mug tightly, as though trying to absorb the heat from it. “You seem like that the type of child that would have gotten into far more trouble than he’s worth,”

“I assure you I was only a slightly spoiled brat in comparison to the rest of my siblings,” he grinned wildly.

“Ah, that’s right. There’s three more of you,”

“Legally speaking,”

It was then that a biting gust of wind came across the group of people, though thankfully didn’t last long. Reagan looked over at Cassandra and he could see her dig her cheeks into her fur collar of her coat and shiver. But she was true to her word. As cold as she was, the Seeker did not complain. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

“Here,” he said, placing his cup down and pulling of his gloves and offering his palms. Cassandra’s grey eyes looked at him suspiciously. Right, yes. She wasn’t a particularly touchy-feely individual. This would look strange to her. “You said your fingers are freezing right? We can’t have one of our best warriors unable to wield her sword when disaster can strike at moment,”

The Seeker quirked a brow, but eventually also put down her cup and pulled off her gloves. “You’d better not set me on fire, Trevelyan,”

“Lady Pentaghast, you wound me with such accusations,” he said, smiling at her as he lightly took her hands into his. They really were as cold as ice, to the point when they were going from red to yellow. It really must’ve been painful.

Slowly, the Seeker felt the prickled cold pain in her fingers disappear, and instead felt a warm pulse start to form from her fingertips all the way through her hands. Whatever tenseness and uncertainty she felt about earlier seemed to dissipate with the cold.

“See? Still in one piece,” the mage said, running his thumbs across her palms. “Not even a blister,”

“I suppose it is nice to have feeling in my hands again,” she admitted, turning away from him. “… Thank you, Trevelyan,”

There was that blush again. The one that she would no doubt blame on the cold weather. The one that made him want to tease her more. The one that mad him want to caress her cheeks. The one that, as of late, made him want to pull her in close and press his lips against hers. Yet, there was still a question nagging at him, at the back of his head, that prevented him from completely hinting towards those feelings.

“Cassandra, who’s-” before Reagan could finish his sentence, the large sound of the horn sounded off again, indicating that they would be starting up again soon. The two quickly let go of each other’s hands.

“We should get back,” the Seeker said, grabbing her gloves and swiftly pulling them back on. “You are leading in the front with Solas, correct? You may want to confirm the details before we get moving again,”  

The dark-haired hero let out a sigh and stood up as well. Right. Now was not the time to be even thinking of what he and Cassandra could be. It wouldn’t do Thedas much good if he found frozen on top of a mountain fantasizing about his bewitchingly beautiful companion.

“Right,” he said, putting on a chipper voice. “And you have another exciting and riveting conversation ahead of you. It’s occurred to me we didn’t even touch upon our trusted council members. I’m sure Sera has some unique thoughts about them,”

“Please, don’t remind me,”

“Don’t miss me too much,”  

A final scoff came out of Cassandra. “And don’t make me give a reason to put you back on the caravan with the healers,”

“Again, Lady Pentaghast, you wound me,” 

[icantivanbelieveit]

day one - sneaky witch-thieves

The Wicked Aunt

Isolde takes on more than what she bargained for when she agrees to babysit Cullen’s young nephew for the day. Little Bran has got it into his head that Isolde is a witch, so Isolde decides to tell him the story of just how her hand came to glow green. Let’s just say that some stories are a wee bit too scary for a three year old.

I only just found @dahalloween today so trying my hardest to make up for lost time! 

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Those were Cullen’s parting words as he turned at the doorway. Isolde smiled, nodded - she had this… or, well, she thought she did…

It turned out that caring for a three year old was a lot harder than Isolde had first thought. Little Bran Junior was somehow here, there, and everywhere all at once. Isolde soon regretted her decision to volunteer to babysit. She had offered to do so with only the best of intentions, hoping to prove herself a useful part of Cullen’s family. She had instead proved little, other than her inability to keep up with a toddler.

“Get back here, you little monster!” she exclaimed, and she was not exaggerating. Bran was all blonde curls and dimples, but with his father and aunts out at the market with his Uncle Cullen, he was proving to be a nuisance to this newcomer.

She cornered him just about, clambering up the bookcase in the living room, knocking books down as he did so. Isolde caught him easily around the middle, but not before the little brat knocked her on the head with a particularly thick book. One of Varric’s, presumably.

“I told you to get back here!” Isolde grunted, holding the struggling boy against herself. “You’d have hurt yourself.”

“I want Dada!” Bran screamed and wailed. “I want Uncle Cullen! I don’t want you!”

“I don’t want you too!” Isolde snapped - and she instantly regretted it. If he was going to parrot anything she said, it would be that. Plonking the toddler down onto a nearby chair, she took a deep breath and crouched to his level.

“I’m sorry,” she said, slowly. “Would you like a story?”

Bran folded his arms and pulled a face.

“I don’t want a story!” he snapped.

“A cake?”

“No cake!”

“A game?”

That caught Bran’s fleeting attention span. The little boy paused and thought on it.

“Yes, Auntie Izzy,” he said, all blonde curls, big eyes, and dimples again, “but not chess.” He pulled a face again. Isolde smiled at that; she too would happily miss yet another game of chess.

“What game should we play?” Isolde struggled to think of any. She tried to remember the games she played with her siblings before she was sent to the Circle, but she could only remember that one time Fee won hide-and-seek by hitching a ride out of Ostwick and disappearing for days. Hide-and-seek was off the menu then.

“Templars!” Bran exclaimed excitedly. He jumped up off of the chair. “Where’s my sword?”

Isolde struggled to hide her distaste at that: “Let’s play something else…”

Bran curled his lip, but Isolde was adamant. She held his glare easily; it was the toddler who broke first.

“Fine!” he said, eventually. “Let’s play…” But before he could come up with a suggestion, Isolde’s hand began to flare up.

Throughout her long vacation at Cullen’s family home in the Southreach, the Anchor had not bothered her once. Yet the moment she was left alone with a small child, the damned thing woke up again, sending out flares of green light and causing her to have an awful cramp in her wrist.

“Blasted thing!” she snapped, struggling to close her fingers over it. Months had passed since she had defeated Corypheus, yet she was not truly free of his actions. She looked up to find Bran watching her, his mouth agape.

“No, no, no…” she went to say, doing her best to hide her glowing hand behind her back. “That’s nothing! Don’t you worry about it…” But Bran was not worried. He was anything but.

“You can do magic?” he whispered, eyes wide, amazed. “Are you a witch?”

“No! I mean, yes. I mean I’m not a witch... I’m a mage, but that… that’s something else. Did you say you wanted cake before? I swear your aunt Rosalie had some fruitcake leftover…”

“Fruitcake’s gross.” Isolde could not fault his judgement there. “Let me see.”

Isolde kept her hand behind her back, feeling the energy pulsate beneath her clenched fist. All she had wanted to do was make a good impression on Cullen’s family, joining them in the run-up to Funalis. It was not as if things had got off to a good start.

Cullen’s family were polite and kind - but Isolde still felt left out. She wondered at first if it was down to her being the Inquisitor - running an international organisation and defeating Corypheus was a big deal - but, as time went on, she realised it was more down to her being a Marcher than anything. Cullen’s family were Ferelden to the core and there was only as much Mabari hair that Isolde could take.

Matters could not be helped if Bran started spouting out about Isolde practicing magic. Isolde being a mage had not raised any comment among Cullen’s relatives, at least in her earshot, but, from what Cullen had told her, the family had long ties with the Templar Order. She knew Cullen would understand, him having been with her throughout her journey first as Herald then the Inquisitor, but she could not trust his family to be so understanding.

“Bran,” Isolde said, before pausing. She did not have much experience with children - scratch that, she had no experience with children. She had no idea how to explain any of this to a small child, but, looking into Bran’s frank gaze, she realised that there was no way she could talk down to him.

So she sat down onto the chair and pulled him onto her lap. Her hand had stopped making a scene of itself and rested, quietly, by her side.

She explained to him first how she met his uncle, downplaying parts of the story where she thought necessary. How his uncle had helped her fight her way to the temple ruins to fight the Pride demon there and close the rift above it. She explained to him that her hand behaved like that when a rift was close… Bran’s eyes certainly widened at that! But she hastily explained that it also went off for other reasons. Reasons she was not so sure of herself.

She explained to him her time at Haven and then facing Corypheus and his dragon at Haven that wretched night. Bran listened attentively, his little nails digging into her arm, as she told him of her escape through the tunnels beneath the town and how his uncle had found her lost out in the snow.

Next, she told him about Skyhold, having to pause to answer Bran’s sudden pleas to visit. Of course he was welcome to come and stay, so long as his father had no problem with it… Isolde could only hope Branson was better than her at saying ‘no’ to a three year old. She may have had little experience beforehand in child-minding, but she had the sense to know that some stories of desk adventures were not suitable for little ears.

By the time she got to the part where she faced Corypheus in the final battle, Bran could not keep his eyes open, no matter how much he tried to. His eyelids drooped, his mouth opened into a yawn, and, before she knew it, he was fast asleep, his little head resting on her chest.

It was like that Cullen and his siblings found them, Bran still asleep on her lap. Branson thanked her profusely as he lifted his young son from her, while Cullen gave Isolde a hand back up to her feet.

“He wasn’t too much trouble then?” Cullen said, with a sly grin. He had been the one who had tried the hardest to talk her out of volunteering.

“Piece of cake,” Isolde retorted, folding her arms. “Didn’t think that I could do it?”

“I knew you could do it,” Cullen retorted, and he pulled her close to him. It was one of the rare alone moments that they could find in this crowded house of Rutherfords. “The toddler-whisperer,” he teased in a low voice, his breath tickling her lips as he leaned in to...

They were interrupted then by a Branson, arms folded, followed by a red-faced, tear-streaked young Bran.

“I had a nightmare,” he wailed, dragging his blanket behind him. “Cor- Cor-fee-us was coming with his dragon to eat me!”

All eyes in that room turned then to Isolde, who stood, flummoxed, under the combined weight of their appalled stares. Seems perhaps some stories did not make suitable bedtime stories for young children...

[runningwolf62]

@wardencommanderrodimiss

Okay this is really old and I think I originally wrote it as Brennan was just a companion but I tweaked it so he’s an Inquisitor now, I was exploring how the Redcliffe bad future would affect his and Dorian’s relationship. It was also supposed to be longer, so I’ll probably come back and finish it now that I’ve found it again.

Dorian was a bit surprised when he arrived to find someone already in his corner of the library. Brennan Trevelyan looked over the books on the shelves, occasionally muttering to himself.

“No, not that one,” he paused and turned to face Dorian, immediately he grinned.

“Dorian, always a pleasure to see you.”

Dorian looked over the younger man before him, a swipe of dark blue paint curved over one cheek, under his tattoo and several patches were scattered on his shirt. Dorian’s eyes drifted to the splash of blue in Brennan’s hair, then back to the man himself, “how can I be of service?”

Brennan’s answered with a smirk full of promises and replied, “in so many ways but right now I’m looking for a book, and I hope you can help me.”

“What in particular are you looking for?”

Brennan looked away, “there should be a book on astronomy around here, I saw it before, and I just need to look at it for two seconds.”

“And you need my help because…”

Brennan pulled his hands out from behind his back, he was not wearing his gloves, and it was obvious as to why, paint was all over his hands and fingers, which rather explained how it had gotten on his face and in his hair.

“I can’t touch anything, well I mean I could but I don’t want to end up on the receiving end of your fireballs, so…”

Dorian raised his eyebrow, “I was under the impression you were borrowing Solas’ paint to paint on the walls, not yourself.”

“Hey, most of it has gone on the walls,” Brennan insisted, tucking his arms back behind his back.

Dorian resisted the urge to point out the dried patch in his hair, “I do know what book you’re looking for though, one moment.” He’d rather hope Brennan would never come looking for it actually.

He pulled it off the shelf and offered it to Brennan, who raised an eyebrow.

“I still can’t touch it. Or turn the pages.”

“Is that a ‘please Dorian, would you be so kind as to help me in my time of need’?”

“Are all people from Tevinter this sarcastic or is this just your unique charm?”

“Oh now I have unique charm, do go on.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me to sing your praises, you do a fine job yourself,” Brennan grinned playfully, “however if that’s what it takes to get what I want, well, I’m willing to compromise.”

Dorian was tempted to reply, see how far they were both willing to go, when Brennan’s smile faded, “later though, I have to get back to painting and things. Shame, a few of your better qualities spring to mind.”

“Oh, like what?” Dorian did enjoy hearing a handsome man praise him.

“Well certainly not your humility or helpfulness,” Brennan could be as quick on his feet as Dorian on occasion, a trait most endearing.

Dorian could tell he’d get nothing more from Brennan now, as much as he enjoyed trying, “I suppose I’ll have to prove my helpfulness after all.”

He carried the book to a nearby table and opened it, Brennan used this chance to lean into Dorian’s personal space, subtle he was not, for as good as he was at stealth.

“There’s a map I need to see, page… one seventeen I think,” he chewed his lip a little as he thought, “that sounds right.”

Dorian paged through the book, the map was on the page Brennan had said, he left it open for him, and moved aside so Brennan could see.

Brennan leaned towards it, “let’s see, there’s Equinor, Judex, and there’s Servani.”

Dorian went still at the sound of Brennan naming that constellation.

Dorian and Esti stopped at the door, listening to the whispers from the room, followed by the sounds of scratches on the wall. Another one of her companions maybe, or perhaps another of Corypheus’ unfortunate trophies.

Together they slid into the room, and found more of the cells.

“Servani. The chained man. Possibly represents… represents…”

It possibly represented Andoral, but who was talking about constellations?

He peered into the cell, and was greeted by the sight of Brennan crouched at in the corner. In one hand he held a stone, carving marks into the stone that hadn’t been taken over by lyrium. The dim red light flickered over the walls, shining on the indents, Dorian recognized them as the shapes of constellations, hundreds of them were carved in sides of the cell.

Brennan could no longer see the night sky so he’d brought it into his cell with him. Whether for comfort or from madness was yet to be seen.

Esti hissed in alarm at seeing her friend like this, “Bren?”

He turned and Dorian’s eyes fell where the mark should be. Where his arm should be. Brennan stumbled to his feet, moving towards the bars, “Esti?”

“Bren?” Esti looked ready to cry, “oh Creators, what did he do to you?”

Brennan shook his head, “I was a war trophy, a prize.” He lifted his hand, “I’m alright now.” The joke fell rather flat and he let the silence stretch as they opened the cell door to let him out.

Dorian had the explanation ready but Brennan stepped right out of the cell with no further questions. He looked at Esti with a mix of relief, grief and guilt. Dorian knew he didn’t want to hear the story this vision would tell.

“You believe it’s us?” he asked, before he could help it. But how could he not, everyone else had doubted it.

“What does it matter, real or not, dead or not, demons or not, this is better than dying in that cell.” He turned to look at Dorian, his eyes red and dull, unfocused as though Dorian weren’t there, his lifeless gaze passing through him.

“Dorian?”

He blinked, and met Brennan’s gaze. His eyes were brown and clear, focused on him with a look of concern, his gaze trained on him.

“You were staring at me, and I was flattered until you suddenly looked kind of horrified.”

“Sorry,” Dorian apologized, “Got lost in thought.”

Brennan looked more concerned but nodded slowly, “are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, don’t you have a painting to get back to.” He waved his hand and moved back to his books, “and I have books to get back to.”

“I mean yes but you looked… not fine,” Brennan followed after him, reaching out before pulling his paint splattered hand back.

Dorian shook his head and turned to Brennan, who still looked concerned, “it’s fine, just a realization is all.” He saw no reason to tell Brennan how bad he’d been off in the future he and the other Inquisitor had seen.

Brennan pulled back, “well, umm… thank you for your help.” He rubbed the side of his neck, leaving a smear of paint from his hand, Dorian’s eyes lingered there, “I’ll see you later then.”

With that he headed off down the staircase. It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask why Brennan had come to the library with paint on his hands to look at a star chart. It was hardly the weirdest thing one of the Inquisitors’ companions, himself included, had done though. That spirit… Cole wasn’t it, had far stranger behavior. Dorian watched Brennan stop to talk to Solas briefly before heading out the door.

“In an hour I could probably make this work,” he was bragging a little, pushing himself a little but he’d have to try.

Brennan turned without a word to him, he stopped only to speak to Esti, their voices quiet, a conversation for Heralds alone. Then he headed for the doors, dagger in his unsteady hand. He didn’t even look behind him, he stopped only to wait for the other to catch up. Dorian met the Herald’s eyes, Esti didn’t look happy about this, but they had no other option. They would go back. They would stop this. This didn’t have to happen. He looked over at where the thing that had been Felix lay, before focusing again on the crystal. This didn’t have to happen.

-

It was a while before Dorian managed to catch more than just a glimpse of Brennan darting around the keep, between his research and Brennan’s own work on whatever he was doing their paths simply hadn’t crossed. Dorian wasn’t overly surprised though to find him outside one night, gazing up at the night sky.

“Evening,” Brennan greeted him with a grin, “you’re not spending the night deep in your books?”

“And you’re not spending it holed up in your room?”

“On a night like tonight?” Brennan sounded incredulous, “not a chance.”

Dorian looked up, the sky was clear and cloudless, marred only by the scar from The Breach.

Brennan was playing with was resembled opera glasses, a rather well-worn pair, “I mean, up here we have a really good view of the sky, this is one of the best views I’ve ever had. No buildings, few lights, it’s perfect.”

Dorian settled against the rampart next to him, “is that so?” It seemed fitting that a place called Skyhold would have the best view of the stars.

Brennan nodded, and offered the glasses to Dorian, “they’re not great, but if you want to look…”

Dorian held up a hand, “thank you but I’ve gone by the tavern tonight, so my grip may not be quite steady I’m afraid.”

Brennan nodded and withdrew the offered glasses, “alright, thanks. Though they can handle being dropped if you change your mind.”

Dorian followed Brennan’s gaze upwards, “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how impressive it is how fast you are at those astrium puzzles?”

He looked over in time to catch Brennan duck his head, “thank you. Just years of staring at the sky.”

“To the point of having constellations memorized?”

Brennan shrugged, and kept playing with the glasses, Dorian studied him as he did, the way his fingers shifted over the frames, his eyes glancing between the glasses, the sky and Dorian.

“Favorite constellation?”

“Equinor, the stallion,” Brennan pointed towards the southern sky, “it’s low but you can see it, I never could in Ostwick.”

Dorian wasn’t sure which set of stars was meant to resemble a horse, but he took Brennan’s word for it, “least favorite.”

Brennan took much longer to answer, staring at the sky for far longer before answering, “if I had to pick, Judex.” He pointed to the south again but this time to the left.

“But only because I hated being a Templar,” he added, “the constellation itself is fine.”

“All those years failing to be a Templar gone to waste,” Brennan quipped, Dorian noticed his hand shook occasionally where he held his dagger, “Corypheus could stick me in his army now with the amount of lyrium in me.” The smile he offered was bitter and as brittle as the red lyrium.

Dorian blinked, Brennan was looking up again, not even paying attention to him. He’d had too much to drink, far too much.

“Did you ever have lyrium as a Templar?”

Brennan gave him a look of confused disgust, “no? I was only a recruit, never finished training, why?”

“No reason,” Dorian was studying Brennan, how many jokes had he made in the future? He couldn’t remember but then again, he hadn’t actually been paying that much attention. He’d been too busy trying to get himself and Esti back so they could stop all of it from happening. Dorian wasn’t sure anymore how much of his memories were real, and what his mind and the demons of the fade had made up to torture him night after night.

Brennan met his gaze, “hey. I have a question for you.”

“Oh?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, “are we to play a game of questions tonight?”

“You started it,” Brennan got to his feet so they now stood equal to each other, “why ask me about lyrium?”

“Seeing as we deal with the stuff constantly it was merely a question that concerned me,” Dorian replied, Brennan offered a reassuring smile.

“Well you can rest easy, I’ve never had any.” His grin turned flirtatious as his eyes roamed over Dorian, “I’m drawn to other vices.”

“Ah, a wise man,” Dorian winked back at him, though he wanted to be more than a vice, he had to admit Trevelyan had a charm to him. When he wasn’t accidentally causing chaos. Though, as Dorian made his excuses, and left Brennan there, awash with moonlight, perhaps that was also part of his charm.

-

The explosive force from the spell knocked Dorian and Brennan to the ground, Dorian scrambled back to his feet and sent a fireball back, before he realized Brennan hadn’t gotten back up.

“Brennan?”

Brennan’s body fell to the ground, limp and lifeless, they were out of time, it was time to go, he grabbed Esti’s shoulder, dragged her back to the portal, couldn’t save them now, had to go back to save them.

“Brennan!” Dorian reached down and shook the rogue, a bit harder than necessary, in an attempt to force the memory back. He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen Brennan’s body in Redcliffe castle, but now that he had the man lying at his feet, what he’d imagined seemed all too real.

Brennan grunted and shook off, water and mud spraying over Dorian, “sorry about that, hope you left some for me.” He grabbed his blades and got to his feet, he swayed a moment before Esti steadied him. They moved off side by side, Dorian followed after.

However, the image of Brennan, wracked by red lyrium and dead on the floor lingered, as did the image of Brennan unconscious on the ground, even as they made their way to where The Champion’s contact was.

To make it worse, Dorian was almost certain he hadn’t actually seen Brennan die in Redcliffe, but rather it was part of the nightmares he had. It bothered him that at some point the idea of Brennan dying had become so troubling a demon had created the image just to torment him with it.

Brennan, for his part, seemed oblivious to Dorian’s distress, wiping the rain from his face and pushing his bangs out of his eyes, “you know if we wanted to go swimming we could’ve just jumped in the lake.”

“I haven’t been swimming in ages,” Dorian commented, not since the summers when his mother and he would go boating.

“I can’t swim,” Brennan admitted, “though if this keeps up I’ll learn how in no time.”

“You can’t swim?”

“Never learned,” Brennan shrugged, “didn’t help keep mages from doing their wicked blood magic and destroying the good name of the Maker, so I was never taught.”

Dorian blinked, a response to both Brennan’s statement and the water running down his face, “you really do hold no love for the Templars do you?”

“What gave it away, my fondness for mages?” Brennan winked at him, before following after Esti, “come on, sooner we get to those caves, sooner we’re out of the rain.”

“Yes, but we might encounter those lovely oversized spiders all of Thedas seems so fond of.”

Brennan made a gagging sound at the prospect, and the image of him dead on the floor of Redcliffe Castle faded more and more.

[ferzeldan]

Kinship with a Cup

Carving Block Writers Collective - Prompt 3: A Tea Party

Also on [AO3]

Malika fidgeted. It was all she’d been doing since the meeting started. Though it wasn’t even a meeting. A meeting she could handle, or at least she could shove Josephine in front of her to do all the talking.

This was torture.

This was cruel.

This was punishment for crimes committed before she became the Inquisitor.

This was a tea party.

Fine porcelain cups edged in gold lined the length of the Great Hall’s sturdy wooden table. They looked out of place on the wooden slabs which usually featured tankards of ale, hearty stews in clay bowls, and once - after a particularly entertaining night of drinking - a passed out Iron Bull and Krem. Malika eyed the cups edged in gold and tugged at her formal uniform with its brass buttons, red velvet and gold embroidery. Was it possible to feel kinship with a cup? It was as out of place as herself. She ran her fingers along the edge to calm her nerves.

Women in large-skirted dresses and men in stiff suits sat in alternating seats down the length of the table. Malika sat at the head, grateful that as a dwarf she was already harder to see due to her size compared with the mostly human crowd that was visiting from Orlais. That did not stop her from attempting to shrink away to nothing in her seat.

Josephine sat at her right side, sipping daintily and silently from her own cup while nudging Malika under the table with her foot as if to say, “Sit up straighter, Inquisitor.” How did she do that? How did she manage to say so little with only a sidelong glance and a nudge?

Not one to disappoint Josephine, Malika squared her shoulders and unclenched her jaw. These visitors were here to give them money, provided they were impressed with their operations. It seemed strange to Malika that to prove to supporters that they were worthy of their financial support that they show off their hosting skills, rather than demonstrate their army. She would have much rather shown that she could plant an arrow in between the eyes of a bandit from the length of a battlefield. Or better yet, she could leave the army tour to Cullen and Cassandra.

But no. Malika had to show that she knew which fork to use to eat the tiny cakes in front of her, and there were so many. In a moment of panic when she wondered if she was supposed to be using a spoon instead.

Josephine was still sipping at her tea, her cake untouched. Were they not supposed to eat the cakes? Glancing to her left, she searched for the comforting sight of Blackwall. She’d bribed Josephine to seat him next to her instead of the diplomat who always had a fleck of spittle escaping his mouth when he pronounced a “th.” With all the thank yous being thrown left and right, Malika had been finding it difficult not to flinch when she found herself on the receiving end of an over enthusiastic spray of politeness.

And there he was next to her. Malika had expected Blackwall to be as fidgety as her, tugging at his tunic, twisting his cloth napkin. At the very least she expected him to have a smear of cream stuck to his mustache from the frilly cakes. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t (so much for icing kisses later, she thought absently). He looked perfectly content, nodding politely at something the woman to his left said as she waved her bejeweled gloved hand while recounting a story. His hair was parted neatly, if shaggy, and the collar of his uniform was nicely pressed. It wasn’t surprising to see him keeping up with the Orlesian noble folk, she knew of course that he’d been stationed with them while with the Wardens, but it cut a stark contrast to the rough-edged man who spent so much time in the stables with her.

Still, it was a fine sight, Blackwall in his finery, large hands cupping a delicate cup. Malika grinned at a thought and nudged him under the table to get his attention.

He made his excuses to the masked woman and turned to face Malika. He smiled warmly. “Yes, my lady?”

“You know, my rooms are right upstairs,” Malika whispered. “We could easily slip away.” to cover her grin, she passed what looked to her like a gravy boat of cream his way. Why these people were putting cream in their tea she would never understand, as she hadn’t had milk since she cut her first tooth. She liked hers strong and black, if she drank it at all.

“Enticing as that sounds,” Blackwall started, looking her up and down slowly, “I think they might miss their host. You’re sitting in a somewhat conspicuous place.”

Malika swore and heard Josephine clear her throat to her right. Looking over, she was rewarded with a glare and pursed lips.

“Inquisitor, you are aware that if the gentleman to one side of you can hear you, the lady to the other can as well, yes?”

“I. Er, of course. It was a joke. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone with our guests.”

Josephine was not one to hold a grudge. She smiled lightly, nudged the smallest fork towards Malika’s hand and winked. “You should try the truffle cake. It’s delicious. Madame Sabine brought it for us.”

“I bet she kept it in her skirts,” Malika whispered to Blackwall. “There’s plenty of room under there.”

“She wouldn’t dream of taking it with her on her travels,” Blackwall whispered back, avoiding the look of disapproval from Josephine. “It would get stale and possibly attract insects.”

“Hush you two.”

“Sorry Josie,” Malika said. “We’ll be good.” She took the tiny fork that had been indicated to her and sliced a sliver off her cake. She took a bite, chewed, and did her best not to make a face.

“Um,” Malika said through her mouthful, “what exactly did you say this was?”

“Truffle cake. It’s an Orlesian delicacy,” Josephine said, taking a bite of her own. Malika was impressed by how straight she kept her face as she chewed. After taking a large mouthful of tea to get it down, Malika swallowed thickly.

“Aren’t truffles in dessert supposed to be chocolate? This tastes more like…”

“Mushrooms? Quite,” Josephine said. “As I said. It’s a delicacy.”

Delicacy or not, Malika had no intentions of putting the earthy-tasting cake anywhere near her mouth again. She placed the fork back on the table, but moved it to rest on the saucer when Blackwall coughed slightly and pointed to his own fork on his plate.

“So the part that was in your mouth doesn’t touch the table,” he said in a low voice.

“Right,” said Malika, leaning in. “Because it’s not as if Sera and I didn’t celebrate a battle victory by dancing on these very tables with boots covered in dragon blood last week or anything.”  

Blackwall laughed, but then turned serious. “Wait. Where did they hide Sera today? I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to miss this. Rich folk parading about to show off their money. A chance to put salt in the sugar pot. Seems like something she’d be interested in.”

Malika giggled. “Josephine didn’t want to risk scaring off the donations. She made it clear that she was to stay out of sight for the remainder of the diplomats’ visit. I think she brought in some special equipment for her and Dagna to experiment with in the underforge to bribe them and keep them busy.”

Blackwall frowned. “The underforge that’s right below the Great Hall?”

“I don’t know of another underforge in Skyhold, though I admit I’m always turning a corner to find new places I hadn’t seen before. Did you know we have a whole room filled with nothing but coin? I wondered where Josie was keeping it all, but I could have buried myself in all of it, can you even believe it?”

Blackwall didn’t seem impressed with the news of the vault. “I don’t think that was the best idea Josephine has ever had.”

“Excuse me,” Josephine cut in. “I would remind you that I can still hear you two. You’re not being very sneaky. And just why was my idea not a good one? Sera would only get underfoot and cause mayhem and you know it. So I gave her something else to do today. I can hardly see what the problem would-”

The ground shook beneath them, porcelain cups rattled in their saucers, cream pots spilled over. The crowd at the table gripped the edges of their seats and looked around, the sections of their faces that were showing from beneath their masks showed panick.

“An earthquake?” one man cried out.

“A dragon?”

“Corypheus!”

“Sera!” they all heard shouted from the door that lead to the underforge.

The heavy door burst open and something black and smouldering came rushing out. Malika jumped to her feet and pulled the dagger she kept in her belt out, ready for a fight.

“Put me out! Put me out!” the smoking figure said.

“Put her out! Put her out!” Dagna said as she appeared at the top of the steps, out of breath and chasing after.

Not missing a beat, Malika snatched the saucer of milk near her and sloshed the liquid in it to douse the flames.

After the smoke had cleared and the person had wiped the dripping, ashy milk from their eyes, Malika could see her. “Sera?”

Sera blinked more milk from her eyes, the rest of her face black, her hair soggy and singed. “None other! Nothin’ to worry about. Just a little burnt.” Her voice was loud, as if shouting over the boom that no longer rang through the halls.

Dagna was one step behind, somewhat singed herself. “We didn’t mean to interrupt. Just a mishap with the rune maker.”

“Did you know that you can’t enchant a rune that’s already enchanted? Well now we know! That’s good information innit?” She grinned, her white teeth bright against her charred face.

“Come on, Sera, let’s make sure the rest of the fire’s out.” Dagna steered her away, Sera a little clumsy on her feet.

“Hey just think,” they heard Sera say as they disappeared down the staircase. “Won’t need to trim my fringe for a while, yeah?” Laughter echoed down the chamber as the door closed behind them.

Once they were gone, Malika turned to face the party, knowing she was in trouble. The Inquisitor took responsibility for her people. She took a deep breath before looking up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure you all weren’t expecting this interruption today, I’ll make sure-” but she stopped.

All of the guests were stifling laughter behind their gloved hands.

“Quite entertaining,” Madame Sabine said. “I had no idea there would be a show. I was wondering when this party would pick up.”

Josephine took no time before smiling. “Yes of course. We’re glad you were entertained.” She clapped absently. “Now, I believe we have some business to discuss before we finish up the meeting.”

Malika took her seat again, sheathing her dagger and scooping her cake into one of the cloth napkins before anyone looked at her.

Blackwall didn’t miss a beat and tapped her knee under the table. “I bet we could make an excuse that you need to wash your hands after spilling that milk,” he said.

Malika’s eyes went wide in gratitude. “You know, you’re smarter than you look.”

“There’s a compliment in there somewhere, I’m sure of it,” he said as he took her sticky hand and helped her out of her seat. Together they snuck through the door that lead to her chambers, hand in sticky hand.

Interested in the Carving Block Writers Collective? Check out the intro post here.

[fenris]

the inquisitor and da4

Before delving into things, I’d like to make it clear that I’m not trying to rag on the Trespasser DLC in any way. In fact, I really enjoyed it. I also know that there was a quote floating around here from someone with Bioware who apparently stated that the Inquisitor won’t be playable in the next game (I can’t find the source or the exact quote right now), but I just wanted to give my two cents anyway.

How did the Trespasser DLC ensure that the Inquisitor would no longer be the playable protagonist? If anything, it only gave me the impression that the Inquisitor would be playing a major role in the next game. Wasn’t Trespasser being advertised as the ‘end’ of the Inquisition? I’m not saying they should have killed the Inquisitor off, but that would at least have been a definite ending to the Inquisitor’s story and would have effectively barred them off as the main character in Dragon Age 4. 

Having the Inquisitor return would make sense because, in a way, they are partially responsible for Solas:

Inquisitor: This war proved that we can’t go back to the way things were. I’ll try to help this world move forward.

Solas: You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t? What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?

Inquisitor: I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again.

Solas: Just like that?

Inquisitor: If we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right.

Solas: You’re right. Thank you. You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have… impressed me. You have offered hope that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave, that someday, things will be better.

While Solas was already planning to destroy the world by allowing Corypheus to find his orb, his plans were foiled when Corypheus didn’t actually die. Thus, he was forced to find another way to regain his power. The Inquisitor inspired Solas to keep trying to rectify his mistakes. So yes, the consequences of doing so will be grave, but he must persist to make up for creating the Veil, no matter what. That being said, the Inquisitor cannot directly be blamed for what Solas is planning, but they should feel at least feel that it is their duty to stop him and once again save the world.

Sure, Leliana and the Inquisitor both agree that it would be best to find people that Solas doesn’t know since he is familiar with all of their faces and tactics, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the Inquisitor will be staying on the sidelines while someone new goes after him. When speaking to Solas at the end of the DLC, the Inquisitor makes it sound like they will personally find a way to stop Solas from destroying the world:

Inquisitor: You don’t have to destroy the world. I’ll prove it to you.

Solas: I welcome the chance to be wrong once again, my friend.

OR Inquisitor: If I live, I’m coming to stop you.

Solas: I know.

To me, Solas’ response to the first option even sounds like a direct invitation for the Inquisitor to try. Also, wouldn’t it make more sense narratively to have the Inquisitor confront Solas at the end of the next game? I think it would be likely that Solas would respond more positively to the Inquisitor than to someone he doesn’t really know. If you manage to get Solas’ approval high enough, he even tells you that he has great respect for the Inquisitor, so obviously, if anyone could persuade him, it’d be them. 

Solas even likens himself to the Inquisitor:

Solas: I was Solas first. “Fen’Harel” came later... An insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies... Not unlike “Inquisitor,” I suppose.

Solas: You also know the burden of a title that all but replaces your name.

Wouldn’t it be more fitting, then, for them to be the one actively working to find and confront Solas once and for all? Not to mention that having the Inquisitor be the one to face Solas in DA4 would also offer more closure to those who romanced him.

All Bioware really did was have the Inquisitor lose the forearm that the Anchor was attached to. Don’t tell me they expect us to believe that losing an arm means they can no longer go after Solas. Dragon Age is a series that has magic, dragons, elves... need I go on? My point is, implying that it’s not realistic for the Inquisitor to be returning as the playable protagonist in DA4 merely because of what happened to their arm is ridiculous. They can’t think of a way to give the Inquisitor some sort of prosthetic that will help them fight? Dagna exists! If anyone can invent something that can help the Inquisitor, it would be Dagna. Cullen even says that Dagna "crafts the impossible every day,” so... there you go. 

I know some think that DA4 will give you the choice to have either the new protagonist or the Inquisitor confront Solas, but that seems unlikely. Having the Inquisitor decide for your character or having the protagonist tell the Inquisitor what to do won’t be very gratifying. If anything, I can see Bioware coming up with a scenario in which the protagonist and the Inquisitor both confront Solas, which will result in the protagonist having to battle Solas with assistance from the Inquisitor. That would be a very cheap and cliché ending, if I’m being honest. I know that Bioware isn’t really one for originality, and their writing tends to contradict itself quite a bit, but I want to give them the benefit of doubt.

I’m also aware that the tradition for the Dragon Age series is that each game will have a new protagonist, but honestly if Bioware wanted that to happen, they shouldn’t have ended Trespasser the way they did. It was too open-ended to keep the Inquisitor from returning as the main protagonist. I hope that I don’t give the impression that I’m just really attached to the Inquisitor (the Warden is my favorite hero, personally). All I’m saying is that it would make for a much interesting and compelling story if the Inquisitor were to continue as the main character in the next game. 

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 44. In which a wolf struggles against taming

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The horses were exhausted by the time they finally stopped for the night. They were only a half-day's ride out now, and Solas nearly growled with anticipation. These mages, these fiends who had taken his friend, they would pay for their insolence.

"It's going to be alright, Solas. We'll get there. We just need to let the horses rest for a few hours."

Solas gave her a tight smile. "I know, lethallan. It's just... hard to be easy when you know a friend is in danger."

She gave him a sympathetic smile as she removed the saddle and groomed her horse. Solas did the same. Then she began gathering sticks and twigs to start a fire.

"I could just cast a warming spell over us if you like."

Evana paused to look at him strangely. "You can do that while you sleep?"

"It's a spell I developed for sleeping in cold places when I'm exploring the Fade. Much like a ward, once cast, it will remain in effect for several hours. Long enough for us to get some sleep. The only problem is that the area of effect is... rather small. It would require us to sleep closely."

She looked down, and he could practically feel her discomfort. After a small pause, he started helping her pick up branches.

"Or, we could build a fire."

She gave him a sheepish smile. "Ma serannas, lethallin."

Solas merely tilted his head. He berated himself for feeling disappointed. It was ridiculous. But as the days and weeks marched on, his affection for her only seemed to grow - and all this despite the unmistakable fact that she had been claimed by their commander. He'd been surprised by her attraction to a shemlen, but he'd been more surprised that she'd acted on it. It wasn't his place to judge, though. Neither was it his place to keep her warm at night.

It didn't mean he didn't want to.

With the flick of her wrist, fire burst to life between her fingers, and she lit the branches they'd collected in a pile in the middle of the clearing. Soon a blazing fire fought back the dark chill of the night, and they threw out their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire. The horses stood nearby, dining on withered grasses as far as out as their tethers would allow. Solas and Evana then walked around the perimeter setting wards so they wouldn't need to take watches.

They settled down, and Solas expected to fall asleep immediately. The crackle of the fire, however, kept him just on the edge of sleep. He opened his eyes to see her facing him, eyes closed in apparent slumber. Because they typically used tents when traveling as a group, Solas had never had an opportunity to study her features so closely. Now, however, with her slumbering face slack and open to him, he found himself memorizing her features. The smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that had grown more pronounced since they'd spent more time outside. The soft, natural purse of her lips. The slight upturn of her thin nose.

He wasn't sad that she'd chosen another. Not really. Even if he'd given in to his early feelings and attempted to woo her, he wouldn't have been able to stay with her. His mission was too important. He must retrieve the orb from Corypheus, no matter the cost, and she offered him his best chance. That she also happened to turn his head around and muddle his brain was of no consequence. It merely revealed his weakness.

He forced his eyes to close and gradually slipped into the Fade.

 **

 Excitement built inside him as Solas realized he'd never traveled this part of the Fade before. Here in the Dales, there were many ancient memories of elves and wars and marches. Although he loved seeing the here and now, the "then" of every new location was a never ending well of new memories, secrets and explorations. The knowledge of his friend in danger, however, tempered the excitement.

Nevertheless, he stood on a pathway and let the memories slip past him, sifting through the ones he might want to step into. As he watched the ghosts of scenes change before him, a snippet of a faint but alluring tune caught his ear. Memories forgotten in favor this new mystery, he turned to follow a path behind him, and the voice grew louder - and more familiar - as he approached. He crested a hill and, as he'd expected, found Evana lying on a grassy river bank, singing an old elven tune to herself. The melody differed slightly from what he remembered, but her voice rang out confident and beautiful. She appeared to be in her traditional Dalish robes, and her silver hair spilled out behind her in a halo as she absently mangled a stalk of prairie grass in her fingers. She seemed unaware of his presence, and the secrets of the Dales slipped by him unnoticed as he focused on her completely.

Solas had observed her several times as they dreamed side-by-side during their travels, but he'd only interacted with her once shortly after they arrived at Skyhold. In the dream ruins of Haven, they'd spoken of his time watching over her after she had been spit out of a Fade rift but before she'd regained consciousness. Then she'd cornered him about a turn of phrase, a careless use of the word felt, and his world had shifted yet again, only for her to end by calling him a good friend - the first time she'd used the word in reference to him. Then he'd blurted out how much she threw him off, affected him, and essentially pushed her out of the dream to cover his lack of composure. He had not attempted to find her in the Fade since then.

Even now, he knew he should leave, but he always felt a little bolder in the Fade. He also trusted her forthrightness. If she didn't want to speak with him in her dream, she would tell him.

The sun hung high in the sky and became clearer as he walked more fully into her dreamscape. All at once, the sounds of summer surrounded him - the buzz of insects, the gurgle of the river and her voice now humming the tune instead of singing. She turned her eyes to him as he neared her, and a brief look of confusion passed over her face.

"It is me, lethallan," he assured her in a quiet voice. "I heard you singing and came to listen. You have a wonderful voice."

She blushed but remained lying in the grass. He took it as a sign of her comfort and relaxed a bit himself.

"I... I know," she replied. "I felt you, but..." After a moment, she shook her head and gestured to the space next to her. "Will you not sit with me?"

A slight shock of surprise rippled through him at her admission, but outwardly, he simply smiled and sat down next to her. "Certainly."

"You've never visited me in the Fade while we're traveling," she finally explained. "Wouldn't you rather be out there searching for more secrets?"

"I would, but..." Solas felt a strange need to be as honest with her as possible. He couldn't about everything, but in this one thing... "It feels wrong to enjoy the pleasures of discovering new memories and places when my friend is in distress."

"Then you'll stay and keep me company?"

Solas smiled again. It was always so easy to do around her.

"Of course. I do have some questions for you, if I may?"

She gave him a surprised look but then smiled. "I'll answer them as best I can. What would you like to know?"

He took a moment to glance around him. She had not really changed the geography of their location, only a true dreamer could do that - but she had made it still, more real. The sun felt warm on his face and the grass slightly damp as he leaned back on his palms.

"What were you like before the anchor? Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your... spirit?"

"I don't believe so, but - I'm not sure how I would know if it had."

"Ah. Yes. That is an excellent point."

"Why do you ask?"

Solas sighed almost imperceptibly. "You show a wisdom I have not seen since... since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected."

Evana looked away from him, a slight tinge of pink forming on her cheeks. "I don't think of myself as different from anyone."

That frustrated him. Modesty did no one any good. Perhaps she truly didn't see it?

"Not in the form of your body, no. Most people are predictable, but you have shown subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours... have I misjudged them?"

Evana sighed. "I certainly don't hold the Dalish up as perfect. Most of the Dalish I know care more about impressing other hunters with a good shot or talking about how awful humans are. They care little for knowing the truth."

"But you would know the truth, even if it conflicted with what you had been raised to believe?"

"I don't know that I ever truly believed the things I was raised with - especially not after my first meeting with other clans at the Arlathvhen. When we come together, all we do is fight over whose version of the truth is ‘right.' How can we hold up our old ways when we don't try to reconcile these legends with real history? What do we have but glorified bedtime stories? That's why I tried to read as much from non-elven writers as possible, even though it eventually caused... trouble. My version - my understanding of elven history - is much different than that of my clan. And you have only added to that knowledge, lethallin. For all that you have shown me, I thank you."

It was a moment before he could respond. Her answers, her insight into the world, her practicality all clashed with what he'd come to know of modern elves. When he finally spoke, he couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Perhaps that is it, then. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world... but not you."

"So what does this mean to you?"

Thoughts roiled through his mind as warmth bloomed in his chest. It frustrated him that she could have this effect on him. Why did she have to be so intriguing? So unique? He wanted to kiss her as she lay there on the grass, but even at his bravest, here in the Fade, he wasn't so foolish as to think it would be welcomed. She had gone out of her way to demonstrate friendship. Nothing more, nothing less. He looked away from her eyes. Those familiar eyes. The eyes that reminded him of a time long past.

"It means that I will always respect you, Evana, no matter what may happen in the future."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sit up slowly, a concerned look on her face. "Does... does this have anything to do with the secret you hold?"

Solas turned quickly to look at her, a sliver of panic running through him. But her calm demeanor told him he had nothing to fear.

"Yet another example of your discernment and wisdom. Yes, in a way, it does. Once our work is done, I must continue, alone, on my own journey. I cannot say more."

Her eyes bore into him, and for the first time in eons, Solas had a strong urge to confide his secrets in this uncommon elven spirit. It would be a mistake, but it was one he almost wished to make. With her by his side...

No. What I have to do must be done alone. Once they recovered the orb from Corypheus, he must take it and leave the Inquisition.

In another moment, her face had turned from concerned to accepting. "I understand. Each of us has a path. We may not choose it, but it is ours to walk, regardless. Mine is with the Inquisition until I'm no longer needed."

The urge to kiss her, especially now that she sat so close to him, grew stronger. He forced himself to look away from her and out across the river.

"Yes."

A long pause settled between them before she spoke again. Her voice was small and hesitant.

"I know you said you'd rather not right now, but maybe some other time, you could show me how you walk the Fade - how to find the memories?"

He felt the warmth in his chest grow. "I don't feel right walking and enjoying the Fade, but teaching you to safely engage with memories would not be a conflict. Come, lethallan."

He saw the familiar spark of excitement in her eye as she stood and looked up at him. That ardor for learning was one of the many things that endeared her to him. They spent the remainder of their dreaming hours wandering the Fade together. Solas showed her how he let go of the concrete to allow the memories to take shape around him. She had trouble with this at first, but at his coaxing and direction, she gradually began to point out slivers of memories. Solas then showed her how to focus on a memory so she could watch it play out before her or even step into the memory itself. For this first foray, he deliberately chose the benign memories. Perhaps if they traveled together again, he would let her go deeper into the memories. Deeper memories, however, carried more risk of running into demons, and he warned to not go too far on her own.

After many hours, Solas felt the tug of wakefulness. He turned to find that Evana had disappeared, so he closed his eyes and willed himself to wake. His eyes opened to see her staring at him over the dying fire, frost catching on the tips of her strangely dark lashes. A gleam in her eye and the slight smile on her face spoke her gratitude, and he warmed under her attention. But the smile faded as she sat up.

"Ma serannas, Solas. Once again, you have been my guide in learning more about our world."

"Any time, lethallan."

She tilted her head in acknowledgement, and then her face fell further into a look of concern as her eyes turned up into the darkened sky. A faint hint of light played at the eastern horizon.

"Dawn approaches," she murmured. "We should break camp."

Solas disarmed the wards as Evana mixed some heated water with dried porridge. To simplify, they both ate out of the same small bowl, taking turns tipping the bowl up for a bite. Then, they quickly saddled their horses and set out west.

They rode for several hours until the trees began to thin out and large rock formations jutted out of the ground. It was nearly midday when they finally reached the location Solas thought they would find his friend. As they approached, a purplish light shone over a small hill. He dismounted and began running. He crested the hill to find a giant pride demon bound in a small clearing.

"My friend!"

Evana gasped and turned to him. The sadness in her face mirrored his own.

"The mages turned your friend into a demon."

Solas could only growl out a, "yes."

"You said it was a spirit of wisdom, not a fighter."

He was beside himself. Although he knew he'd regret it later, he couldn't help his angry tone.

"A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose."

Evana nodded in understanding. "So they summoned it for something opposed to its own nature, and it was corrupted. Fighting, maybe?"

As they spoke, a man in mage robes approached them. Solas could barely hold back his anger. If he were at his full power...

"Let us ask them!" he growled.

The mage spoke before Evana could. "Mages! You're not with the bandits? Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted. We've been fighting that demon..."

Solas thought his head might explode. "You summoned that demon! Except it was a spirit of wisdom at the time. You made it kill! You twisted it against its purpose."

"I- I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can-"

Solas seethed through his teeth. "We're not here to help you."

Evana held up a hand to the mage. "A word of advice? I'd hold off on explaining how demons work to my friend here."

The mage threw his hands up. "Listen to me! I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle-"

He'd had enough. "Shut. Up. You summoned it to protect you from the bandits."

Finally, the mage hung his head. "I- yes."

"You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. That is when it turned." He turned to Evana, the realization dawning on him. "It's the summoning circle. If we break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon."

The mage became panicked. "What? The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now."

Solas turned to Evana. "Inquisitor... Evana, please."

She placed her hand on his arm briefly, reassurance permeating her tone. "I've studied rituals like these. I should be able to disrupt the binding quickly."

Solas breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you. We must hurry!"

But she was already off and running toward the demon as the mage ran in the opposite direction. Solas took a very brief moment to admire her courage and skill as they quickly destroyed the bindings holding the pride demon while dodging the giant's lightning attacks. As the final binding tower was destroyed, he watched as the demon dissolved into his familiar friend, wisdom. He crouched down before his friend, holding back tears as he spoke.

"Lethallin, ir abelas."

"I'm not sorry. I'm happy. I'm me again. Ma melava halani. Now you must endure. Guide me into death."

Solas had to look away. This isn't how it's supposed to be! Wisdom must endure, not die at the hands of bumbling fools! Finally, he looked back at his friend.

"Ma nuvenin."

He raised his hands and concentrated on guiding wisdom to the next stage, whatever that might be. The spirit's form gradually fell away in the wind until he was left staring at the river bank beyond. Wisdom was dead.

"Dareth shiral, ma falon."

He could feel Evana's presence behind him, but she said nothing. He was again overwhelmed by how much he'd come to trust and rely on her guidance. She held the wisdom in his life now. Finally, he rose from the ground and turned to her. Her eyes glistened with tears as she spoke.

"I heard what it said. It was right. You did help it."

Solas hung his head. "And now, I must endure."

She approached him and placed her hand on his arm. Her touch burned him, and yet he craved more. A deep longing to pull her into an embrace rolled through him. Her soft, kind words did nothing to alleviate the desire.

"Let me know if I can help."

"You already have, lethallan."

He gave her a wane smile, but as he looked over her shoulder, he suddenly saw the mages responsible for this mess, for killing his friend. Fury burst into a flame within him, but he kept his voice a low growl.

"All that remains now is them."

The mages approached now and the same man they'd spoken to before stepped forward. "Thank you. We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected."

He'd barely finished speaking before something snapped inside Solas. These fools would pay. They could not be allowed to continue summoning innocent spirits! He stalked toward them threateningly.

"You! You tortured and killed my friend!"

The mage cowered before him and Solas reveled in the power. This was familiar. This was right. But the mage was speaking again. Why did it keep speaking?

"We didn't know it was just a spirit! The book said it could help us!"

Uncaring, Solas raised his staff and began an immolation spell. They would burn for this. Somewhere behind him, though, a soft voice cut through his rage.

"Solas..."

He froze, breath coming in short gasps. One more twist of his wrist and they would be gone... but he dropped his staff to his side instead. The spell fizzled with only a slight shimmer in the air indicating the power he could have unleashed on them. His voice, filled with every ounce of venom he could manage, spit out the only words he could think of.

"Never. Again. If I ever hear of you summoning spirits again, I will find you. And I will kill you."

The mages turned and ran, and part of Solas wanted to run after them, to strike them down. But her soft presence held him steady. The rage, however, had not been quenched. He couldn't even turn to face her.

"I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold."

And without another word, he mounted his horse and rode away from her. She could not help him now.