#they were both in lothering together. i wonder if they talk about it sometimes

[abyssal-ilk]

thinking about sten again. thinking about him calling the warden kadan and never explaining what it means. thinking about him offering to take the warden back with him to par vollen, but it's never actually an option the warden takes, even if you agree. thinking about how sten responds the best to a warden who stands their ground even if he doesn't agree with them. thinking about how he loves sweets and art, and how he plays with kittens. "it's training," he says. but come on. he's playing. thinking about what else he's had to justify to himself for liking.

and he calls alistair kadan! shale as well! do you think it was ever extended to the other party members? just,, agh

[ghostwise]

In the days following his final encounter with Danarius, Fenris seeks no company or conversation, yet both seem to find him regardless.

One by one his friends stop by unprompted, bringing food as well as their sympathy. He’s beginning to suspect they’ve devised a schedule for this, making sure someone comes around at least once a day to check on him. So when another knock comes at the door, and he is too tired to even feel anger, Fenris just curls further into his chair, deciding to ignore it.

The fireplace casts long shadows across the hall. The knock comes again, more urgent than before, and he groans, pressing his palms over his eyes. Today is not the day for this.

The truth is, he doesn’t have it in him to feign gratitude or play the part others are expecting of him. He doesn’t need to talk, as talking won’t change anything (contrary to what Renata thinks). He doesn’t need to get away, as his circumstances will be the same anywhere he goes (and Aveline’s voice rings clear in his mind, reminding him that her intervention is the only thing standing between him and a speedy eviction).

When did so much of himself become tied up in other people? It mortifies him. He cannot simply be.

He’s in a poor state, he knows that much. And again that blasted knocking—

Fenris rises abruptly, and finds that he’s shaking. He’ll tell whoever it is to come again another day. A man needs peace and quiet after what he’s been through. Surely they’ll understand that.

He opens the door, not knowing what he’ll say, just hoping it won’t be too unkind—and stops, seeing Leandra at the threshold.

Fenris sighs, and the fight goes out of him. The one person he could never turn away.

“I see my girls were right to be concerned,” Leandra says, looking him up and down. “Well. Won’t you give me a hand with this? It’s awfully heavy—and careful, it’s hot.”

He glances down to see a basket containing a stoneware pot, steaming, on the ground beside her. Wordlessly, he picks it up, and the scent of garlic and spices reaches him. It makes him a bit queasy. He hasn’t had much of an appetite, but he nods politely, stepping aside to let the older woman in.

“Thank you, my dear,” Leandra says. She lifts a hand towards him, then, thinking better of it, lets it fall at her side.

If he had known Leandra was coming, he would have tidied. She follows him quietly into the parlor, where he sets the basket down, and gestures to one of the seats beside the fire.

Leandra sits, and tucks a curl behind her ear. The movement draws Fenris’ eyes to the scar left there four years prior, that night in the foundry. They had come so close to losing her then, and the memory still makes him angry. Yet another thing magic nearly tore from him.

But she does not waste time. Hands folded neatly in her lap, she speaks.

“Renata told me what happened.”

“I see.”

Fenris sits down and laces his fingers together, looking at the unswept floor.

“I understand that you value your privacy,” Leandra continues, “But she’s worried about you. We all are. After all you’ve done for us… As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. That means you don’t have to go through anything alone.”

Fenris looks up at her, brow furrowed, not knowing what to say. This conversation is far beyond his means right now. Her words seem to float at a distance. He can’t grasp them, or relate to them, though he comprehends them on a surface level. He is beginning to wish he had turned her away at the door.

“Shall we eat?” he asks, feeling her eyes on him. He is not hungry, but at least his way he’ll have an excuse for not speaking.

Leandra has prepared a stew of spiced meat and tender potatoes. Little porcelain plates quickly produce themselves from the basket, and she readily fills two of these with the hot homemade food. She pours blackberry and anise cordial for them, and Fenris quietly thanks her, accepting his meal.

They eat in silence for a time. Long enough that the tension settles, and things almost seem normal. Except, of course, they never were normal to begin with.

“I love blackberries,” Leandra says, breaking the quiet. “I remember climbing the ivy-covered trellises of my neighbor’s house as a girl, just to pick the largest ones out of their garden.”

“They must have been tall,” Fenris says, staring squarely into his plate.

“No,” Leandra says, smiling. “I was just rather small. You may have guessed already, but my children definitely take after their father in their height.” She chuckles, as if proud of them, a small woman surrounded by a family of giants.

Fenris doesn’t smile, but he does think about ghosts.

Malcolm Hawke’s ghost has been a presence in his life ever since he met the man’s family, years ago. Sometimes he swears he could picture Malcolm in his mind’s eye, just from how often his family spoke of him. In fact, Leandra once insisted that Malcolm would have loved Fenris just as much as she did. But how could she know that for certain?

Fenris feels haunted. His life is full of ghosts now, including his own. Malcolm and Leto tormenting him.

He sets his plate aside, doubting his ability to keep the food down.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Fenris asks.

“Certainly.”

“Why did you leave your home for him?”

Fenris risks a glance upwards, and expects to see surprise on Leandra’s face, but she just looks at him thoughtfully. There’s no judgment in that face. He can ask her about such things without hurting her or being hurt, so he feels a surge of certainty, and continues.

“Why did you leave your family, your country, everything you’ve known—for a mage? Love is one thing, but his mere existence as an apostate meant he was endangering you by virtue of knowing you. I just need to understand. What form of love is that?”

Leandra sips at her cordial.

“The kind that stands in defiance of every other force in the universe.”

Fenris looks away, dissatisfied by the answer. Now it is Leandra’s turn to speak her mind.

“Love is just sunlight, Fenris; it cannot help that it shines. What we do with it—there’s the tricky part. Too much sunlight burns. Too little, and we wither. No warmth. No blackberry bushes. Of course there’s danger. Danger lurks in all things. That’s life. But the berry is still sweet.”

She punctuates this with another sip of cordial. This time, she’s stalling, carefully deliberating what she’s about to say.

“... But listen to me, please, just a moment longer: You need to find peace, for your own sake. You need not forgive your family. You need not even forgive mages. But find a way to move forward, while giving the pain the attention it needs—and no more. You are the one that matters. You are the one that deserves to know peace.”

Fenris is very quiet, and Leandra peers down into her drink, feeling that perhaps she has said too much.

The truth is, her heart is deeply broken for this boy. 

She cannot fathom the things he has endured. She wishes desperately she could reach through time and pluck him away before any of his suffering occurred. Four little children could have been in that home, with her and Malcolm. It would have been just fine.

She thinks about all those years in Lothering. She considers that if Fenris ever has children, they could very well be mages themselves. She remembers washing Carver’s dresses when he was a child, and wonders what he’s doing now, out there in the frightening world. She prays he is not alone.

Suddenly Fenris is kneeling in front of her, handing her a clean handkerchief.

“I am sorry,” he says, genuinely concerned. “I should not have pried.”

Leandra hadn’t even realized she was crying. Embarrassed, she wipes away her tears, before surprising him by pulling him into a hug.

“Nonsense!” she says, feeling him hesitate, then lean into the embrace. “You have nothing to apologize for, my dear, sweet, brave boy.”

[aria-i-adagio]

30 Day DA OC Challenge, Day 19: Courtship

Day 19: Courtship

Does your OC get involved romantically or sexually with anybody? When do they first fall for them or get involved? If they fall in love, when does it happen? Does the relationship last?

Anders! (And yes, it lasts, for better or worse.)

[most of this is a repeat from this post]

I tend to go with the idea that no matter what romance route is played that Anders has at least some romantic interest in Hawke from Act 1. But after Karl’s death, I think there’s a combination of both not being ready and believing that he’s too dangerous for anyone to be in a relationship with him.

Adrian was interested in Anders from very early on. An oddly attractive man with a ‘sexy, tortured look’ develops into honest admiration of the fact that Anders is one of the few people in Kirkwall who’s actually interested in doing something good. But he’s A) used to playing his cards close to his chest (as while Ferelden may not particularly care about same-sex relationships, there does seem to be something of an expectation that such relationships shouldn’t get in the way of family expectations and making children, Leandra has definitely messed with his head, etc.), and B) he’s a small, somewhat insecure ball of anxiety who’s afraid of rejection. He also very good at repressing things, so for most of Act 1, he’s in denial of being interested beyond a “yep, that one’s handsome.”

However, have a show rather than tell.

Hawke has determined that he does not like the Deep Roads. And he hates Bartrand. Who the fuck does that? Leaves their brother to die over a chunk of stone, or whatever that idol was made of?

You let your brother die. You left him.

That was different. I couldn’t protect him. I tried, I swear.

Bethany sneaks up on him from behind and loops her arm through his. She leans her head on his shoulder. “Carver was already dead, ‘Dri.”

He knows that she can’t actually read minds, but sometimes he wonders whether she picked the skill up somewhere. Or maybe it’s a little sister thing. He stops walking and tilts his head to the side, touching his cheek to her hair. “I should have -”

“If any of us could have, we would have.” Bethany pats the other side of his face. “Look about, is this a decently safe place?”

The Deep Roads do require a qualifier for the word safe. Adrian lifts his head and glances around. Ahead, there’s a bridge over a chasm. If it’s sturdy enough, it will give them good lines of sight and walls on two sides. “Ahead will do.”

“Thanks, ‘Dri.” Bethany lets go of his arm and jogs ahead to where Varric and Anders are walking together, both with their weapons in hand, reasoning that if Anders could sense darkspawn, Varric might be able to take them down with Bianca before they got too close. Or thin them out. “Hey. Think it’s night yet?”

“You’re the only Sunshine I see. What’s your opinion?”

“That I’m tired.”

Varric looks around and shrugs. “Then it’s night. Might as well make camp.”

Hawke keeps watch well after they've eaten a sad and meager (who knows how long they'll be searching for an exit now?) meal of hard bread. Bethany told him that he didn't need to; the glyphs she and Anders had set on either end of the bridge would last far past the time Varric's little clockwork watch was set to come. But he couldn't talk himself into following her advice. Darkspawn had killed Carver. They were not going to take Bethany from him.

He isn't the only one still awake. Anders had laid out his bedroll as close to the fire as he could, and he huddles close to the glow of the embers. He’d panicked when Bartrand swung the door closed on in, and once it became clear that neither Varric nore Hawke would be able to pick the locking mechanism, cast multiple spells at the door before giving up on the idea of breaking through it by force. The mage had been quiet since, not even Varric had been able to draw him out.

"You alright?"

Anders lifts his face. There are always dark circles around his eyes, but they look worse in the low light of the fire. "I hate the Deep Roads."

"You could have said no." Hawke asked him to come because he had experience with the Deep Roads, and Darkspawn, and according to what was said of the Grey Wardens would be able to sense them ahead of time. "I would have understood."

Anders smiles grimly. "They're worse without a cat."

"You should try to sleep."

"You should too. Those glyphs I set were designed by a Warden mage. They're strong. This spot is as safe as it's going to get."

"Good to know." Hawke lies down, unsure whether he'll sleep, or just rest his eyes and listen for trouble. "Hey, Anders -"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for coming with me."

"Well, I'm here now."

It might have been an hour, it might have been two, and Hawke might have fallen asleep, or he might have been awake the whole time, but his eyes snap open the moment he hears something other than the crackling of coals. A low, distressed groan and panicked, incoherent mumbling. Hawke opens his eyes. There’s just enough of a glow left in the few embers to see Anders rolling over fitfully, flinging his arm out, nearly managing to catch his fingers in what’s left of the fire. His other arm falls over his mouth, muffling what might have been a scream if allowed to escape.

Hawke tosses off his blanket and crawls across the pavers to him. As he pulls Anders outstretched arm back from the fire, the mage’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright with a gasp, forehead knocking against Hawke’s chin.

“Hey there. You were dreaming.”

“I can hear them.” Anders curls forward, draws his long legs against his chest, and wraps his arms around his knees. “I can still hear it.”

"Hear what? The darkspawn?"

Anders doesn't respond with words, he just goes limp and slumps to the side. Adrian catches him and lets him lean his head against his shoulder. He's perfectly still for a minute, then awkwardly runs his hand through the mage's hair, not entirely sure Anders is awake enough to know where he is, much less who's holding him.

"Take a few deep breaths, okay?" Adrian wraps his other arm around Anders' and pats his shoulder. His joke about Anders 'sexy, tortured look' didn't seem quite as funny at the moment. "Nothing has tripped the glyphs you set. We're okay."

Anders' breathing calms, at least a little. "It's so dark. I can't do this again. I can't."

"I'd build back up the fire for you, but there's no fuel left." Varric had carefully gathered a certain dry fungus from the walls of the cages as they walked. It was the only combustible material available. "Do you hear them more, in the dark?"

"Or I hear nothing in the dark. Not a sound, not a word. I'm alone in it again, and..." The pitch and volume of his voice begins to rise and on instinct, Adrian hugs him tightly. Maker, the poor man is miserable. Hawke never would have asked him to come if he had only known.

Anders shudders and hiccups. "I can't be alone in the dark."

"I'm here." What happened to Anders that made the dark so terrifying? The Deep Roads themselves weren't always dark. Parts were. Other parts were lit by the glow of some sort of marvelous dwarven lamps that still worked after centuries. This wasn't one of those areas, and the lower the embers grow, the more Anders trembles. Without really noticing it, Adrian begins to rub his back and whisper in his ear, the way he sometimes had when one or the other of the twins woke with a childhood nightmare.

He doesn't know Anders well. It's maybe been three or four months since he sought him out to get the maps of the Deep Roads. He's good to know though - a good man. Bethany agrees. And Varric had taken the mage under his wing; Hawke knew the dwarf was paying off the Carta to leave the Darktown clinic alone.

Anders is also handsome in his own way, devilishly funny, and flirtatious, despite the very sad look he gets in his eyes if someone mentions the word Tranquil. 'I hadn't seen him in years,' Anders said, the one time Adrian got him to talk. 'But you know how it is, with first loves.'

Adrian does not actually know how it is with first loves. What relationships he had in Lothering weren't love affairs, just temporary flings with a presumed end date. A Ferelden freeholder needs a wife, needs children to help him work the land. It's just the way of things. No sense in getting too attached.

Like he's getting attached to this mage who hides years of sadness underneath dry humor. Anders has put himself back together a few times already, and right now, the cracks are showing.

"Lay back down. I'll stay with you."

It takes a few more shivers and hiccups before Anders does stretch his long limbs back out. Adrian intends to just sit next to him, maybe keep their fingers together, but Anders pulls at his arm until he lies down beside him on the narrow bedroll, on his side with his head cushioned on his folded arm. Adrian hesitantly strokes Anders' hair, and when that earns him a soft sigh, loops his free arm around the other man and snuggles a bit closer.

After all, it's not just dark in the Deep Roads, it's damn chilly as well. That’s what he tells himself.

When Varric’s little mechanical clock chimes a fake morning, Hawke still curled up around Anders, and Bethany is smirking at him.

[your-shield-of-love]

I wanna write or see an AU where Varric notices Hawke and the Inquisitor having similar mannerisms and speech. Like exact copies and their priorities are similar, he doesn't know how to think about it and wonders if it's a hero thing.

But then one day, Inquisitor tries to protect him from a really bad attack, similar in a way Hawke did years ago. When the two are communicating, it's like they're the same person. And that sticks with Varric, he starts noticing more and more similarities between the two. The Inquisitor often coming to him for advice or just a simple chat and seems to be a bit sad when they do.

Varric doesn't know what to believe until Cole says something, (Okay so I probably am not the best at doing a Cole impression, but here goes).

"Playing the game, a new story, a new cast. Except him. But different, no longer a pair. Have to watch from afar, still caring for him so. Wish a pick pocket would come. Hoping, wondering,

Why can't I fly like the Hawke?"

Varric, understanding the ramblings of Cole, goes to Hawke, always ending up with Hawke. He checks on them, they're the same, but something is missing, maybe it's the time spent away from Kirkwall that's changed Hawke or being away from (Romantic interest). Maybe they're different because - somehow - it's not the same person as before.

Sitting at his desk, the Inquisitor approaching to chat but waiting till he's done writing his letters. Varric deciding to test the waters a bit.

"... You know what would help me find red lyrium? Dog. It was always helpful in sniffing out the bad shit."

Hawke would've responded, "*Dog isn't here to smell your shit, Varric! He's at home with (Love interest).*" Followed by some sarcastic humour.

"A dog would be useful, shame we don't have one around here. Solas would probably hate it, seems to dislike dogs quite a bit. Which is odd, since he seems to like wolves..."

Varric laughs softly at the idea of Chuckles being scared of dogs. "That would be a sight, I could make it happen, if you like."

Inquisitor leans closer, a sparkle in their eye. "You would?!" They seem happy, maybe at getting a dog, maybe about having a relaxed conversation where they weren't just the Inquisitor, perhaps both.

Varric pauses for a moment, thinking on how Hawke could get easily tricked into saying things, with the right words and hints. "Maybe a dog isn't a good idea, though. Especially with all this weird shit going on."

"Aw c'mon!!" The Inquisitor, out of character, raises their arms into the air, "If a dog can fight dark spawn and endless blood magic stuff, why not have one to fight Corypheous!" (sp?) They groaned, leaning on their own in a huff with a pout on their face.

Varric stared, his mouth agape slightly, the exact same mannerisms as Hawke. The same way of talking and- no, more proof. Something else. Something to get them to practically admit it. "Inquisitor, have you read my Tale of the Champion?" They looked at him, pout still on their face.

"Yeah, I've asked you a bunch of questions about it before, remember? Are you alright, Varric?" They sat up, real concern on their face.

Hmm how was he going to play this? "Well, I wanted to talk about... stuff. After fighting with the Seeker, things are still... awkward. I was thinking, opening up to you.. would be a lot easier?"

Inquisitor's eyes raised up, in concern for him and their eyes seemed surprised and confused. (My idea being the player is like, okay weird that I've never seen this dialogue before etc). "Varric, I'm here for you if you need me." They held his shoulder, their face all serious and.. the grip was familiar. The same grip and look as Hawke when they comforted him. Shit, this is getting weird.

"Let's talk somewhere more private, don't want unwanted ears listening." Varric rose out of his chair, walking towards the throne, Inquisitor following. He had never seen the Inquisitor's room and now gave him the perfect excuse to let him. They headed to the Inquisitor's room, no one ever came up here apart from the Inquisitor and *love interest's nickname*.

The two sat on the couch, Varric across from the Inquisitor and thinking how to start.

"It's nice to hang out with my friends up here." They said, tilting their head sideways, like Hawke did when they were shy or embarrassed. Sometimes angry too. "Believe it or not, I feel like myself here more than anywhere else in Skyhold. I can.. talk more freely here." They smiled nervously, itching at their nose. Another habit Hawke had until they began painting their face, then it was always their cheek, neck or forehead. Varric wasn't sure what to make of his suspicions. What did he think? A spirit that found itself inside Hawke and now the Inquisitor? If that was it, as long as it doesn't do harm, then it could be fine. Just don't want another blondie scenario to happen-

"Varric?" Inquisitor broke his inner ramblings, "Don't be afraid to talk, I'm here to listen and no one will hear or interrupt us. This is my space and right now, it's ours."

Varric stared at them, watching the way they fidget and thinking about how intent they were on listening whenever he wanted to talk. "I've said it before but, I want to apologise for not contacting Hawke soon-"

"And there's no need to. You've already apologised and I can understand." Hawke pushed a plate of biscuits towards him. Most of the chocolate ones were gone, he thought for a moment if it was a Hawke thing but everyone likes chocolate.

"Thanks, I- Hawke has been through so much. I just wanted them to be safe, happy. They were away with *nickname of love interest* and when they wrote me, they seemed genuinely happy but... different." Varric takes a look toward the Inquisitor, "I wouldn't take Hawke away from that, away from happiness. They lost so much and-" He had to stop, he wasn't actually trying to open up to them about Hawke.

"Varric? Can I ask you something? About the champion." They stared at him, unblinking and fidgeting, they were nervous. "Were you and Hawke- .. Are you and Hawke together? Romantically?" The Inquisitor blinked, laughing softly at their awkward phrasing and rubbed at the back of their neck. Varric wanting to move on from the question, so he said.

"I never found out why you started rubbing your neck after we met. I remember (Sunshine/Juinor) saying you hadn't until after we met. *They* said it was a nervous tick thing." Varric smiled softly, a grin growing on his face.

"Oh yeah, (Bethany/Carver) pointed it out once or twice. Dad often rubbed his neck when he was around Mum, it's one of the few things I remember about him. A habit he had when he was admiring M-" They stopped, wide eyed and looked to Varric in surprise. "I uh, I mean-"

"I don't believe I ever told you *their* nicknames. (Sunshine/Junior)." Varric leans forward, a small smirk on his face. "Odd that you would know about them, Inquisitor." They looked away, covering their mouth in shock.

Inquisitor's fingers started softly scratching at the couch, "I uh- Talk to Hawke. A lot. And that's what they-they said to me." They cringed at their daft excuse. Letting in a shaky breath and returning his gaze, they looked- sad, scared even.

"I need to know. Are you... are you Hawke?" Varric questioned, such a fucked scenario.

They looked to the ground, hesitant at first before turning serious. "Yeah. I... I was only Hawke since running from Lothering to leaving Kirkwall." They looked up slowly.

Varric leaned into the back of the couch, taking in what they said. "So what are you? A spirit or...?" So he- he became friends with this person and.. what of the Hawke he knew? Was he still their best friend and soulmate? Or was the now Inquisitor, his best friend?

Inquisitor looked sad for a moment. Unsure of what to say. "So there's- okay, you choose." They turned serious again, but looked scared. "I can tell you the truth. The complete truth. It's going to be hard to hear and honestly, might break your heart... I don't wanna tell you the whole truth. I don't know if you'd like it. Or I can tell you a story. One where it makes sense to you. Where I am both Hawke, the Inquisitor and... someone else. Where I have powers that... allow me to do many things. I'd be like Cole. I'm just not sure what I am."

Varric took a breath, thinking. This truth, they seemed uncomfortable with. The story however, they were happy to open up about despite being unsure of. Similar to him. He stared in their eyes, a familiar look. Hawke's gaze but with different eyes.

I want...

The Truth:

"I want the truth. If you're Hawke, I need the truth. It won't leave this room." Varric leaned forward, arms leaning on his knees and his hands gripped.

They swallowed, looking down, taking a breath and looking back up. "So you know books?" They smiled gently, "I'm... *reading* a book. This book, let's me make choices-"

"A make your own adventure book. Hawke loves th- *you* love them..." Varric caught himself. This was going to take a while to get used to.

"Yeah so um... The book is the third of the series... It let's me make choices, develop relationships and take part in a whole new story.

The first book, Dragon Age: Origins." They smiled brightly at Varric, showing a happiness and excitement he hadn't seen before. "In this book, you play a Warden whose thrust into the role of a leader. Who has to not only stop a blight but make choices that will effect the rest of the...*series*."

Varric blinked, "Wait. So you're-"

"Let me finish, I'll explain. Any questions you have, leave for the end please." They laughed, making Varric smile. Hawke only smiled like that with their (love interest.)

"In the next book, you play a refugee just trying to survive with their family, losing some on the way..." They looked sad, small tears forming in their eyes. "In this particular book, you make 'friends' with this amazing dwarf, which may I say in my opinion is the *best* relationship across the series?" They grinned and a small blush formed, *probably* out of embarrassment. "The plot twist is: your adventure is actually said Dwarfs book. So... if it's any form of comfort, I'm not *your* Hawke. But I'm the Hawke you *wrote*." They smiled nervously, "All the personal stuff, all the time's Hawke broke down or any *tension* that happened," The Inquisitor wiggles their eyebrows and snorts in laughter, "I don't know anything about. I'm literally the Hawke Cassandra knows of."

Varric rubbed his head, taking this all in before removing his hand, waiting for them to finish.

They pause for a moment. "The last book... is Dragon Age Inquisition." They look around the room, "You're playing as a character who got *lucky*. Or *unlucky*, I suppose it counts on your thoughts about it all. You receive a magical-portal-closing power that gains you political power and many friends... I've seen where this story ends but haven't finished the book for myself yet. I- There are many friends who you get along with, many who you can choose to fall in love with. But there are a few things about this book that... don't *sit* well with me." They laughed loudly for a moment before quickly regaining their composure. A joke Varric noted to himself he would ask about later.

"There are moments when I look back to the second book and miss the relationship I had with y- a *dear friend*. And when Hawke, the real-but-kinda-not-real Hawke on the battlements... I get jealous. Because I can't be close to you like how I used to be. And I'll be honest, I haven't really found a character who I can just be myself with, unlike in the last book. Where I got to be myself around you..." The stop. Hesitating. "I really miss you."

Varric stares at them, their sincere and pained eyes. "It's the chest hair, everytime." They look down at his chest and back up again, before cackling loudly.

~~~

I didn't think I would do this much writing, I really miss writing haha.

Anyway, hope you liked this so far, sorry for the cut at the end. Just ran out of energy.

If you or if you know someone who could like this little short story about Dragon Age, feel free to let me know your thoughts and feeling on the comments. ^^

Some of the opinions and things were mostly taken from my opinion or feelings. There were a few taken from others as well.

I'd love to see an artist draw their Inquisitor/Hawke in this AU. Or make their own interpretation. Maybe your AU is that all the heroes have a spirit that helps them or anything you want haha. Also feel free to write a HawkexVarric romance in yours, BECAUSE I'm trash for HawkexVarric TT-TT)/

Feel free to tag anyone you think would be interested and feel free to add to this ^^ I hope you enjoy this AU idea.

I may tag some friends who could be interested ^^

[secretsfromwholecloth]

Dragon Age II, day 4.

It amuses me greatly that talking to Anders still sometimes pops up flirt options after turning him down. Mostly because it just fits so well that the guy who was bold and desperate enough to throw himself at someone with no demonstrated interest in anything but friendship would also keep right on hoping despite being rejected.

Anders, look, I get it. You’re low on friends, having Justice in your head is stressful at the best of times, and judging by some of your dialogue, you’re the sort whose friendships turn sexual easily. I feel for you. You’re at the top of the list to get nice things next time out. But you’ve already been told no, so please wait your turn.

I may have to headcanon Taran as not being into men. He’s been going monkey crackers without Bethany to look after (which is about to get worse when he loses his mother, isn’t it), and you’d think another mage who needs him would be right up his alley. (That’s going to be half the foundation of his relationship with Merrill once I finally get them together. Healthy? Phfft, is anything healthy in this game?)

Sebastian is sweet, but I hope he becomes less of a nonentity later on. Right now, I’m left wondering if he isn’t a failed attempt to make the Nathaniel magic happen again.

The “Finery” clothing item. Decisions were made that I would’ve made differently, let’s just put it that way.

Look, if I’m going to be spending time in a universe that makes quite so much use of sexual violence, I’m glad to at least have the option to dispatch people like Ser Alrik with a high-velocity maul to the face.

...Anders, would you and Justice like a hug?

That’s a very nice crafting project, Merrill, the whole party is very proud of you.

Anders, I know you’re trying to help, but I’m not sure repeatedly telling Merrill she’s a scary monster who’s going to become a full-fledged abomination any minute now is having quite the effect you want it to.

Well, that took some doing, but Merrill’s approval is maxed, and enough flirt options have been taken that she should have an idea that Taran is interested by now.

Aveline, I just want you to know that you’re a huge dork. Like, seriously huge. Taran and I are both mortified just from being in proximity to your dorkiness.

And romance has officially happened. Welcome to Hightown, Merrill.

Headcanon: Taran in bed is generous, thoughtful, possessed of at least some idea of what he’s doing (aside from some flings with village girls back in Lothering, you won’t convince me he didn’t go to the Blooming Rose for lessons a time or two), and the vanillaest vanilla who ever vanillaed. He’s spent far too long making absolutely sure there’s an impenetrable motherfucking wall between Scary Warrior Taran and Loving Friend Taran to let anything through now. He knows he’s a terror—a funny terror, but a terror all the same—and the idea of being that to someone he loves, or for that matter of having someone he loves turn that back around on him, doesn’t titillate him, it just makes him sick. Go on, mention just about any kind of kink around him and watch him go pale, it’s great fun.

Auxiliary headcanon: Isabela has a grand old time doing just that periodically. Embarrassing your friends is fun!

Varric, you are also a huge dork. Just a different kind of dork from Aveline.

Well, I decided to drop Anders for once and give Isabela a run in the party, so there’s no option to fix Bartrand. So eat pointy death, asshole.

When Varric asked Taran about his ambitions, he replied, “I’m just looking out for my family.” With Leandra and Carver dead and Bethany gone to the Wardens, the memory of saying that now tastes like ash.

Ooh, endlessly escalating diplomatic incidents, this ought to be fun.

[chaotic-good-hawke]

About the Muse meme

Tagged by the wonderful @gingerbreton! Thank you! (apologies in advance, this gets a little long-winded). 

- Your Muse’s Name

Katheryne “Kitty” Marian Hawke

- A favorite picture/faceclaim of your muse: 

Art is by @gewska and Kitty Hawke’s face claim is Frances Bean Cobain. 

- Two head canons for your muse: 

1. Kitty Hawke trains as a spirit healer after the Deep Roads. She had lost too many family members, when she might have helped them (or so she tells herself). She calls on a Spirit of Hope. She isn’t merged like Anders or Wynne, but they are connected in the fade and when healing, they briefly connect. Hope stays with her for the rest of her life, guarding her and her family. They care about Justice/Anders and want to help them, but doesn’t know how. Hope is a rather young spirit, they don’t have the knowledge they need. 

2. She has a matching tattoo with Varric. They got it after one drunken night. They refuse to tell anyone what it is or even where it is. Although they both make up exaggerated lies about what it is (Kitty’s fav lie is that it is a dragon across their backs). Anders finds out, after treating her from the Arishok duel, and then Fenris of course knows...it’s a heart with the others initials and “Forever” on their right butt cheek. 

- Three things your muse likes doing in their free time:

1. Reading - Kitty is story-hungry. They never had many books in Lothering, but she treasured every one they had. She even read any book she could get her hands on in the Chantry and they were boring. Once in Kirkwall, Varric keeps her in supply of books and then when she has the mansion, she spends a great deal of money on books. Her friends are welcome to any of them and a few books mysteriously show up (ex: Isabela leaves several smutty books behind). 

2. Exploring - She loves to find new places, hidden places, mapping out her world in her head. Although she is rather impulsive and at times reckless about it (Kirkwall isn’t exactly safe - she might have accidently found a gang hide-out while exploring...).  It takes her the two years (my timeline is off by a year, I know) of working with Athenril to properly map out Kirkwall in general, but she loves finding new places. Except for warehouses. They all look the same. Also, she may or may not know back ways into most of the mansions in High Town. She uses them to escape from boring parties. 

3. Gardening - they farmed for years in Lothering and she still loves the feeling of dirt in her hands. When she moves into the mansion, she sets up a practical garden. A few flowers for Merrill, but mostly fruits and vegetables and herbs and medicinal plants. Gardening centers her, although she is known to ramble to her plants, about anything and everything. 

- Seven people your muse likes/loves:

1. Fenris - She loves this elf so much. He lets her ramble, trusts her, and lets her be herself. He treats her as an equal, as a friend, calling her out on some of her more destructive behaviors. He supports her, even when her reasons are convoluted or when she is being reckless. She in turn tries to help him learn for himself what it means to be free, to read and write, and to trust again. Even after he left her alone, she still loved him. She understood, in a way, through all the hurt. But she never wants to let him go again. 

2. Varric - Her best friend, her partner in crime, her enabler and hype-man. Kitty would not be able to say enough about Varric. She loves his humor, his exaggerated tales, his heart of gold. She loves this dwarf. When they are together they rarely stop talking. It is just constant bants. He is part of her family. Blood or not, he is family. She would do anything for Varric. In fact, Fenris and Hawke give their son the middle name Varric. 

3. Carver - She loves her little brother, so much. He is the most fun to tease, even when he is being sulky. They relied on each other. Their relationship became strained after their father died and then after Bethany died, but they never stopped loving each other. It would have broken Hawke completely if he had died in the Deep Roads. She sends him almost weekly letters, but she only gets one back every couple of months. She misses him and their snarky banter. 

4. Merrill - Hawke loves Merrill. She loves her intelligence, her drive, her commitment to helping others. She loves her sometimes absentmindedness and her snarky comments. They garden together, discuss magic and stories together. Kitty worries about her often. Not about her magic, but that the Templars will find her. Though, later on, she realizes she should probably worry more about the templars...They are very good friends. 

5. Isabela - Kitty loves Isabela and her wild ways. Her independence, her attitude, and her pretending not to care as much as she really does. She could listen to Isabela talk about the sea for ages. Isabela’s the one who teaches her to cheat at cards. Whether playing cards, drinking, or getting into mischief, they have each other’s back.  

6. Anders - Kitty loves Anders so much. Besides the fact that he was willing to go into the deep roads with them and that he saved her brother, she cares about him. She wishes he would take better care of himself and she very much so makes sure he is eating enough food. They bound over healing and magic. His betrayal cut her deep, that he lied to her, that he made her a part of something that drastic without telling her. They do reconnect and she still hopes for a way to help him, but it hurt. 

7. Aveline - Aveline is the older sister she never had. They but heads. They argue. Kitty spends a night in jail, but Aveline bails her out. They are sisters in all but name. Bonded through shared tragedy, they help each other when they can. 

and bonus, because it hurts, Bethany. She loved Bethany fiercely. They would joke together and their shared magic bonded them early on. She was the one who gave Hawke the nickname Kitty. 

- A phobia your muse has

Kitty is terrified of sickness. Not when she is sick, but when someone she cares about is sick, she goes into panic mode. She watched her father deteriorate quickly from a wasting sickness. Then there was the Blight sickness she saw Carver go through... 

I will tag: @veridium-bye, @bluekaddis, @bisexualryder, @cutieink, @pegaeae, @a-roaming-halla, @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul, and whoever else would like to! No pressure, of course! 

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Siblings

Chapter 16 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which there are MANY CONVERSATIONS, Rynne Hawke picks on her poor baby brother Carver, and Stroud’s mustache finally makes an appearance. 

Read here on AO3 (>8000 words) if you prefer.

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

“Carv, all I’m saying is that you could have said something before you went off to join the Templars. You had ample time before I went into the Deep Roads–”

“... and left me behind,” Carver muttered.

“To look after Mother!” Hawke said exasperatedly. “You and Gamlen! And you did a bang-up job, the two of you!” She widened her eyes. “How is Gamlen, by the way? Still drunk? Is cheap dwarven whisky still his favourite poison?”

Carver tutted loudly, and Hawke playfully rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. But seriously, Carver, why didn’t you—”

“I didn’t have a crush on Merrill!” Carver snapped. “Just leave me alone, all right?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Carver’s slowly reddening neck. “Denial,” he remarked. “Admirable, given the object of your affections, but patently untrue.”

Carver shot him a resentful look. “Why are you taking her side?”

“I am not taking her side,” Fenris said. “She was a deluded witch who couldn’t see the danger of her ways.”

“I certainly hope it’s Merrill you’re talking about and not me,” Hawke said archly. Then she tilted her head. “Wait. That was a bitchy thing to say.”

Fenris pinched her waist chidingly. “Carver realized his error,” he told her. “Courting Merrill would have been a grave mistake. Literally, in all likelihood.”

“Right,” Carver said. “What Fenris said.” But his neck was steadily growing redder.

Fenris frowned at him, then pursed his lips. “Really? You are still holding a torch for that—”

Carver scrubbed a gauntleted hand through his hair, and Hawke cackled. “I knew it! I knew it! Oh, but you and Merrill would have made such a cute couple…”

“Shut up!” Carver snapped.

“... and can you imagine the book Varric would have written about you two?” Hawke continued delightedly. “Swords and Staves! The cranky Templar and the sweet little blood mage! It would practically sell itself!”

Fenris sneered. “Absolutely not. Nothing could be farther from the romantic ideal.”

“Y-yes – exactly!” Carver stammered. Then he frowned at Fenris. “Wait, are you insulting me?”

Hawke slung an arm around Carver’s neck before Fenris could reply. “All right, fine, not Merrill then. What about that other Templar friend of yours? You know, the little blonde one who was so convinced that Meredith was in the right? She was cute. A complete sycophant, but cute. Did you ever–”

Carver sighed loudly. “Maker’s mercy, Rynne, I’m staying at Skyhold with the other Templars next time if you don’t piss off about this.”

Hawke snickered, and Fenris smirked as Carver tried in vain to wriggle out of her grasp. Carver’s petulance and Hawke’s over-exuberant teasing were exactly the same as they’d always been, and there was something strangely comforting about the sameness of their interactions.

And yet, nothing about the Hawke siblings’ lives was the same as it had been when Fenris had first met them ten years ago. They’d both changed in station and status and wealth, and they’d both lost so much: their entire families, save for each other and Gamlen. Sometimes Fenris wondered if Hawke and Carver continued to treat each other like foolish youth as a way to protect themselves from the undeniable difficulties that life had thrown their way.

Eventually they began gossiping about some old friends they used to know back in Lothering, so Fenris drifted back along the mud-ridden road to walk with Cassandra and Varric instead. They seemed to be discussing Varric’s writing process.

Cassandra was frowning at Varric. “You’re telling me Hard in Hightown is also based on people and events from your own life?” she asked. “Do writers ever invent anything completely new, or is every story a reflection of something that has already happened?”

Varric scoffed and looked up at Fenris. “Ouch. She really aims to wound, doesn’t she?”

“Do not take offense, Varric,” Cassandra said. “I’m just surprised.”

Varric turned his gaze back to Cassandra. “Seeker, every good story is based on at least a seed of truth,” he said. “It’s how you shape that little piece of truth that makes the story compelling.”

“Hmm,” she said. “And I suppose that is also what makes you such a compelling liar.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. Varric gave Cassandra a reproving look, then shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered, and he sped up a bit to walk with Carver and Hawke instead.

Once he was out of earshot, Fenris glanced at Cassandra. “That was needlessly spiteful,” he said quietly. “His only lie was was disavow knowledge of our whereabouts. He gave you the truth about everything else.”

“That is no small matter,” Cassandra snapped. “Leliana and I thought it was all connected. The Hero of Ferelden vanishing, then the Champion as well? But no. It was just Varric who kept Hawke from us!”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “You know Hawke now. You know she would never have agreed to become your Inquisitor,” he said. “And... if I am being truthful, had you tracked us down two years ago, I would sooner have killed you than allowed her to lead your cause.”

Cassandra recoiled from him. “How could you–”

“That was then,” he said firmly. “Things are… different now.” He sighed and absently rubbed his left palm. “Irrevocably different, in fact. For Hawke and I, and for you. And for Varric as well.” He gave her a frank look. “You should let him out of the doghouse. You think he is a liar, but he is extremely loyal.”

“To you and Hawke,” she retorted.

“Yes,” Fenris said. “But… his loyalty is more than that now.” He trailed off as he thought about the conversations he’d had with Varric: Varric’s surprising Andrastian faith, and his belief in Fenris as a symbol of hope for all the people who were so scared and unsure in this time of war.

“Varric is committed to the Inquisition,” Fenris told Cassandra. “Not just to Hawke and I.” In all honesty, the truth of this made Fenris feel a bit odd. Varric would always be his friend first and foremost. But to think that Varric also saw him as the Herald of Andraste, just like all the other believers in the Inquisition… It made Fenris feel a little bit sad for some strange reason. A little bit lonely, perhaps.

Cassandra didn’t reply, and they walked together in silence on the path to Crestwood Village for a time. Then Cassandra sighed. “This isn’t about Hawke, or even Varric. Not truly,” she said softly. “I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter.” She licked her lips. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

Fenris looked at her in confusion. “What?”

She looked sad now rather than angry. “If I’d just explained to Varric what was at stake,” she said. “Perhaps if I’d just made him understand… but I didn’t, did I? I didn’t explain why we needed Hawke.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I am such a fool.”

“Cassandra,” Fenris said quietly. “You are singularly the most deserving person to be here. The Inquisition would not exist without you. We wouldn’t be here doing this right now if not for you.”

“Is that a fact, or an accusation?” she said.

Fenris peered at her. The corners of her lips were quirked slightly in a tiny smile. It was a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Fenris huffed in amusement. “Take your pick. Perhaps it is both.”

Her smile broadened slightly. Then she sighed again and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I want you to know I have no regrets,” she said. “You may not be the leader I expected us to have, but… in many ways, you are more than I expected. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know less than nothing.”

He shook his head and ignored her praise. “Untrue,” he said firmly. “You anticipated this years ago. You have been pushing to be ahead of it all this time. You are strong and determined, and your faith does you proud.” He shrugged. “We are fortunate to have you.”

She looked away from him and rubbed her nose, and Fenris turned his gaze to the road ahead as they walked. Then Cassandra took a deep breath. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Fenris shook his head. “No titles, Cassandra. I mean it.”

She smiled at him, and they walked in a comfortable quiet for a while longer. Fenris idly watched as Varric said something to Carver that made Hawke burst out laughing. Carver elbowed Hawke, who shoved him playfully in the arm, and Carver’s strident tone drifted back to Fenris’s ears. “That was one time! And you set me up!”

He smirked, and Cassandra shook her head. “They are a strange pair,” she commented. “Anthony and I never fought that way.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Never?”

“Well.” Cassandra smiled slightly. “Perhaps once or twice, but mostly not. We were very close when we were growing up. I was… it was devastating when he died.”

Fenris nodded respectfully. Cassandra had mentioned that her brother had died when they were both very young, but she hadn’t told him further details.

She gave him a curious look. “Do you have any family back in the Imperium?”

Fenris hesitated, and Cassandra’s face melted into an expression of horror. “Oh. I am – my apologies, Fenris, I forgot. Varric did tell me about your – your memories, or that they were… er. I am very–”

Fenris waved her off. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “It is not your fault. It would be a simple question for anyone else.” He nibbled the inside of his cheek as he considered whether to tell Cassandra about his sister. Varric had purposely omitted any mention of Varania in his Tale of the Champion, and Fenris knew Varric would not have told Cassandra about her either, for which he was grateful. That element of Danarius’s arrival in Kirkwall remained a sore point for Fenris, and he was glad that there was at least one piece of information about his life that remained private.

Finally he decided not to say anything. Not yet, at least. “No,” he said. “I have no family that I know of, aside from Hawke. And the mabari, of course.” He glanced over his shoulder at Toby, who was trotting contentedly beside Cole and Solas.

Cassandra smiled and nodded a polite acknowledgement. Then Fenris glanced sideways at her. “Your brother,” he said carefully. “Do… do you wish to speak of what happened to him?”

Cassandra swallowed hard, then shook her head. “I… prefer not to speak of him right now,” she said softly. “Perhaps another time.” She shot him a quick smile. “But thank you for asking.”

Fenris nodded. “Of course.”

“Hey, Cass!” Hawke called.

Fenris and Cassandra looked up to find Hawke grinning while Carver scowled beside her. “What kind of metal makes for the sharpest blade edge?” Hawke asked. “Silverite or nevarrite?”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows slightly. “Silverite, of course.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped, and Carver pointed victoriously at her. “I told you! See, you don’t know everything.”

She grinned and smacked his arm. “I never said I did! But damn, I could have sworn I was right about that one.”

“Technically, it depends on the purpose of the blade,” Cassandra continued. “Silverite forms a keener edge. But nevarrite holds its edge for longer.”

Hawke did a little hop. “So I was partly right, then! I think we should split that bet. You can give me five silver.”

Carver snorted. “That’s not how betting works.”

“It really isn’t,” Varric drawled.

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s not how the rules worked in our wicked grace games at Fenris’s mansion.”

Varric’s smirk widened, and Carver wrinkled his nose at Fenris. “You made special rules for her?” he complained. “Seriously?”

Cassandra shot Fenris a playfully reproving look. “Nepotism and gambling, Fenris? Truly?”

“I disavow any knowledge of gambling occurring in my erstwhile house,” Fenris said smoothly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important… Inquisitor… business to attend to.” He slowed down slightly so the others all drifted ahead of him, to a general wave of chuckling.

Varric drew Cassandra into the conversation he was having with Carver and Hawke, and Fenris smiled slightly as he watched the four of them talking animatedly together. For some time he simply walked on his own and enjoyed the quiet susurrus of the conversations and the ever-present rain.

Eventually, however, his attention was drawn to Solas and Cole’s cryptic conversation. During their trek to Crestwood, Solas had spent most of his time in Cole’s company. This could simply be because Fenris had essentially ordered Cole to stay by Solas’s side. But it did not escape Fenris’s notice that Solas seemed more at ease with Cole, and was more talkative with Cole, than with any other member of the Inquisition.

“They can only return to the Maker if they become real,” Cole was saying. “Why can't they be forgiven as they are?”

“People say they lack the ability to learn or grow,” Solas replied. “But the more contact you have with this world, the more ability you gain.”

“Why would they want to prove the Maker wrong? He's already far away,” Cole said.

Fenris frowned. It always seemed as though he was understanding half of what they were saying, while completely missing the overarching point.

“It isn't about right and wrong. It's about attention, when you think you have been forgotten,” Solas said gently.

Cole nodded. “And rolling the ball so it goes in the hole.”

What? Fenris thought, with some annoyance. A moment later, Solas and Cole drew level with him, and Solas addressed him directly. “Is something wrong, Fenris?”

At Solas’s words, he realized he was frowning. “No,” he said.

Solas bowed his head slightly. “If you have any questions, you have but to ask.”

Fenris glanced suspiciously between Solas and Cole for a moment. “You prefer the company of… of spirits over people,” he said to Solas.

“People can be trying,” Solas said. “Mankind most of all.”

Without quite meaning to, Fenris huffed in amusement, and Solas smiled slightly. Then Fenris jerked his chin at Cole. “You don’t find him trying? The riddles and the… indirectness.”

Solas tilted his head thoughtfully. “It is a matter of familiarity, I suppose. The Fade is a place of constant flux, where thoughts and feelings and expectations are just as real as you and I. As a result, the denizens of the Fade tend to be less… blunt.”

Fenris gave Solas a shrewd look. “You make it sound as though you have spent more time in the Fade than in the real world.”

Solas looked away. “Sometimes it feels that way to me, as well,” he said softly.

Fenris studied his profile for a moment. Sera had once said that Solas’s head was ‘crammed up a thousand years ago’, and Fenris was inclined to agree. The elven mage claimed he was not Dalish, but there was something about his particular brand of overly-knowledgeable melancholy that reminded Fenris strongly of Merrill.

“For what purpose do you cling so fiercely to the ways of the ancient elves?” Fenris suddenly asked.

Solas looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows. “Do you find no value in recalling the past? In remembering the wonders of our history?”

“It is not my history. It is simply history,” Fenris said. “Besides, there is a difference between recalling and reliving. You seem strangely set on reliving what’s dead and gone.” He raised one eyebrow. “It strikes me that you and the Dalish have that in common.”

Solas pursed his lips and looked away from Fenris once more. “Would it surprise you that we do not?” he said. “The Dalish have no more interest in the accuracy of our heritage than you do. They are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times.” He gave Fenris a disapproving look. “I find myself surprised that you speak of the past this way. Are you not a man who is missing a significant portion of his own past? Would you not reclaim that past if you could? Regain the memories that you lost and feel their fullness once more?”

Fenris clenched his jaw. “Of course I would have my memory back, if I could,” he gritted. “But not at the expense of the life I have now.”

“Why?” Solas said.

Fenris scowled. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

Solas shook his head slightly. “I apologize. I was unclear.” He looked Fenris in the eye once more. “If you were given the chance to go back, to reclaim your memories and the life you lost, would you not do it?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “No. I would not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Solas asked.

Solas’s gaze was unnervingly intense, and Fenris drew back slightly. “There is no guarantee that that life would be better,” he said guardedly. “In fact, I’m certain it would not be.” He glanced at Hawke’s jauntily swaying hips as she strolled up ahead.

He returned his gaze to Solas’s face. “Life is not about going backwards. It’s about moving on,” he said firmly. It had taken Fenris far too many years to learn this truth – years of anger and hate, years he wasted fuming about his unknown past while Hawke had waited in the wings, wanting nothing more than to love him. At the end of the day, Fenris knew this to be true: had he not moved on, moved past the regrets of his forgotten past and the vitriolic hate that Danarius and Hadriana had planted in his soul, he and Hawke would not be walking this road together now.

Solas, however, was clearly unconvinced. “And yet you used Alexius’s time-travel medallion to return to this time, rather than accepting your fate in the future and moving forth,” he said.

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the blandness of Solas’s tone. “This is my time,” he retorted. “That cursed, blighted future was not.”

Solas studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

Fenris eyed him with some annoyance, and they walked in silence for a time with Cole hovering vaguely between them. Then Solas looked at Fenris. “I… would walk alone for a time, if you don’t mind.”

Fenris shrugged, then watched as Solas pulled ahead and slightly to the left. Frankly, he was rather relieved to be divested of the elven mage’s company.

Then Cole finally spoke. "Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change."

Fenris scowled. “What are you talking about?”

Cole tilted his head. His eyes were on Solas’s hooded head. “His hurt is quiet. Softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

Fenris tutted. “He’s no different than anyone else,” he said quietly. “Everyone is damaged. Everyone has some sort of… scar. It is best to try and move past it. To make a life that is greater than the harms that were done in the past.” He jerked his chin at Solas. “He should try it sometime.”

Cole nodded. “I will try to help him,” he said.

Fenris shrugged again, and his eyes returned to Hawke. Her arm was cozily linked with Carver’s, and it seemed that Carver had stopped trying to shunt off her affections for now.

He smiled faintly. Then Cole spoke again. “Red hair like the blood that almost stained her hands. She lives in a place that’s not her home, toiling as a tailor like she told you before.”

Varania. Goosebumps rippled across Fenris’s arms. He shot Cole a sharp look. “How can you… she is nowhere near here,” he said roughly. At least, Fenris didn’t think she was. In truth, he had no idea where Varania was now. “How can you hear her thoughts?”

“Your hurt touches hers,” Cole explained. His blank blue eyes settled on Fenris’s face. “She is jealous still. But if you had been wiped away, if you were made not you, she would be not her. She would be a monster.”

Fenris frowned. “Jealous? Of what?”

“You were everything she wanted to be,” Cole said. “Mired in magic, loved, seen. You were free.”

Fenris shook his head slightly. “But that’s… She was free long before I ever was. She said so herself.” But even as he said it, he could start to see how that wasn’t entirely true. Imperial mages who wished that badly for power were beholden to their blasted mentors, bound by their own lust for power to do whatever abhorrent act was necessary. Including, it seemed, selling out one’s own family.

Suddenly Fenris wondered if Varania even was a mage. She’d shown no evidence of magic that day in the Hanged Man, and it was a well-known wish among the soporati to find themselves manifesting magic out of the blue. If Danarius had taken advantage of that wish in his sister…

Cole interrupted his thoughts, as he was wont to do. “You gave her a chance. You didn’t kill her.”

“That wasn’t my… Hawke and Varric stopped me,” he said distractedly. “I would have…” He trailed off and ran a hand through his hair.

“You would have been sad afterwards,” Cole said softly. “You gave her a chance to not be a monster.”

Fenris huffed. He was finding it oddly difficult to look at Cole. “I can only hope she’s not wasting it.”

Cole nodded, and Fenris walked beside him for a while longer in an increasingly awkward silence. Then he heard Varric’s shout. “Hey, guys, look alive. Undead up ahead.”

Fenris looked up. Sure enough, on the path ahead, a group of about five grisly-looking undead were attacking an elven woman and two Grey Wardens.

Fenris pulled his great-axe from his back and bolted toward the nearest undead archer. In the space of a minute, the undead were lying in grisly pieces on the ground, and one of the Wardens was helping the elven woman to her feet.

Fenris returned his weapon to his back as the second Warden nodded to him. “The Grey Wardens thank you for your aid, Inquisitor.” His eyes darted to Fenris’s left hand.

Fenris closed his fist and nodded politely, but he was on high alert. Leliana had warned that Grey Wardens had been sighted here, in this place where Stroud was hiding.

“What business do you have in Crestwood?” Fenris asked. Beside him, Hawke shifted her weight casually to one hip, but he could feel her wariness as clearly as the rain that was tapping on his hood.

“A Warden named Stroud is wanted for questioning,” the Warden said. “We heard he’d passed through here, but the villagers knew nothing. They have troubles enough.”

“We’ve heard,” Cassandra said. “We are on our way there now to offer aid.”

“Good,” the Warden said fervently. “I wish there was more we could do to help them, but our orders forbid it. Crestwood was only a detour.”

Varric raised his eyebrows in pretend surprise. “You’re hunting a rogue Warden? You guys can go rogue? I didn’t know that was possible.”

The Warden lifted his shoulders. “Warden-Commander Clarel ordered his capture. I can say no more than that.”

“I hope Ser Stroud comes with us peacefully,” the other Warden said. “I trained under him for a time. He’s a good man.”

Fenris nodded in farewell, and the Wardens gave a brisk salute before continuing on their way. Hawke folded her arms pensively as she watched them go. “They were acting pretty normally, right?” she said to Fenris and Varric. “No weirdness from them. Not like those Wardens in Corypheus’s prison.”

“They stay by oaths sworn in blood,” Cole said dreamily. “Not theirs, then their own. They’re true.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows, then shrugged. “That’s good. I think. Well, they were still after Stroud, so we’d better hurry.”

They continued along the path to Crestwood Village at a faster clip. Soon they were at the threshold of the village, and not a moment too late: a fresh wave of undead fighters had just begun attacking the scared-looking sentries who were guarding the gate.

Fenris clenched his fists, and his tattoos lit his skin at the same moment as Hawke’s barrier settled over him. Thus protected, he phased toward the crowd of reanimated corpses and began hacking them apart, with Cassandra and Cole close behind.

Cole blinked swiftly in and out of sight as he darted around their enemies, and Fenris couldn’t help but watch him from the corner of his eye. The first time he’d seen Cole fighting, he’d been a little bit shocked; the vague and floaty spirit-boy became a fierce and focused fighter when his daggers came out. The blades flicked and sliced expertly across their enemies’ flesh, and Cole was distinctly difficult to track on the battlefield: one moment he would be targeting a foe to Fenris’s left, and in the space of a blink he was behind Fenris altogether and tripping a man before slitting his throat with a swift and vicious slash. Sometimes it would seem that Cole had left the fight altogether, then an enemy who had been fighting ferociously would suddenly topple to the ground, bled to death from a dozen tiny cuts to the thigh.

Needless to say, Cole’s fighting style was unnerving but undeniably effective. Within a few short minutes, Fenris, Cole and Cassandra felled the crowd of angry but slow-moving undead, with primarily defensive help from the mages and Varric.

The moment the last undead toppled to the ground, Cole sheathed his daggers. “You can’t hurt me,” he said to one bisected corpse, then carefully stepped over the body and drifted back toward Solas, who was following Hawke and Varric as they approached the sentries.

Cassandra frowned at Cole’s departing back, then looked at Fenris. “I have noticed that you and Cole move on the field of battle in a similar way,” she said.

Fenris raised a sardonic eyebrow as he wiped his battleaxe clean. “Is that a fact, or an accusation?”

She smiled, but her frown swiftly returned. “Truly, do you not think it odd?”

Fenris paused before replying. “I have wondered about it myself,” he admitted. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the way Cole phased from place to place in combat. Fenris assumed that Cole was somehow moving through the Fade, given that he was a spirit. But if that’s how Cole was doing it, and Fenris could move in a very similar way when his tattoos were active…

He’d always assumed his lyrium marks worked by accessing the Fade. But Fenris hadn’t really taken the time to think about how exactly his tattoos gained access to the Fade. Cole was a spirit; phasing through the Fade was probably a natural thing for him to do. But Fenris was a real being. Was his physical body moving through the Fade every time he flashed across a battlefield? Each time he dragged someone’s heart out of their ribs, was he dragging his fist through the Fade as well?

Fenris slid his greataxe onto his back and considered Cassandra’s question. Solas would probably be able to explain the phenomenon to him. But speaking to Solas was becoming increasingly tiring. Every conversation Fenris and Solas had somehow felt steeped in double meanings, and Fenris was rarely in the mood for such things, especially with everything else that weighed on his mind.

Perhaps he could ask Hawke to speak to Solas on his behalf. Solas’s circumferential speech seemed to amuse her more than anything else, and she would be able to parse out the relevant information for Fenris.

“Perhaps Solas can tell us more,” Cassandra said.

Fenris nodded. “My thoughts exactly,” he told her, and they walked over to join the others.

Hawke looked up at him as they approached the village gates. “The mayor is in his cabin,” she told him and Cassandra. “He should be able to tell us something about where that underwater rift is coming from.” She grimaced as they made their way into the village. “No one has left this village in weeks because of the undead. They’re probably all going a little stir-crazy.”

Cassandra frowned. “We should have the Inquisition bring supplies to these people once the undead are dealt with,” she said, and Cole nodded agreement.

“One of those sentries mentioned bandits,” Varric said. “Better stop them first.”

“We will speak to the mayor first,” Fenris decided. “Get a better sense of what is happening in this apparently cursed place.”

Twenty minutes later, after speaking to the mayor and the various denizens of the village, Fenris, Hawke, and their companions left the village, and Fenris folded his arms and looked at them all. “We have two tasks, then,” he said. “Clearing the bandits from Caer Bronach so we can drain the lake, and meeting Stroud.” He looked at Cassandra. “You, Solas and Cole can go to the keep. Oust the bandits and await us there.”

Cassandra nodded sharply. “Inquisit– Fenris. We will go right away.”

“I can go with them, too,” Carver said.

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “You don’t want to come with us?”

Carver tsked. “It’s not like that. You don’t need me to talk to Stroud. But I can definitely help to take out a bunch of bandits.”

Fenris shrugged. “Go on. We will see you soon.”

Carver nodded to Fenris and made a face at Hawke as she blew him a kiss. A minute later, Fenris, Varric and Hawke were trudging along a poorly-maintained path that wound its way up a wet and grassy hill, and Hawke sighed.

“He couldn’t get away from me fast enough, could he?” she said.

“To be fair, you spent most of the trip making fun of him,” Varric pointed out.

Hawke mock-pouted. “As though you haven’t been enjoying it.”

Varric smirked. “I never said I didn’t. It is pretty funny how his shoulders come up to his ears when he’s mad.”

Hawke snickered, but Fenris raised an eyebrow at her. “Carver’s choice was a good one. His skills are better used helping Cassandra and the others with the bandits.”

Hawke gasped in mock surprise. “Are you calling my baby brother thick?” Then she shrugged casually. “Ah, he has always been more brawn than brain, I suppose. He would have come with us if you’d asked him to, though.”

“And why would I do that?” Fenris said.

“So we could spend more time with him!” Hawke said. “I haven’t seen him for two years, and he’s already sick of me after five days?” She elbowed Fenris. “You spent two whole years alone with me, and you’re not sick of me.”

Fenris raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Well, I am not your brother.”

Varric snorted. “Andraste’s ass, this just got weird.”

Fenris shot him a chiding smirk, then looked at Hawke once more. “You didn’t spend those two years interrogating me about my sex life or reminding me of embarrassing things I did when I was small. Or goading me into making foolish bets.”

She widened her eyes comically. “Well, I couldn’t very well interrogate you about your sex life. I am your sex life.”

Varric loudly cleared his throat, and Fenris rolled his eyes. “Hawke…”

She sighed. “Fine, fine. So what are you saying? I’m being mean to Carver?”

“Not mean, exactly.” Fenris shrugged and kicked a stray wet leaf off of his bare foot. “But you might try speaking to him in a different way. Or speaking to him instead of taunting him.” He shot her a knowing look. “A normal conversation, perhaps.”

Hawke recoiled slightly, then laughed. “What? No. That would be weird.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “It would weird to have a regular conversation with your brother?”

“Yes,” Hawke said slowly, as though he was being obtuse. “Carver and I don’t do normal conversations.”

“Well, perhaps now is the time, since he is with the Inquisition,” Fenris suggested. “Unless you would prefer that he continue choosing Cassandra’s company over ours.”

Hawke lifted her shoulders ruefully. “Well, Cassandra is a bona fide babe.”

Varric huffed. “She’s lacking your sense of humour, though.”

Hawke grinned at him. “Aw, Varric, you sweetheart. It’s nice to know someone would pick me for their team.” She slung her arm affectionately around Varric’s neck.

Fenris gave her a chiding look. “You might also consider that Carver’s choice to go with Cassandra instead is not about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Hawke said. She blinked comically at Fenris. “Everything is about me.”

Fenris refused to rise to her jokes. “It is not, though,” he said seriously. “You’re not at the center of things anymore, and I am immensely grateful for that. But…” He trailed off as he tried to find a way to explain his point without accidentally being unkind.

Varric came to his rescue. “You’re the hero of your story, Hawke,” he said. “Carver wants to be the hero in his story, but no one will see him as one because you’re there. He’s trying to be helpful and do his own thing, but he can’t really do that without being reminded of how popular you are.” He grimaced slightly and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Joining the Inquisition is probably like reliving the first few years that you guys were in Kirkwall.”

Hawke slumped slightly. “But how is that my fault?” she said plaintively. “I didn’t ask to be ‘the’ Hawke in Kirkwall. I didn’t ask to go head-to-head with the Arishok or to be Meredith and Orsino’s little errand girl. I didn’t ask to be the eldest child in the fucking family–”

Fenris took her hand. “We are not saying it’s your fault,” he said quietly. “But Carver won’t see himself as anything but your younger brother if that is all you see, as well.”

“That’s not all I see,” she protested, but she wouldn’t quite look Fenris or Varric in the eye. “Besides, you make it sound so easy to just start having a normal conversation with him.” She adopted a mocking high-pitched voice. “‘Oh, hello Carver, let’s exchange omelette recipes. How’s the family? Oh wait, that’s me.’” She let out a brittle laugh. “It’s not that easy, Fenris. Carver and I don’t have anything in common. I can strike up a nice chat with anyone except my own bloody brother.”

Varric sighed and gave Fenris an apologetic glance. “She’s got a point, elf. Breaking old habits with a sibling is… really damned tricky.”  

Fenris grunted. I wouldn’t know, he thought bitterly. But it would be petty to make such a snide remark. Instead, he said to Hawke, “You found a way with me. You and I had little in common when we met.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Yes, well, I can’t exactly flirt like mad and offer myself on a silver platter to my baby brother, can I?”

Fenris wrinkled his nose, and Varric made a choking noise. “All right, this is getting weird again,” he drawled. “Good thing we’re almost at the rendezvous point.”

Hawke chuckled, and Varric smirked at her as he pulled Bianca from his back. Then he sped up a bit to scout the entrance of the smuggler’s cave where Stroud was hiding.

Fenris waited until Varric was out of earshot, then leaned in close to Hawke. “You did not win me over by flirting or offering me your body,” he said in a low voice. “If that is all it took, then Isabela would have succeeded.”

She looked up at him with a saucy smile. “Ooh. Is this where you give me a list of reasons that you love me? Too bad Cole isn’t here to help out. That was extremely entertaining.”

He pulled her to a stop and waited until her expression became serious. “You were genuine with me,” Fenris told her quietly. “You gave me more than jokes and flattery. You told me truths about yourself, Hawke. You allowed me to see more than just your smile.” He brushed a wet spike of her bangs away from her forehead. “You are more than the face you show the world. I am just as entertained by that foolish joking face as anyone else, but that is not why I love you.”

Her eyes were on her feet. She swallowed hard and smiled. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said airily. “I’m at least eighty percent stupid jokes. The other twenty is bald-faced sexual innuendo.”

Fenris tilted her chin up, but she still wouldn’t look him in the eye. “That is not true, and you know it,” he said, very quietly. “You could try letting Carver know that, as well.”

She inhaled through her lips, then finally met his gaze. Her eyes were bright with tears, and the solemn warmth in her expression only reminded him of all the reasons that she held his heart.

A soft whistle pierced the constant patter of rain, and Fenris and Hawke looked toward the mouth of the cave. Varric had replaced Bianca on his back, and when Fenris met his eye, he waved for them to join him and ducked back into the shelter of the cave.

Fenris quickly kissed Hawke on the lips, then ushered her forward with a gentle hand on her back. “Come,” he said gently. “Stroud and his mustache will be waiting for us.”

She immediately seized the opening for humour, just as Fenris had known she would. “Well, I’ve been waiting to see his mustache too,” she drawled. “Remember the size of it, and the span?” She playfully fanned herself and shot Fenris a mischievous look. “Do you think all Grey Wardens have fantastic facial hair? Stroud’s mustache, Blackwall’s beard...Oh, no, those two Wardens we met on the way in were clean-shaven.” She tutted as they stepped into the cave. “A pity, that.”

“Don’t forget the female Wardens, Hawke,” Varric remarked as they drew near. “Probably not much facial hair among the ladies.”

Hawke scoffed. “Oh come now, Varric, have a little imagination. A bearded female Warden would be my ideal hero. I wonder if the Hero of Ferelden has a beard. Remind me to ask Leliana when we get back to Skyhold.” She slipped past him and knocked on the locked door that led into the smuggler’s den. “Oh, Stroud!” she sang out. “It’s us.”

A moment later, they heard the soft clink of a lock, and the door cracked open. Hawke shifted so the occupant of the room could see her face, and then the door opened all the way.

Stroud stood there with his sword drawn and his customary worried frown. “Hawke,” he said. He sheathed his sword and offered her a sweeping bow. “Fenris. It is good to see you both again, though I regret the unfortunate circumstances.” He offered his hand to Fenris to shake.

Fenris briefly shook his hand as Hawke gestured to Varric. “Stroud, this is Varric Tethras. Infamous author, even-more-infamous arbalist, and our closest friend.”

Stroud nodded politely to Varric. “Master Tethras. I have heard of you, though I’m afraid I’ve not had the time to read your books.”

Varric waved him off. “Ah, who can blame you, given… you know. Darkspawn.”

Stroud nodded again, and his expression grew more serious still as he turned to Hawke and Fenris. “I’m glad you are here,” he said. “The timing of all of this – Corypheus’s attack on Haven, and the disaster with Wardens… it is both serendipitous and ominously bad.” He looked at Hawke. “I was trying to find out more about the origins of red lyrium, as you well know. But I began hearing talk among the senior Wardens about Corypheus – vague whispers, you understand, but enough to make me concerned, given what you had done in his prison.”

Hawke shook her head. “That’s what we don’t understand. How the fuck did he survive? We killed him, Stroud. Fenris cleaved his head from his body, and he was missing two of his limbs before even that. There’s no way he was alive when we were done with him.”

Stroud nodded sadly. “An archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal, and I feared Corypheus might possess the same power. I began to investigate, but it was difficult; any information about Corypheus is closely guarded by the senior officers, and my investigation uncovered only clues – no proof. I had not gotten far before every Warden in Orlais began to hear the calling.”

Fenris frowned. “The calling? What is that?”

“It tells the Warden that the Blight will soon claim him,” Stroud said somberly. He turned away and gazed at the table behind him, which was covered with maps and books. “It starts with dreams,” he said. “Then... whispers in your head.” He looked up at Fenris and Hawke once more. “The Warden says his farewells and goes to the deep roads to meet his death in combat.”

“Fuck,” Hawke breathed. Her eyes were wide. “You’re hearing it too, aren’t you?”

Stroud nodded once. “Sadly, yes. It lurks like a wolf in the shadows around a campfire.” He bowed his head, then looked at them once more. “The creature that makes this music has never known the love of the Maker, but… at times, I almost understand it.”

She took a step toward him. “Stroud…”

He held up a reassuring hand. “I suspect that Corypheus is making all the Wardens hear the calling,” he said. “He is a magister as well as a darkspawn, and he speaks with the voice of the Blight. That lets him affect the minds of Wardens, since we are tied to the Blight ourselves.”

“Shit,” Varric said. He looked up at Fenris and Hawke. “That must be how he was making the Wardens in his prison go all weird, too.”

Fenris shook his head in disgust. “Mind control. It is abhorrent.”

“I quite agree,” Stroud said. “And if all the Wardens think they are dying…” He sighed. “If we should fall, who will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear.”

Varric groaned and tugged one of his earrings. “And if they’re all scared, they’re going to something desperate. You know, as you do.”

“Precisely,” Stroud said. He paced slowly in front of them. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before all the Grey Wardens perish.”

Fenris looked up in alarm. “Blood magic? The Wardens are planning to use blood magic?”

“I’m afraid so,” Stroud said. “When I protested the plan as madness, my own comrades turned on me. I was forced to run, and that is when I returned your letter.” He bowed slightly to Hawke. “I apologize for my tardy replies.”

She waved him off. “It’s all right. I knew you couldn’t resist me forever.” She smiled, but her eyebrows were lifted with worry.

“Tell us about this Clarel,” Fenris commanded. “Has she always practiced blood magic in the Grey Wardens’ name?”

Hawke shifted closer and placed a soothing hand on his wrist, and Stroud shook his head. “Not that I have ever seen. She was a good Warden once; among those that King Cailan reached out to before the Blight. But when the false calling began, Clarel stopped listening to the rest of us. She said that only magic could solve this problem.”

Fenris turned away and dragged a hand through his hair, then scowled at Stroud. “She sounds like a Tevinter,” he said. He turned to Hawke and Varric. “Clearly she has allied with the Venatori.”

Hawke winced, then turned to Stroud. “Is it possible that Corypheus is controlling her? Maybe forcing her to do blood magic?”

“Do not try and make excuses for her,” Fenris snapped. “Falling to blood magic is a choice!”

Hawke held up her hands. “It’s just a suggestion.”

Stroud stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “It is hard to say,” he told them. “But I have heard the whispers of the calling myself, and it is only noise: no words, and certainly no commands.” He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “Either way, the guilt is hers. Fenris is correct: she made this choice. She is Warden-Commander. She should bow to no one’s word but Weisshaupt’s.” He ushered them closer and pointed at the map on the table. “Grey Wardens have been travelling here, in the Western Approach. It is an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. We will find our answers there.”

Hawke frowned at the map. “All right. Looks like we’re going on another nice long trip.”

Varric huffed. “The Western Approach, huh?” He raised an eyebrow at Hawke. “Sandy. Dunes. Not great for walking. Maybe I’ll sit this one out.”

Hawke snorted and flicked his ear. “As if you could resist coming along. We all know you’re dying to document everything for the book you’re going to write about all this.”

Varric chuckled. Meanwhile, Fenris nodded to Stroud. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” he said. “We would appreciate your assistance when it is time to confront this Warden-Commander Clarel.”

Stroud bowed to him. “It is my unfortunate duty to assist in every way I can.” He straightened and looked between Fenris and Hawke. “I understand you are bound by many responsibilities. I will go to the Western Approach immediately and collect what information I can, and I will send it to your spymaster. Please meet me as soon as you can.”

Fenris nodded once more, then jerked his head for Hawke and Varric to follow him out of the cave. Once they were outside, Varric folded his arms and looked up at them both. “Okay, here we go…”

Fenris glared at Hawke. “You cannot think this Warden-Commander is truly being controlled by Corypheus.”

Hawke widened her eyes and lifted her shoulders. “It’s not that crazy an idea! Corypheus controlled the Wardens in his prison pretty directly. We should consider the possibility.”

“A possibility to claim Clarel is innocent, you mean?” Fenris sneered.

“If she is, it would be good for the Inquisition to have the Wardens on our side,” Hawke said.

“And if she is not?” Fenris demanded. “If she chose to ally with the Venatori of her own free will?”

She hesitated, and Fenris took a step closer to her. “A weak mage will take any excuse to build their power. Desperation is the first excuse they will grasp.”

Hawke wilted in exasperation. “Fenris, come on. Being scared that everyone you know is dying is a pretty good reason to be desperate.”

“No reason is good enough to resort to blood magic,” he spat.

“I resorted to blood magic when we were stuck in Corypheus’s prison!” Hawke exclaimed. “Have you forgotten that?”

“Hawke, you spilled a few drops of your own blood to open a lock. You didn’t make a pact with a demon or raise bodies from the dead,” Fenris retorted in equal exasperation. “Have you forgotten the horrendous abomination that Orsino became in his final moments of desperation?”

“We don’t even know what the Wardens are doing yet,” Hawke said. “You’re condemning their Commander without even knowing what they’ve done!”

“Hey, how about we take this argument with us and go meet the others?” Varric suggested brightly. “You guys can fight and walk at the same time.”

Hawke exhaled and smiled at Varric, but Fenris wasn’t finished. As they headed along the path to Caer Bronach, he glared at her. “When we go to the Western Approach, we will see what is happening,” he said. “If there is no direct mind-control involved, then—”

Hawke shot him an annoyed look. “Then what? Are you going to blame all the Wardens for their commander making a stupid choice?”

“Stroud stood up to her,” Fenris pointed out. “The other Wardens could as well.”

Hawke sighed and took his hand. “Everyone is not as strong as Stroud. Or as well-endowed with facial hair.”

Fenris ignored her attempt at humour. “And that remains the problem,” he said. “Mages who are not strong enough to resist the lure of power that they can’t control.” He pulled her closer. “Every mage is not like you.”

She scoffed and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I’m not that special, Fenris. You’d see that if you talked to more of our mages. You should come to the mage tower when we get home. We’ll make you special Inquisitor snacks and everything.”

He huffed skeptically and didn’t reply, and the three of them walked in silence for a time. Then, as they approached the Caer, he glanced at Hawke. “If you find some of those roasted nuts with the Rivaini spice, I will consider coming to the mage tower. I’ll consider it,” he said warningly as Hawke squeezed his waist. “I did not say for certain that I will come.”

She smiled up at him. “It’s an opening. I’ll take it.”

“Aw, a happy ending,” Varric drawled. “I could shed a tear.”

Hawke snickered and released Fenris to scuffle with Varric instead. Two of Leliana’s scouts were waiting at the gate to Caer Bronach, and they saluted Fenris as they drew close.

“Your Worship,” one scout said. “The Lady Seeker, Master Solas, and Ser Carver are waiting for you inside.”

“And that strange boy,” the second scout added.

The first scout looked at her in alarm. “What strange boy? What are you on about?”

Fenris waved his hand tiredly. “Thank you,” he said, and they passed through the gates to go meet the others.

They were clustered around a cookfire talking quietly amongst themselves, and Cassandra rose to her feet as they came near. “Fenris, Hawke. Varric.” She nodded to them, then pointed to a door to the left of the stairs they’d just ascended. “There is a passage that way that leads to the dam and its controls.”

Fenris glanced at the door and nodded. “Excellent. We will move on as soon as you’re all ready.” He glanced between her, Solas, Carver, and Cole. “Any injuries?”

“The usual bruises and scrapes, nothing big,” Carver said. He nodded his head to an elven scout who was standing nearby in discussion with her colleagues. “That’s the lead scout, Charter. She said one of Sister Leliana’s operatives is missing, a fellow named Butcher.” He raised his eyebrows at Fenris. “Should we look for him while we’re out?”

Fenris nodded. “A fine idea. We might as well.”

Carver straightened and gave him a sharp nod that was reminiscent of a salute. Then Solas rose to his feet as well. “I believe we have rested enough,” he said to Fenris. “We are ready to be on our way, if you are.”

Fenris glanced at Varric and Hawke. “Are you two in need of rest, or…?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Varric said, and Hawke nodded agreement. “The sight of Stroud’s beautiful hirsute face always rejuvenates me,” she said. “I’m bright and bushy-tailed and ready to go.”

Carver rolled his eyes, then jumped in surprise when Cole spoke up. “But you don’t have a tail,” the spirit-boy said.

Hawke laughed and slung her arm around Cole’s shoulders as they made their way toward the door to the dam. “It’s just a metaphor, Cole. But while we’re here, let me teach you a lesson in language. ‘Tail’ can mean an actual tail, or it can also mean something a bit more lewd–”

Varric snorted. “Come on, Hawke, you’re gonna corrupt the kid’s mind with dirty talk already?”

Hawke grinned at Varric, and Fenris rolled his eyes. “Consider it his initiation,” he drawled. “Once Hawke has draped the demon in innuendo, he will really be one of the group.”

Solas glanced at him, then looked away with a faint smile. Cassandra huffed. “A rather undignified initiation for the Inquisition, don’t you think?” she said archly.

“Is there some kind of initiation for the Inquisition?” Carver piped up. “I mean, I kind of just… showed up, and you said I could join. Is that what everyone does?”

Varric smirked up at him. “Were you hoping for a hazing ritual?”

Carver frowned. “No. It just seems a bit weird. The Inquisition is a big deal. I just thought there’d be more ceremony.”

Fenris grunted. “I have had enough ceremony, myself,” he muttered.

Hawke squeezed his hand, then drifted over to her brother’s side. “Well, if it’s hazing you want…”

Fenris glanced at her. She met his eye, then slipped her hand through the crook of Carver’s arm. “Too bad,” she said to Carver. “I’m just glad you’re here to help us out.”

Carver’s eyebrows leapt up on his forehead. “Oh. Um, thanks, Rynne. I mean – of course I came to help. It’s, um, a good cause.”

“Yes, it is,” Hawke said. She paused for a beat, and Fenris waited.

Then Hawke spoke again: “Following the most handsome elf in all of Thedas and staring at his ass all day is certainly my idea of a good cause.”

Varric snorted, and Cassandra and Carver groaned, and Fenris simply shook his head. She tried, he thought in amusement. One step at a time.

After all, one step at a time was all anyone could ask for.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 23 - Lothering

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

CW: canon-typical violence; brief threat of assault

Thirteenth day of Bloomingtide, 9:32 Dragon

The day started hot, and only promised to get hotter. A bright sun spilled down on verdant pastures and the first golden sweep of canola in the fields around Lothering, glinting off the distant lake and soaking the country lanes with the pungent odours of hawthorn and elderflower. Birds chirruped in the hedgerows, and in the gullies of the network of run-off ditches that criss-crossed the area’s farmsteads, jewel-bright dragonflies darted like their much larger namesakes after their prey. Altogether, it made an idyllic image, except for the garish, looming presence of the king’s army camped on the village’s outskirts, all snapping pennants, gleaming spears, and churned, gritty mud where the soldiers had their training.

The sight of the camp added to the nervousness that stole into the peaceful life of the villagers with the trickle of refugees from the east. Ser Cauthrien was still rampaging through the Southern Bannorn, self-assured from her victory at South Reach as she tried to goad Cailan and his allies into meeting her in the open, but so far without success. Rosslyn, wary of allowing her soldiers to get restless, had organised contests and exercises to keep them distracted as they waited for the inevitable clash on the field of battle. It did Lothering’s inhabitants good to see the king’s forces at such strength, and the festival atmosphere of her war games had the added bonus of providing an excuse for the stockpiling of supplies they would need to enact Alistair’s plan to defeat Loghain’s most favoured general.

The thought made her smile. Alistair’s confidence had grown since the night they spent talking, and not only because when he had told the war council his idea Cailan had thrown his head back with laughter and clapped his half-brother on the shoulder. Her gaze – her approval – had been the one he sought as he moved sets of coloured counters like chess pieces over the map, and she had given it gladly.

With the way he looked at her these days, she still mulled over her outburst, ashamed of how she had scathed and shouted at him, the way she had lost control when her childhood lessons had drilled into her the need for composure at all times. And yet, her tantrum had ended in feeling his arms around her, with his hands threaded through her hair as she lost herself in the clean, pinesmoke scent of him. She had known he was strong from their sparring, but his gentleness in comforting her, his patience as she wept into his shoulder like a child, still brought a peculiar tightness to her breath whenever she thought about it. They spent more time together now, sharing space and casual touches, as if the air cleared by the storm of their argument had also swept away the barriers that lingered between them. She liked the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, and how easy jokes came to him as they ate breakfast or sorted through paperwork together, without the shadow of deflection and deference she had never noticed until it was gone.

Sat under the awning on the royal dais that overlooked the practice ring, her mouth curved into a smile as she watched him now. To change the pace from the established routine, Lieutenant Mhairi had proposed setting him up in an exhibition duel with one of the royal guard’s new recruits. So far the match was proving a success, having drawn a crowd of soldiers and locals both, and they watched avidly as the two barechested young men circled one another, Alistair with his customary sword and shield, and the dark-haired young giant facing him holding a greatsword he wielded with a raw expertise she had rarely seen.

They were evenly matched. Sunlight glinted off the sheen of sweat on Alistair’s shoulders, and Rosslyn noticed when he adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, working out the cramp in his fingers. At a shout from someone in the crowd, the young giant charged forward, his blade swiping upwards to gain the momentum needed to strike a crushing blow that, if it connected, would end the match. Even as she admired the recruit’s gall, Rosslyn tensed as Alistair parried the blow, focussed on the economy of his footwork and the smooth way his muscles bunched under his skin as he launched into an attack of his own.

“He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Cailan asked next to her. “I might have to tilt against him myself sometime.”

“There would be interesting odds on that fight, Your Majesty,” she replied, dragging her eyes from Alistair’s form. “But it might be best to keep such an event out of the public eye.”

Cailan gave her a scandalised look. “You doubt my skills, my dear?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to see either of you injured for the sake of pride,” came the easy retort, and he laughed.

“Well said! I wonder if –”

He was cut short by a cheer from the locals as the giant, beaten back into a corner, spun on his heel and struck out with such force Alistair was knocked off his feet. A lesser warrior would have stayed down, but he rolled backwards and back up into a guard, shaking his head to clear the sweat and grit from his eyes, taking in the way his opponent had stabbed his sword into the sawdust and was leaning against it like a walking staff.

“Break?” he called breathlessly.

“Sounds good,” the giant gasped back, grinning.

They straightened and parted, turning to opposite sides of the ring. By the time Alistair reached the trestle table set up beneath the king’s banner, Rosslyn was already there, pouring water from a pitcher into a pewter cup. She offered it to him, and their fingers brushed. That odd flutter settled in her chest again. He smiled, noticing her reaction, but the hot day and the exertion together were enough to make his limbs shake, so he rested his weight on the fence next to her as he drank.

“Not bad, I reckon,” he said, tilting his chin towards where his opponent was reluctantly letting himself be fussed over by two young women who shared his dark hair and broad, square features.

Rosslyn hummed her agreement. “He has talent. With a bit of work, the royal guard might turn it into skill.”

“Is Cailan enjoying the show?”

“His Majesty is champing at the bit to be let loose on you, so I’d say so,” she answered. Her hands rested lightly on the railing, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his bicep, to smell the sharp tang of sweat. It darkened his hair to a deep, russet brown, and as she watched, a bead of moisture rolled down from behind his ear, following the strong tendon down his neck until it was halted in the hollow behind his clavicle.

“And are you?” Alistair asked. “Enjoying yourself, I mean. We’ve already done the sparring bit.”

She blinked, shifting her gaze to make sure he saw her bland amusement and not her new fascination with the slow heave of his chest as he caught his breath. “And you think the outcome wouldn’t be different if we had a rematch? You won by luck last time, and now I know all your weaknesses.”

He leaned closer, eyes crinkling in a rakish smile. “Is that so?”

“You drop your elbow when you block, which leaves your arm in a weaker position to follow through and means you have to step out from behind your guard when you strike forward. It leaves you open on your off-side.”

“Well someone was watching my very closely,” he teased, taking in the smug cant of her smirk and the relaxed slope of her shoulders. Perhaps the flushed shade of his cheeks darkened a little as he cleared his throat and turned away. “Any other insights?”

She glanced at him. “Cailan will never let you hear the end of it if you lose.”

“That’s very helpful,” he called after her as she backed away from the rail.

“En garde.” She nodded towards the far side of the ring. His opponent had raised his sword again to the shouted encouragement of his sisters, and Alistair had no choice but to imitate the movement, with only enough time to throw a wink over his shoulder before he jammed his helmet back on his head and took up his weapons again.

Shaking her head, she turned and headed back to her seat, letting the crowd part before her, determined not to bend her dignity by turning back to watch him when the first harsh exchange carried over the cheers of the crowd. The king was waiting for her, after all.

She had just put her foot on the bottommost step of the dais when a disturbance at the nearest guard post caught her eye.

“Please, you don’t understand,” an older woman was saying. “I have to see the king.”

“You can bring your grievance to His Majesty in petty court, like everyone else,” the guard responded, not unkindly. “He always makes sure he hears every petition.”

“No, I have to see him now – it’ll be too late otherwise!”

“What’s going on?” Rosslyn asked, stepping forward. “What’s your name, messere?”

The woman’s face went slack for an instant before she recognised who was addressing her. “Oh – Lady Falcon – I mean, Miriam. My name is Miriam. Please – I need your help.”

Rosslyn nodded. “What’s happened?”

“I was gathering herbs with my friend – she’s one of the lay sisters from the chantry, and some men – they think she’s an Orlesian spy, they took her. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I ran here as quick as I could. Please, Lady, if you can help –”

Rosslyn held up a hand to forestall any further delay, and turned to the guard who had been blocking Miriam’s progress. “Send Captain Morrence to me,” she instructed. “Tell her to bring my sword. And make my apologies to the king, tell him I have a personal matter to see to.”

“At once, Your Ladyship.”

Eamon watched as Rosslyn strode away from the crowds, with her dog and her half-elven captain at her heels, accompanied by a woman in the garb of a simple healer. He had seen the way she and Alistair talked down in the training ring and that, coupled with the fact that she was now leaving on some errand, without even bothering to tell the king in person, made him more certain that what he wished to discuss with Cailan had to be done sooner rather than later.

“Your Majesty,” he ventured, clearing his throat. “Might I –”

Cailan turned to him, though it was clear the majority of his attention was still on the match.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Well, talk then!” Cailan said.

Eamon hesitated. “It would be better to go somewhere more private, so that we are not overheard.”

“And I suppose you think now is a good time because everyone else is distracted?” The king raised an amused eyebrow and chuckled good-naturedly when Eamon nodded. “I never could fault your logic, Uncle – and you have such a serious face. Very well, let’s have at it, but you’re going to be the one explaining to my brother why we vanished just when he was on the cusp of a glorious victory.”

Eamon pursed his lips and kept his silence as he followed Cailan off the dais and through the rows of tents to his own pavilion. When the king stepped inside, he dismissed the guards posted on watch at the entrance, and made sure they were gone before he followed.

“Now then,” Cailan said, easing himself into a cushioned chair. “What is this all about? You have already noted your objections to this plan we’re undertaking, but I am convinced it is the best course, considering the threat we face. And I know you wouldn’t bend my ear to the same arguments twice, would you?”

Eamon allowed himself a wry smile. “Your Majesty is clever to realise I still have… reservations about what Prince Alistair intends to do here. You are right, however. My concerns are on another, albeit somewhat related matter.”

“Out with it, Uncle,” Cailan said. His open expression faded into a frown. “I would have you speak plainly.”

“Very well.” Eamon clasped his hands behind his back. “I have concerns about our new teyrna.”

“Rosslyn?” The king poured himself a brandy, and offered another one across the table. “I can tell you’re serious, but I cannot imagine why. What reasons could you have to be leery of her? She has only limited experience in the role, I’ll grant you, but she’s sharp, and her ability as a commander has been proven. Maker’s breath, she doesn’t even fear putting me in my place.”

“That is my concern, Your Majesty,” Eamon replied slowly. He swilled the amber liquid in his glass as if he could use it to divine his next words.

“Out with it, man.”

“You don’t think she is a little… headstrong?” he asked, taking the adjacent seat to the king. “Lady Cousland is young yet, but impetuous, and the independence she is allowed only makes her more confident – please, hear me out, Nephew,” he added, when Cailan opened his mouth to speak. “My worry is that she may overstep. Her actions on Summerday show that she has no compunction standing for herself, nor claiming the loyalty of those around her, and since then she has made demands of you and your resources without any regard to her place as your subject. This plan she has concocted for Ser Cauthrien is only one example.”

“I thought this plan was my brother’s idea,” Cailan mused, his frown deepening.

“Of course, Your Majesty, but think – I fear the young teyrna might enjoy an undue influence over His Highness. She may yet learn to use that influence to further her own ambitions.”

He watched as Cailan stroked his beard, jaw working as he figured out how to respond to the caution. Of course the warning would not be favourably received, but it needed to be said, if only to make the king aware of the dangers Rosslyn and Alistair both might pose if given too much free rein.

“Really, Uncle,” Cailan huffed eventually. “You make her conviction sound like treasonous plotting. The Couslands have always been loyal to the Crown, even when it would have been in their better interests to side against us, and Rosslyn is a Cousland through and through.”

“It’s not her conviction that worries me, but her independence,” Eamon insisted. “She has made quite clear her desire to avenge her family. If the time comes, and a conflict arises between following you and justice for the people of Highever, then I fear the consequences of taking her loyalty for granted. It may well be what wins this war, and at the moment her allegiance to you seems rather dependent on your doing what she wants.”

“Uh… excuse me, my lords?” A young boy dressed in the feathered black of one of the raven master’s runners poked his head inside the tent, his expression decidedly nervous. “S-sorry to interrupt, only I was told to bring this to His Majesty right away.” He waved a small package wrapped in soft, blue-dyed leather over his head for emphasis. “The messenger is waiting by the picket lines and will take any response back should you wish to send one – he said.”

Wordlessly, Cailan held his hand out for the package and the boy shuffled forward, careful to keep his eyes downcast, as if he could feel the disapproving stare Eamon levelled at the back of his head. He bowed as properly as he could, waiting only for the briefest gesture of dismissal before he scuttled back out into the sunlight, away from the private tension between the king and his advisor. Cailan barely noticed; his gaze was still fixed coldly on his uncle as he unpicked the knot that had kept the letters safe along their journey.

“Watch what you say, Uncle,” he warned in a low voice. “I do not like hearing my allies accused of treason, and you forget that the people of Highever are my people too.”

“I just think it would be better to be safe than sorry,” came the careful reply.

“I take it that means you have a solution to this imagined problem?”

“More a proposition, Your Majesty. One that would benefit Ferelden as a whole, given the precarious nature of politics these days,” Eamon said, waiting while Cailan read the missive in his hands. It was written on thick, lavender-coloured paper and bore an ornate personal seal stamped in golden wax. Whatever was written there seemed to satisfy him, but he folded it and lay it to one side before he could be asked about its contents.

“I’ll hear it later,” Cailan decided. “For now, I must write sanctions to the bannorn on the western shore of Lake Calenhad. We’re expecting guests.”

Eamon glanced at the letter and licked his lips. “Orlesian guests, Your Majesty?”

“A contingent of chevaliers and five hundred pikemen,” the king replied. “I took your recommendation for a mercenary corps to match Loghain’s seemingly inexhaustible forces. He won’t be expecting that. And after the hiding we give Cauthrien here, it’ll give us enough punch to march straight to the capital. I sent word that they should meet us at Redcliffe, but I think it would sooth any panic if the people along the road knew they were coming.”

The last of the brandy swirled in Eamon’s glass as he contemplated this new information, and the consequences that might arise from having foreigners fight a civil war. It was nothing Loghain had not already done, but then the usurper regent was not the one fighting through an accusation of collusion with an enemy power.

“I’m sure Isolde will be happy to receive them,” he said. He drained his glass and set it down, content for now to wait to set his own plan in motion. In some ways, letting Cailan think over his concerns regarding Rosslyn’s allegiances might prove more useful in the long run; he might start to see her as he should, as a wild-caught bird that needed watching lest it turn and bate at the hand holding the jesses.

He would wait, and he would see.

The thugs who had captured Miriam’s friend were not troubling to lower their voices. They had moved deeper into the woods from the glade where they had startled the two women picking herbs, but in the fight to capture her at least one had been severely injured and Cuno tracked the blood trail with ease.

“Just ‘anging’s too good for ‘er – bitch killed Mikey, and I want payback,” one voice leered. “Why not make ‘er sing first? Or ‘ave a bit of other fun?”

“You blind, fuckwit?” another chided. “Spy or not she’s still in Chanter’s robes, and the Maker looks after his own.”

“If all you was going to do was come ‘ere and piss yourself like an old woman, why’d you bother coming along at all? Maybe I should –”

“Gentlemen.”

The six men in the clearing turned at the cold steel in Rosslyn’s voice. She took stock of them in an instant, farm hands little better than vagrants, with blunted, rusty weapons and lax, sallow faces that spoke of too many hours spent soaking in ale. The red-haired woman they had captured sat ignored at their feet, bound and gagged. There was a thin trickle of scarlet blood tracing a path down the side of her face, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

“Push off, wench,” the burliest of them scoffed at her. “We an’t got no quarrel with you.”

Cuno growled, a low, black rumble that accentuated the sharpness of the teeth he bared at them. Rosslyn laid her hand on his head to silence him and slowly stepped forward, her sword easy on her hip.

“Oh shit, don’t you know who that is?” The youngest of the band turned to the others. “That’s the Lady of Highever. We’re for it now.”

“You stay put,” the leader growled, before slicking back his greasy hair and offering a deep, flourishing bow to the approaching noblewoman. “Your Ladyship, such a honour,” he purred.

Rosslyn ignored him in favour of the one who had recognised her. “Explain to me why this woman is a prisoner – don’t look at him. Answer me.”

“I… well…” the young man gulped. “She’s a spy, um. Your Ladyship.”

“She looks like a Chantry sister to me.”

“That’s what she wants you to think!” the leader snarled. “And meanwhile she’s off gathering secrets. We’re doing honest work, we are!”

“Be quiet.” She glanced at the band’s leader but offered him no more of her attention. “You will release her, and then you will go back to wherever it is you came from before I decide to make your conduct a case for the magistrate. Attacking members of the clergy is seen as a rather serious offence, I believe.”

“Of course, Your La–”

“Shut it, you!” the leader snapped. “We’re only doing our duty as good Fereldan citizens, more’n that Feather-lover yonder ‘as ever done. An’ you’re just as bad,” he added with a sneer. He stepped forward, and with his movement the rest of the group shifted, spreading out as their hands went to their weapons, but Rosslyn didn’t move.

“Lettin’ this bitch go when she killed one of our own? I don’ think so. And I ‘ear Loghain ‘as a pretty price out for your ‘ead while we’re at it. It’d set us up for months.” He leered. “Should’ve brought more’n a knife-ear and a dog, girlie.”

He lunged. She drew her sword and swung away, striking as she turned. Another raised a bow, arrow already knocked, but Cuno got there first. His jaws clamped on the man’s wrist, severing flesh and tendon with trained precision until the limb dropped, torn and useless, and he reared up to cut off the man’s screaming at the throat. A pair rushed Morrence, trying to drive her back, but she pulled a dagger from her belt and parried, more than a match for their sloppy technique.

The leader crumpled to the floor. Blade stained red, Rosslyn barely had time to turn before the remaining two were on her. They fought in desperation now, knowing that their only chance to escape punishment themselves was to kill her, but they were poorly suited for the task, and only their frenzy had kept them alive so far. They used their swords like clubs, and though she lacked the protection of armour their movements were easy to predict, and easier to counter. One struck straight for her heart but she dodged and punched him in the nose, using the opening to plunge her blade into his chest. She felt the steel scrape against bone, and for a moment she was pulled down with the man’s dead weight, unable to wrench it free.

“Look out!” Morrence shouted.

She caught the flash in the corner of her eye. She turned, sword-hand empty, ready to throw herself bodily on her opponent if it meant robbing him of advantage, but when she looked up he stalled, a look of shock wide upon his face. A white-fletched arrow protruded from his throat, straight through the larynx so he could not scream. He clutched for it, staring at Rosslyn as if to ask her help, but she only watched, breathing hard as he sank to his knees and finally collapsed with the last of his life gasping from his body. Only when she was sure he was dead did she turn to track the path of the arrow.

The red-headed Chantry sister stood by the maimed corpse of the bowman, still in an archer’s stance, with the cut remains of her bonds dangling from her wrists and a look of pure contempt curling at her lip. Morrence was already striding towards her, bloody sword in hand and suspicion in her narrowed eyes. Cuno trotted after, head held low and hackles raised.

“I was going to ask whether you were alright, but it seems I have my answer,” Rosslyn said as she went to retrieve her sword. She watched as her dog sniffed the stranger’s skirts, then huffed and threw his rump against her knees in a clear gesture of affection.

“He wants you to scratch his shoulder,” she explained, when the chantry sister didn’t move.

“Oh. I am… not used to such big dogs.”

“What’s your name?” Rosslyn asked, masking her surprise at hearing the flat vowels and rich consonants of someone who clearly did not come from Ferelden.

“Leliana, Your Ladyship,” came the reply. “I’m a lay sister in the Lothering chantry.”

“And yet you can shoot like that?” Morrence demanded.

Leliana turned to her, indignation colouring her cheeks. “Not everyone is given to the Chantry as an infant. I can assure you I am not the only one in service to the Maker who has a more colourful past.”

“‘Colourful’?” Morrence repeated. “You didn’t hesitate for an instant when you shot that man.”

“Would you prefer that I had?”

Rosslyn cleared her throat before her captain could retort. “I take it your accent is what brought these fools to the conclusion that you are an Orlesian spy?”

The chantry sister considered. “I never met these men before today. It is possible they heard me talking to the revered mother or to one of the templars.” She smiled a little as Cuno gave her hand one last lick and went to snuff at one of the bodies, but the expression quickly sank into a frown.

“Please, don’t think me ungrateful, Your Ladyship,” she said. “You have saved me from a most unpleasant fate, I think. But how - why?”

“Your friend Miriam told us what happened and led us to find you,” came the reply. “She’s waiting back on the trail, if you’re well enough to walk. We can send someone later to pick up the bodies and bring them to the revered mother for cremation.”

Leliana glanced at the man she had shot. “I still don’t understand why you would concern yourself with me.”

“Do you make a habit of questioning the motives of those who help you?”

The three of them fell into step, with the dog close behind. Morrence still had yet to sheathe her sword. She watched as Leliana pursed her lips, searching for a response.

“I find most have their own reasons for doing so,” the sister confessed eventually.

Rosslyn raised her eyebrows and sighed. “Those criminals thought themselves above the king’s law and decided their hatred was justification enough for murder. I don’t like it when people let their spite get the better of them.”

Before Leliana could answer with more than a pitying look, Miriam spotted them through the trees and rushed forward with a cry to gather her friend in a crushing hug. The distraction allowed Morrence to sidle close to Rosslyn’s side, though her baleful stare never left their rescued captive.

“What do you intend to do with her?” she asked Rosslyn.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“We have no idea who this woman is,” she insisted. “For all we know, those idiots might have been right and she is a spy.”

Miriam overheard them and let out a loud, derisive huff. “Because she’s Orlesian?” she cried. “Utterly ridiculous! My wife is Orlesian – would you accuse her of being a spy?”

“Could your wife shoot a moving target dead to rights at fifteen paces?” Morrence shot back. “I’ve only seen such skill with a bow once before – and Eleanor Mac Eanraig didn’t gain her skills in a cloister.”

“But you can’t seriously think Leliana –”

“Enough,” Rosslyn snapped. She had not expected to have to kill today and it left her more rattled than she liked. “Leliana, I’m afraid my captain is right. You saved my life, but with the way things are, the bodies, and your skills… I’m sorry, but I can’t keep this unofficial.” She shook her head. “At the very least one of our mages can see to your injuries while this gets sorted out – if you’re willing?”

For a long moment, Leliana paused, twisting her fingers in front of her in a manner that seemed wholly discordant with the woman whose hand seemed so steady on the bow. It was an almost courtly gesture, and she stopped when she noticed the direction of Rosslyn’s gaze.

“I think it is in both of our interests if I come with you,” she mused. “And not just because you saved my life. I could be of help to you. And besides,” she added, provoking Morrence with a grin, “a poor spy I would be if I passed up the opportunity to enter the camp of the Falcon of Highever, no?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you wake up dead one morning,” Morrence grumbled as they set off back towards the encampment. Leliana walked ahead with Miriam, while Cuno lingered behind, busy checking the scent of every tree that lined the path.

“Oh don’t worry,” Rosslyn replied airily. “You aren’t the only one with suspicions – which is why you’ll be the one I trust to watch her.”

Morrence huffed. “Thanks.”

The first line of tents came into view through the thinning trees, and beyond, the distant mill of the crowd as people wandered away from the ring. The fight must have ended.

“I suppose it’s for the best that I take charge of our new guest,” Morrence offered airily, watching the disappointed lines that crept into Rosslyn’s frown. “I doubt your prince charming is going to be too happy when he hears you took on six brigands without armour and brought back an Orlesian spy into the bargain.”

“That’s an interesting way to speak of His Highness,” Rosslyn warned, turning a flat look on her captain.

Morrence sighed. “I meant no disrespect, just that you deserve some happiness after… everything. And it’s hard to miss the way he looks at you.”

For an instant, Rosslyn’s confident stride faltered, before she pushed her shoulders back and continued forward again. “It’s not that simple.” With nobles, it never was. How many times before had she been nothing more than a tidbit of court gossip, baited and sniggered at when she got angry at the wrong person or smiled when she should have demurred? Alistair might be without guile, and her heart might leap with every smile he shone her, but whatever it was stirring between them, instinct told her it needed nurturing, guarding, the way a gardener sheltered new seedlings from the bite of frost.

“It’s… I don’t know what it is.” Because there was also the other matter, the deeper secret she had long hidden even from herself, and smiled away whenever anyone mentioned the subject. The fear that it might cause him to shy away, that the warmth in his eyes might turn to pity if found out her deficiencies, plagued the darkest hours of her dreams, drove out any pleasure she might feel at imagining his touch upon her skin.

Morrence laid a gentle hand on her arm, her grip encouraging. “My lady, I may be your captain, but if you need a friend…”

“Thank you.” The lopsided smirk flashed. “But so you know, being nice to me won’t get you out of guard duty with our newest recruit.”

Morrence only chuckled. “It was worth a shot.”

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Upon the Waking Sea

the lovely @orlesianbard commissioned me to depict the moment where Leliana tells the Warden she has been asked to be the Divine’s left hand. The piece, featuring their Alexis Cousland, has been quite a joy to write. Rated M. Please enjoy and thank you orlesianbard for commissioning me :) 

Stories were everywhere, this Leliana knew to be true. The gentle crash of the soft waves that perhaps heralded a change, or the line where the sea met the sky, signifying a journey. One only had to look around to see stories. Leliana looked to the sea, the sky and the evening sun. She looked to the one she 

Her love wove a thousand stories told by a thousand different people, but Leliana’s favorite stories were the ones she wove of her love herself. Tales of a woman named Alexis, a woman of noble birth, living in her golden palace in Highever. How the woman became a Grey Warden and hero, and how she saved them all. How Leliana grew to love her so. Leliana wove those stories to her during the long nights at camp on their journey, when the taint would not allow her sleep. Tell me of Aveline again, she would ask. Tell me of Alindra. Leliana, tell me of us. And Leliana would tell the story of the lost redheaded girl, who found her way to Lothering’s chantry, to find the one she loved. Leliana would stroke her long ebony hair, whisper sweet words of their life after the Blight, because it was too difficult to think of what she would do if their story ended.

Their story didn’t end with the end of the Blight. The Maker allowed it to go on. They fought to make it go on. They hadn’t always been together, but her love was always in her thoughts, near her, even when they were apart.

Life finally allowed them to reunite, be together upon the waking sea. Their sea.

Alexis smiled at her. Her hair was dancing in the wind. Leliana drifted over, smoothed the locks away from her face. Lovingly too, she caressed the scars on the side of her face. Her love was so self-conscious of them, those little reminders of the battle at Denerim. Leliana thought them beautiful. Not a reminder of her hardship, but a reminder of what she overcame. They had overcome so much, the two of them. There was more. Would there always be more?

Leliana remembered again. Her heart fell.

Leliana meant to tell her when they first met again, upon the waking sea. But then Alexis was in her arms, and Leliana wanted to tell happier stories, and make new ones with the one she loved. Days of blissful togetherness passed filled with stories of love and longing, leaving the Divine’s request tucked away in Leliana’s knapsack. It was forgotten. Almost, but not quite enough. In the quieter moments, with her love asleep and Leliana gently caressing soft curls, and admiring the slope of hip and strength of her arms, she remembered. She still kept it at bay.

The waves lapped to their ankles as they stood near the water. She was beautiful in evening light, beautiful always. As the next wave came to the shore, Alexis kneeled to the water. Leliana laughed as the salty water hit her face, laughed even more as she splashed her back in revenge. They splashed and they kissed and they were wrapped in each other’s arms, and in that moment, Leliana the bard and story teller imprinted that story in her memory, of a scarred yet beautiful face, brown eyes, and ebony hair. Her hand, worn from battle, caressed Leliana’s face. They kissed. Their lips tasted like the salty air and water. They were warm. She wondered, what she would do without such warmth. Leliana, weaver of stories, alone in her bed, could tell the stories to herself, but they would never compare or come close to having her there.

Alexis would tell her she must go.

It was why she did not speak of it in their time together. That was why she kept it to herself. Leliana wavered as the water wavered, fell a little, and when Alexis at last asked, what troubles you love? did at last the confession spill forth.

Alexis, I have been asked to be the Divine’s left hand.

There was no outward change in her demeanor, or at least there wasn’t at first. Alexis took Leliana’s hand, squeezed it gently in both romance and understanding, and when she looked away, Leliana knew every thought. Even if she would not say them, and mask them with talk of how proud she was of Leliana, how it was an opportunity for her to do more good in the world.

“I know how you admire her,” Alexis said. “I know you want to go.”

Leliana couldn’t lie. Not to her. “Part of me, yes. But—"

“But it’s cruel of her to ask this of you.”

There it was, that brief moment where her mask of diplomacy disappeared, and she was Alexis without the mask. It would come back on, Leliana could feel it as she squeezed her hand again.

“But you will tell me to go, won’t you?” she asked.

“You believe in her,” Alexis replied.

Yet even more, Leliana believed in her love. She believed in the two of them.

Soft kisses in the evening sun turned into more. Their hearts beat together as they embraced, and they beat together in their bed. Leliana wove stories. That evening, into the night, she wove stories of another sort onto her lover’s skin. Secrets and promises, slow and soft. Their story that night began with a rushed prologue, clothes torn off to be strewn about the room, the patchwork telling a story of fevered passion in their own right. Leliana fell to the bed, waiting for her, surprised but not disappointed when she sank to the floor. Kisses to her thighs elicited them to part, bring her mouth to Leliana’s center. The prologue slowed to a gentle beginning, Alexis replacing her mouth with softer digits that rubbed and swirled. A soft beginning made way for a softer ending, Leliana allowing her sighs to carry through the open window as Alexis brought her to a climax. Her own hand barely kept her satisfied in their time apart. Alexis more than satisfied her, to the point where satisfied wasn’t enough. She made her blissful, made her feel like she had swallowed rays of the sun. She made Leliana feel like the stories of love were all written about the two of them. Satisfied. It wasn’t enough to describe the two of them. Tales of them, told and passed on from one bard to the next, would never capture how alive Alexis made her feel.

Alexis beckoned Leliana to the bed. She fell on the sheets and the soft down, comfortable and soft but not home until Alexis was pressed against her. Her body was a beautiful contradiction, sinews, strength, and softness. Their bodies pulled together and connected, and Leliana breathed in her scent of the rays of the sun and saltiness of sea. Being held by Alexis was finding home after drifting for so long. She didn’t want to think of how she would be drifting when they parted again, so Leliana brought her to her back. Her tongue danced across her shoulders, and further down. Their hands clasped together as Leliana kissed her stomach and her thighs before they parted for her. At first Leliana thought of tasting her, but the tempt of watching her in pleasure was too compelling. Her eyelashes fluttered, rapt and joyous as she spoke Leliana’s name, and muttered words of praise. Her skin was flushed to a pink, and she was blooming and starry eyed. A vision and a work of art, the most beautiful and profound story Leliana would ever know. And when at last Leliana tasted her, she tasted her knowing that stories would be lost in their time apart. They had already lost so many. Perhaps she did not want to lose anything else.

Alexis came. She came and her outstretched arms, wanting to hold Leliana. Always they wanted to hold each other in their afterglow. Hold and caress, entwine limbs and mutter words of love. Alexis wanted to hear the story of Alindra again. So many times Leliana told that story to her. It became a comfort, a reminder that she would always be there. Leliana knew she wanted to hear it again so she may savor it.

Alexis asked to hear another. She asked to hear the story of the two of them. When Leliana wove their story she spoke only of the happier things. Their first kiss, the first time they made love. Their embrace after the battle and fighting was over. Their reunion, upon the waking sea. She did not go further. Not because that story was still being written, but because Leliana knew that no matter where their stories took them, no matter what duties they had, a part of their story would always remain finished upon the waking sea.

“Sometimes I worry I can’t compete with everything that—"

“No.”

Leliana peered at her, rising. “No,” she spoke again. “This. You and I. It’s all I want.”

Alexis caressed her face. “It is all I want as well. But Leliana…there is something. Something I have…”

Leliana knew. She knew all along there was something Alexis kept to herself, though she was too blind in her own thoughts to realize there was something she had to tell her as well. But Leliana listened then, and when Alexis finished, and asked Leliana what she should do, there was no hesitation. Leliana told her that she had to go.

“What if it leads nowhere?” she asked. “What if I could have been with you. If the Calling takes me, if—"

“Don’t you dare say that.”

“Leliana.”

You must try. My story with you, surely the Maker cannot allow it to end before it has begun. He cannot have given us such happiness, allow us to win the day, only to tear us apart.” She pressed her forehead to Alexis. They shared the same space, the same air. “I know you are not sure what you believe,” she said, “but I have to believe someday there will be a day for us.”

“I believe in us,” Alexis said, before kissing her again. They kissed their tears away.  

“You must go,” Leliana whispered sometime after, the two laying on their sides, still wrapped and entangled. “You must come back to me.”

“I’m with you, even when we are apart.”

Leliana wept that night. She did not weep when she wrote back to the Divine, wrote that she accepted her offer. She did not cry when she parted from her lover. She never wanted goodbyes to be sad and filled with tears. Their story together, it was littered with tears. If she could spare them, she would. There would be a day with no tears. Of that, Leliana believed. She believed that, as she believed in the two of them.

It was weeks later. In her golden palace with Justinia, Leliana received her first letter. I am still upon the Waking Sea with you, my love.

So they were. So they were

[faejilly]

Still Waters

so, as previously mentioned I was doing some fic/archive maintenance today, and pulled a bunch of things, and re-worked a few, and turned them into something different than what they used to be, by lining them all up together. So it’s kind of new, and kind of not, but I wanted to share this collection of ficlets that unexpectedly turned into a rather decent character study of Bethany Hawke. (on AO3)

don’t leave me

She remembered when it had been safe to laugh, to jump and play and shout and snarl.

Remembered her mother yelling "WALK!" every time she and Carver thumped through the house and out the door.

Mother never had to yell now. It was easy to walk, to keep her voice a whisper, her movements slow, her hair dark and heavy before her eyes, between her and anyone who might look too closely.

She was afraid.

After her magic came, Bethany was always afraid. But she could not bear to tell her father of her fears, sure he would worry, would turn away; convinced he could not love her if she stumbled. Could not risk it, could not risk the rest of the family, Mother and Garrett and Carver.

Not for her. She couldn't bear it if they risked anything, just for her.

But still she was afraid. She could not stand to sleep alone at night, to risk the voices in her nightmares being more than dreams. Could not tell a soul what she feared, as if that would make it real.

But Carver knew. Carver always knew, just as she could read every awkward shift of his shoulders, every roll of his eyes. He knew, and he carried the weight of her fears, breathed them with her in the dark, and put himself between her and the whispers, every night.

green

Bethany loved the sound of the Chant. She wasn't sure what she thought of the words, most of the time, unsure if she owed penance or forgiveness or mortification for being born a mage, but it seemed to be promising peace, someday, and that sounded nice.

It was one of the few places her brothers stopped hovering right behind her shoulder all the time. She loved them dearly, but it was nice to have a moment to herself, wandering the gardens in the Chantry's courtyard. Most of them were practical, herbs for flavor and healing and teas and incense, but not all, oh no. There was one wall of roses, pink and red and blushing peach, surrounding a twisty thorny bush that she'd never seen bloom, not in their past few years here in Lothering.

Not that even the regular roses were blooming yet, too early in the year, too cool, the green of the grass almost damp beneath her feet.

"And aren't you a beautiful bud. Won't you be stunning when you blossom."

Bethany froze, a shot of instant terror, someone's here, someone I didn't see, thought I was alone, musn't get caught, before her brain kicked back in and remembered she wasn't doing anything suspicious, nothing wrong with wandering the gardens. It took just an instant more to recognize the soft Orlesian accent of one of the lay sisters, to find the smooth lines of her robes just past the lone apple tree beside her.

"Good morning!" The redhead smiled, her accent soft and sweet. "Miss Hawke, yes?"

"Yes, thank you." Bethany hated the whisper of her own voice when confronted with people who knew her name. Too familiar means they've seen too much. "I just came, to, that is." She couldn't remember why she'd come, hopes of Chant and redemption and freedom too fragile to put into words, especially to a stranger. She gave up and nodded at the brown rose bushes, too early to have more than a flush of green along their branches.

"Ah, they're lovely flowers, aren't they? I keep hoping for that last one to finally show what she's been growing in her thorns, don't you?"

Bethany blinked, startled to hear the monstrous bush in the middle spoken of so fondly. "I ... suppose. But, I have to," she gestured vaguely back towards the Chantry proper. "My family will be expecting me."

"Of course, my dear." The woman leaned forward, a sudden soft brush of lips against Bethany's cheek almost enough to make her tremble. Though not with fear, no, it was warmer, sweet and smooth and kind and hopeful, somehow. Bethany managed a smile, couldn't quite form the words for good-bye or thank you, and walked back the way she'd come.

what should have been 

The ogre hadn’t killed him.

Quite.

They had to carry him out of the Wilds though, awkwardly balanced between his brother and sister. Carver always had been the tallest.

Bethany couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but wait by his side. Carver was supposed to be the hands to her heart, the heart to her head, the spine behind her smile.

He wasn’t supposed to be half broken and pale, each breath a whistle she could hear in her sleep, as he desperately fought for each heartbeat in the hold of the ship from Gwaren.

Mother nursed him, kept him clean and fed despite Lowtown’s slime and Gamlen’s dirt. Bethany wanted to, but she had a debt to pay, servitude to Meeran for the privilege of their new life of back-breaking drudgery.

He yelled at her, every morning after she’d staggered back home, for wasting her magic on him.

It was such a relief to hear him grumble though, she always laughed, the familiar tug of magic swirling around her hands to settle in his chest a comfort and a delight, no matter how sore her shoulders and feet from a night spent fighting.

It meant they were both still here, still strong.

Still together.

It only took a few months to get him back on his feet. Garrett took them both out to the Wounded Coast every other day, gave Carver enough room to swing a sword, to start getting himself back in shape again.

At the rate he was going, he’d be free to join them when they went freelance, after their year of service was up. There were rumours already building about the Tethras expedition. If they were lucky, (and the eldest Hawke was very good at making luck), they might be able to get in on it.

“Maker preserve the Deep Roads then,” Carver joked, a rasp still hiding behind his laugh, though it got fainter every day. “They won’t know what hit them, not with three Hawkes on the rampage.”

what is instead 

Some days she hates Garrett.

Too short.  Eyes too dark.  Laugh too loud.

He’s not the one she looks for, every time she turns around, and yet he is the one who is always, always, always there.

For that she loves him, even as her breath catches and her stomach curdles and everything hurts more than she can stand and part of her wants to make him bleed so he’ll know her pain and just. stop. smiling.

Sometimes, in the brightest light of noon, when no hand reaches out to tug her hair, no foot slides ‘accidentally’ too close so as to trip her, no shoulder bumps against her, no tongue sticks out at her, no thoughts mirror her own so closely as to finish her every sentence, she wishes Garrett had died instead, and she had her twin back.

Those are the days she gets very quiet, and listens to every word he says, and is desperately thankful he’s not as close to her as Carver was, or he’d know what she was thinking.

He doesn’t deserve that.

Those are the nights she wishes she had a proper house again, so she could cry to herself in her room and no one else would hear.

No one besides Carver has seen her cry in years.  She cannot bear to change that now.  Instead she turns her head into her pillow, and counts her breaths, and pretends her heart still beats a steady rhythm on its own.

elegance 

Some days she loved Hawke.

Hawke.

A title now, more than anything else. Because for all Bethany was a Hawke, and Mother was still a Hawke, even as she looked back at her old home, and Carver…

Bethany swallowed.

Hawke, like that, larger than life, not just a name, but a job, a duty … there was only one Hawke.

Who worried so much. Too much.

Especially, Bethany knew, about the sister that always needed to be protected.

It ought to have been easy to walk across the warehouse, to talk to the herbalist, to agree to stay behind working on potions and tinctures and maybe even sneak in a conversation or two with Tomwise about poisons. She’d be safer, here, than out fighting, and it wasn’t as if she wanted to fight anyways?

But there was something intimidating about the beautiful blonde woman, so poised, so, well, elegant.

Bethany felt every inch the country bumpkin, every time Elegant said hello, and could never quite seem to manage much in the way of words in response.

Just to emphasize how well she fit her name, Elegant kept saying good morning, or good evening, every single time they met, no matter how likely it was that Bethany would fail to be gracious back, and would mumble something incoherent in the general direction of her toes.

She’d started to hate her boots, from staring at the scuffs on them so often.

Today will be different.

For Hawke, even if she couldn’t do it for herself.

She would talk to Elegant, and they could crush elfroot together, and she would be helpful, and, for Hawke’s sake, and Mother’s, and Carver’s, she would be safe.

Though she almost lost her nerve when Elegant lifted her head, her eyes as warm and steady as always.

Found it again, when instead of her usual practiced smile, Elegant lifted one slim eyebrow in challenge.

Perhaps Bethany didn't have to settle for safe, at all.

Sunshine 

(Isabela Wonders)

Varric called her Sunshine.  

The first time Isabela met Hawke’s younger sister, she wasn’t quite sure why; the girl was quiet and shy, and if Isabela was just a touch less observant of the people around her, she might have missed seeing Bethany at all before the mage slid gracefully behind her elder brother.

But Isabela did see her move, noticed the grace, and the swing of dark hair, and made sure to catch the girl’s eyes.

And then Bethany smiled.

Oh.

Sunshine indeed.  And definitely not a girl.  A woman’s curves, a woman’s skin, a woman’s interest warming soft brown eyes.

Isabela smiled back.

(Bethany Resolves)

She was tired.

Tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of finding shadows and never standing tall in the sun.

Tired of everyone always being so damned careful.

She wasn’t made of glass.

She wasn’t going to break.

She was a grown woman, not an infant in need of protection.

"Sunshine, just give Hawke a moment to," Varric’s voice was low and rumbling, and he patted her hand, like she was some kind of idiot, and she couldn’t bloody take it a moment longer.  She slapped his hand away, and seriously considered flame to emphasize her point, even as his eyes widened and he spread his arms in some half-arsed wordless apology.

"Now, Kitten," Isabela started, and Bethany spun around on her toes, something in her face finally getting through to someone, because Isabela’s voice trailed off, even before Bethany threw her hands up into the air and snarled at the both of them.  

"I am not a child, or a pet, and I do not need either of you to coddle me."

"Hawke asked," Isabela tried again, soothing and slow, as if Hawke solved everything.

Bethany stepped in close and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in to kiss her, a hard press of lips and a low growl in her chest.  "Doesn’t it matter more what I can do, rather than what Hawke thinks?"

Isabela smiled, slow and warm and pleased.  "Yes, yes it does."

nightmare: taint 

It didn’t hurt as much as she had thought it would.  Not like normal pain, anyways, not like a bruise or a cut or a broken bone.

The inside of her mouth tasted bad, her throat alternately burned and tightened and eased just to start over again.  Her skin didn’t feel like hers anymore, didn’t feel, really, not in the same way, everything oddly distant and too sharp, both at once, and she was hungry and yet never wanted to eat again, she was thirsty and slow dribbles of too warm water from their stores didn’t help.

She was cold, despite the heavy thick air and the glow of lava through the vents in the floors and the walls of the dwarven Roads.

Her knuckles ached, when she flexed her hands, and her toes curled too tightly in her boots, but all in all, she didn’t hurt.

Dying should hurt, shouldn’t it?

But all she could manage was a heavy sort of ache low in her back when she stood or sat or stretched, and the occasional twist in her chest when she took too quick a breath, or she tried to figure out what to say …

She had a chance, unlike Father, unlike Carver, just now, an opportunity to say goodbye before she was gone, and she couldn’t seem to find the words.

Couldn’t make herself say anything at all.

One last failure, before the end.

reality: mother

she died

she died

and then at last

she died again

her favorite laugh silenced, strong hands gone beyond the Fade,  never to hold be held

again

brown eyes empty body broken no pyre no farewell

abandoned to the monsters

never forgive

pain

proof of life this is not life

relief, release, respite

gratitude

and yet

someone else with that laugh

those eyes

left behind 

alone

the flip of a coin: Warden Alistair

(heads: unrequited)

He hadn’t thought he’d ever fall in love again.

Certainly not with another Warden, not again, not after watching Lenya and Zevran.  Especially not after watching her die, with no idea what to do with his own grief in the shadow of the stark loss in Zevran’s eyes.

And yet.

He’d tried to keep the unexpected feelings to himself.  He knew Bethany Hawke wasn’t one who was proud of being ‘chosen’, didn’t think she’d appreciate overtures from someone who, despite it all, still was.

Maybe because of it all.  The only thing I have left, Wardens and duty.

And love.

Because he was an idiot sometimes. Oh yes. Definitely an idiot.

Sometimes she spent a night with another Warden, or let herself be ‘seduced’ by an awestruck or grateful civilian when they stopped on their patrols, and every time, he had one more drink than usual, fingers tight around his mug, trying not to imagine the sounds she might make, skin to skin and lips to lips.

But it wasn’t so bad, because he knew it was casual, a way to warm her nights and distract herself from her fate.  And they’d managed to become friends, at least, conversations on watch, a good morning smile over tea.

That would just have to be enough.  He thought it was, too.  Until it wasn’t.

Nathaniel came back from Ansberg, and he was not afraid to sit too close, to murmur something more than just a morning greeting in the dawn light, to promise her being a Warden wasn’t all bad.

She started smiling more, slow and sweet and hot.  Refrained from her occasional dalliances.

And there he was, watching the woman he loved fall in love with someone else.  Second best.  Again.

(tails: without words)

Bethany Hawke had a tendency to stand with her hands behind her back.  Back straight, shoulders steady, her face always calm, no matter what news you gave her, what new horror she had to deal with, what attempt at sympathy she would disdain to accept.

And yet.  Alistair could never see her hands.

And he wondered.

She so very clearly didn’t want to talk, not to him, not to anyone, not about anything more important than passing the salt or repairing her armor.

She burnt the letters her family sent, and never wrote them back, not past that first note Stroud had made her sign, to tell them she had survived the Joining.

He wondered what she was really thinking, and how calm she really was, or how miserable, and if there was some sort of help he could offer.

Or that anyone could offer, really, his ego did not require that he be the only one who could ease her way, but there were good things about being a Warden, good times that could be had in this life, and he hated to see someone so strong, so young, so beautiful, alright, yes, I’m a horrible man and she’s gorgeous and this line of thought is not helping, have eyes so dark and lost.

Her eyes reminded him of The Warden.  

His warden, the best friend he’d ever had, a man of principle and compassion both. Though it might have done him a bit of good to have a bit more bend in his spine; he might still be alive, then.

Not that there was anything wrong with death by Archdemon; he had saved the world, and if anything was worth dying for, it was that. 

But it nagged, a bit, to wonder if he could have saved him.  His reasoning had been so logical, splitting up the three Grey Wardens, just in case, but Alistair would always regret that he hadn’t been there on Fort Drakon to help.  To say good-bye, even if he didn’t manage to take the blow himself.

Alistair didn’t want to regret the life of another Amell.  And that’s where she was going, it was clear, a little less care each and every day, the vicious edge to her spells growing darker each time she fought.  She was going to let herself die in the Deeps, if something didn’t change.

But he didn’t know what to say.

Well.

That was clearly the problem.  He didn’t need to figure out what to say, he needed to figure out what to do.

Not that he was any good at that either.

But he had to try.

So he dragged her to the infirmary, and put her in the way until she sighed and helped the medics.

He heard tell she started going back, all on her own, once a week or so.

He did the same in the kitchens, and smiled every time cinnamon wheat bread showed up at dinner, because he recognized it as her mother’s recipe.

He hunted down everything of Daylen’s he had, or Oghren had, sent messages to Wynne and Leliana and Zevran and Shale, considered Zevran, but thought he was unlikely to be willing to part with anything he’d managed to save, considering.

And yet it wasn’t all that surprising when Zevran brought a box for him personally, with a few letters and keepsakes from everyone, disappearing back out the window (the window, really, you couldn’t come in through a door and say hello and have some dinner?) with a small wink before Alistair could do more than gape at him.

Alistair passed it along to Bethany the next morning, as next of kin.  Her eyes lifted, for once, wide and startled, and he grinned in delight at his success.

She even almost smiled back before she retreated back to her room, her fingers gripped tightly around the corners of her present.

It got a little easier, after that.  

He invited her to be a guard for a rebuilding crew, so she could see the people who were around after the Wardens killed the darkspawn.  Her chin was up that night at dinner, rather than her face ducked down to avoid the rest of them.

He hunted down books whenever he was on a salvage crew and made sure to save them for her, once he realized how much she enjoyed trying to piece the tattered pages back together.

He caught her laughing in the library, having managed to combine several different volumes into one nonsensical bedtime story, which Sigrun read aloud, with plenty of sound effects and silly voices.

Her laugh was quite possibly the most gorgeous sound he’d ever heard.

They worked together a lot, now, and he stood behind her when others spoke, and watched her, always her, as the years passed, and what had once been a white-knuckled tangle of fingers at the small of her back eased into a loose clasp of hands.  

What had once been a face still as stone relaxed, just a little; quiet still, but attentive, and whenever the conversation was over she’d glance over her shoulder at him, and smile, and his heart would stop for just a breath before he could manage to smile back.

He knew he’d reached the point he needed to tell her … something.  A hint of how she made his heart lift and his skin flush and his thoughts come to a stuttering halt, but he’d spent so long not talking, he wasn’t sure how to start.

But he tried, her hand small and strong in his as he looked her in the eyes.  Before he managed more than her name, Bethany, she put a finger to his lips, and smiled, and he sighed, a warm shudder of air as her hand slid along his chin.  She leaned in close, and her eyes slowly closed, and kissing her was better than he’d ever imagined.

duende: King Alistair

He wasn’t technically a Warden anymore.

Wardens and politics didn’t mix well, not outside the Anderfels.

Most especially not in Ferelden.

But for all the official story, it wasn’t as if there was a way to stop the dreams, the tug in his chest each time they came across another remnant of the Taint that needed to be burned out of the soil. 

There was no way to clean his blood, to make him simply Alistair again.

A fact Arl Eamon refused to acknowledge, especially every time the question of a Theirin heir came up again.

Escaping to the Keep was his favorite refuge from everything he had to do, had to be, as King.

Even before Stroud sent them new recruits to train.

Even before he met Bethany.

Who hid her face behind the dark fall of her hair, and whose mouth turned, sharp and bitter, whenever she thought no one was looking. Who didn’t talk much, and smiled less, and yet.

And yet, sometimes she would lift her face, and the sun would catch in her eyes, and he would forget to breathe because there was something there, such strength and steel and beauty, and he found himself trying to remember some of the Chantry’s quieter prayers, at night, words to express how very much he hoped someday she would let that light in her eyes free.

And that he would be there, to witness it.

***

The first time she kisses him, he smells of steel and leather, and his lips part in surprise, and her heart twists, and she can feel the gasp of his breath in the space between them when she leans back.

The second time he kisses her, her eyes close and her shoulders ease beneath his hands, and the firelight warms his side, and when her fingertips brush against his cheeks he knows nothing will ever be the same.

The third time she kisses him there is blood and mud, and sweat, and the stench of dog and death around them, thick enough to cover even the chill of the stone, and she doesn’t care, because he is hot against her skin, scalding her lips and hands, and he is alive, and he is whole, and he is hers. 

***

It is a question she can only ask in the middle of the night, when the shadows hide the walls of the suite, his suite, never her room, not in Denerim, not at Vigil’s Keep, appearances to keep, even there, surrounded by a sea of blue and steel, when she can imagine they both lived a different sort of life.

Or, at least, when she can wonder what it might be like, if they could.

She only finds the words when she wakes during that in between moment, no longer night, not yet morning, the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his breath against her hair the loudest thing in the room.

She only finds them because he’d asked her, in the same indistinct twilight during the last time they were together, what she thought of being a Warden now, years past that first bitter Joining, and there’d been a note of … something, not quite wistful, behind the words.

She’d been startled enough by the realization that she was content, at last, with her duties, with her life, even beyond the fleeting joy of their shared nights, that she’d forgotten to follow the trail his words had left her, and had laughed instead, and kissed him, and his hand had slid down her sides, between her legs, the tantalizing contradiction of smooth skin and rough callouses, and his breath hot against her skin as his fingers pushed just so, and her back had arched and she’d lost herself in the heat of him, as she loved to lose herself, every time she had the chance, accompanied by the rough sweet whisper of his voice saying her name into the hollow of her throat, a breath before his lips found her skin, before their bodies were pressed so close she could feel the rhythm of his heart beating against her skin.

She only finds them this time because she wants to know, needs to know that there is some joy in his life, as well, beyond what little she can grant him.  

What little he can share with her.

He deserves better than such a shadow life, she knows, especially now that she realizes she left her own shadow life behind, some-when between the day she started to die and now.

Everyone’s dying, after all.  At least she’s found a place to do some good in the meanwhile.

Love helps too, but she’s no longer young enough to imagine it’s enough all on its own.

Isn’t quite lost enough in appreciation of the broad expanse of his chest to imagine it’s quite enough for him all on its own, either.

So she makes herself ask, if he’s happy, if he regrets.

Places a fingertip against his lips, for just a breath, when he tries to make a joke instead of answering.

I was not a very good Warden, Bethany.  I did not want to do what had to be done.  I’m not sure I would have learned better, at Vigil’s Keep, or Weisshaupt.  I think I am, at last, a decent King. How could I regret that? 

He kisses her, and it is soft, and long, and she is breathless when he is done, and he shifts, and the long line of his body presses up against hers, and he whispers, again, so soft she can barely hear him.

And I do not know, if it was my duty, if I could be the one to send you back into the Deep when you needed to go.  If it was my word that could make it happen, I would keep you by my side always.

They both know that would have been good for neither of them, and yet, her heart aches at the thought; it is a sweet one, a dream to savor for a heartbeat or two, before she lets her fingers find the line of his jaw, and she lifts her chin to kiss him again, and again, for as long as the shadows keep them safe.

[sky-scribbles]

Dancing In Rainfall

A quick little fic as my contribution to Warden day for @dwarfappreciationweek, featuring Magda ‘Maddie’ Brosca, and the three things she loves most: rain, dancing, and Leliana.

~

The rain started not long after they stopped for the night. The campfire hissed and sputtered, water rebounded from the rock walls ringing the camp, and their comrades bolted for the dry safety of their tents. Alistair snatched up his stew, Wynne her books, Oghren his mead, and all of them vanished behind the hide flaps so swiftly that a watcher might have thought a mage had somehow erased them from existence. Leliana was about to follow – even stood to do so – when she saw Maddie.

Eyes upon the clouds, feet firmly planted on a rock, the leader of their party stood with her head tilted back and her arms held away from her sides, as if embracing the sky. As the drops quickened and thickened, slamming down against her pale face, Leliana saw a grin drag the corners of her mouth outwards.

Bliss is not a word Leliana associates frequently with Magda Brosca. And seeing Maddie like this – taking joy in something so simple – moved Leliana to stay outside as the heavens opened, to stand on the rocks at Maddie’s side, to tip back her head and let the rain crash down on her cheeks.

‘I bloody love the surface,’ Maddie whispered. ‘Water. From the sky. This place is mad.’ 

Leliana laughed.

The sky is clear now, the deluge moving northwards, and they have relit the campfire and nestled themselves close to it to hasten the drying of their clothes and hair. Maddie has tucked herself under Leliana’s arm, her warmth welcome in the evening chill, and just her very presence – her there-ness – making a drowsy kind of joy thrum in Leliana’s chest.

They’ve been talking for some time, about Maddie’s love of rain and snow and ‘every crazy piece of weirdness else’ that proves that there’s no longer a stone roof above her head, and about a few of the stories Leliana knows about the shapes of the stars above them, and about their journey and their pasts and their thoughts about what tomorrow might bring. But now, they’ve settled into that kind of contented silence that can only exist between best friends and lovers, the silence that asks for no filling, that’s filled simply by the closeness of the other person. It’s so deep – even the owls have fallen silent – that when Maddie suddenly breaks it, Leliana blinks in surprise.

‘Do bards learn to dance?’

Maddie mumbles the question, as if she’s thought better of speaking it aloud even as it leaves her mouth. She looks away, picking at the grass and pursing her lips, and Leliana frowns before nodding.

‘But of course we learn to dance. A bard must be able to entrance by every possible method - with song, with tales, and with our bodies. And we could hardly expect to be welcome at the balls and masquerades thrown by Orlesian nobles if we were tripping over our feet all the time.’

With a nod, Maddie snatches up a waterlogged stick and pokes the end into the fire. A coil of steam rises with a hiss from where the flames touch the wetness clinging to the wood. ‘I guess it was all… stately stuff. Gowns and slow twirling. That kind of thing.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Leliana tells her. ‘Some Orlesian dances can be very energetic. Aggressive, even. There are a great many stories I could tell you of catastrophes that have happened when someone put a foot out of place in a particularly lively dance, and tripped up the entire ballroom.’

Maddie lets out an explosive snort. ‘A whole room full of snobs in fancy dress flopping to the ground? I’d pay to see that.’

Leliana waits for her to go on, but she stays silent, prodding at the fire with her stick. So Leliana says, ‘Why do you ask?’

For a moment, she thinks Maddie isn’t going to answer; she feels the small body pressed against hers go still, and sees Maddie’s face freeze. Then, with a huff, Maddie throws the stick into the fire – sending up another cough of smoke – and shakes her head. ‘It’s just… back in Orzammar, I always kind of wanted to learn how. To dance, I mean.’

Leliana stares for a moment, then smiles. These were not words she ever expected to hear Maddie utter. ‘Was there no one who could teach you?’

‘Teach?’ Maddie turns the word into a bark of laughter. ‘No one teaches Casteless anything, ‘cept how to sweep a street, pick a pocket and take a punch. Sometimes I tried to see if I could pick it up the way I learned to fight – telling my body what to do until it started working. I thought maybe if I watched the right people…’ She shakes herself suddenly. ‘But it never worked, so I stopped trying. Just made me look like a prat.’

Now Leliana thinks about it, she realises she has no idea what kind of place dancing might have in the culture of dwarves. ‘What sort of people would you watch? I suppose the nobility dance, no?’

Again, Maddie takes a few seconds to answer. And when she does, she speaks with unusual slowness, as if she’s measuring every word, picking them out with utmost care. It’s a strange thing to hear from her, from Magda Brosca who throws out her words as carelessly as she throws out punches, who holds back her real thoughts for no one.

‘There was this one time,’ she says at last, ‘this job I was doing for Beraht. I must’ve been… somewhere ‘bout fifteen. Got sent into the Diamond Quarter – first time I’d ever been in there – to steal some kind of… document thing from some snotty noble or other. Didn’t know what it was about. Didn’t ask. Almost killed me getting into the Quarter without being seen, but I managed it, found the estate.’ She spits out the word estate, as if it contains poison. ‘There was a party going on – that was my cover to get in unseen and sneak about while everyone was distracted – and I looked into a room through the keyhole to see whether it was the right one, and… and there was this girl. 'Round the same age as me. Dancing.’

She closes her eyes.

‘I’d never seen anyone dance before. Not like there’s anything to dance about in Dust Town, and twirling your body around’s not gonna put food on the table, is it? Dancing – and music, and art, and I dunno, poetry and whatever – it’s about as useful as mud, when there’s a brand on your face. Less useful, at least mud’s good for chucking at people or putting on a burn. I always thought dancing was just this... this stupid thing nobles did because they could, just one more way for them to show off that they had the time and coin to spend on doing things with no point to them – and then I saw her. I saw the way she moved.’

A touch of wonder has crept into her tone. Leliana smiles and pulls her a little closer.

‘She had dark hair, and it was all wavy from being in braids, but she’d taken it out to brush it. She was wearing a purple dress, and she… she was dancing. No music – I think she was just practising, she was gonna do it in front of the party later or something. She just… flowed. It was the first time in my life I’d ever looked at anyone – anything – and thought, beautiful.’

Leliana smiles. ‘Did you talk to her?’

This is met with another snort. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a master of sneaking around, Leli. If I’d opened that door, she’d have yelled for the guards, I’d have been chased back to Dust Town with half the nug-humping Warrior Caste after me, I’d never have finished the job, and I’d have gone to bed hungry.’ Maddie shakes her head again. ‘But I wanted to. I wanted to go and talk to her. I wanted to ask where she learned to dance like that, and if she could teach me. I wanted to know her name. I wanted to know her favourite colour, what foods she liked – I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted her to know everything about me. Screw that, I... I just wanted her to know I existed, for her to know that I knew she existed. But that couldn’t happen. So I finished the job, robbed her family, and went home.’

Her voice is charged with anger now. Most people tend to back away when confronted with Maddie when she’s angry, but Leliana just clasps her hand and gives it a squeeze, because she knows Maddie’s anger isn’t directed at her, but at Orzammar, at its Caste system and arrogant nobles, at everyone who made her live a life where she’d be arrested if she stopped to ask a pretty girl how to dance.

If it had been a story, Leliana thinks, it would have ended very differently. Some small sound would have made the dancing girl turn around and happen to see the blue eye in the keyhole. She would have opened the door and, seeing the strange, scruffy beauty of the Casteless girl in front of her, would have felt the words to call the guards die in her throat. She would have smiled and laughed at Maddie’s questions, and taught her to dance, and met with her again and again, both of them revelling in this secret they kept from their families. And eventually they would have run away to the surface to be together, giving up everything they knew for the sake of love.

But life, as Leliana knows all too painfully well, is seldom like the tales.

And besides, if that had happened… they couldn’t have this, now. Maddie would not be here today. Some other Grey Warden would have passed through Lothering, and Leliana would never have sat fireside with a dwarf tucked into the crook of her arm. That would have been a pitiable fate.

You should have turned around, she thinks, imagining the dancing girl. You should have seen her. You should have known that she existed. But… I am glad you didn’t.

‘So, yeah,’ Maddie says, her voice breaking in on Leliana’s thoughts. ‘Sometimes I tried to work out how to do it myself, but I never got anywhere. My mother found me doing it once, and gave me a hiding for doing something useless. So I told myself I was being stupid, doing something only nobles did and I was better than that, and went back to stealing. Haven’t thought about dancing in years, haven’t really thought about anything beautiful for years, ‘til… ‘til I met someone who’s got a knack of reminding me.’

She looks away sharply, gouging shapes in the ash from the fire with one finger. ‘I mean, I thought… it’s stupid, but I reckoned that if you knew how to dance, you could…’

‘Teach you?’ Leliana finishes, frowning. ‘Why... why should that be stupid?’

Maddie doesn’t reply, only pokes at the ash more fiercely. But Leliana understands. Because you’re still not used to being allowed things that you want. Because you don’t want to be like the nobles who hated you and who had everything they wanted. And because people told you for years that you didn’t deserve anything you wanted, and a part of you still believes it.

Fury pulses through her, and she struggles for a second with a powerful urge to set out to Orzammar and throw every member of the nobility off a cliff. Maddie should not have existed in such a way for so long, without anyone to tell her that she is a good person, that she matters, that she deserves to have good things in her life. But it doesn’t matter now. Maddie will never live like that again.

Because of you? It’s a cold, bitter voice in her mind that speaks the words, and Leliana’s jaw clenches. Because of someone who still thirsts for the battle, still revels in deception, still takes joy in the kill?

Leliana looks at Maddie, at the way her wet hair is turned from yellow to gold and copper in the fire-glow, and the cold voice dies.

Yes, Leliana thinks. Because of me.

She gets to her feet, and holds out a hand. ‘Let me show you.’

Maddie looks up at her, lips slightly parted. ‘Really? Right now? You’re sure?’

Leliana just raises her eyebrows and sticks her hand out a little further. And Maddie grins broadly, shrugs, and leaps to her feet. ‘Well, why the heck not? Life’s short.’

And so Leliana guides Maddie’s hands to her waist, and explains the basics in a low voice, and smiles as she does so at how strange and wonderful this is. How this girl forged by the streets, with her scabbed knuckles and Casteless brand and constantly-clenching fists can be standing here with her in the calm of the evening, brows furrowed in concentration, receiving her first dancing lesson. Leliana knows that she has been blessed enough by the Maker, to be allowed to join this quest, to stand at the front lines of the battle against the Blight - but her true blessing is in how Maddie’s small hands, the hands of a fighter and thief, hold her so gently, almost reverently. Maddie reveres nothing - no Maker, no ancestors, no leadership, no laws - but somehow, she is able to look at Leliana like this, and it feels... it feels so humbling, so wonderful, so right.

‘Ready to start?' Leliana asks, and as she does so, a single drop of water splashes onto her arm.

A pause. Maddie flicks her eyes upward. ‘S’raining,’ she points out.

Leliana laughs, leans down, and presses a kiss to Maddie’s forehead. ‘Let it.’

And so the rain falls, and they dance.

[esseastri]

1, 2, 5, and 9 for... Ro, Aliena, Tieran, and Nyeni, and for one hero you haven't talked about as much, though which is up to you.

yeesssss all my favorite OCs aaaaahhhh (she says as if they aren’t ALL her favorite ocs….)  I think I’m going to go with one of the Wardens for the last one….maybe Bal? Get some dwarfiness going on in here. :D

oh, dear god, this got so long. I’m not sorry, because I love all of these nerds sooo much, but. Yeah, this is. very long.

1. When was the moment your character first felt something for their love interest?

Ro: I think that first night in camp on the way to Lothering, when she wakes up from her first Archdemon nightmare, and Alistair is already awake, watching over her, because he knew this was coming. And he comforts her despite the fact that they barely know each other, and yeah, part of it is “okay, we’re both Wardens, this is just a thing that happens,” but part of it is…he sees someone else is hurting and he’s willing to sacrifice his own comfort to make sure she’s okay. It’s the first time she’s felt safe since her family was murdered, and it all spirals from there.

Aliena: “Well, Lucky, since the information you gave me was worth nothing…that’s what I’ll pay you,” And she fell in love INSTANTLY. 

Tieran: Probably sometime during the trek from Haven to Skyhold. I have this notion that Dorian is the sort of person to whine constantly about the cold even while he actively lights fires, passes out blankets, uses his magic to keep himself and other people warm. Tieran would be eternally amused by the whining, since it’s what he wants to do but can’t since he has to set a good example as a strong leader, but he’d also see the kindness Dorian dishes out with the snarky comments, and that combo of…prickly exterior with warm, soft, kind interior is what would get him to move from the Friendship Forged in the Hellfire of the Future to something more like….ah, yes, I love this man. oh shit, I love this man?? 

Nyeni, canon: She gets an inkling during that conversation with Cassandra that starts with, “I don’t actually know much about you”–because that’s the first time anyone in the Inquisition asked her about who she IS as opposed to who they want her to be. She 100% does not realize how intensely and dramatically in love she is until they’re in the In Hushed Whispers future and Cassandra dies, and Nyeni freaks the fuck out. Because she can’t comprehend a world in which Cassandra is not alive and not with her, and that’s the moment where she realizes how very dear to her Cass is. And it’s overwhelming and she retreats hardcore for a long time and pretends to be chill by not speaking to Cass and getting flustered and it’s adorable and hilarious.

Nyeni, non-canon: I think that Nyeni falls in love with Kepi gradually. I think she’s deep in the middle of it before she really knows what’s happening. It’s all the little things–how much Kepi cares for those around her, how brave she is charging into battle, how strong she is surviving on her own or standing as the leader of the Inquisition, how kind she is. That all sort of piles up in the corners of Nyeni’s heart until one day they’re out in the Hinterlands or Crestwood or somewhere and Kepi bends down to pick a flower in the sunlight and Nyeni’s just like, “Oh. Yeah, of course I love her. Look at her.”

Bal: gosh, I think Bal just sort of… giggles a lot whenever Zevran flirts with her because it’s so gosh darn CUTE isn’T IT? how sincerely he says these ridiculous things!? and the WINKING? And she just spends a lot of time genuinely amused by how he is at the same time effortless and trying very hard. And the moment she realizes that no one else in her shitty life has ever made her laugh so much, she just sort of has an “Oh!” moment and tumbles in headfirst from there.

2. How long before they did anything about it?

Ro: she 100% lets Alistair make the first move. She tries her damndest to keep him at arm’s length because dear god, everyone close to me fucking dies and I am NOT letting that happen to him, but when he pulls out the damn rose and makes his speech about happiness in dark times, she melts and just goes “fuck okay then” and kisses him.

Aliena: I am still bitter that the game didn’t let me kiss Isabela in Act One, so you can bet your ass they start sleeping together fairly quickly. They probably get drunk in the Hanged Man celebrating…something. Possibly even as early as after winning the “duel” with Hayder? Anyway, there are definitely sloppy, drunk make outs that lead to further Things. They probably continue in this way until after the Deep Roads–Aliena took the Deep Roads as a sort of wake up call of, “yeah, I’ve almost died a lot in my life, but HOT DAMN WE ALMOST DIED DOWN THERE” and so the first time Isabela comes to the new house in Hightown, Aliena pauses the usual shenanigans to say something along the lines of, “take this as you will, but I love you, and that doesn’t mean I want anything from you that you don’t want to give, and we can carry on as we are or develop from here, but I just want you to know that in case something happens.” Isabela probably ignores that until after the whole thing with the Arishok because she can’t believe she fucking came back what the fuck, and she figures that, well shit, if she came back for this girl, maybe it is something more. Maybe I’ve thought about Aliena and Isabela waaay too much. This is long. I shall stop.

Tieran: Listen, I love the first kiss moment in canon, after they come back from dealing with Dorian’s shittastic dad and there’s that moment of “I think you’re very brave” and then theY KISS AND IT’S CUTE AND WONDERFUL and yeah, this unfolds pretty much like canon at that point, because it’s great.

Nyeni, canon: She stalls for-fucking-ever. Mostly because Cassandra is a pining loser and she is also a pining loser, and neither one of them is confident enough to do something about it. It probably takes Varric or Dorian or both giving them a stern talking to that involves a lot of blushing. And when Nyeni comes back from the Fade after Adamant, she comes into Skyhold and just marches straight up to Cassandra and holds her fiercely and promises to never go anywhere without her ever again, and that’s what gets them to kiss.

Nyeni, non-canon: Listen, Nyeni is the sort of person who doesn’t think that she is worthy of the girls she loves, and will therefore stall and try to convince herself that she must get over her feelings because they will never be returned. So she will wait for Kepi to make the first move. And once Kepi does, she will just be the most radiantly happy person in Thedas.

Bal: Probably after the Fade at Kinloch Hold. Bal is literally terrified by that experience because dwarves don’t belong in the Fade what the fuck and there is a lot of… not wasting time. Not letting this slip past her. Not waiting for the end of the world to take Zevran from her. Not letting the end of the world take him from her.

5. What are some ways they like to spend time together?

Ro: mmm, dinners. Especially post-game, when they go off to Amaranthine and start training the Recruits. They get their food out of the mess hall like all the other recruits, but then they take it upstairs and eat together, just the two of them. They talk about their days or tell stories or just…chat. They get time to themselves. Also, reading letters. They write each other boxes and boxes of letters when they’re alone, and when Alistair comes back from a mission, they retreat to their room in the evenings and read each other the letters they wrote out loud. It’s cheesy and they laugh a lot, but there’s something about having those words they put down on paper when they were alone said out loud that makes them closer. More.

Aliena: I really love the idea of these two just going down to the Hanged Man and challenging the entire tavern to either a brawl or a Wicked Grace tournament. Either way, they clean the damn place out. They also go to the Wounded Coast and dive off the cliffs into the sea and swim and dunk each other and kiss underwater and then they dry out on the beach and just….watch the ocean. Watch the horizon. Isabela tells Aliena stories about her ship and her crew and the pirate shenanigans they got up to, and Aliena tells her about Lothering and they plan for the future.

Tieran: He and Dorian have long, late-night, in-depth discussions about magical theory. They drink wine and read their own separate books next to each other in bed. Dorian teaches Tieran how to play chess until he’s good enough to beat Cullen. They both go down to the Herald’s Rest and bother Bull into drinking contests they never win and Tales With the Chargers.

Nyeni, canon: She and Cass train–Nyeni has a lot to learn about the sword after she picks Knight-Enchanter, and Cass teaches her a lot. Nyeni convinces Cass to let her read Swords and Shields out loud, and they just curl up next to each other in the armory attic and Nyeni reads with all the voices and dramatic accents and stuff and Cass tries very hard to keep her laughter as quiet as possible.

Nyeni, non-canon: She drags Kepi down to the wine-cellar to play with the kittens Cole found and keeps there. They spend a lot of time in the garden, and she brings Kepi seeds to plant. They make flower crowns. …She probably reads Swords and Shields out loud to Kepi, too, with all the voices. That’s just…such a dumb Nyeni thing to do.

Bal: She and Zev play pranks on the rest of their friends. They make a lot of harmless traps and try to get Sten to laugh. They take very long, very luxurious baths together. Since both of them grew up in shitty places that barely had showers, they definitely do overdramatic baths, rose petals and bubbles and the works. Zevran poses in ridiculous positions for Bal to sketch. He tells her stories about far-away lands while she’s drawing, and they make plans to visit…everywhere.

9. What is the most difficult thing about their relationship?

Ro: Distance. Duty. No matter how much they wish it were different, both she and Alistair are too…righteous? to abandon their duties, even when those duties separate them. Whenever Alistair is out on a mission, Ro sleeps terribly. And when Ro is out on training trips with the Recruits, Alistair spends more time in the kennel with the pups than with other humans. As mentioned, they write each other buckets of letters. They hate the separation so much, but it makes times they are together all the sweeter.

Aliena: There’s a fine line of affection that Aliena has to tread very lightly. There’s only so many times Isabela can hear the words, “I love you,” before she starts feeling the pressure and pulls away. And there’s only so much attachment Isabela can handle before she leaves for several days and disappears without saying anything. She always comes back, but Aliena has learned the hard way that too much romanticism will drive a wedge between them. Luckily this isn’t a huge problem, since she fully understands the need to not be tied down, that need for independence. She’s got it, too. But she has had to learn how to…show Isabela that she loves her without saying it. And without making it…a big production? It’s the little things that pile up, not the grand gestures.

Tieran: Again, distance. Post-Trespasser, when Dorian goes back to Tevinter, Tieran manufactures reasons to visit him. There’s also a little bit of cultural misunderstanding that occasionally gets frustrating. Though there are a lot of things about Tevinter that Dorian is trying to change, there are some things he’s a-okay with that Tieran sees as problematic; and Tieran is Very Dalish, and sometimes there are things about that that Dorian doesn’t quite understand. So there’s a lot of…talking things out, and making sure no one is offended.

Nyeni, canon: Cassandra is a Strong Warrior Woman–and that’s important, understandable, and necessary–but it can sort of…worry Nyeni. She wishes that Cass could be okay with the world knowing that despite the fact that she’s a badass warrior, she also likes romance and reading shitty smutty novels and likes flowers and poetry and kissing Nyeni’s forehead and holding her hand. She wants Cass to be okay with public displays of affection. And Cass has a need to guard the softer side of herself because of her duty and her authority and everything. And Nyeni understands, but she wishes she could have both, or–let the world see both.

Nyeni, non-canon: …possibly the worry? I think….there’s a lot of worry in their relationship. Nyeni worries that Kepi is going to get herself killed charging into battle without barriers; Kepi worries that Nyeni is going to get herself killed hanging back on the edges of battle with no sword, no nothing except her barriers. Nyeni worries that the responsibility of being Inquisitor will close Kepi off and weigh her down and wear her out; Kepi worries that the pressure of being Inquisitor will make shy, anxious Nyeni even worse at talking to people. I think they probably worry too much about each other, and that makes things…scary.

Bal: Their pasts. Both of them were assassins of some kind, and while neither of them have problems with that, there’s something to be said for the number of deaths on your conscience and the amount of blood on your hands getting to you. So, I think that there are a lot of nights that end in nightmares waking them up and a lot of stories and secrets that they can’t tell each other, and there’s a strain of just… so much blood. They can usually joke through it, but there are some secrets and some horrible things that just can’t be erased. And that’s difficult.

[liaragaming]

Uncommon OC Questions

I finally finished this, and holy crap it’s 12 pages in my Word doc. This turned out to be a great character exercise to flesh out my characters Inan Lavellan, Abigail Hawke, and Liara Tabris. I even added a few questions that occurred to me while writing. I mostly did this for myself, but if you’re interested, you can find all questions under the cut. Original meme can be found here.

1. What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

Inan – She can sit still forever. She finds it very peaceful, especially after she becomes Inquisitor. She just cherishes those rare moments where she can take a breather. Bet her she couldn't sit still for days, and she will take you up on the challenge.

Abigail – She's a mover. She likes to get up and go. The only time she really sits still is when reading a book or getting a drink or just laying in bed with Fenris.

Liara – She really likes the sound of being able to sit still and do nothing. But an idle elf was always sure to draw suspicion from the humans in Denerim, and she's never allowed herself to make that mistake. Even after becoming a Warden, it's hard for her to shake the habit.  

2. How easy is it for your character to laugh?

Inan – Very easy. Humor is like a balm to her.

Abigail – there are days when laughter seems hard, but with her friends around it's very hard not to.

Liara – when she's comfortable and with the people she cares about, laughter comes very easily.

3. How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?)

Inan – just goes to bed, plops under those covers and that's the end of that.

Abigail – has trouble sleeping without someone with her (either Dog or Fenris).

Liara – she likes to stay up chatting with someone before she goes to sleep. If no one is available, she'll write in her diary. Both are ways for her to wind down.

4. How easy is it to earn their trust?

Inan – She's pretty willing to trust.

Abigail – She needs to get to know someone before she's able to fully trust them.

Liara – She's always hesitant around humans because of her negative experiences with them. But she finds as long as they don't prove to be an ass with their first impression, they're generally okay. Other than that trusting comes easily.

5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

Inan – It's hard. She's generally pretty forgiving.

Abigail – One mistake and that's all it takes.

Liara – She understands the world is complicated and not everything's black and white. She can be understanding if not fully forgiving.

6. Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable?

Inan – flexible

Abigail – flexible

Liara – flexible

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

Inan – The smell of lavender and finding halla really bring her back to her clan. For the most part, it's a comfort, but sometimes it's hard. She misses her family.

Abigail – Memories of Lothering are hard. They bring up everything that happened after, losing her father, her brother, and her mother. She doesn't like to think about it and prefers to keep herself focused on the present.

Liara – Talking with Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana reminds her of her friends and family back home. It's a good feeling, makes her feel like she keeps her family with her.

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child?

Inan – She'd just wonder off sometimes because she felt like it. She likes being in the woods.

Abigail – She picked on Carver a lot when she was little. She liked reminding him she was oldest, especially as he liked to pretend he was.

Liara – She really liked to practice the knife skills her mother taught her and was told to stop many times.

9. Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word?

They all swear occasionally, Hawke perhaps a little more than the others. As for first words:

Inan - “Shit? Maybe?”

Abigail - “Fuck.” It wasn't it, but she's going to tell people it was.

Liara - “Does 'damn' count? Because it was most likely that.”

10. What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them?

Inan – The first year she was transferred to Clan Lavellan, she told people stories about her parents. It bothers her that she can't remember if those stories were lies or not. Mostly, she doesn’t think about because she has other family, but when her birth parents are brought up, it does bother her a little.

Abigail – There was something she said to Carver after their father died. She was trying to step into her father's shoes, be the head of the family, and Carver was trying to do the same and they butted heads. She doesn't remember her exact wording, but it was something about him being too selfish to be man of the house. It wasn't true. She was just frustrated, and upset, and angry. But she thinks Carver took it to heart, and she never got to apologize for it.

Liara – Lied many, many times about practicing with her mother's knives. She doesn't regret those as it meant she got to continue practicing, but looking back there were some risks it was foolish of her to take and she could have gotten a lot of people in trouble.

11. How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?

Inan – she worries about keeping up appearances as the Inquisitor, so she will smile and nod and then later ask one of her companions, especially with instances where they're in Val Royuex and she doesn't understand what those people want.

Abigail – she will straight up tell people she doesn't understand or that they are not speaking clearly

Liara – she completely shuts down, especially around humans. She doesn't want to appear as the “dumb elf,” so she nods and then gets the heck out of there as quickly as possible. She doesn't even think to ask her friends for clarification, she just wants out of the situation.  

12. How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach?

Inan – She has to deal with it immediately in whatever way she can. If that means using her staff like a scratching post, she'll do it.  

Abigail – grits her teeth and ignores it

Liara – asks someone she's traveling with to scratch it

13. What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color? (changed to) What colors do they like to dress in?

Inan – likes to dress in earth tones.

Abigail – likes red or bold colors.

Liara – likes blue or soft colors.

14. What animal do they fear most?

Inan – Fade spiders

Abigail – “Do undead count?”

Liara – Blighted animals. At least Darkspawn look like their own species. It’s easy to forget they were once people before. But blighted animals remind her they used to be something else. She doesn't like encountering them.

15. How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?

Inan – Will definitely rehearse with Josephine if she's meeting someone important for the Inquisition.

Abigail – just says whatever comes to mind. Life's too damn short to do otherwise.

Liara – She'll often rehearse when she's nervous about an important meeting or discussing uncomfortable topics, but she gets so nervous she usually forgets what she rehearsed anyway.

16. What makes their stomach turn?

Inan – Being with her people again and encountering their stories and traditions. There is so much she's learned that the Dalish don't know, and she can't just come out and tell them about Mythal or The Dread Wolf or the vallaslin. She's certain they wouldn't believe her, that they'll think being with the humans has changed her against them, especially since she had her own vallaslin removed. She loves encountering her people, but if myths and traditions come up in regards to stuff she knows and can't say, she will legitimately get sick to her stomach and have to excuse herself.

Abigail – necromancy

Liara – Thinking about the alienage where she grew up. She will always feel like she abandoned her people, that she didn't do enough to help them. Knowing the purge happened because of her actions, that Tevinter came and took people away, that friends and family died from sickness… she will always feel that was her fault. It’s difficult for her to go back there, and she mostly avoids it.

17. Are they easily embarrassed?

Inan – no

Abigail – no

Liara – yes

18. What embarrasses them?

Abigail – hearing about stupid stuff she did while drunk.

Liara – anytime she thinks she may have made a mistake or done something wrong.

19. What is their favorite number?

pass

20. If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so?

Inan – romantic love is when you want to give someone every piece of you and receive every piece of them, platonic love is when you trust someone to always be there for you and you for them, familial is when you care for and respect someone enough to associate them with familial roles.

Abigail – romantic love is when you care for someone so much you want to know how well your bodies fit together, platonic love is when you care for someone a lot but don't want to see them naked, and familial love is when you may not like the person but care for them anyway.

Liara – romantic love is when you want to spend everyday of the rest of your life with someone, platonic is when you want to spend a lot of your time with someone, familial is when you love the people you were born to.

21. Why do they get up in the morning? 

Inan – because someone's gotta save the damn world, and shit it's her.

Abigail – isn't sure some days and just rolls over and pulls the covers over her head.

Liara - Leliana

22. How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? 

Abigail – seeing other women flirting with Fenris often has her either telling them off or stealing him away.

23. How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? 

Inan – seeing happy couples or Dalish clans makes her wistful and sad.

Abigail – seeing older adults happy with their parents or siblings makes her a sad/angry ball of frustration and she has to leave the area.

Liara – She envies people with expensive things, can't stop admiring them, and then she feels guilty about wanting those things.

24. Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? 

Inan – she will freely discuss it with whomever if the topic comes up in conversation.

Abigail -  she'll talk about it with whoever, sometimes when no one asks.

Liara – she's comfortable talking about it with Leliana, but that's it.

25. What are their thoughts on marriage? 

Inan - “Would love to get married someday, but the man I love right now is trying to destroy the world, so...”

Abigail – “Would love to, but living on the run kinda puts a damper on things like that.”

Liara – “Would love to, but I don't know how many years I have, and with Leliana's role with the Chantry… I don't want to do anything that might reflect badly on her.”

26. What is their preferred mode of transportation? 

Inan - walking

Abigail – Anything but a boat. Maker, please.

Liara – whatever is going to carry her home fastest.

27. What causes them to feel dread? 

Inan – makes some internal joke about The Dread Wolf. Laughs to herself, then bursts into tears.

Abigail – undead, boats, and uncle Gamlen

Liara – darkspawn and demons

28. Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? 

Inan – “Always tell me the truth no matter how terrible. Always.”

Abigail – “I prefer the truth but sometimes… never tell me the odds. Just lie to me.”

Liara – “I'd rather my friends and family be honest.”

29. Do they usually live up to their own ideals? 

Inan – “I did let Celene die so I could Briala in charge. That was… well…”

Abigail – “You know… I think I did okay.”

Liara – “I did let Morrigan talk me into a ritual of questionable circumstances…”

30. Who do they most regret meeting? 

Inan – No one.

Abigail – “Well Bartrand and his expedition was a huge mistake. But where would I be if that hadn't happened? And Quentin – well, I had to find him to kill him, so… If I had never met Anders… I don't know… pick your poison, I guess.” 

Liara – “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if Vaughan hadn't shown up at our wedding. But then I never would have met Leliana, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me, so...”

31. Who are they the most glad to have met? 

Inan - Solas

Abigail - Fenris

Liara - Leliana

32. Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? 

Inan – Throws in a story about some Dalish tradition that still holds meaning for her or someplace she's traveled.

Abigail – She's listened to some of the stories Varric tells about her. She usually uses one of those if she needs an ice breaker.

Liara - “A human walks to a tavern, and there's an elf there. And she says, 'I don't…' Well, I don't know how the rest of it goes. Oghren was too drunk to tell me, but I keep hoping I'll tell it and someone will know the rest.”

33. Could they be considered lazy? 

Inan – *glares*

Abigail – “Say that a little closer so I can punch you in the face.”

Liara – “I killed the archdemon. What more do you want from me?”

34. How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? 

Inan – she's usually able to shake it off, doesn't stop it from coming around again though.

Abigail – orders herself a dink or two, maybe three

Liara – usually needs Leliana to talk her out of it.

35. What do they feel guilty about and/or biggest regret? 

Inan – not being able to return to her clan as the person she once was.

Abigail – not being able to save her mother

Liara – not being able to do more for her alienage

36. How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive? 

They are all usually very supportive, but they all have that one friend...

Inan – She's apprehensive whenever Sera comes to her excited about something but is usually supportive.

Abigail – She will never trust anything Anders comes to her for ever again. She’s always uncertain whenever Isabela comes to her.

Liara – Ogrhen always concerns her, but she tries to support him.

37. Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap? 

Inan – Mix of both. She makes her feelings known upfront, then allows the other person time and space to respond.

Abigail – She is pretty obvious in her advances and is not afraid to make them multiple times.

Liara – Literally had to wait for Leliana to confess her feelings before she so much as hinted about hers because she didn't think finding romance for herself was possible.

38. Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? 

Inan – puts it to a Dalish song

Abigail – she asks Fenris. He's better at that sort of stuff.

Liara – writes it down and tries not to lose the paper.

39. What memory do they revisit the most often? 

Inan – She likes to think of the early Inquisition pre dragon attack. Things were simpler back then.

Abigail – A lot of memories are painful for her. She doesn't like to dwell. If she does think of the past, she thinks of time spent with Fenris or Bethany since they're still alive.

Liara – She likes to pull out her memories of the alienage. Not that it was always a happy place, but it was good enough to her and there were people who she cared about. Thinking back on it makes her feel like she's honoring the memory of what it once was and the people who were lost.

40. How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people?

Inan – as easy as it is for her to forgive them.

Abigail – Depends on how much she likes the person.

Liara – usually makes a point specifically of ignoring other people's flaws.

41. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

Inan – sometimes when she's stressed, she gets snappy. She normally doesn't realize it until she offends someone, at which point she apologizes and goes find something to calm herself down.

Abigail – *flips two fingers*

Liara – Over sensitive. Second guesses herself a lot. Leliana has helped with that, though.

42. How do they feel about children? 

Inan – she loves children, and would love to have some someday or at least have some she's in charge of caring for.

Abigail – Part of her would love to have children. The other is terrified of having something else to lose.

Liara – Even if she could find a cure for the blight, she isn’t sure she wants them.

43. How badly do they want to reach their end goal? 

Inan – “Pretty damn fucking badly! What kind of question is that?!”

Abigail – “I'd just like to not have to deal with everyone's shit anymore and not have to worry about losing the people I care about. But how likely does that sound?” *Smiles through all of it*

Liara – “I want something I might not ever have, so I try not to think about it. Does that change how badly I want it?”

44. If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so? 

Inan - “I like men.”

Abigail - “Hmm. It would be easier if you suggest things, and then I'll tell you yes, no, or maybe.”

Liara - “I like women, and sometimes I like sex?” *shrugs*

45. What are their thoughts on religion? (I added this one) 

Inan – After Trespasser, she doesn't even know anymore. She's given up on the elven gods entirely and has replaced some of her oaths with Andraste-isms, such as “Maker!” instead of “Creators!” but she's not sure she believes in anything right now.

Abigail – She thinks she believes in the Maker or tries to. She doesn't believe in the Chantry's interpretation of the Maker. It's never sat right to her that the Chantry believed her sister had to be locked away. She will go to service sometimes though with Fenris if he asks.

Liara – she believes in Leliana and by extension supports her beliefs.

46. What are their thoughts on alcohol? What kind of drink do they like? Do they drink with friends or alone? What kind of drunk are they? (I added this one too)

Inan – Before the Inquisition, she only drank Dalish wines, which are floral based and consumed during celebrations. While with the Inquisition, she mostly drinks with her companions but would sometimes get a glass by herself just to relax. She still likes floral wines, but will try whatever Dorian recommends for her. She's developed a liking for a few signature Teventer wines.

Abigail – She goes lighter when she's out with friends as she's looking to have a good time and wants to remember it and not make a fool of herself. Alone though, she drinks whatever is strong enough to have an effect, usually because she's upset about something. She prefers hard liquors or ales.

She and Fenris will have casual drinks together, and sometimes they will get drunk with each other for the fun of it. They have discovered they cannot drink together when they are both upset. That ends very, very badly. So, they've made a pact not to do that. If one of them is drinking because they're upset, the other has to stay sober and make sure they don't do something stupid.

Liara – She sips whatever Leliana or another friend orders, then makes a note of the things she likes. Usually sweet things. She only drinks if she has someone to do with it. She doesn't really care for the effect, so she'll drink what she likes the taste of and stop when she starts feeling floaty.

47. Any scars or tattoos? (added)

Inan – Has a scar over her right eyebrow. It's not a very glorious tale. She was exploring the woods one day, tripped, and smacked her head on a rock hard enough to split the skin open.

Abigail – Has taken up getting tattoos for her family members. (I haven't decided what all of them are) She has something for her father, mother, Carver, and Bethany. She got something for Fenris too. She's debated about getting one for Gamlen but isn't sure what she'd choose for him or even if she wants to make that commitment. But she does throw the thought around.

Liara – Has various scars all over her hands and a few on her arms from dropping her knives repeatedly. Leliana likes to trace them with her fingertips.

[aria-i-adagio]

5,10, 14,20 please!

Gracias! I’m guessing this is from the OTP asks and for Anders/Hawke. Hope it is.

10) What scares them about entering a relationship?

Heheh.

Anders, of course, is convinced that being with him will likely get Hawke killed. Or that Hawke will decide that he’s a monster who is unworthy of being loved.

Adrian gets intensely attached to people. (Anxious attachment style.) He’s deeply afraid of getting into a relationship only to lose another person he loves.

14) What makes them feel loved? Would they build up the courage to ask for it?

Good news. They’re both idiots, but they’re both touch-starved idiots. Asking for it probably isn’t a problem.

Adrian is also very much a “I found this thing I thought you’d like/made me think of you, here is it. Do you like it? Please like it.” kind of guy.

20) When would they say “I love you?” Do they say it first? Do they say it often, or is it reserved for special moments?

With Anders canonical default endearment being ‘my love’, there’s plenty of evidence that he’d also be fairly free with the “I love you.” Adrian tends to be a bit more reserved. Be that as it may, Adrian said it first.

5) How do they consciously realize that they like the other character? Does it take them a while?

I guess the question is like versus *like*.

I tend to go with the idea that no matter what romance route is played that Anders has at least some romantic interest in Hawke from Act 1. But after Karl’s death, I think there’s a combination of both not being ready and believing that he’s too dangerous for anyone to be in a relationship with him.

Adrian was interested in Anders from very early on. Oddly attractive man with a ‘sexy, tortured look’ develops into honest admiration of the fact that Anders is one of the few people in Kirkwall who’s actually interested in doing something good. But he’s A) used to playing his cards close to his chest (as while Ferelden may not particularly care about same-sex relationships, there does seem to be something of an expectation that they shouldn’t get in the way of children, Leandra has definitely messed with his head, etc.), and B) he’s a small, somewhat insecure ball of anxiety who’s afraid of rejection. He also very good at repressing things, so for most of Act 1, he’s in denial of being interested beyond a “yep, that one’s handsome.”

However, have a show rather than tell. (SFW fic below. Unedited.)

Hawke has determined that he does not like the Deep Roads. And he hates Bartrand. Who the fuck does that? Leaves their brother to die over a chunk of stone, or whatever that idol was made of?

You let your brother die. You left him.

That was different. I couldn’t protect him. I tried, I swear.

Bethany sneaks up on him from behind and loops her arm through his. She leans her head on his shoulder. “Carver was already dead, ‘Dri.”

He knows that she can’t actually read minds, but sometimes he wonders whether she picked the skill up somewhere. Or maybe it’s a little sister thing. He stops walking and tilts his head to the side, touching his cheek to her hair. “I should have -”

“If any of us could have, we would have.” Bethany pats the other side of his face. “Look about, is this a decently safe place?”

The Deep Roads do require a qualifier for the word safe. Adrian lifts his head and glances around. Ahead, there’s a bridge over a chasm. If it’s sturdy enough, it will give them good lines of sight and walls on two sides. “Ahead will do.”

“Thanks, ‘Dri.” Bethany lets go of his arm and jogs ahead to where Varric and Anders are walking together, both with their weapons in hand, reasoning that if Anders could sense darkspawn, Varric might be able to take them down with Bianca before they got too close. Or thin them out. “Hey. Think it’s night yet?”

“You’re the only Sunshine I see. What’s your opinion?”

“That I’m tired.”

Varric looks around and shrugs. “Then it’s night. Might as well make camp.”

Hawke keeps watch well after they've eaten a sad and meager (who knows how long they'll be searching for an exit now?) meal of hard bread. Bethany told him that he didn't need to; the glyphs she and Anders had set on either end of the bridge would last far past the time Varric's little clockwork watch was set to come. But he couldn't talk himself into following her advice. Darkspawn had killed Carver. They were not going to take Bethany from him.

He isn't the only one still awake. Anders had laid out his bedroll as close to the fire as he could, and he huddles close to the glow of the embers. He’d panicked when Bartrand swung the door closed on in, and once it became clear that neither Varric nore Hawke would be able to pick the locking mechanism, cast multiple spells at the door before giving up on the idea of breaking through it by force. The mage had been quiet since, not even Varric had been able to draw him out.

"You alright?"

Anders lifts his face. There are always dark circles around his eyes, but they look worse in the low light of the fire. "I hate the Deep Roads."

"You could have said no." Hawke asked him to come because he had experience with the Deep Roads, and Darkspawn, and according to what was said of the Grey Wardens would be able to sense them ahead of time. "I would have understood."

Anders smiles grimly. "They're worse without a cat."

"You should try to sleep."

"You should too. Those glyphs I set were designed by a Warden mage. They're strong. This spot is as safe as it's going to get."

"Good to know." Hawke lies down, unsure whether he'll sleep, or just rest his eyes and listen for trouble. "Hey, Anders -"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for coming with me."

"Well, I'm here now."

It might have been an hour, it might have been two, and Hawke might have fallen asleep, or he might have been awake the whole time, but his eyes snap open the moment he hears something other than the crackling of coals. A low, distressed groan and panicked, incoherent mumbling. Hawke opens his eyes. There’s just enough of a glow left in the few embers to see Anders rolling over fitfully, flinging his arm out, nearly managing to catch his fingers in what’s left of the fire. His other arm falls over his mouth, muffling what might have been a scream if allowed to escape.

Hawke tosses off his blanket and crawls across the pavers to him. As he pulls Anders outstretched arm back from the fire, the mage’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright with a gasp, forehead knocking against Hawke’s chin.

“Hey there. You were dreaming.”

“I can hear them.” Anders curls forward, draws his long legs against his chest, and wraps his arms around his knees. “I can still hear it.”

"Hear what? The darkspawn?"

Anders doesn't respond with words, he just goes limp and slumps to the side. Adrian catches him and lets him lean his head against his shoulder. He's perfectly still for a minute, then awkwardly runs his hand through the mage's hair, not entirely sure Anders is awake enough to know where he is, much less who's holding him.

"Take a few deep breaths, okay?" Adrian wraps his other arm around Anders' and pats his shoulder. His joke about Anders 'sexy, tortured look' didn't seem quite as funny at the moment. "Nothing has tripped the glyphs you set. We're okay."

Anders' breathing calms, at least a little. "It's so dark. I can't do this again. I can't."

"I'd build back up the fire for you, but there's no fuel left." Varric had carefully gathered a certain dry fungus from the walls of the cages as they walked. It was the only combustible material available. "Do you hear them more, in the dark?"

"Or I hear nothing in the dark. Not a sound, not a word. I'm alone in it again, and..." The pitch and volume of his voice begins to rise and on instinct, Adrian hugs him tightly. Maker, the poor man is miserable. Hawke never would have asked him to come if he had only known.

Anders shudders and hiccups. "I can't be alone in the dark."

"I'm here." What happened to Anders that made the dark so terrifying? The Deep Roads themselves weren't always dark. Parts were. Other parts were lit by the glow of some sort of marvelous dwarven lamps that still worked after centuries. This wasn't one of those areas, and the lower the embers grow, the more Anders trembles. Without really noticing it, Adrian begins to rub his back and whisper in his ear, the way he sometimes had when one or the other of the twins woke with a childhood nightmare.

He doesn't know Anders well. It's maybe been three or four months since he sought him out to get the maps of the Deep Roads. He's good to know though - a good man. Bethany agrees. And Varric had taken the mage under his wing; Hawke knew the dwarf was paying off the Carta to leave the Darktown clinic alone.

Anders is also handsome in his own way, devilishly funny, and flirtatious, despite the very sad look he gets in his eyes if someone mentions the word Tranquil. 'I hadn't seen him in years,' Anders said, the one time Adrian got him to talk. 'But you know how it is, with first loves.'

Adrian does not actually know how it is with first loves. What relationships he had in Lothering weren't love affairs, just temporary flings with a presumed end date. A Ferelden freeholder needs a wife, needs children to help him work the land. It's just the way of things. No sense in getting too attached.

Like he's getting attached to this mage who hides years of sadness underneath dry humor. Anders has put himself back together a few times already, and right now, the cracks are showing.

"Lay back down. I'll stay with you."

It takes a few more shivers and hiccups before Anders does stretch his long limbs back out. Adrian intends to just sit next to him, maybe keep their fingers together, but Anders pulls at his arm until he lies down beside him on the narrow bedroll, on his side with his head cushioned on his folded arm. Adrian hesitantly strokes Anders' hair, and when that earns him a soft sigh, loops his free arm around the other man and snuggles a bit closer.

After all, it's not just dark in the Deep Roads, it's damn chilly as well. That’s what he tells himself.

When Varric’s little mechanical clock chimes a fake morning, Hawke still curled up around Anders, and Bethany is smirking at him.