#this is going to sound awful but I did kind of like hearing varric sound really unhappy haha | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brocflowers · 3 years ago

Text

Sang so loud, sang so clear.

Weak and tired, his sister’s slowly fading life in his hands, Adrian makes a choice.

word count: 4797.

Tags: blood magic, liberties taken with spirit healer lore, everybody lives/nobody dies, (this is not necessarily a kindness), familial dysfunction, warnings obviously for blood, self-injury, and what I'm going to call "mild gore" just to be very, very safe.

Title from Bird Song by Florence + the Machine.

[AO3]

“Wait.”

“Seeker, if you keep stopping me while I’m talking we’re going to be here all day-”

“What does Bethany’s recovery have to do with the fact that Hawke was arguing with his mother?” she asks, ignoring him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did,” Maker, she wants to hurt him, “you said “of course, Leandra was still uneasy with him after what happened with Bethany back in Ferelden”. Why would Hawke saving his sister’s life make his mother uneasy?”

Varric’s jaw flexes. It’s subtle, barely perceptible, she almost misses it.

It was a slip of the tongue, that much is obvious. But it was not something untrue, spoken in error, it was something honest that he had not meant to say. And it clearly is not an issue of protecting Hawke’s privacy. Between the book and what he’s already told her, it’s clear that the man’s personal business is not something Varric is particularly shy about revealing.

No, he’s hiding something, actively. And it’s something much more than the details of a simple interpersonal squabble between a mother and her son. Cassandra fully intends to find out exactly what that something is.

Varric taps his fingers against the tabletop once, twice. He’s watching her closely, weighing his options. After a moment, he sighs, and Cassandra thinks she sees hesitance in his eyes for a moment before he slips back into his usual expression, a calculated smile, easy and roguish, unreadable. The transition is unnervingly smooth.

“You want to know? Because I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”

“I told you, I want to know everything.”

“Well then,” he says, reaching up to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, “we’re going to have to go back a little, all the way to Lothering.”

“I’m listening.”

She must sound too interested, because suddenly Varric looks too confident. He’s made a decision of some sort, one that Cassandra doesn’t believe she’ll be able to understand until she hears what he has to tell her.

“Alright,” he says, leaning forward to put his elbows on the table between them, “so Bethany is with her mother, and the ogre is coming-”

“And she rushed out,” Cassandra says, remembering this part of the retelling very clearly, “to protect Leandra.”

“Right. She rushed out to meet it, and it grabbed her right around the middle, lifted her high above its head before-”

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

Bethany’s body crunches when it hits the ground, and the sound is so loud, so sick and awful that it takes everything in Adrian not to just lean over and vomit when he hears it. The ogre releases her, leaving her limp on the ground, bloodied. The sight of it makes everything slow down, his hands go numb and he feels dizzy, as if he might faint.

Adrian has seen some horrible injuries in his life. Mortal wounds, festering flesh. He’s even seen violence, the broken bones and bruised, torn, bloody skin that it leaves behind. None of it has ever made him feel like this. Distantly, he wonders if this actually is the worst thing he’s ever seen, or if it just feels different because it’s his sister he’s watching it happen to.

Your sister, he thinks, charging towards the ogre with Carver and Aveline more on instinct than anything else. Your sister, Adrian. Your baby sister. What are you going to do now? You promised. You promised your dad you wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Adrian that’s your sister that’s Bethany your baby sister Bethany your-

His body is choosing how to move with no direction from his mind, taking cues from the other bodies around it while his thoughts remain static, locked in on one subject, a simple repeating refrain. He thinks that he might not have moved towards the ogre at all had he not seen the two warriors do so first. Might have just stood there utterly still, staring.

Fire and lightning leave his hands at intervals. He doesn’t feel them. He can’t. When he sees the magic collide with the ogre’s body, it doesn’t mean anything.

The thing falls quickly. Or at least it feels that way to him, simultaneously a few seconds and a lifetime. Carver has barely managed to pull his sword from its body when Adrian’s head starts working again, the fog finally clearing and letting him think well enough to choose how to move, and rushes immediately to Bethany’s side. Hopes that he isn’t too late.

Their mother is there already, but Adrian can barely see her, can’t comprehend her presence. He kneels at Bethany’s opposite side, sharp stones digging into his knees as he fumbles around for a pulse. He doesn’t feel one. He tells himself that it’s because he’s tired, because his hands are shaking. He tries again, fingers pressing to a different spot on her neck. The feeling of her limp muscles and unmoving body under his hands makes him feel sick all over again, but he pushes it down.

Nothing, still nothing. He tells himself that that can’t be right, that it’s there, that she has a pulse. That she must, that she has to. He’s just having a hard time finding it over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the sound of the horde in the distance, his mother shouting at him.

“This is your fault,” she says, tears streaming down her face, and he flinches. He can’t help it. “How could you let her run off like that? You were supposed to be protecting her, how could you-”

“Shut up.” He says, giving up on finding Bethany’s pulse point and shifting around so he can press his ear against her chest, try to find a heartbeat that way, “shut up, I can’t hear.”

It’s harsher than he meant to be, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. His mother ignores the request, continues to sob and shout at him. He really wishes she wouldn’t. Nothing she’s saying is false, but none of it is useful. It is his fault, he did fail her, but he doesn’t need his mother to tell him that. He’s said it to himself enough times already.

Adrian closes his eyes, tunes her out as best he can so that he can listen. He wonders if he should pray. You’re supposed to pray when you want something very badly and know it’s not likely at all that you’ll get it, right? And he wants his sister to be alive so very very badly.

He swallows, tries not to think about how unlikely it is. About the fact that he heard her bones break inside of her, saw her body hit the ground like wet blankets, no tension in any of her muscles. He just needs something, anything. A faint murmur that will let him justify using the last of his mana on trying to revive her. Anything, anything, anything at a-

There.

“What?” Leandra asks, her litany of accusations stopping dead at exactly the moment his eyes fly open, “What is it? Did you-”

“Move,” he says, scrambling back up onto his knees, pulling mana out of his center and into his hands, “you can’t help, I need you to leave.”

“Adrian if you don’t tell me what’s happening-”

Patience thin, he ignores her entirely and instead turns to Aveline, hovering uncertainly nearby.

“Get her out of here.”

Aveline responds to the order immediately, hurrying over to help Leandra up and guide her away. It’s far more gentle than he would’ve been, and much more understanding. As unhappy as he is that Aveline and Ser Wesley are here at all, he is thankful that there’s someone here that isn’t family. Someone that doesn’t have to feel the weight of all their history coming together with the tragedy before them and help in a way only outsiders can, give his mother patience when all he can feel is anger and frustration.

“And get Carver,” he calls after them, casting magic deep into Bethany’s body. Not to heal, not quite yet, but just to get a look around. See where the damage is worst so that he can focus his untrained, low mana healing spells starting where they’re most necessary.

His heart sinks once he gets a feel for what’s inside of her, bile threatening at his throat again. It’s so much worse than he imagined, and he can’t believe she’s still breathing, even as faint as those breaths are. It reminds him of the Smith’s old, rotted barn after the storm hit it. Nothing to salvage but the strongest of the supports, and even those battered and weak. It makes him feel frantic, and pushing that emotion down in order to stay calm enough to start healing her is one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

He starts with the bleeding inside first, because he knows that’s what kills you the fastest. She’s bleeding outside as well though, and it worries him. He really isn’t sure how much he can actually get done before his energy runs out, he doesn’t think he has enough to put everything back together and muster up the pulse necessary to get her heart going again if it stops. And he definitely doesn’t have enough mana to numb the pain while he does all that. Adrian swallows. He might use up all his mana and it might not be enough. Worse, it might hurt the whole time he fails to save her. His sister’s final moments might be agony and it will all be his fault.

You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t try, he tells himself. It feels like such a weak argument, hollow as it echoes around in his head.

Carver kneels in the space Leandra vacated, sword sheathed. His front is covered in purple-black darkspawn viscera, he looks tired and tense, ragged.

“How can I help?”

Adrian sighs in relief. He at least sounds even and collected, far more put together than Adrian feels. He’s thankful for it.

“She’s bleeding.”

It’s not really instructions. It’s half a thought, poorly communicated, but he can’t manage anything else over his forced sense of calm and the focus he has to put on the damage before him. Damage that’s far beyond his skill level of repair.

Carver seems to understand what he means though. There’s a bone-deep fear in his eyes when he looks down at their sister’s body, but it doesn’t affect the way he acts, the way he moves. He presses his hands to the wound in Bethany’s side and he does it without flinching, without hesitation.

Adrian is so, so proud.

“How bad is it?” Carver asks, voice quiet in a way that Adrian has never heard it before.

He doesn’t reply.

Flesh knits back together with his coaxing, internal wounds sealing up, a miracle not possible without magic, but as he feared, it isn’t going to be enough. There’s precious little mana left in his body, and still so much left to fix. He still hasn’t stopped her external bleeding, hasn’t mended any of her bones and, oh Maker, her heart is slowing. He’ll need to restart it, but after that he’ll be out of mana entirely, he’ll have to start tapping into his own life force to keep going. It’s a dangerous thing to do. It’ll definitely hurt him. It possibly might even kill him.

Adrian feels like he could cry. He wishes they hadn’t already used the two small bottles of lyrium their father left behind when he died. He wishes Bethany was awake so that she could at least try to help him help her, or at least so that he could apologize. He wishes Malcolm hadn’t given up on teaching him how to heal, how to summon. A spirit healer could do all that was needed and more but he isn’t- he was never- Father never could teach him how to-

“You need to stop,” Carver says, and he sounds so worried that Adrian knows that his exhaustion is visible, that it’s clear how much he’s pushing himself, “Adrian you’re- you’re going to hurt yourself, don’t-”

“It’s just a little more,” he says, “If I can just get her conscious then-”

“Adrian.”

Adrian meets his eyes. He feels frantic and desperate, and he almost certainly looks it, but Carver looks oddly calm, his gaze sharp and serious. At the end of the week he’ll be nineteen years and six months old exactly, but looking at him right now you’d never guess it. He looks aged, tired and resigned in the way that only old men get, and it makes Adrian’s chest hurt. He didn’t look that way before Ostagar, he was still a kid.

“I can’t carry you both,” he says, so matter of fact and so breathtakingly sad that he can barely stomach it.

Adrian understands what he means, and unfortunately, he knows that he’s right. He’s weak, right on the verge of tapping into something deeper than mana to keep going. If he continues like this the best-case scenario still involves him nearly killing himself, and their little group can’t handle two half-dead mages and getting away from the horde alive all at once. And that’s if he even makes it. More likely is he’ll pour so much into healing her that he dies in the process. Which would be worth it if she lives, he thinks, but there’s no guarantee of that. He might just leave them both dead.

But if he stops… if he stops she'll die for sure. He'll be letting her die, making the choice that does it. It will always feel like he chose his life over hers. Like he killed her.

The whole thing just makes him want to scream. He has to choose. He doesn’t want to choose. It’s not fair, none of it’s fair. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want Bethany to die and he doesn’t want to choose. He wouldn’t even have to choose if he was just a little stronger, if he just had a little more energy, a little more-

(A familiar tickling in the back of his skull. A creeping little almost-voice that says, you could have more. I could give you more.)

(His father always told him he shouldn’t listen, that he should ignore the voices that come to him when he’s dreaming, that he should send them away, fight them off if he needed to. But Adrian was young and rebellious and never good at doing what he was told. He figured that as long as he never actually did it, it wouldn’t really matter if he let the voices teach him how.)

Weak and tired, his sister’s slowly fading life in his hands, Adrian makes a choice.

“Give me her knife.”

“Why?”

“Carver.”

His brother frowns, pulls the knife out of her belt, passes it to him handle-first. There’s a grimness in his eyes as Adrian takes it with his free hand, the other remaining pressed palm-first in the center of Bethany’s chest. He’s pretty sure he knows what Carver thinks he’s about to do, and wonders if when he sees what’s actually about to happen he’ll be relieved or horrified.

Adrian doesn’t give himself any more time to think. He flips his grip on the knife and digs it into his other arm, opening a wide diagonal wound underneath his elbow.

“Adrian, what-”

Horrified it is then, he thinks, tossing the knife aside. He supposes it also could have been that his brother was just startled, but Adrian doesn’t really have it in him to interpret that generously, at the moment. If his brother is horrified, Adrian doesn’t blame him.

He stacks his free hand over the one against her chest, straightens his shoulders. Blood pours in streams down his arm, pools in between his interlaced fingers, seeps into Bethany’s already stained shirt. He closes his eyes. Malcolm tried to teach him spirit healing when he was younger, and gave up when it became clear that Adrian would never be able to summon easily on his own, that despite the vividness of his dreams he just wasn’t built for it. But before that he would practice with weaker spirits that his father would call for him, and he still remembers all the steps.

Adrian exhales, imagines himself hollow and empty, a place behind his sternum that he silently gives permission to be filled. The spirit has to enter you to help. You have to let it. As much as the Chantry and the Circles would like to deny it, it is a form of possession. Albeit an incomplete and very temporary one.

(Maker, he hopes what’s about to happen is temporary. He isn’t Harrowed, he has no way of knowing.)

The wound on his arm pulses sickeningly, and the rivulets of blood trailing down his arm start to feel both hot and cool at once, like lyrium when it goes down your throat. There’s an iron smell in the air suddenly, like wet rust, like monthly blood.

Something slips in, fills his chest and arms, all the way down to his fingers. Adrian shivers. It feels nothing like any of his father’s spirits. It’s foreign to him, terrifying and strange.

He can feel that his natural mana is still exhausted, but now there’s this new well of energy for him to tap into, and even just lightly poking at it he can tell that it is deep. It feels like something pulled straight from the Fade, like having one foot in the waking world and one in a dream. What the spirit, the demon, is providing for him is far beyond anything he’s ever experienced before, the magic potential of it stronger than anything he ever thought he’d have access to, and the excitement he feels at that realization scares him.

(He understands the temptation now. Feels the pull, a tugging in his stomach like looking over the edge of a cliff. The doors this opens, the things he could do with magic like this… it’s seductive. And he understands, better than ever, why his father was so scared of it, the paranoia that led him to instruct his children against asking questions, against even thinking about it. Against even saying its name.)

The demon tells him what to do. Whispers instructions to him in something that isn’t really a voice, it’s impressions and colors, knowledge without form. If you asked him to, he probably couldn’t translate it into words. He simply Knows what it is he has to do next, and he knows that that knowledge isn’t coming from his own head.

Adrian breaks the old healing spell, casts a new one. It’s strong, and he directs the magic out of himself and through Bethany with ease, bypassing her natural resistance entirely, like it’s not even there. He’s never been able to do that before, usually his magic “catches” in the body’s defenses, and he has to delay healing while he works around them, convinces the flesh to let his magic in. But this flows easily, like water over rocks. It’s a spell his father would have been proud of him for, in another context.

Her external wounds start to close, and he can feel the flesh inside of her start to knit as well. There’s enough energy running through him that he can heal her everywhere at once, instead of focusing on one injury at a time, and pretty soon he feels her broken bones start to shift and move underneath her flesh. Slowly at first, and then-

All of her misaligned bones snap into place at once with a sound like a tree right before it falls, the jagged edges then clicking and grinding against each other as they settle into position before beginning to mend. Bethany’s eyes snap open, and with a sick feeling settling in his stomach Adrian realizes that in his desperation, there’s something he forgot to do.

Her back arches. She screams.

“Shit,” he says, quickly trying to readjust his dislodged hands, “Beth, I’m-” she writhes, knocking his hands off of her again, “-shit, fuck, Carver-”

He’s already moving, leaning in to hold her down by her shoulders. He looks overwhelmed and desperate, hands straining as he tries to keep her still.

“Beth- Bethany it’s okay, it’s okay-” She kicks out with her legs, and Carver throws one of his out over them in an attempt at further restricting her movement, “easy, easy. Be- calm down. Adrian has you, it’s going to be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

It’s awkward to get his hands repositioned properly with Carver most of the way over her, but he manages it. Casts a numbing spell as quickly as he’s capable of.

He was always good at numbing spells, despite otherwise lacking in related magics, and the effect is immediate. Her face goes from tight to soft within seconds, movements easing until she is finally still, her breathing regular, even, conscious.

Carver releases her slowly, then turns to him.

“She is, isn’t she? She’s going to be okay?”

His voice still sounds oddly small, scared and relieved in equal measure. Adrian sends another curl of magic out of his fingers to check her internal injuries, then nods. Tentatively.

She’s going to be okay.

He hears his mother say something, and Carver answers her, but he isn’t paying enough attention to make out any individual words. He closes the wound on his arm, but it doesn’t heal all the way. A thick pink band of new scarring remains, jagged from the haste with which he made the cut, the awkward angle at which he held the blade.

He breaks the spell he’s using on Bethany, aware of her eyes on him the whole time, and as the last tendrils of magic dissipate the demon leaves him. He doesn’t notice at first, doesn’t feel it as it leaves, just feels very empty all of the sudden. Light, as if someone reached inside of him and removed a big lump of lead that was wedged in with his organs. He can’t believe it was that easy. That it just left, didn’t fight to stay, didn’t linger. That’s not how demons are supposed to act at all, and it makes him worry that there’s some other consequence coming, something he couldn’t have predicted.

(Deeper down, he worries that there will be no consequences at all. That maybe everything he’s been told is a lie. That maybe there really isn’t anything to stop him from doing it again.)

(He won’t do it again, he tells himself. He won’t, he won’t.)

He leans back, starts to pull away when Bethany’s hand shoots up, wraps around his bicep in a death grip. He starts, then looks down at her. Their eyes meet, and hers are very serious, very scared.

“What did you do?” she asks, voice rough and raw. She squeezes his arm tighter, and it almost hurts, “Adrian, what did you do?”

It’s not actually a question. She knows what he did, she just doesn’t want it to be true. She wants him to tell her that it’s not true, that she’s mistaken. He can’t.

The seriousness of what’s happened hits him suddenly, sinks to the bottom of his stomach like a rock. He cut himself, summoned a demon, cast spells with its help. Even worse, he did it somewhere he could be seen. He looks up at Carver and swallows, throat clicking and dry.

“Did the templar see?”

Carver’s eyes flick up over Adrian’s shoulder, then back to him. He shakes his head.

“What about the wife?”

“I don’t think so,” Carver says, quietly. Not whispering, whispering draws attention, just his normal voice, low and even, “she’s with mother, your back is blocking their view.”

He looks scared, they both do, and Adrian can’t fully tell whether they’re more scared of him, or for him. He can’t blame them for either.

“I didn’t see anything either,” Carver says, surprising him, “Beth, did you see something?”

Bethany turns her head, face tightening like she’s sore, and shares a look with Carver. It’s always been a joke in their family, the “twin thing”, their ability to talk without speaking, make decisions the rest of them aren’t allowed to know about. It feels nostalgic for a moment, like the three of them are kids again, and Adrian broke something and they’re all agreeing not to tell mother and father about it. That it’s going to be a secret, a sworn oath of silence kept between the three of them, something they’ll all laugh about being so serious over, once they’re all big.

Bethany nods, and Adrian is relieved, even though he can tell that this isn’t the end of it. They’ll want an explanation, there will be a talk, once they’re all safe.

“Can you stand?”

“Probably,” she shifts, grimaces, “maybe not on my own.”

“I’ll help her,” Carver says.

Adrian pushes himself up, a sudden dizzy spell hitting him once he’s on his feet, vision going briefly black at the edges. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s the blood loss, probably it’s a combination of the two. It’s not pleasant.

Bethany bites back a lot of pained noises as they help her to her feet, and Adrian thinks about all the kinds of injuries he doesn’t know enough about to heal properly. Delicate nerves, crush injuries, how soft tissue can hurt for years after the initial trauma, how easy it is to misalign bones when you’re in a hurry. The blood magic just gave him more raw energy to tap into, the demon a little bit of a guiding hand, he’s still held back by his own lack of skill and training. She’ll need to see a real healer, eventually. Hopefully they can find one in Gwaren.

If they make it that far, he thinks, hearing the darkspawn roar and realizing that the sound isn’t as distant as he hoped.

Once they have Bethany settled, one arm around Carver’s neck and his hooked under her armpits, taking most of her weight, Adrian turns to survey their surroundings.

Aveline and Ser Wesley are not immediately visible, which he can’t help but find mildly concerning. Mother stands a few feet away, hands covering her mouth as she watches Bethany. He can tell that she’s holding herself back from running over and fussing over her, pulling Bethany into her arms. Her expression is full of shock and relief, love for her daughter who was three-quarters dead just a few moments ago. Who is pale and weak now, but nonetheless alive.

Then her gaze lands on Adrian, and everything changes.

She knows. Leandra’s hands drop from her face a little, and Adrian’s stomach drops with them. He doesn’t understand how she could know. There’s no way she saw him cut himself. Bethany was bleeding, so it’s not unusual that he has blood on him, But nonetheless she knows. He can see it on her face, can feel the air go cold between them as they look at each other.

“Adrian-”

She doesn’t finish. Aveline swears loudly, and all heads turn immediately towards the sound.

They stayed still for too long. The darkspawn have found them, and Adrian swears too as he watches their mangled forms come over the ridge towards them. It’s more than they can handle. Even if everyone was in top shape, he can only imagine them winning against this group by a slim margin. And they are far from being in top shape.

The ground shakes beneath them, and Adrian has just started to prepare himself for another ogre when-

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

“-when the dragon swoops low overhead, its roar splitting their ears and the skies alike. Etcetera, etcetera,” Varric says, making a circular gesture with his hand, “darkspawn defeated, the dragon transforms into a witch, you remember this part.”

Cassandra looks at him blankly. The way he tells it is so casual, nonchalant. As if this is a story about Hawke getting lost on the way to the market, and not revealing to her the moment that the Champion of Kirkwall became a maleficar.

(And to save his sister’s life, risking death or possession to fulfill a promise made to his father for her safety… if she was asked, she would admit that it’s the closest thing she’s ever heard to a good enough reason. If it weren’t unforgivable, she’d be tempted to even call it noble.)

They watch each other silently for a moment, waiting to see who speaks first. She thinks she sees doubt in Varric’s eyes for a moment, maybe even regret. Why tell me then, she wonders, why tell me, why not just lie a second time?

“That all you needed to hear, seeker?”

Cassandra doesn’t know what to say.

#only three days past the self imposed deadline! yay.#dragon age fanfiction #adrian hawke #bird song #fic

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felassan · 3 years ago

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Thoughts on Dark Fortress #2

(This post is under a cut due to spoilers.)

So late with this one! some stuff irl was keeping me really busy and hyper-distracting me lately, but it’s finally over now so I’m back on my bioware bullshit. :D

Overall there were a lot of beautiful or awe-inspiring scenes in this issue, and a lot of great, meaningful / poignant character interactions and moments between characters. It’s pretty impressive actually how much was able to be packed in. I posted some of my favorite panels here. also omg! the action sequences! the big reveal! the ending!! woww

cool scene-setting, panned out shot of Neromenian and behind it, the Dark Fortress, to immediately pull you back into the world and ‘where we left off’. the combination of ruined dead trees, red lights, lightning and fire/smoke is very atmospheric and hints at what’s ahead

“From this... city, if we can call it that” is a sick burn and reminds you that the Qunari are technologically more advanced than most of the rest of Thedas, from their cannons to their aqueducts

more individually distinct Qunari soldiers, sth I again appreciate

! last issue there were big ‘You haven’t seen the last of Tractus!’ vibes, naturally, but I didn’t expect him to escape by stabbing and killing the Qunari using a chair-leg..!!

the last panel on the first page of Karasten is really good. the way it’s colored, the way it’s lit, the light and shadow, the fiery backdrop, cinders floating, the details of his expression.. 👌 it also makes me think to the possible future, to DA4 when mainland Thedas may be continuing to face the entirety of the Antaam

in Vaea’s acrobatics scene on the bridge, I know rationally that she’ll be fine but couldn’t help but worry for her. again I like how they don’t shy away from showcasing Vaea’s specific abilities. also the attention to detail - you’d think some rocks are just some rocks, but it highlights the risk she’s undertaking that if she falls it’s into rough seas which could dash her against the jagged rocks :’S. Vaea, gooooo!

Fenris’ “Enterprising girl” line has big “Clever girl” meme energy :D

my heart can’t take Fran and Autumn leaning over the edge after Vaea in worry ;; or Aaron looking back in concern over his shoulder ;; or Fran’s tender reassurance ;; or Autumn’s Worried expression ;; the care and bonds which have grown between this group of characters ;;

notice Aaron starts drinking when Vaea’s away from them and they’re beginning to grow worried about her safety. the poor man’s nerves and stress levels

Fran touching the vegetation while she’s considering if she could use her magic to open the entrance from the outside is a nice touch

did Marius leap in front of Fenris and Fran there when the entrance opened?? damn, he’s quick. and the three of them look all scary and formidable here ready for combat. notice how the curve of the door and the spikes that go into the ground, and the composition of this panel, make it look like they’re standing in front of an opened dragon’s maw? ‘teeth’, a rumbling ‘roar’.. some nice foreshadowing here.

the reunion panels are so cute. Autumn’s lil tum as she jumps and Fran and Fenris’ lil smiles of relief and at Autumn’s reaction to seeing Vaea, then a rare happy beam from Aaron.. feel.. the love ;__;

red lighting in the tunnel sets a dangerous, dramatic build-up mood

👀 more info on Fenris’ past, on the specifics of the process which gave him his markings. in the panel where he says that it took a long time, his shadow on the wall behind him reminds me of the shadow of his past that has dogged him for so long :(

Fenris and Marius height difference

discussion of the process shows the power difference between blue and red lyrium. blue lyrium took a long time, red lyrium is almost instant

Autumn is such an intrepid little explorer and alert scout, tail and ears up, head forward. good girl!

“I just... worry about you, my girl” ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚ I’ll be so sad if these are death flags for Aaron and he doesn’t make it out of here. also note Fran in this panel, who recently had to kill her own father and is still dealing with that, watching the strongly paternal moment between Aaron and Vaea :(

love Vaea’s faith in Aaron and her sense of humor. also I don’t know why, maybe it’s because Vaea met Sebastian, but her “Maker, no!”, although in a completely different and light-hearted context, reminds me of Sebastian’s “Maker nooo!” at the end of DA2 hh

the reference again to Hawke, who Fenris saw haunted by what they tried to do - save their mother - and couldn’t :’(. also with the shadow in this panel, here’s another person struggling with the shadow of his past qq. this is later emphasized again in Aaron when he continues to talk about his past and in the panel is a chain and manacle. smart visual metaphors, a must in the comic medium with limited space

mushroom skull 💀🍄

“It isn’t about what I’ve done. It isn’t about my failures. Or my choices. It’s about their impact” - he’s misty-eyed here as he thinks back to Ostagar.. does this line btw seem almost meta to anyone else btw? :D it feels like a meta reference to the experience of DA players and PCs, who are always having to deal with the impacts of their choices

I wanna point out that I was right on reading issue #1, when I said “I’m positive that in panel 2 here, it’s the exact moment when he sees Cailan die” ;;

So Aaron is also a veteran of the Battle of Denerim

reference to the Hero of Ferelden - “Those were someone else’s battles”. I’m being captain obvious here but I can’t help but [heart pitter-patter] at any and all references to the HoF

I like the.. parallel? is that the word? Aaron’s stories were him trying to inspire people to make a change, or him trying to convince himself of that. and now here’s Vaea, inspiring Aaron with her words in these panels. the little guys can make a difference! in the world of Thedas, you don’t need to be a big bombastic hero or a Player Character to have an impact

lmao Fenris right on cue. the moments of humor/light-heartedness are nice because they break up the tension and are sprinkled throughout without derailing build-up or taking away from dramatic story impact. yknow?

yeah Aaron!! leave it behind. leave it to rot with mr mushroom skull (and hey the mushroom skull was there for a reason). again tho if this is a death flag i

Fenris straight down to business with the tactics

its cute how close Autumn has been sticking to Fran

Tessa checking in on Fran again, as she did in issue 1

Could Vaea’s “Well, shit” be an homage to Varric? :D they have met

I also wanna point out that I was right on reading issue #1, when I said “My guess is that the thing Tractus shows Marquette and Nenealeus is probably a chained up dragon or similar”

the poor dragon :’( big dragon the Qunari had in Trespasser vibes

the sword has a really cool design, kind of reminds me of something a samurai might be depicted wielding

👀 lore-drop! so ancient elven arcane warriors used lyrium-infused swords. this seems to confirm the sarcophagus is an ancient elven artifact, no? makes sense, wasn’t it said that the sarcophagus’ design was based on the architecture/outfit-design type elements of a specific faction, and that this was done intentionally? it looks kinda ancient elfy in make, right? also about the lyrium-infused swords of the arcane warriors, well well well.. remember that the Evanuris and the ancient elves mined the bodies of Titans for lyrium, for power and to use as a resource. here’s an example of that use

as I read through this portion I became increasingly concerned for my boy Shirallas.. we really are in it now aren’t we 😭

the Qunari are launching STRAIGHT-UP ROCKETS ohhhh

pretty ‘lightshow’ over the wall in the “Let’s hope the fortress is as secure as Danarius boasted” panel hh

protective older brother Fenris, impish younger sister Vaea. love that dynamic, we love to see it. sheepish and exasperated Fenris is so cute

the Bone Pit dragon fight with Hawke and co reference!

I wonder how long the dragon has been captive here, and how Danarius/Tractus was able to capture it

lore-wise what are the implications here? when Fenris’ ritual was being undertaken, the sword and the sarcophagus were bombarded with magic, fire spells. in this one they aim to have the dragon bombard it with fire-breathing. is it just fire that makes it work/powers it, or is there magic in dragonfire, in dragons? it reminds me of “Your heart beats with the old blood, as well. Where do you think it comes from? It sings of a time when dragons ruled the skies. A time before the Veil, before the mysteries were forgotten. Can you hear it?”

purple color for the dragon’s growling sounds/typeset is a great idea

lets.. goooo!!!!

Marquette is such a nerd. later on when he activates the sarcophagus he has mad scientist vibes

the dramatic reunion face-offs begin!! as the prophecy foretold!!!!1

true to form, Marius DOES have nothing to say ahahaha, even at this, his personal climax. maybe Marius dies in the next issue, but Tessa lives and gets to go back to Charter

these Venatori look almost Star Wars

Shirallas my boyy.. nooo... don’t do it 😭

ah ah ah! try casting magic with no ARMS

Francesca a beacon of blue light and goodness

the splash combat page is masterful. everyone playing a part, so much going on, everything happening at once. a thing that sticks out to me about it is Aaron’s outstretched hand and alarm as he watches Fran fall

Autumn with her lil hackles raised

“The Venatori have returned” dun dun dunn

goodbye Shirallas 😭😭😭

the composition of the second to last page with triangle/diamond-shaped panels and the framing of dragon wings is awesome

the Dread Wolf rises, “the Tevinter Imperium will rise again”.. on-point on-point cohesion

there he is, the red wraith

Super Saiyan Shirallas

what a note to end an issue on

wow wow wow!!

and separate to the above, some speculation based on the cover of Issue 3: the piece of metal looks like a broken collar coming off Shirallas, like the one there was on the cover of Issue 2 coming off the dragon. also he’s all bulky now with draconic talons/claws (reminds me of in-world legends of Reavers who dug too deep of their own power after drinking dragon blood and whose bodies consequently began to manifest subtle reptilian traits actually). I’ll be interested to see what results of this allusion between Shirallas and the dragon!!

#dragon age #BioWare #dark fortress spoilers #dark fortress spoiler #spoilers #spoiler #dragon age: dark fortress spoilers #dragon age: dark fortress spoiler #video games #gore cw #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #feels #fenris #the Fenaissance #long post #longpost #alcohol cw

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veorlian · 4 years ago

Text

honey tongue

The stories will tell you that falling in love with your best friend is as easy as breathing, that it's the height of romance. Varric Tethras had written far too many stories to believe that crock of nonsense.

my submissions for @hightown-funk are up!! here’s the first one <3

read it on ao3 here

The Hanged Man was legendary for two things: bar fights, and ale that was at least 50% vinegar. There were also the suspiciously sticky floors, the rooms you could rent by the hour, and enterprising individuals keen on relieving you of all that burdensome coin you had on you. It was what people had come to expect. The barkeep had offered a higher-quality ale once, and the regulars had stormed out in protest. And Maker have mercy if they ever decide to clean the place up a bit. There’d be riots in the streets.

Well. More riots than usual, at least.

Marian Hawke spent most evenings in the Hanged Man. The petty crime and general chaos faded into the periphery as she played Wicked Grace with her friends. It was replaced with a different kind of petty crime and chaos, but at least this was hers.

And speaking of chaos, at the moment Varric was regaling the crowd with the tale of their most recent trip to the Bone Pit. There was a rough semi-circle of regulars standing around Varric, with the kind of slack-jawed, wide-eyed expressions that normally accompanied one of his particularly tall tales.

He was in fine form. Marian had never quite figured out how he could look so laid back and engaged at the same time. She’d tried it once. Carver had just said that she looked constipated. Varric made it look easy. He made most things look easy.

“And then Hawke raised her sword and leaped through the air, landing on the dragon’s back, killing it in a single blow—”

“It was already mostly dead,” Garrett called. Marian flipped him off. A few of the stragglers towards the back of Varric’s audience turned to face the two of them.

“It was not,” Marian tossed back.

“Was too."

Marian rolled her eyes at her brother and leaned forward on the pitted table.

“Hey Varric, tell them about the part where I did a sick back-flip off of the dragon—”

“And fell on your ass—” Garrett interrupted. More of Varric’s audience turned now, their eyes bouncing back and forth between the twins like a tennis match.

“And landed perfectly and took a little bow,” Marian finished, pointedly ignoring Garrett. She kept her eyes fixed on Varric’s face, and the wry little twist of his lips.

“Of course! How could I forget,” he said, his eyes dancing. “As she struck the killing blow, the dragon came crashing down to the ground. Hawke gracefully leapt off of its back, landing neatly on the ground.”

“I can’t believe this,” Garrett complained. Varric continued to regale the audience with tales of the twins’ exploits. Marian patted Garrett on the arm in a way expertly calculated to be both patronizing and comforting.

“Sorry little brother, it’s just not very dramatic when you wave your fancy baton around,” Marian replied. “Doesn’t have the same impact as a bigass sword.”

“Last I checked, fireball has a hell of an impact,” Garrett shot back.

“Potato, potahto,” Marian said dismissively.

“There’s only one way to settle this,” he said. He rolled up his sleeves and set an elbow down on the table, his hand open. Marian smiled crookedly and did the same. Varric lost his audience again, as they formed a loose circle around the table. There was the clink of coin changing hands, and an exaggerated sigh and eye roll from Carver.

“My money’s on Hawke,” Isabela called.

“Which one?” Garrett and Marian asked in unison.

“Whichever one wins,” Isabela said cheerfully.

“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Merrill murmured anxiously. Isabela waved her away airily and tossed a few coins on the table.

“Have you seen how ripped I am? Of course I’m gonna win,” Garrett said. Marian snorted and shook her head.

“Bigass sword. Fancy baton,” she said. She gripped Garrett’s hand, and the arm wrestling began. It was evenly matched, as most things were with the twins. But not for nothing did Marian swing around a giant hunk of metal nearly the same height as herself.

She slammed Garrett’s hand down into the table, grinning widely.

“Best two out of three,” he said immediately. She laughed and shook her head.

“You lost fair and square,” she said cheerfully. Garrett flipped her off and went to refill his drink. Marian glanced up to find Varric making his way over to the table, settling in his customary spot at her side.

“You couldn’t wait until I was done?” Varric asked agreeably. Marian shrugged nonchalantly.

“Not my fault your admirers couldn’t resist the lure of my rippling muscles,” she said. “You’ll just need to make me sound even cooler. What if I had a sword for a hand?”

“No good,” Varric replied, shaking his head, “it’d interfere too much with the romance scenes.”

“Varric, I’m not exactly seeing a lot of that kind of action at the moment,” Marian said dryly. “Let me have a giant sword for a hand. It’d be cool as hell.”

“C’mon Hawke, a romance plot is always more compelling. Why not ask the pirate?” he said, gesturing to Isabela. Isabela caught the motion and winked broadly at them. “I can see it now; a daring love story, set against the backdrop of a ship tossed at sea. Readers love that stuff.” Marian snorted derisively and shook her head.

“I’ve got enough going on trying to stop this city from going to hell,” she complained. There was a deep ache in her chest that she couldn’t quite place. Fortunately, she didn’t have to think about it for very long, because Garrett arrived back at the table, his arms full of terrible beer.

“How come I never get the big dramatic retellings?” he griped.

“Because you keep heckling me,” Varric said dryly. “Plus, you’re not as good-looking.”

Marian’s heart stuttered and fully came to a stop. She ducked her head to hide the blush that threatened to set her face on fire. What the hell…?

“Nonsense, I’m the prettiest person in Kirkwall,” Garrett said primly.

“C’mon, we all know that’s Merrill,” Marian said, swallowing down her embarrassment. A crooked grin spread across her face. “At least, that’s what Carver always says.”

“Hey—” Carver began.

The ensuing chaos and overlapping voices covered up the weird and alarming thoughts floating through Marian’s head.

Plus, you’re not as good-looking.

Did Varric think she was good-looking?

Andraste’s sacred knickers, did that actually matter to her? Marian tossed back her drink in one go and stumbled to the bar to grab another.

Somewhere between the witching hours of 2am and 4am, the others traipsed out. Now, Marian was good at traipsing. She’d elevated it from a science to an art. She could traipse with the best of them. But when 4am rolled around, she didn’t.

It was a weekly ritual at this point, and it happened more often now that she was in that stuffy old mansion. Such a big place, but it felt like the walls were constantly creeping in on her. More than a few hours there and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

And so.

“Varric, don’t make me walk all the way back to Hightown,” she would groan, and he would chuckle that warm chuckle that brought the blood rushing to her ears. Probably just the alcohol, she always thought.

“Alright, you can stay just this once,” he would say, and she would flash him a crooked grin.

“You’re my favourite.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, serrah,” he’d say. She’d generally waggle her eyebrows at him suggestively, and they’d both laugh.

She didn’t remember when the flirting had started. A few minutes after they’d met, she figured. It was just a part of them, both of them. An easy way to keep everyone at arm’s reach. If they both agreed that it didn’t mean anything, then there was no harm no foul.

After all, it’s not like anything was ever going to come of it. Varric was happily married to a crossbow, and he’d repeatedly told her that he wasn’t into humans. So that was that. Marian was perfectly happy being Varric’s best friend and partner-in-crime.

And if she couldn’t sleep these days without hearing the gentle scritching of his quill on parchment, well, no one needed to know that. … Varric Tethras was a storyteller, most comfortable staying unobtrusively on the sidelines of a tale. It was safest that way really. Fewer people shooting at you, for one.

He couldn’t remember when it had started, becoming a part of Hawke’s story. He hadn’t been, at first. He’d been a plot device, a quest-giver just tagging along.

“You won’t even notice I’m here,” he’d told her. Varric Tethras: such a gifted liar that sometimes he almost convinced himself.

It had shifted by inches, their friendship. They’d gotten along almost instantly, like they’d just been waiting for the other to come along. So it was natural for them to spend most of their time together. And then it was natural for her to sleep on his couch when she was too drunk to walk home. His palatial suite at the Hanged Man was her palatial suite. That was all perfectly natural and normal and fine.

Until it wasn’t.

He couldn’t fall asleep these days until he heard her snoring (she and Dog seemed to be in a competition for who could be the loudest. On occasion it shook the dilapidated rafters).

She’d slipped into his life as easy as breathing. Easier, in some ways. So many little rituals. Like putting extra jokes into his manuscripts, just for her.

“Hey Hawke, you think you could give this a read for me?” he asked. She glanced up from where she was lounging on one of his chairs. She arched an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face.

“Am I going to blush?” she asked. He chuckled and shook his head.

“I just want to make sure that I’ve got the character right,” he replied.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” she said cheerfully, already on her feet and moving to lean over his shoulder. She rested an elbow on top of his head, like he was an armrest. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“Problem, serah Tethras?” she asked innocently.

“Hands off the merchandise,” he said easily. She leaned down to meet his eyes, her haphazardly cut bangs flopping in her face.

“I think you’ll find it’s my elbow on the merchandise. Very different part of the body,” she pointed out. To prove her point, she shifted her arm and rested her hand on his shoulder instead. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile off of his face.

“Just read the damn passage,” he said. She shrugged and turned her attention to the page. She hadn’t moved her hand, and the warmth slowly seeped into him. He realized with a start that he was leaning into her touch. What the hell?

The smell of cinnamon and honey drifted through the room. Not that that was unusual either. It clung to every part of the room. Even his trademark leather coat smelled permanently of cinnamon and honey, from that tea she drank at all hours of the day and night.

He missed it, when it wasn’t there.

He knew she’d gotten to the unflattering description of the Knight-Captain when she began to laugh. He thought her laugh was the best thing he’d ever heard. It wasn’t graceful by any means, caught somewhere between a cackle and a snort. But she laughed with her full body, like it was the funniest thing she’d heard in her life. Joyful, reckless abandon.

It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

Oh.

With Hawke’s hand digging into his shoulder, her laughter ringing in his ears, the smell of cinnamon and honey on the air, Varric Tethras realized that he was in love.

Shit. … The stories will have you believe that revelations of love are dramatic, that they’re accompanied by flights of angels or some other shit like that. Marian Hawke had heard too many love stories to believe in them anymore.

She was sprawled along the couch leafing through Varric’s latest draft of The Tale of the Champion. She liked to leave little notes and doodles in the margins. It drove Varric’s editor up the wall. She heard Varric’s familiar footfalls coming up the stairs.

“Hey, you forgot to mention the bit where I single-handedly took down a chimera,” she called, not looking up. Varric hummed noncommittally in response. She glanced up from the page to study him. He was swaying slightly on his feet, eyes a little unfocused as he leaned against the doorframe.

“You okay?” she asked. “Merchant’s Guild crap?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and he shook his head, running a hand through his graying hair.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. Marian’s eyebrows knitted together, and she shifted on the couch to make room for him. When he didn’t move, she pointedly patted the space next to her. When he still didn’t move, she made her way across the room to meet him.

“Then what is it, Varric? Crossbow troubles?” she asked. He looked away and his hand came up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Marian, I—” Record scratch, freeze frame. Varric never called her Marian. Never anything than Hawke, actually. He’d never even given her a nickname, like he had all the others. She was just Hawke.

“Didn’t realize you knew my name,” she managed. Another faint smile, only barely reaching his eyes. It was gone as soon as it came.

“Shit, I’m not good at this kind of thing,” he said. The smell of cheap ale and whiskey clung to him like a second skin.

“What kind of thing? You’re freaking me out, Varric.”

His warm amber eyes turned up to meet hers. Carefully, seemingly giving her every opportunity to move away, he reached up a hand on her face. Distantly, she realized he must be standing on his tip-toes. She might have laughed, if he hadn’t gently tugged her face down towards him.

His lips were softer than she’d imagined they’d be. His calloused hands tangled in her short hair, bringing her closer. She could taste the faint touch of alcohol on his tongue as her mouth slanted over his.

She looped an arm around his waist and easily lifted him up into the air.

“Hawke, put me down,” he said indignantly. She laughed breathlessly against his mouth.

“My shoulders were getting sore from bending over,” she said. She wound her free hand through his hair and tugged him back to kiss her again. She realized suddenly that she would be quite happy staying right here, like this, for the rest of her life. Well, maybe with a stool. She was strong, but Varric was sturdy. He’d probably whack her on the arm if she told him that though.

She set Varric down on the table, standing between his legs and bringing both hands up to cup his face.

“Better?” she whispered. He grumbled something indistinct and unflattering that was abruptly cut off as she began to trail kisses down to his neck.

“Would you believe that I’ve wanted to do this for years?” he rasped. Hawke stilled. And then, she began to laugh, resting her forehead against Varric’s.

“Well, there’s no call to be rude,” he said. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, still chuckling.

“I have as well,” she said at last.

“Ah,” Varric managed. And then, “So, what now?”

“You in a rush, Tethras?” Marian asked. She gently tipped his chin up to face her. “Seems to me we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“So we do,” he said, and he kissed her again.

#this was such a joy to write #da2 #hawke #varric tethras #varric x hawke #hightown funk

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mydrug-is-dragonage · 4 years ago

Text

Veda Adaar, After the Exalted Council

The first few weeks, Thom had hardly left my side, bringing me meals, preparing my baths, redressing my bandages. He moved slowly, sure of each action, careful to read my reactions. We often sat in silence. Spring rain falling, washing Skyhold clean, he and I made our way down the steps, back to his old barn. The horses still around, Master Dennet returned to his wife and daughter, now grown. Thom helped me up the stairs, we laid on hay and listened to the sound of rain on the roof. We didn’t have words. I reached over and put a hand on his.

“Veda,” he started. I shook my head. “Not yet?”

“No,” I said, “what do we even start with?��

“It’s only been two weeks. Every wound is still fresh.” A small exhaled laugh escaped me. “I didn’t mean just physically.” I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My eyes welled and tears began to fall down my face. “You have survived a hundred things meant to kill you. You will survive this too.” I moved towards him, he put his arm around me and I nestled into his chest.

“Imagine if they saw the mighty inquisitor now,” I laughed. I snorted away the dripping from my tears. “They’d be so pleased to see how far I’d fallen.”

He shushed me. “Anyone who sees you and doesn’t have their heart broken for you is no one worth knowing. You and the Inquisition have more than proved your worth.”

“Oh yeah, me, the great one-armed mage-warrior who can barely carry a staff in battle and the Inquisition, four agents and their maimed leader.”

“You’re hurt. You’re hurting. You aren’t lesser just because you’ve lost a hand.” I sighed, blinked my eyes. “You were able to forgive me for crimes I didn’t even commit against you, but you can’t forgive yourself for things that happened to you.” I started to open my mouth. “No, Veda. Sit in the grief. Don’t wallow like a pig in shit. Sit in it. Feel the pain. There will be life after this, just as there was life before.” He put his arm back out, and I turned towards him and cried in his chest.

We didn’t discuss when he’d leave. I knew he’d get going again, inevitable continuance of life. The day he packed his things to go, I leaned against the wall in the barn, arms crossed. My fingers rubbed the bandages, perhaps the last ones he’d prepare for me. “Do you know where you’re going first?” I asked.

“Cullen’s invited me down to his home for the Templars. Going to see what good I can do there.”

“You could do good, here,” I said.

“I could,” he said, he stopped packing and looked towards the wall, then to me, “but I think you need some time.”

“Time?”

“You have to learn how to be Veda, again.”

I snorted, “I’ve been Veda this whole time.”

“No, you haven’t been Veda since Haven. I remember her, the girl you were. Barely 18, green, flirting with me while I helped the recruits fight bandits. You were so sure of yourself, the way children always are.”

“I didn’t flirt,” I said, “and I wasn’t a child. I’d been in different companies on and off for three years at that point.”

“You were experienced, but you were a child. You still are, in some ways, Veda. You were meant to be the Inquisitor, but you shouldn’t have had to be.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” I said. “I made some wonderful friendships. I became a household name. I became so much.”

“And you never got to figure out who you were. You had some time, those few years, you and Bull fighting demons and settling petty disputes. You started to get a feel for who you were. I remember the first time I came back, me, you, Cassandra. Divine Victoria returning for a visit. Bull pouring drinks, Varric dealing a hand for Wicked Grace, Sera drunk and happy hanging on Dagna. I saw you being yourself for a moment. No longer the Inquisitor or the mercenary or a child. Just being Veda, a young woman surrounded by her friends. The teenager you should have been all those years ago. But something always called you away, the mask returned. You give Orlesians a run for their money.”

The sound of Bull’s name caused me to swallow. Skyhold felt emptier. The masses had left, but they weren’t what made our home hollow. I reached up, felt the groove in my horn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have mentioned him.” His voice was sharper, his body stiffened.

“You don’t have to be angry for me.”

“I do, until you’re ready to be angry.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be angry,” I said. “I want to be, some times. I want to scream and curse his name. I want him to suffer. Sometimes I start to pray that he doesn’t return to the Maker’s side.”

“But you never do.” “But I never do.”

“One day you will,” he said. “It won’t have made your love any less real. It won’t have made what you had any less important. But one day you’ll finally be angry. Then, some time after that, the anger, too, will pass.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I have practice mourning.” I walked up to him. He turned towards me and we embraced.

“Thank you, Thom.”

“Always a pleasure, my lady Inquisitor.”

Skyhold felt emptier then. The few of us who remained settled into routines. Lace and I in the war room, Dagna fiddling with her contraptions. Visitors stopped by, Skyhold remained a pilgrimage of sorts. Lace learned how to read me, when I could greet people, when I needed to be left alone. Lace, the kind woman, had become my greatest ally. We sat comfortably in silence. She was one of the few people unafraid to still make me laugh. She told me stories of growing up near Redcliffe, the way winters made spring worth the wait.

Six weeks had gone by. The world had resumed, Thom had been gone for a fortnight. I found it harder to go up and down the many stairs of Skyhold. When sitting in Dorian’s nook, I found myself exhausted, inclined to sleep instead of read. At first, I cursed my arm. Being functionally decommissioned had rendered me lazy. But it’d only been six weeks, it hadn’t been long enough for me to lose years of strength overnight. Lace woke me up early, and we went for a walk along the battlements. The sun began to rise over the mountain tops. “I’m still not used to how beautiful it is here,” she said.

I smiled and looked down at her, “I hope I never get used to it.”

“Do you think we’ll move on, eventually?”

“I think Skyhold will be ours. A headquarters, I guess.”

“Good,” she said, “I’ve really settled into Divine Victoria’s quarters.” We laughed, and the nausea came upon me. I tried to compose myself, hoping it’d pass, but I felt the churning rising from my stomach and I ran to the edge. When I finished being sick, Lace turned to me. “You okay, V? Is it something you ate?”

I wiped my mouth and put a hand out for her waterskin. “I don’t think so. I’ve felt so awful the last couple weeks. Exhausted, now this.” I rinsed my mouth, then drank from the bag.

Lace pursed her lips and looked towards the sky. “What?” I asked.

“Well, V, Veda, Inquisitor.”

“Lace, what?”

“Have you considered,” she started.

“Considered what?” I asked, the curtness of my voice surprising me.

“You may, in fact, be with child?”

“What? No, that couldn’t be,” I said, shaking the thought from my mind.

“You’re tired, you’re sick. Unless the birds are especially lively you have had sex.”

“Not since,” I started and let myself trail off. “Lace, a healer. Discreet. Someone Leliana would trust.”

“Understood.”

It was a long week. The nausea came and went, my breasts began to swell. I closed my eyes to it. When Lace and I attempted to spar, the easiest maneuvers left me tired. I sat in the grand hall, near the fireplace. People came and went, carrying food or supplies, maps or documents. Lace approached me. “The healer is here, V.”

“Let’s go to my room. More privacy,” I said. She nodded.

In my bedroom, I lay on the bed. Lace sat towards my feet. The healer looked up at me and smiled. “I’m going to touch your stomach, is that alright?” I nodded and she ran her hands along my belly.

The time passed slowly, I felt myself breathless and she moved her hands, the magic permeating my body. She moved her fingers precisely, lingering in certain spots. After a few moments, she pulled her hands away and stepped back. “Congratulations,” she said.

I swallowed. “Congratulations?”

“You’re expecting. The baby feels healthy.” She smiled. I looked towards Lace, my eyes wet. I felt my lip quiver.

“Let’s give the Inquisitor a moment. Can you wait downstairs?”

“Of course,” she said. She gave me a soft bow and walked down the stairs. I waited to hear the first door close, then the second.

I sat up, my right arm holding up my body. I pulled my legs into myself and put my head on my knees. “V,” Lace said.

“That bastard.”

“Huh?”

“That bastard!” I screamed. I stood up and paced around. I crossed my arms. “How could he do this? What was he thinking?”

“V…”

“No, Lace. No. We were together for three years and we never had any sort of incident. We were together for three years. We had sex for three years, Lace. We had sex all the fucking time and not once did we have a problem. Not even a scare. Not even once was I afraid I’d get pregnant, afraid I’d carry his child. Not once was it even a concern,” I yelled.

“V…”

“Lace,” I turned towards her. I put my arms by my side, the muscles in my neck tensing.

“It could have been an accident. Everyone slips up,” she said.

“Not. Bull. Not even once,” I yelled again. I started pacing again, then I walked to the balcony. I saw the sky, the birds flying about, the arm had begun to warm, but kept the crispness of the mountains. I looked over the edge and screamed.

“Veda, we have guests,” she said.

“Well, Lace, you better go keep them distracted then.” She took her cue and left the room. I walked over to my bed, the stack of colorful pillows I’d slept on for years. I grabbed one and started ripping at the seams. Its age betrayed it, it tore apart like it barely existed all. I walked to my wardrobe, my robes and armor and the occasional gown. I started pulling everything out, tossing it about, and then pulled the wardrobe over with it. I continued, breaking apart my desk, knocking it over. I kept going, until I cried and hit the window with my fist.

The shattered glass woke me up from the destructive trance. The sounds of cracks and bursting, the shards of light littering the floor. I looked at my hand, full of glass and bleeding. I sat on the floor and cried. Too young for this, too old for this, too alone for this, surrounded by too many people for this. With the sound of the shattering, Lace ran back in. “Oh sweet Maker, V. What are you doing?”

I looked up at her, crying, “I don’t know!” She leaned over me, embracing me.

After a moment, she looked down at me, “I’m going to get the healer, and maybe some water. Gonna need to get all that glass out. A broom too.” I sat on the floor, surrounded by colored glass. The breeze blew in the window, tickling the hair on my neck.

The healer walked in and put a hand on her chest. She walked over to me and extended a hand. “Let’s get you up,” she said. She walked towards me and put her arm around my right forearm. I used her as a balance and found my way to my feet. She used her sleeve to dust off my backside, clearing the debris off me. I sat on the sofa, one of only a few things not overturned in my room.

Lace brought a bowl of water and the healer unpacked her supplies. She took her time, moving each piece of glass out of my hand. She used water to cleanse it, a poultice to soothe it, spiritual allies to heal it properly. As she wrapped my hand in a bandage, she kept her gaze down. “I’m sorry,” she said.

I kept my eyes out the window, staring at the peaks just out of reach. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“No, I do,” she said. “I knew about you and your lover. Your partnership has reached fame of its own. I presumed, due to his passing, this would be a welcome surprise. I hadn’t considered the grief you may be enduring.”

“His passing,” I said, my tone even and calm.

“Yes, his unfortunate loss is known amongst some circles.”

I formed a weak smile. “No one has ever said, ‘he passed,” before. Everyone always refers to it as the betrayal.”

“That doesn’t change its roots. It’s loss, regardless,” she said. She tied the bandage to secure it, and placed her hands on her lap. “It’s still early. I’d say seven or eight weeks, if forced to put a number on it.”

“Seven or eight weeks?” I asked, the words cracking as they left my thoat.

“Yes, my lady. You’ve still got some time to go before the little one arrives. I’d be happy to assist, as necessary, although I’m admittedly not well-versed in Qunari gestation. Do they,” she started, but stopped herself.

“Do they what?”

“Um… well…”

From near the window, Lace perked her head up. “She wants to know if they come out with horns.” For the first time in weeks, I laughed. I let out a laugh deep from my belly. Lace joins me, and before we know it the healer and us are all bent over with such casual glee. My hand drifted to my belly, and my eyes watered again. This time, I swallowed and looked at Lace. With those piercing green eyes I could hear her saying You’re going to be okay.

#dragon age #dragon age adaar #veda adaar #inquisitor x bull #adaar x bull #scout harding #blackwall #thom rainier #divine victoria #iron bull #inquisitor #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor adaar #da #dai #fanfic

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w-h-4-t · 4 years ago

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Oh Sweet Maker, there’s two of them

Basically @mfmoonbear has an OC (an elf mage named Yelisavita Lavellan) and so do I (an Qunari elf mage named Fen’Harel Adaar). Now they’re here together in a story. A n g e r y co-Inquisitor AU here. Rivalry +100.

They get along. Sometimes.

LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!

***

Due to its Andrastian nature, Skyhold was more than just a battle fortress. It was also a tribute to the Maker; the garden was often peaceful as the Chantry mothers swung censures while muttering the Chant of Light. However, Skyhold was also a refuge for all kind of people, including the polytheists of the Dales.

“DIRTHAMEN’S SHADOWY NUTSACK WHAT THE FUCK”

One such example rang through the courtyard as four pairs of feet kicked up dust mid-run. There was a race happening, as usual, between two very competitive people, both dubbed Inquisitor. Yelisavita and Fen’Harel got along well enough at first. Though their time together in Haven was drought with cat fighting they grew to mutually respect each other.

That, however, did nothing to stop their competitive nature.

It all started as a simple ‘race you to the War Room’ which was turning into an all-out mage battle royale. Both Harel and Yel made their way up the steps leading to the Main Hall, shoving each other before Harel caught the small elf in a headlock.

“YOU CHEATING BASTARD!” she screamed, making her face as red as her Valaslin, “LET ME GO!!!”

Harel switched her tactic, looping her arms around Yel before throwing her from the steps, “Make a barrier this time else you’ll get some bad bruises!”

Giggling like an ass, Harel continued up the stairs, hopping over several steps at a time before she felt something cold take hold of her legs. At once, the Qunari elf listed forward before catching herself, attempting to yank her legs from its new icy prison.

“You little fuckin-” Harel started.

“Fucking what? Cheater? I didn’t cheat first, remember?” Yel interjected with a smile as she jogged back up the steps, taking her time before stopping by Harel, “Aw is the Dread Wolf stuck? Do you need help puppy?”

A menacing stare shot from the half-Qunari as her body began shaking. Soon enough, the ice began hissing as little wisps of flames licked out from Harel’s skin, eating away the ice.

“I’m a mage too, you fuck,” Harel growled

Yel simply smiled, coating her hand in a slick sheet of ice before reaching up to pat the angry co-Inquisitor’s cheek, “Uh-huh, I see that. Have fun with that ice, it’s extra reinforced for shitheads like you.”

Flinching at the cold touch, Harel pulled back before focusing to burn the ice away; Yel jogged up the stairs, only turning around for one second to mouth I win.

Oh that fucking does it.

Summoning every drop of magic in her bones, Harel blasted the ice chunks away, scaring quite a few people and earning a far away cheer from someone in particular.

“BEAT HER ASS!!!!” Sera yelled from the tavern rooftop, “SORRY YEL BUT I’M ROOTIN’ FER THE TALL ONE!!!”

Hearing the aftermath, Yel turned around slowly, green eyes shining with surprise. Harel shook the chips of ice from her feet before giving her signature wide-eyed, wide grin.

“You heard her,” Harel said as she began clomping up the stairs, “I’m gonna beat YOUR ASSSSSSSS!!!!”

Now, Yelisavita was a powerful and highly dangerous mage. She survived a great deal of trauma and death. Crawling out of Haven’s ruins, she proved she was indeed walking in the Maker’s Light despite being an Alienage elf.

In that moment, however, Yel was a fennec in the eyes of a hyena. One would think she’d be careful now that she’d angered the other mage.

“Says the idiot caught in a simple ice spell.” Yel antagonized before leaping away, breaking into a sprint.

Summoning another bout of magic, Harel brought forth ice, Faade Stepping in a blue blur past the stairs and into the Main Hall. Unfortunately for Harel’s dumbass, Yel had caught on, Fade Stepping in tandem past her.

Varric had to hold down his many Merchant’ Guild letters as the two flew past, his hands gripping the many pages tightly, “HEY! Can’t a dwarf do some paper mache in peace?”

Back to shoving each other, Harel and Yel scrapped with Yel’s hands around Harel’s horns and Harel’s own trying to push the elf away.

“NO!” they shouted together at Varric, on the same page for once.

The black bones of Harel’s horns began to smoke as Yel funnelled fire into her hands.

‘YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Harel said before finally pushing her off, “Did you just try to burn off my fucking horns??!!!”

Harel in turn pushed the office doors open, noticing the absence at the desk before breaking into a sprint. Kicking in the office exit, Harel opened the door just in time to see Yel cracking the War Room entry open.

Using the opportunity, Yel took off once more, diving through the Ambassador’s office towards the War Room.

“GET BACK HERE!!!!”

Instead of saying some crude quip, Harel continued running, pulling magic from her body once more to Fade Step, meeting Yel halfway as she flew forward in a blue streak. The Alienage elf turned back at the last second, her green eyes once again wide in surprise as Harel leapt forward, grabbing Yel and sending them both tumbling through the door. They rolled, pulling each other’s hair and scrabbling like wet cats before someone cleared their throat.

“Good day, Inquisitors,” Cullen said, raising his voice to cut off the tail end of their argument, “I see everyone is in high spirits.”

For a moment, the two stayed the way they were with Yel’s hands around Harel’s throat and Harel’s hand pushing Yel’s face back.

Releasing her grip, Yel pushed Harel’s face back, shoving her into the ground before getting up. She gave a great smile as she dusted herself off, moving to take her place at the War Table.

“Good day, Commander,” she said with a smile, a light blush painting pink shades around her Valaslin.

Cullen smiled back, gripping the pommel of his sword before looking away, also blushing just a bit.

“FUCKIN-” Harel shouted as she moved off the ground, interrupting what was supposed to be a lovely moment, “I will put my foot so far up your a-”

Another throat cleared, this time, from the very end of the War Table.

“Harel,” Josephine assuaged, “I will kindly ask that you show a modicum of decorum. Thank you.”

Scrunching up her face, Harel looked between Yel and Josephine, at first settling on the elf’s smug grin before staring at the lovely Antivan.

“Lucky little fuck,” Harel muttered as she took her place next to Yel, “Damn fuckin lucky that Josie’s here or else I’d-”

“You’d what? Cry at me, wolf?” Yel replied, her smug grin only growing wider.

And once again, the flames of rivalry grew, fanning into an inferno as static crackled in Harel’s palms and fire spun around Yel’s body.

“YOU ARE NOT CHILDREN” Leliana shouted, clapping her hands, her eyes glistening like vicious sapphires, “So for Andraste’s sake, stop fighting like infants! Behave yourself!”

Yel and Harel differed in many ways but there was one thing they agreed on. Leliana was scary and when that Orlesian had enough of their shit, it was time to stand straight, shut up and do their job.

“E-emerald Graves,” Harel stuttered, looking at Yel, “Thinking we could go to the Graves to do...do that thing…”

Yel nodded before staring at the map, trying her best not to look up at Leliana, “We should go to the Hissing Waste’s actually but sure….sure….The Graves sounds...important too.”

At the opposite end of the table, Josephine sidled up to Cullen, finishing the last flourish of her letter before whispering, “ Our paramours continue to be interesting, do they not?” she dips the quill in ink, writing another line, “However, it would be preferable if they did not fight so much. It is indeed troubling for our reputation when they scrap in the public eye.”

Cullen sighs as he looks at Yel, watching her brush back a strand of strawberry blonde hair before pushing a map marker away from Harel’s hand, “ They’re not so bad, Ambassador. My sisters and I fought in a similar way, but because we hated each other. I think they’ll be fine.”

Turning away from her clipboard, Josephine looked at Harel who continued trying to pick up the map marker, only to have it shoved away, “Perhaps you are correct. Maybe they are growing to be friends.”

“IF YOU PUSH THAT MARKER ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR ON ANDRUIL’S SWEATY TIT’S I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!!”

“Oh, you want to lose again, pup? Don’t go crying to your prissy little bedbuddy -I mean no disrespect Ambassador- ” Yel stops for a moment, looking at Josephine before turning to Harel once more, “when I tan your hide faster than you can say Mythal.”

“Inquisitor-” Cullen starts before Harel shoots a glare at him.

“Don’t even try it, Curly!”

“DON’T TALK TO HIM LIKE THAT!” Yel shouts back, giving the taller half-elf a shove.

And once more, a fight broke out in the War Room as all three Advisors watched the pair roll around on the floor. One would say they were akin to a wolf and a lioness fighting when in fact they were just two aggressive nugs duking it out.

Today was just one of those days where they didn’t get along more than usual. Hopefully, soon they’d be back to some kind of mutual idiocy with Yel on Harel’s shoulders, steering the half-Qunari around by the horns before they’d both fall down some hill.

Josephine and Cullen, though different in many aspects both thought the same thing as they watched their other halves fight.

Maker help me and my competitive girlfriend.

#Harel: *breathes* Yel: (+999 Rivalry)#birds of a feather fight forever #dragon age ocs #Yelisavita Lavellan #Fen'Harel Adaar #dragon age fic #dragon ag drabble #dai fanfic #da:i fanfic #mage inquisitor #inquisitors #Qunari elf #elf inquisitor #qunari inquisitor

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

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Felassan/f!Lavellan: She Who Dances With Fire

Chapter 4 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up on AO3!

In which there is some sad backstory reveal, and Felassan is a brat. ❤

~6490 words; read on AO3 instead.

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

Late the next morning, Tamaris opened her bedroom door to the smell of bacon.

Her stomach growled in response, and she wandered downstairs to find Felassan in the main room. He was lounging on a pile of silk cushions on the plush angora carpet in front of the fire, and there was an array of breakfast foods on the dining table: some lightly charred toast, half of a perfect sunny-yellow omelette, and a few rashers of bacon, along with a beautifully presented plate of fruit, half of which had been eaten.

“Is this for me?” she asked in surprise.

“Unless you’re harbouring another ancient elven refugee in your house that I’m unaware of, yes,” he said. “It’s for you.”

A quip first thing in the morning. Of course, she thought ruefully. She gave him an exasperated look, and he smirked. “Enjoy,” he said.

She sat at the table and glanced at him once more, but he wasn’t paying attention to her; he was reading a dog-eared book, and Tamaris raised her eyebrows as she recognized it: it was a copy of This Shit Is Weird.

She pulled the omelette closer. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“I took it from your pack last night,” he said without looking up. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “You went through my pack?” she demanded.

“You said to make myself at home,” he replied.

“What’s next, then?” she said archly. “Are you going to be going through my underwear? Or did you pick your favourites out of my pack already?”

“I resisted going that far,” he said. Then he smiled slyly at her. “Besides, I prefer to go without undergarments.”

That fucking shit-eating smirk… Tamaris couldn’t laugh. She couldn’t. She didn’t dare give him the satisfaction. She took a big bite of toast to stop herself from smiling. “Is that a custom from ancient Elvhenan?” she said snarkily. “No underwear?”

“From what I’ve heard, you should know the answer to that question already,” he replied.

This was the third or fourth time he’d alluded to her past relationship with Solas. All of a sudden, a burst of anger roiled in her chest.

She lowered her fork and turned on her chair to face him fully. “You want to know about me and Solas?” she said in a hard voice. “Fine. Solas and I were lovers, all right? But he broke up with me, and then he left without explaining why, and then he showed up two years later to tell me that — surprise! — he was the fucking Dread Wolf all along and he just decided not to tell me. And oh, by the way, he was planning to destroy the world all along.” She broke off and took a deep breath to try and calm her temper, then glared at Felassan. “Have you heard enough, or are you going to keep asking me about my fucking sex life?”

He didn’t reply right away. His face was pleasant and calm despite the anger she’d thrown at him, and through her residual rage, her gut twisted; there was something about his expression that actually reminded her of Solas.

No, not just of Solas; of Abelas, too, that Sentinel from the Well of Sorrows. It was like the calm in Felassan’s face was born not from an even temper, but from some deeper understanding of things that Tamaris couldn’t fathom – some deeper understanding that led to an even deeper sense of melancholy.

Then he smiled, and the smile chased away the ineffable world-weariness in his face. “Well, that’s disappointing,” he said. “Now you’ve ruined the end of this book for me.” He closed the book and put it down, then settled back on the silk cushions and folded his arms behind his head.

Tamaris stared at him for a moment longer, then finally returned to her omelette. They were both silent for a time, Tamaris eating her breakfast while Felassan lounged in front of the fire. He looked happy enough, with his eyes closed and his bare foot waving idly as though to a tune that Tamaris couldn’t hear. By the time she’d finished eating the surprisingly delicious omelette and the bacon, however, her hunger was gone, replaced by guilt.

She turned around to face him once more. “You can keep that book if you want.”

He lazily cracked open one eye. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

She shrugged. “I can always get another copy from Varric. Which reminds me…” She trailed off. She was about to say she was planning to go visit him at the Viscount’s Keep, but Felassan’s presence changed things. Tamaris didn’t want to leave Felassan alone in case his emotions and his magic got the better of him, but she also couldn’t very well bring Solas’s supposed-to-be-dead ex-agent out in public, either.

“Is something wrong?” Felassan asked.

“Ye– well, not exactly,” she said. “I was going to go visit Varric at his office today, but I just realized I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to leave you on your own in case you do something dangerous by accident,” she said bluntly.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. A volatile apostate wandering the city is less than ideal.”

She gave him an odd look. “We don’t really use the word ‘apostate’ anymore. The College of Enchanters are encouraging people to say ‘free mages’ now instead of ‘apostates’.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “College of Enchanters. Interesting. And how do the Circle mages feel about the implication that they are not free? Assuming the Circles were reinstated.”

Tamaris frowned, even more bemused by this. How did he not know the Chantry Circles had been reinstated? It had been a few years now. “They… yes, they were, unfortunately,” she said. “And to answer your question: they, uh, don’t love it. It’s a source of constant debate from what I’ve heard, but I’m not really looped into the latest Chantry bullshit at the moment.”

“Hm,” Felassan murmured. Then he shrugged and folded his hands over his abdomen. “Well, this is a conundrum,” he said brightly. “If you can’t go anywhere and I can’t go anywhere, it appears that we’re confined to each other’s company.”

“Looks that way,” Tamaris said wryly. “Good thing this house has a big library.”

He sighed with mock-sadness. “And here I imagined that we’d pass the time exchanging tales around the fireside. Perhaps with shadow puppets to illustrate.”

She narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like he was making another dig at her Dalish background. “Are you going to ask me dance naked in the moonlight while singing an ode to Ghilan’nain and the halla, too?” she said sarcastically.

He shot her a sharp look, then grinned roguishly. “Dance naked in the moonlight? That’s a Dalish custom I’d be agreeable to witnessing firsthand.”

“Hilarious,” she said flatly. “If anyone here should be telling stories, it’s you. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

He raised his eyebrows, and she winced at how callous she sounded. “Sorry,” she said. “I… fuck, that was rude. Actually, I…” She ran a hand through her curly hair. “Listen, I should thank you for even coming here. It’s a long way from the Hunterhorns, especially with you being all, um, fucked up still after being Tranquil.” She broke off and rubbed her mouth, then gave him a frank look. “I’m bad at apologizing. And at saying thank you. But I hope you can accept this as both.”

He shrugged. “I might. If you tell me a tale.”

She made a face. “I’m not really the storytelling kind.”

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Weaving tales is a lost art, if you ask me.” He let out another musical little sigh. “Well, if you won’t tell me a tale, then you should tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?” she said a little suspiciously. “You can read about me in that book.” She jerked her chin at This Shit Is Weird.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “This book. A story in the purest sense of the word.” He picked up the novel and looked askance at her. “How accurate is this?”

“It’s… got the broad strokes,” she hedged.

Felassan grinned, and Tamaris rolled her eyes. “Look, it wasn’t meant to be non-fiction. It’s completely based off of real events and people, and the big things are mostly accurate. But if Varric wrote everything exactly like it was, nobody would read it. It would be too…” She trailed off. Too what? Too implausible? Too boring? Too fucking awful?

Felassan, meanwhile, was still smiling. “Adjusting events to achieve a particular goal… your friend Varric really is a true storyteller. Was he a spy for your Inquisition?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? she thought snarkily, but she didn’t say it. At the very least, it would be unnecessarily rude. Furthermore, there was no reason not to answer his question. It wasn’t like he was working for Solas anymore.

“No, he wasn’t,” she said. “But he does manage a spy network here in Kirkwall, with ties far beyond the Free Marches.”

Felassan’s smile broadened. “Interesting. I would have liked to meet him.”

“You will,” she said. “He’ll come over sooner or later if I don’t show up at his office.”

“Then I’ll be honoured by the visit,” Felassan said with a little bow of his head. Somehow he managed to make the gesture look elegant even from his lazy lounging position on the floor.

Tamaris huffed and selected a slice of ripe peach from the fruit plate. She ate quietly for a little while longer, but with every passing tick of the clock on the mantle, she only became more aware of Felassan’s silent attention.

She shot him a flat look, and he raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Your avoidance is only making me more curious, you know,” he said.

“And your insistence is only making me want to throw a grape at your head,” she retorted.

“Please do,” Felassan said brightly. “I always welcome food being thrown at me.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. Then, on a whim, she plucked a grape from the fruit plate and tossed it at his face.

To her surprise, he actually caught the grape in his mouth. She blinked in surprise, and he shot her a grin as he chewed it. “Does this mean you’ll talk now?” he said.

She tsked at him and popped a grape in her own mouth, and Felassan leisurely shifted onto his side to face her. “Back in Arlathan, we used to say that the most bountiful catch lies in the quietest pools, for their depths are unplumbed.”

She scoffed. “That’s what you used to say, huh?”

“It is,” he said. “And you shouldn’t scoff at me. It’s a compliment.”

She gave him a hard look. “You don’t know that I have unplumbed depths. Maybe I’m just a shallow angry bitch.”

He snickered at this. “A truly shallow person wouldn’t consider the possibility that they are shallow.”

She pursed her lips, and Felassan tilted his head pleadingly. “Come now, Tamaris. It is a small thing I ask – a little information about my hostess. Would you really begrudge a man who’s been living in a cave for years?”

A chill ran down her spine. “You were living in a cave all this time?” she blurted.

“No,” he said. An annoying grin lit his handsome face. “But that got your attention, didn’t it?”

She pursed her lips at his irreverence, then frowned. “Where were you for the past few years, then?” she said. She pulled a little face. “I… damn, I should have asked yesterday, I’m sorry.”

“If I tell you this, will you tell me something about yourself?” he said.

She frowned and toyed with the fruit plate, and Felassan spoke again in a cajoling tone. “A story for a story. It is a fair trade.”

She sighed. “Fuck’s sake. Fine. You first, though. Where were you for the past few years?”

“In no one place, as it happens,” he said. He turned into his back once more and nestled comfortably into the silk cushions. “When I was first… struck low, shall we say, I was in a remote part of the Planacene Forest. I remained there alone for some time. I was near death when I was found by a Dalish hunter.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Shit,” she said. “How long was that?”

“I can’t be certain,” he said. “Several days, I’m sure. The hunter took me back to his clan, and they restored me from the brink of death.”

She frowned slightly at this. If he’d been saved by a Dalish clan, why did he seem to have so much disdain for them?

“The Dalish that took you in,” she said carefully. “Were they… weren’t they kind to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Tamaris frowned more deeply. How could he not know if they'd been kind?

He was still speaking. “They gave me food and water and clean clothes. They healed my wounds and gave me medicine for pain. I believe they were…” He paused and tilted his head thoughtfully. “‘Unnerved’ would be the best word for it.”

“Yes, they would have been,” Tamaris said quietly. “They’d probably never met a Tranquil before.” Tamaris certainly hadn’t met any Tranquil before she’d fallen in with the Inquisition, and she still remembered the first time she’d met a Tranquil at Haven.

She still remembered excusing herself as politely as she could, then stumbling into the first empty room she could find and vomiting violently onto the carpet.

A sudden memory of Marin’s haunted green eyes rose in her mind. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to Felassan. “Were the Dalish afraid of you?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said again.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she asked.

“I mean that I don’t know if they were kind or cruel or afraid. All I can tell you is what happened,” he replied. “They didn’t kill me, and they gave me the means to stay alive. If you call that kindness, then that is what they showed me.”

Tamaris recoiled slightly; there was an edge to his voice now that she hadn’t heard before. “All right,” she said cautiously.. “And… you mentioned that you didn’t stay in one place. I assume you left the Planacene Forest with the clan?”

“Yes,” he said. “The clan left the forest and moved along the fringes of the Free Marches. Their Keeper was hoping to encounter another clan to trade with.”

Tamaris studied him worriedly as he spoke. His voice was becoming flat, and it was a clear departure from his usual expressive tone.

“And did they find another clan?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “They ran afoul of some rogue Templars. Deserters from Kirkwall who were seeking lyrium.”

Her heart seized. “Oh. Oh fuck.”

He nodded a brief acknowledgement. “They approached the clan and demanded lyrium. There was an altercation with deaths on both sides, but the clan had no lyrium to give.”

Fucking Templars, she thought angrily. “Of course they didn’t have fucking lyrium,” she gritted out. “Most clans don’t really use it.”

Felassan nodded, and Tamaris noted bemusedly that his expression was as neutral now as his tone. “The Templars appeared to be desperate,” he said. “They looted some weapons and food from the clan, and they took me with them.”

“The Templars took you?” she asked. “Why?”

“One of the Templars had a contact who knew someone in the Carta,” he replied.

“The Carta?” she said with growing confusion.

“Yes,” Felassan said. “The Templars traded me to the Carta in exchange for lyrium.”

His voice was completely emotionless now. With a chill, Tamaris realized why his narrative style seemed so strange: he was recounting these events as he would have remembered them as a Tranquil — as a series of objective, factual events with no emotional investment.

For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Then she rose from her chair and sat beside him on the rug.

He shot her a look of surprise, but she gently pressed on with the conversation. “How long were you with the Templars for?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “A month. Maybe two.” He paused for a moment, and when Tamaris didn’t speak either, he shot her a tiny smile — a hint of his usual humour.

“You aren’t going to ask if the Templars were kind to me?” he said. “Or do you know the answer to that already?”

“I can guess,” Tamaris said, very quietly.

His wry smile faded, and he looked away from her toward the fire. “They gave me enough food and water to stay alive. And they beat me.”

Her stomach writhed, even though his words came as no shock. She shifted a little closer to him, and he shot her another look of surprise.

She steadily met his wide violet eyes. “I’m sorry for what they did to you,” she said.

He stared at her for a moment, then looked away once more. “Don’t be. I didn’t feel it. I felt the pain, but I did not feel the rest.”

She swallowed hard. Was that how it was for all Tranquil? Feeling physical pain but no other kinds of pain?

Again, her thoughts snapped to Marin — his joyful green eyes, green just like hers. The way he used to hug her, like he was going to lift her right off the ground. The way he’d screamed when the Templars dragged him away.

She gruffly cleared her throat. “What happened next?” she murmured.

“The Carta put me to work,” Felassan said. “They thought I could work with their lyrium and make enchantments for them, which they could sell at a high price. But I have never had a particular facility with crafting. Then they discovered that I’m a dab hand at potion-making.” He smirked. “Ironic, since I only really began making potions when I woke up in your time.”

Tamaris nodded an acknowledgement, and he went on. “I made potions of various kinds for the Carta. Poisons, mostly, but other things too. I did this for years until I was bought by another dwarf. For an immense sum, or so I understand.” He gave her a tiny smile. “Someone thought I was valuable, it seemed.”

She frowned. “Who? Who bought you?”

“I didn’t know right away,” he said. “In fact, I didn’t find out who it was until I arrived at your Seeker’s sanctuary in the Hunterhorn Mountains.”

She straightened with a jolt of understanding. “It was Bianca Davri,” she said. Varric had mentioned to her yesterday that Felassan’s recovery had been thanks to a tip from Bianca.

Felassan nodded. “Yes. I spent a day at the sanctuary, and Cassandra and her people turned me back into this.” He gestured playfully at himself.

Tamaris nodded slowly. Being recovered first by the Dalish, then taken and abused by Templars, then kept as a slave by the Carta before finally being restored to himself… Her chest was hurting from the knowledge of what he’d gone through. And once again, she was stunned that he was able to maintain such a lighthearted attitude most of the time.

“Are you glad to be back to yourself?” she asked.

He looked at her sharply, and her belly did a little flip; his gaze was piercing. Then he smiled slowly. “You know, you are the only one who has asked me that.”

Her heart twisted. The fact that he hadn’t answered right away was quite telling. She waited patiently for him to speak.

He chuckled and ran a hand over his neatly bound hair. “I feel as though I am two people merged into one,” he said. “One moment I’m moving through the motions of life: cooking an omelette and enjoying the warmth of a fire and a book I stole from a pretty woman’s pack. The next moment, I’m remembering that I lived in a Carta hideout outside of Wildervale for years with almost no news of what was happening outside, and I didn’t care that I knew nothing. The memories are mine, but they’re…” He trailed off and shook his head slightly.

“Like a dream?” Tamaris supplied.

“No,” he said forcefully, to her surprise. “Not at all like a dream.” He looked at her once more, and his face was utterly serious. “I once walked in dreams with steps as certain as those you use to cross the rooftops. These memories, these — the memories of being Tranquil, they’re… they may as well be someone else’s thoughts forced into my head.” Then his face creased into an unexpected grin. “I spent almost five years as a shell. I was—” He interrupted himself with a snort of laughter. “I was beaten and kept indoors for weeks on end sometimes, and I didn’t care.” He snickered and shook his head, then grinned at her. “Did you know that most people don’t speak to Tranquil? They just don’t bother to speak to us. We might as well be furniture for all the attention they give us.” He laughed again, and Tamaris’s heart squeezed painfully at the hysterical edge to his laughter.

He suddenly reached under one of the silk cushions and brought out a short rod of silvery-white wood — the same piece of wood he’d been twirling in his fingers the night before. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

She examined the rod. “It’s ironwood,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s all this is.”

She eyed him warily. “I… don’t get it.”

He smiled and ran his thumb over the twisted length of wood. “It’s supposed to be a staff.”

She frowned in bemusement at the rod. It was only about the length of her foot. “But it’s so short.”

He tutted playfully. “Tamaris, Tamaris. It’s not the size of the staff; it’s how you use it.”

His tone was cheeky, and she shot him a chiding look. He chuckled and stroked the piece of wood. “More importantly, I was once able to manipulate the dimensions of a staff like this until it was the length of a normal staff.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of a staff like that.”

“Of course you haven’t,” he said pleasantly. “I made it with my own two hands and my own magic.” His smile widened, and he chuckled. “I made it with my own magic.”

Suddenly she understood. “You can’t make another staff yet, can you?” she said softly.

He shook his head slowly. “No, I can’t. I can’t… I have little control over my magic. It’s like waking up again in this world for the first time, but far worse. I was able to adjust to how weak the flow of magic is with the Veil in place, but the problem now isn’t the Veil per se.” He smiled at her, and his eyes were bright.

“The problem is me,” he said. “If I try to do a single spell, either nothing happens, or I could blow up your entire lovely gilded house. I’m—” He broke off and looked away from her, but not before she saw his face crumpling with distress.

She slowly shuffled closer to him. “Felassan, look at me.”

He shook his head tightly. His hands were still gripping the ironwood, which was starting to smoke faintly.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Don’t destroy that wood. You’ll need it to make a new staff.”

He spun toward her suddenly, and his face was twisted with rage. “Did you not hear me?” he yelled. “I can’t make a new staff. I can’t do anything that I should be able to do!”

She took a deep breath to calm her suddenly thrumming heart, then calmly held out her hand. “Can I hold on to it?”

His grip tightened for a moment, but Tamaris steadily held out her hand. Then Felassan thrust the rod at her. “Take it,” he bit off. “For all the—” He broke off with a sudden sob. “—for all the good it does me.”

She took the slightly-singed piece of ironwood and tucked it into the back of her waistband. “I’ll keep it safe for when you’re ready.”

“I may never—” Another sob choked him, and he covered his mouth for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Tamaris ignored his laughter. “You don’t know that you’ll never get better,” she said.

“You don’t know that I will!” he shouted. “None of the other Tranquil at your Seeker’s precious sanctuary could do more than the simplest spells, and some of them had been cured for months before I was!”

Tears were trickling down his face now, and his eyes were snapping with rage — and with a flicker of lightning. She took another deep breath to quash her apprehension. “Can I touch you?” she asked.

He gave her a sharp look, and she swallowed hard; his eyes were incandescent with energy and magic. Then he barked out a sudden laugh. “This is an odd time for you to proposition me, but be my guest.”

She ignored his inappropriate innuendo and took one of his hands in hers. “You have no reason to think you can’t recover,” she told him. “Just take it one day at a time.”

Felassan laughed bitterly and wiped his face, but Tamaris ignored his skepticism and squeezed his hand. “It’s one day at a time,” she insisted. “Don’t beat yourself up, all right?”

He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand in turn, and Tamaris studied the dampness of his long dark eyelashes as she waited for him to respond. When he finally opened his eyes, they were no longer bright with magic.

He gave her a sardonic smile. “And what will you be doing while I’m on this perilous path to recovery? Are you going to watch over me until I am fit to leave the house?”

She shrugged and released his hand. “Honestly, why not? I’m not doing anything else.”

He gave her an appraising look. “There’s no pressure for you to take an active role in the war against Fen’Harel?”

“Not yet, thank fuck,” she said bluntly. “I think they all feel sorry for me still after what happened when I saw him last.” Her companions’ pity would usually have grated at her nerves, but if it meant they would leave her alone to lick her wounds for a while, she wasn’t going to complain.

“Mm,” Felassan murmured. “Yes, finding out that everything you thought you knew was wrong can be somewhat jarring. Not to mention losing an arm.” He eyed her mechanical left arm.

She grunted and stretched her legs out on the rug. “Don’t forget about the ‘learning that your ex-lover is the villain in every childhood story you ever heard’ part. And also that he wasn’t really a villain. Not in your time, at least.”

Felassan gasped playfully. “Ex-lover, you say? Are you telling me about your sex life after all? My ears are burning.”

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up, you brat.”

He laughed, and Tamaris was pleased to note that his laugh was back to its usual rolling lilt. “I’ll happily do so, since it’s your turn now to share something about yourself.”

She sighed and ran her metal hand through her hair. “Fine, fair’s fair. What do you want to know?”

“What I’d like to know is how you’re so calm under fire. Literally,” he said. He held up his hands, which were no longer smoking. “Most people would back away from an uncontrolled mage. You move closer. It’s pretty odd behaviour for anyone who doesn’t have a death wish.”

She clenched her jaw. Of course he had to ask the most personal possible question, even if he didn’t realize how personal it was.

She stood up and returned to her seat at the dining table. “I had an older brother, Marin. He was… unwell. I was good at calming him down.”

There was a brief silence, which Felassan eventually broke. “‘Had’?” he said.

She exhaled slowly. “He died some time ago,” she said.

“Ir abelas,” Felassan said softly.

Her throat swelled, and she swallowed hard and nodded. “Ma serannas.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Felassan spoke again. “Was it recent?”

“Not… really,” she said with difficulty. “Well, some of it was.”

He gave her a quizzical look, and she ran her fingers through her hair. “I was seventeen when Marin first started getting ill. He was twenty-one. The worst part was that he was our clan’s First, so when he started getting… erratic, everyone knew something was wrong.”

“What was wrong?” Felassan asked.

“He had… bizarre thoughts,” she said. “Delusions. It came and went, but when it was really bad, he spoke to people who weren’t there. Some of our clan thought he was possessed by a demon, but he wasn’t. He was just sick.”

“You seem very confident that he wasn’t possessed,” Felassan said.

“I am confident,” she said firmly. “He wasn’t possessed, and he wasn’t crazy. He was sick. I said this to our healers, but it was… it was hard to convince them. And there was only so much they could do — potions to keep him calm when he was really… upset.” She folded her legs and tapped her metal fingers on the table. “I was the one who could keep him calm. I was the one who was able to bring him back to reality when he was starting to get lost in his own thoughts. But he wasn’t fucking possessed.”

Felassan didn’t reply. When Tamaris met his eye, it was to find him studying her in a very piercing way. She scowled at him, but before she could speak, his face suddenly cleared, as though he’d found the solution to a riddle.

“You have some magical talent, don’t you?” he asked.

Her heart skipped a beat. How had he figured that out? It wasn’t something she advertised. Not even all of her closest companions in the Inquisition knew. “Hardly any,” she hedged.

“But you do have some,” he insisted.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Just a little bit.”

He smiled. “You can communicate with spirits.”

Tamaris stared at him, and he chuckled and shook his head. “That’s it, isn’t it? You knew your brother was not possessed because you could see that he wasn’t.”

She swallowed hard. “How did you…?”

“It’s logical,” he said. “It makes sense.” He laughed again and patted his knees in amusement. “It makes a great deal of sense, in fact.”

She studied him suspiciously; he was clearly laughing at some kind of private joke. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ve always had a bit of a knack for talking to spirits. But most of my clan didn’t… they don’t know.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Because I would have been sent to a different clan if they found out,” she said. “We already had three mages, and my parents didn’t want to send me away.”

Felassan nodded slowly. “Ah, yes. Those wonderful Dalish customs.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Those customs are better than fucking Chantry Circles, at least. And I can tell you that with certainty because that’s where Marin ended up. The clan that took care of you wasn’t the only one that ran afoul of fucking Templars.”

His playful expression faded instantly to seriousness. “Tell me.”

Tamaris scowled at the mostly-empty plate of fruit. “We were trading with some humans near Markham. Marin was having a bad time of it. He… a human got injured, and they called the Templars. The Templars came before we could leave, and they said either we had to hand Marin over, or they would kill my entire clan.”

Felassan’s expression softened with sympathy. “Oh, Tamaris.”

She clenched her jaw and idly flicked the fruit plate. “Marin went with the Templars. They took him to the Circle Tower at Kinloch Hold. We never—” She broke off abruptly; her eyes were burning.

She lifted her gaze to the hideous chandelier overhead. A moment later, Felassan was silently settling into the chair opposite her.

She refused to look at him. She breathed in slowly through her nose before speaking again. “We didn’t hear what happened to him after that. The Chantry doesn’t really give a fuck about passing news on to Dalish clans about their stolen family members. When I became the Inquisitor, I… I asked our commander what happened to Marin, since he used to be stationed at Kinloch Hold.”

“Your brother was made Tranquil,” Felassan said.

His voice was very soft. Tamaris pressed her lips together hard before speaking. “Yes,” she gritted. “And then he was killed. Caught in the crossfire during some kind of blood magic conspiracy that the Hero of Ferelden broke up.”

“I remember,” Felassan said quietly.

Tamaris swallowed the lump in her throat, then shrugged and put a grape in her mouth even though she wasn’t at all hungry. “So that’s it,” she said, and she bit down viciously on the fruit. “That’s why I’m good at calming people down. To some degree, at least. Practice makes perfect.”

Felassan tapped her knee. “Avise alas’nirelan.”

She paused with another grape halfway to her mouth. “Fire… what?”

“Avise alas’nirelan,” he repeated. “It means ‘she who dances with fire.’”

She huffed. “Or maybe I have a death wish, like you said.”

“No, you don’t,” he said.

She bristled at how confident he sounded. “You don’t know me.”

“Well, given that we’ll be here together for some time, I will soon enough,” he replied.

His tone was irreverent once more, but his face was serious and calm. All of a sudden, she wanted to be alone.

She stood up. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” she said, and she headed for the stairs.

“I’ll be here,” he called after her. “Washing the dishes and other charming domestic things.”

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and winced. “Fuck. I forgot to…” She gestured awkwardly at the table. “Thank you for breakfast. This was really good. That omelette was perfect.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said with a gracious nod. “Go on. Rest your pretty head.”

She lifted an eyebrow. This was the second time he’d called her pretty, and she couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or if he was joking around.

She eyed him suspiciously, but he was already collecting the dishes. She shrugged it off and headed to her bedroom, then closed the door and sat on the bed.

For a while, she just sat at the edge of the bed staring vacantly at nothing in particular. It had been years now since she’d spoken of Marin to anyone. Most of her closest companions in the Inquisition knew the basics of what had happened, but only four people knew the story in detail: Cole, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas.

Cole knew because Cole knew everything. Varric knew because of his uncanny knack for getting even the most taciturn grumps to talk, including Tamaris herself. Cassandra knew because of the heart-to-heart she and Tamaris had had one night on the Storm Coast, and Tamaris still remembered that night as the moment that she and Cassandra had finally shifted from mutual suspicion to cautious friends. And Solas knew because… because Tamaris had trusted him.

She’d trusted him. Like a fucking idiot, she’d trusted him, and he’d reciprocated that trust with empty words of love and lies of omission.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away impatiently, but now that she was alone, it was like her eyes had decided to betray her; she was crying in earnest now, and she couldn’t tell what exactly was making her cry, because there were so many miserable thoughts in her head. There was Marin, with his boyish grin and his haunted green eyes and his screams for Tamaris and their parents to let him stay. There was Solas, with his shiny armour and his tragic face telling her too many belated truths and failing to convince her that he loved her. There was the qunari invasion in the north and the missing Grey Wardens and Varric’s worried little smile as he’d watched drinking yesterday.

And there was Felassan. Felassan, who had known Solas back when they both were young. Felassan, who had sacrificed himself to give Briala a chance to make things better for their people.

Felassan, who didn’t know yet that Solas had taken the eluvians back from Briala.

She closed her eyes, and another rivulet of tears ran down her face. Fuck, she thought. She’d honestly meant to tell him yesterday, but then she’d needed to calm him down, and she’d completely forgotten.

She sighed and flopped onto her back, and something hard pressed into her spine: Felassan’s slightly singed ironwood rod, which she’d tucked into the back of her trousers for safekeeping. She pulled the rod out and placed it gently on her bedside table, and her eyes fell on the bottle of rum that sat there.

There was enough left inside of it for maybe one more night of oblivion, and then she’d be out, having purposely not bought more in the market yesterday.

She sniffled and stared morosely at the bottle for some time while the tears continued to leak out of her eyes. She could always ask Varric to bring her some more, but she could imagine his worried face only too clearly if she asked for more rum, and the thought only made her feel worse.

She sat up and grabbed the bottle of rum. She pulled out the cork and emptied the bottle with four big gulps, then replaced the bottle on the table and settled onto her side once more.

She closed her eyes and waited for the booze to make its way through her blood. She’d been meaning to stop drinking for some time now, ever since Bull had stopped offering her maraas-lok when they were sitting around the fire at night. This was as good a time as any. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do but keep an eye on Felassan.

The minutes ticked by slowly, and her miserable thoughts gradually dulled to a tolerable feeling of melancholy. Just as she was falling asleep, a hazy image of a face drifted across her mind.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Solas. Even more surprisingly given the topic of the morning, it wasn’t Marin either.

It was Felassan. Tamaris’s sluggish mind conjured a stray thought of Felassan’s wry and sympathetic smile, and then she faded into the blissful blackness of sleep.

#felassan #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #save felassan #GONNA USE THIS TAG NOW #NOW THAT I SAW OTHERS USING IT LOL #pikapeppa writes

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jacklyn-flynn · 4 years ago

Photo

For all of you who are eagerly awaiting this update…I am in awe. Your patience is incredible and I very much love you for it! I continually hope to deliver content that is worthy of your loyalty.

For all of you who have been asking “what even is Jasoom?!”….here you go. Be careful what you wish for. I cried writing it so consider yourself warned. Buckle the fuck up for this roller coaster.

Link to Chapter 8.

Link to the beginning of the Space Trash story.

Teaser below the cut. Comments, thoughts and GIFs of your reaction to Jasoom’s story are much appreciated.

Oh, just as a note: I know this seems a little out of character for Cass and it is. On purpose.

He knew that he was dying. Yet, all of the fear he felt wasn’t for himself. He didn’t know what sort of creature he heard from the vent by his cage. It sounded young to him somehow. When it spoke to itself in the long hours, the voice was high and bright. He could hear the loneliness in its sobs and feel the despair when it cried out in its sleep. His life in that small metal box had been a horrific trial of both pain and utter boredom. He hated to think of another suffering the same fate.

He now lay on his side, struggling past the pain in his ribs to draw in air. His matted black fur was thin and brittle. Patches were missing where he had been shaved for an IV or procedure or where it had simply fallen out. He couldn’t feel his feet or the end of his tail.

Yet, as much as he wished for death, he wished to stay. Though he didn’t know what the creature looked like, it didn’t matter. He could feel it. Feel for it. They had that connection. He, too, had lain awake at night, yowling in pain and fear. He’d gotten used to the loneliness years ago, but he remembered what it felt like.

There were times since it had arrived that he’d had enough strength to make noises to it. He knew it could hear him because it would stop talking or crying to listen. It had even started making noises back at him. Mimicking his meow or starting to chatter to him softly. Those nights grew rarer for him as he grew weaker. Enough so that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the strength to make any noise.

Just then, he heard it. Chattering to him in nonsense noises that meant nothing to him. Despite that, he knew well enough what it was doing. It was simply filling the time. It spoke lovingly and he was even gifted with a rare giggle.

It was unfair. The people in pristine white coats, stealing their lives from them. Their laughter. Replacing it instead with despair and pain. But that wasn’t something to fill one’s last thoughts with. Instead, he listened to it meow, sing, and talk to him.

There was a loud clatter and metal scraping against metal before it went silent. It started to cry, quietly. Resigned almost. Another clattering and everything was silent. It was gone. It was scared to go as it always was. He tried to lift his head but couldn’t. Couldn’t even open his eyes. If only he could wish for one freedom in his life, it would be to find that poor creature and comfort it. Let it comfort him. If only he had died sooner, he could have left listening to its sweet noises. Instead, he could only burn with anger.

He suddenly felt an odd sensation. A feeling of warmth coming from seemingly nowhere. And it called to him. It didn’t speak, or even make noise, but he knew exactly what it was trying to communicate.

-Do you want to help her?- Her? Yes.

-You can’t save her.- I know.

-You won’t be here. I will use your materials after you go.- But she won’t be alone? Ever again?

-No.-

He gave his assent with no hesitation. Finally, he could let go without regret. He would find peace knowing it-she would no longer be alone as he had been.

()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()

The body was old beyond its years and incredibly fragile. The spirit was amazed that the cat had attracted his attention. The soul made up in strength what the body lacked. The spirit wasn’t very strong himself. A minor spirit that others, even demons, paid no mind to. Not strong enough to manipulate the fade around it as other spirits could. Yet this creature had called to the spirit. Not for itself, but for another.

Its need was so strong and spoke to him in such a way that he couldn’t resist its call. There were several creatures here who suffered. But none more so than the creature this cat had bonded with, unseen and untouched. The body would take time to heal, but it-he, now-was strong enough to move it. The memories he sifted through were largely unpleasant so he ignored them and focused on those of the girl in the cell.

He slipped into the space between the Fade and the physical realm. For most, the Veil was a barrier between the two. For the lesser spirits, it could be traversed in small distances. They were the spiritual vermin in the walls. He found her quickly. Unconscious on a stark white bed. Odd machinery was connected to her, some appearing to assist and others seemingly to restrain her.

Feeling the hints of her emotions, he sensed she would be waking soon. This had never happened before. Her body being opened. She would be in pain. Scared.

But no longer alone.

With a struggle, he hopped onto the bed. He stepped up onto her stomach and then over her chest, settling where he could feel her heart beating. She was warm and he hoped that his body, curled against hers, would provide her with the same feeling.

When he finally felt her stir, he started purring. He didn’t even mean to. Didn’t know he could. He just did. A soft vibration deep in his chest. Her eyes opened, mossy green and glassy with drugs. When they focused on him, she gasped softly. For the immediate moment, the drugs that clouded her mind kept the pain at bay and let her focus on him.

Her lopsided smile made him purr louder. He stretched out his neck to brush his cheek against her chin and was rewarded with a giggle. She couldn’t move to pet him, but he somehow knew that she wanted to. She started to talk but he didn’t understand her. He would, someday, so he listened to her happy noises and the memories of the feline came back. How much it had meant to him to connect with her through that long vent.

He could feel it too. The peace of companionship. He was glad he had answered the call. In the Fade, he had no purpose and served no cause.

Now, he belonged to this little girl.

()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()o()

Jules woke with a headache so strong she could hear the rush of her pulse echoing in her ears. With a groan, she reached up to pet Jasoom, feeling the vibration of his purr against her breastbone. His silky fur against her palm and fingers was instantly calming. Though she didn’t want to, Jules opened her eyes.

She was in some sort of cell. With a quick glance around, she noticed that the Tevinter mage, Dorian, was with them as well. Zevran had also been close to her when Alexius’s spell was interrupted, but she didn’t see him nearby. Jasoom hopped off of her chest to allow her to sit up. She shook Dorian’s shoulder and he woke with a shout.

“Hey! Sorry!” She said quickly, holding up her hands to show she meant no harm. “It’s just us.”

Dorian nodded before running his hands through his hair. Once he was satisfied with the result, he righted his curling mustache, pinching it between his fingers to ensure every hair was in the correct place. Jules, on the other hand, didn’t even notice that much of her hair had fallen out of the elastic band.

“Jas, can you go see if anyone else is around here?” She asked, pushing herself to her feet. With one raised brow, Dorian watched the midnight black cat slip through the shimmering blue anti-magic barrier and between the metal bars.

“That is not a cat,” he said with a definitive pointing of his finger. “A cat most certainly cannot do that. What is that?”

Jules shrugged, checking her weapons which were oddly still at her side. “That’s Jasoom.”

“That does not answer my question.” Dorian pointed out.

She took out her hair, combing her fingers roughly through it before putting it back up. “I don’t know what he is. Solas thinks he’s a spirit, Varric thinks he’s some kind of mythical trickster god and Morgan thinks he’s the physical manifestation of the innocence I lost as a child trying to protect me as an adult.”

Dorian was at a loss for words. The last one, especially, would require a much longer conversation than they had time for. Instead, he just cleared his throat. “I see.”

#space trash #jasoom the cat #what even is jasoom #some of you have been asking #jules trevelyan #morgan trevelyan #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #FIRST commander cullen in this au #first in my heart too #rare pair smut up in here #bull x cassandra

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writingfromkitchenator · 4 years ago

Text

Nothing is Wrong

A Dragon Age Fanfic

Anders x Fem!Hawke

Words: 5,886

Warnings: Angst, small bit of fluff, wounded Hawke

This is my first Dragon Age fic! I’ve fallen hard into the fandom and just had to get at least one fic out of my head, so hopefully you can all enjoy (even though it is rather angsty). This is set in Act 3 of Dragon Age 2.

As always, feedback is highly appreciated.

She knew there was something wrong.

She kept telling herself that there wasn't, that there was enough mess for her to clean up in this city as it was, but Maker forbid the thought wouldn't leave her alone.

It always returned the loudest in the quiet moments, where she had to walk away and find something to do less she actually look at it closer, but then it started to invade the louder moments too, a simple glance or comment and the thought would tumble forward.

There isn't anything wrong, she kept telling herself, we've worked too hard for this.

Yet it persisted through problem after problem in the city, bitterness creeping through into her words as more and more people asked for help.

She had her own problems, couldn't someone fix those for her? Give her a break?

Still, with a shrug and a smile that was fooling no one close to her, she kept going.

There wasn't anything wrong.

It was Varric who found her first after a particularly nasty fight out on the Storm Coast, tucked as far away in a corner of the Hanged Man as she could be, a half empty tankard in front of her. He was good at finding her, always seemed to know who to ask or just where to go. She should ask him sometime how he managed it.

He put down a second tankard in front of her, his hand resting easily on his own, gaze kind but worried as he looked her over. “What's going on Hawke?”

A frown creases her forehead slightly and she drains the rest of her tankard before pulling the other forward. “Nothing, just saving the day, as usual.”

But Varric knew better. The damned dwarf always knew better. “C'mon Hawke, even Daisy's noticed you haven't been yourself lately, Andraste's ass, Rivaini even asked why you didn't respond to her joke earlier, so she has too. What's wrong?”

Hawke remains silent, the growing worry twisting her stomach, making her suddenly want to be anywhere but here, but she finds herself frozen in her seat, unwilling or unable to move, she's not even sure anymore.

Varric looks her over, looks over the tired eyes, the tense jaw, face covered in dirt, a cut down her cheek from a knife that had nicked her earlier, another, deeper, wound bandaged on her arm, or, as makeshift as Hawke could get it. He knew it was more than the wounds, more than the city slowly destroying itself around them, he'd only seen her like this once before and that was after Leandra died.

He waved to the barman for more drinks, keeping an eye on the slight shake in Hawke's hand as she rose it to her lips. “You know, if Blondie saw you like that, he'd flip his lid. You know he hates seeing you with any sort of blood on you.”

Hawke's jaw clenched and she swallowed thickly, forcibly keeping her gaze away from him.

“Ah,” Varric sighed. “Things not going the best right now?”

“There's nothing wrong.” The words sounded rehearsed, even to Hawke's ear, causing her to purse her lips and drain the rest of the tankard in one go. “I told you that already.”

“And I believe I already said it was bullshit,” Varric ignores the small pleading look she gives him. “We can do this dance all night, one of us might even get drunk enough to say something else for once.”

Hawke gives a derisive snort, quickly taking the new tankard from the waitress. “These are my problems Varric. You don't need to worry yourself with them.”

“What? After everything we've dragged each other through?” She shoots him an exasperated look. “I think I owe you a thing or two by now, probably even a lot more than that.”

Finally, a small smile finally tugs at her lips. “You mean a lot more than that.”

“Cut me some slack,” Varric grins. “I'm only one dwarf after all.”

Hawke gives a light chuckle and, for the briefest of moments, her shoulders relax and Varric sees the Hawke he knows return, but as the silence drags on between them, the tenseness returns, her eyes turn sad and solemn again, a cloud returning over her head.

“Talk to me Hawke,” Varric finally said softly, edging a little closer to his friend. “Tell me what's going on so we can fix it, or go punch someone up about it even.”

No smile graces her this time, her eyes closing as she sighs deeply. For a moment, the light around them flickers, and Hawke looks a lot older than what she was, she looked like the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders and she was about to crumble beneath it.

Varric waits, knowing she needed time.

“Have you…” She finally starts, but swallows, looking pained, worried, like voicing it out loud would wound her more than any blade or spell could. Her voice drops and Varric has to strain a little to hear it over the sound of the inn. “Have you noticed anything off about Anders lately?”

There it was. His question answered in hers, the weight of her worry truly showing, even as she drowns it in the mug of ale.

Varric wanted to lie, he wanted to tell her that Anders was his usual self, that maybe she was just stressed with all the mage and templar stuff happening and all the pressure that was being put on her.

But he couldn't. Varric knew better and he owed Hawke the truth and the truth only, no matter if it just made her worry more.

“Hawke,” His voice is soft and Maker help him if anyone heard him like this. “I promise it's not just you. Blondie…Anders has been rather grim lately, I've tried asking him about it, but he always shrugs it off or changes the subject. Whatever it is though, I promise, it's not about you.”

She sighs heavily and Varric watches as the weight of this seems to crush her just a little more, his heart aching for his friend. “I get the same response. I keep telling myself it's fine, but it's not, not really. It's like…it's like some part of him has changed, whether that's because of Justice or not, I don't know, but…”

Hawke falls silent for a long moment and Varric waits for her to mull over her thoughts, knowing that this was hurting, that she needed to take a moment just to process how much she was willing to say it out loud.

“It's like he's saying goodbye.” She said finally and there was the briefest flash of a tear in her eye before she wiped it away. “I just want him to talk to me, to tell me what he's doing.”

“What if you don't like the answer?”

Hawke glanced at him, her expression pained. “Then I'll still know the truth. I can deal with what comes with that after.”

She pulls her gaze away and downs her drink again, Varric pushing his own second mug in front of her. He knew, more than any of them that she wanted this to work, more than she ever let on. Maker dammit it all, he wanted it to work for her, Hawke's life had been anything but easy or simple, and she deserved to find happiness in something.

“Maybe we should tie him up,” Varric suggested half-heartedly. “Torture him till he talks.”

The laugh that left Hawke was bitter. It was awful, pained, and Varric silently hoped he never had to hear it from her again. “If I thought that would work, I promise I would do just that. If it didn't hurt so much when I just look at him lately, I would-”

Varric practically hears her teeth click together as she cuts herself off, drawing in a shaky breath and letting it out slowly, her eyes closing so she only has darkness to look at and whatever expression Varric was watching her with. “What's happening to me Varric?”

His look was filled with pity, he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn't help it, even as he silently berated himself for it. “You're working through it, it sucks, but it happens to the best of us.”

“Working through it,” She said it numbly, ignoring the taste it left on her tongue. “I feel more like it's eating me up inside, like it's killing me.”

They sit in silence again and Varric watches as she wipes away another frustrated tear.

Dammit Hawke, he thought, why did this have to happen to you?

Varric sighs and stands, causing her to look at him. “Where are you going?”

He shoulders Bianca. “I'm going to go talk to him.”

“Varric-"

Hawke freezes halfway as Varric holds up his hands, his expression gentle. “Just talk, I promise. Maker knows you've got enough on your plate without having to pry chickens teeth out of him. Just let me deal with it, okay? He won't know you've said anything.”

She stands there frozen for a long moment before she finally sinks back into the chair, looking tired. “Okay.”

He gives her a final nod before passing another nod to the barman to keep her drink flowing and leaves, and a small shake of his head to Isabella who’s watching, concerned, from the other side of the room.

The cool air was of some relief as Varric worked his way through Lowtown, giving him some time to just think. He'd never said it to anyone, especially not Hawke, but he'd always promised himself that if Anders had ever hurt her, he'd put an arrow between his eyes. He never thought that he might actually have to indulge that thought further, and yet, here he was, making his way into Hightown to have a conversation that he just knew wasn't going to end well.

He liked Anders, he genuinely did, and, despite current circumstances, he did think that he and Hawke were a good pair. He'd never seen either of them happier when they finally gave into their damned pining (which was a whole other story) and, despite his concerns, he had happily sat back and watched the two of them flourish.

Anders was what Hawke needed. Hawke was what Anders needed.

It seemed that novelty was wearing off.

Varric shakes his head. No. There was more to it than that, that would be far too simple, and from what he'd seen of the two of them recently when they actually went out together, was still almost their old selves.

Anders gaze was still adoring whenever he thought she wasn't looking, and she always beamed brightest when she caught him. If he hadn’t been so happy to see is friend in love, then he would’ve thought it nauseating.

No, this was definitely something else.

Varric draws in a deep breath and knocks on Hawke's estate door, knowing if Anders wasn't here, he could just cut through her basement to the clinic. He wasn’t really sure where would be the better option for this conversation.

Bodahn answered, greeting him warmly. “Ah, Master Tethras, so nice to see you this evening. I'm afraid the lady isn't in at the moment.”

“That's alright Bodahn, I was actually hoping Anders was in?”

“Ah,” The pause was evident, enough to give Varric some worry, before he nods. “Yes, he returned just little while ago. He's in the library.”

Thanking him, Varric makes his way inside, giving Bear a good scratch on his head as he passes him by the fire, and makes his way across to the library.

Anders was hunkered down at the desk, surrounded by a mix of books and a large pile of notes, one page he was furiously scribbling on.

“Man, I thought my work station was bad,” Varric half laughed. “You should organize yourself a bit more Blondie, you might just find it a bit easier to work.”

Anders, who'd originally jumped at the sound of Varric's voice, now cast him a small smile. “That's probably not a bad idea, although, some notes are just random thoughts. They don't really mean much in the grand scheme of things.”

“Every note means something,” Varric said, moving to the desk and resting his back against it. “Whether we realise it at the time or not, even if you just break it up into smaller piles instead of…everywhere.”

Shaking his head, Anders put his quill down. “I’m sure you’re here for a reason Varric, apart from criticising my writing methods. Hawke isn’t here at the moment.” He frowned, as if realising this for the first time. “That’s strange, she’s usually home by now.”

“She’s drinking the night away with Isabela,” Varric lied easily enough. “I’m sure she’ll come home once she’s had enough to drink, or finally tires of Isabela flirting with her.”

“She really doesn’t give up, does she?” Anders leans back in his chair, stretching, before he pauses and looks at Varric. “So what are you doing here?”

This was going to be his only chance, Varric knew that, he knew that if he stuffed this up then Anders wouldn’t talk to him again, at least not alone. He had a brief moment of doubt, but the thought of the weight on Hawke’s shoulders quickly shook that moment free. “I came to talk to you actually.”

“Oh?” Anders looked surprised, but there was no doubting the slight hint of suspicion behind it. “Usually it’s me coming to see you.”

Varric chuckles, trying to throw off the tension shooting across his shoulders. “Well, I thought it was about time I paid you a visit, it seems like a while since we just sat and talked.”

Anders seemed to think for a moment before he chuckled lightly. “It has been a while, it’s amazing how time seems to fly by these days.” He gets to his feet. “Take a seat by the fire Varric, I’ll see if I kind find us something to drink.”

He shifts a little uncomfortably as he sits. It was still odd to him that Anders now lived here now, and while he didn’t blame Hawke, especially with the templars growing worse, it still seemed odd that he could just easily help himself to Hawke’s things.

Again, he pushed the thoughts aside, and let out a slow breath, knowing that he needed to do this for Hawke.

Anders returned with a bottle of wine, and while not normally Varric’s taste, he accepted a glass. “This seems bit a bit of an odd find for Hawke.”

“I think it was gift,” Anders said, sitting opposite him. “Probably meant to be an insult from one of the nobles.”

Varric snorts. “I’m sure they can do better than a cheap bottle of wine, either that or I give them far too much credit.”

“Oh, she’s received worse ones, trust me,” Anders said with a grin. “I think this one she was just happy to receive something useful.”

“Only Hawke could pull this off,” Varric can’t help but chuckle. “Save the city and also piss off most of the nobles.”

“Simply by existing,” A bitter note enters Anders voice. “But none of them would say it to her face of course, they all still know that they wouldn’t be here without her.”

“Oh, I still know a couple who would,” Varric shakes his head. “But Hawke knows that, that’s why she’s never let it bother her too much.”

Anders nods in agreement but doesn’t meet Varric’s eye.

Varric sighs and puts down the glass. “Are you and Hawke doing okay?”

Blinking, Anders looks at him a little surprised. “What?”

“You and Hawke,” Varric said it as lightly as he could, but the concern was still showing in his voice. “You both seem really tense lately. Is everything okay between you two?”

Anders looked at him for a moment before breaking away from his gaze, hiding something in his gaze that caused a brief flicker of panic to pass through Varric’s stomach. “Why wouldn’t we be? Things just aren’t…the best in Kirkwall at the moment. I think it’s just taking its toll on both of us, she’s constantly fighting and dealing with problems and there seem to be more and more people in the clinic lately, not to mention the templar raids.”

He wanted to pretend that Varric’s eyes on him didn’t bother him, but he knew that the dwarf always saw more than what was really being said. Varric’s gaze was intent, knowing that what was said was only the partial truth, and this bothered him even more.

“Everyone’s finding it hard at the moment,” Varric said, not bothering to hide the suspicious note in his voice. “I don’t know Blondie, it just seems more than that.”

Anders sighs, as much as he was a little annoyed at Varric for getting involved, he didn’t blame him, and he knew that Hawke was worried about him, it was only going to be a matter of time before her best friend noticed. “I…there’s just something I have to do, on my own Varric. I can’t put her at risk any more than what she already is, something that I’ve told her, and I would appreciate it if you would take that as the answer too.”

Varric was frowning and Anders knew that this conversation wasn’t just some simple catch up, that he had come here with a purpose, and he knew by that look that Varric wasn’t just about to drop it.

“After all the shit we’ve been through together,” Varric said carefully. “I’m sure you can give me more than that.”

Anders shrugs slightly. “It’s my business Varric. Once I have it sorted, then…then it can all go back to normal.”

Varric’s frown deepens. “Before or after you hurt Hawke.”

He flinches and shakes his head quickly, trying to push the doubts rising in the back of his mind aside. “Hawke and I have had this discussion multiple times. You’re not asking me anything that I haven’t already long asked myself.”

“So Hawke’s pain is worth whatever it is you’re doing?”

“I thought you were here to visit, not to interrogate me.” Anders said a little angrily. “Whatever is going on is none of your business and definitely not any sort of content for your books.”

Varric holds up his hands and shakes his head. “No books, and that’s a promise, this is way too personal for that. I’m simply worried about Hawke, that’s all. She’s hurting, surely you see that?”

Anders chest hurt. He did see it and it hurt him more and more every time he did, but if he backed down now, if he turned away from what needed to be done, then it was only going to be a matter of time before he and Hawke ended up somewhere worse, before every mage in Kirkwall ended up somewhere worse, and both he and Justice couldn’t allow that to happen. No matter the cost.

Even if it meant his life.

Varric’s gaze is worried but kind, and Anders had a feeling that he saw more going on with him than he would ever say. “Look, I may not be best for relationship advice, but I know enough to say that you aren’t meant to keep such big secrets between each other. It’s going to eat you both up until there’s nothing left.”

Anders didn’t get a chance to answer as the front door was swung wildly open, Bodahn barely having a chance to say anything before Isabela hurries into the room, looking half terrified, half worried.

“What have you two been saying to Hawke?”

Anders and Varric stared at her. “What?”

“One moment she was just sitting there drinking, the next thing I knew she was on her feet, shouting like she was in pain, before running from the Hanged Man!” Isabela looked between them. “Honestly, I’m not sure what the two of you have been up to, but she cursed you both out.”

Varric was on his feet first. “Which way did she go?”

“Towards the docks I think,” Isabela looks distressed, the most that either of them had ever seen her. “I’ve never seen her like this before and I was half terrified of what she’d do, which is why I came here first.”

A heavy feeling sat in Anders stomach, still sitting half frozen, mind racing at what Hawke was going to do to, at what she was going through.

Varric sighs as he steps forward. “We better hurry then, we hardly need Kirkwall seeing the Champion breakdown in the middle of the streets.” He looks back at Anders. “Are you coming?”

This kicked him into gear, silencing any voice of doubt that was echoing in his mind as he jumped to his feet and grabbed his staff, calling for Bear as he hurries out the door after Isabella and Varric.

The streets of Kirkwall were oddly quiet, but there was an unsettled feeling in the air that only seemed to grow heavier the closer they got to the docks.

“Dammit Hawke,” Varric said under his breath. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“She’s been avoiding both of you, you know?” Isabella said. “She comes in to drink a lot more than what she used to. If I knew she would’ve told me, I would’ve asked, but I know how stubborn she is on these things.”

Anders watches Varric frown. “What do you mean she’s been drinking more? When is she getting time to do that?”

“Late at night usually,” Isabela sighs. “When she’s not fighting in the streets.”

“Late at night?” Anders asked over the growing lump in his throat. “She’s been sneaking out?”

“I think she’s mostly there for the noise,” Isabela’s voice was quiet, the air heaviest at the docks. “The drinking’s just a side thing, most nights it’s only one, maybe two.”

“So she hasn’t been sleeping as well,” Varric sighs heavily, giving a side long look at Anders. “Come on, let’s hurry up and find her.”

Anders knew that there was nothing else he could say, his own heart was too loud in his ears, remembering back to Hawke’s worst moment after she lost her mother, how she’d thrown herself almost carelessly into every fight afterwards. Was he causing the same thing now? Had he really done this too her?

He forced it away. Focus on finding her first, then he could deal with the consequences afterwards.

Bear paused by their sides, his ears raising, a small whine sounding from him, making them all pause.

There was no noise, there was an eerie silence throughout the docks, sitting heavily in the dark.

“Hawke?” Varric’s voice carried through the air and they all knew that something was very wrong.

Bear whined again, taking a few steps forward, sniffing the air.

“This is not good.” Varric said. “Hawke?”

“Stop talking,” Isabela hissed. “The docks is never this empty this time of night, something is not right.”

“No shit,” Varric said. “But can you see Hawke anywhere? This is very unlike her.”

Anders could feel magic crackling through the air, licking his lips nervously, this being much more powerful than what he’d felt before, leaving an awful coppery taste on his tongue. Wherever Hawke was in this, she was in trouble.

“There’s magic here,” He said quietly. “We need to-”

Bear started barking aggressively just as a brilliant fireball lit up the other end of the docks. Anders was running before either Isabela or Varric could stop him, blood pounding in his ears as his mind raced, going through too many possibilities of what could be happening.

The pull of Hawke’s magic was familiar as another fireball lit up the night and Anders fought Justice to the back of his mind, he couldn’t afford to lose control, not until he sure what was going on.

Bear’s barks were ringing loudly off the stone walls, adding to the growing tension in the air as Anders skidded to a halt along the path, having enough time to throw up a barrier before magic burned through the air around him.

Hawke was on the path ahead, fire burning around her casting large shadows on the walls. There was fire in her hands, her own staff burning, and she was gathering magic again, building up more fire. Normally, she was more careful, meaning that she didn’t know that Anders was there.

“Hawke!” Anders called, briefly wondering what was causing her to fight like this, catching the briefest glimpse of her eyes filled with red, before his gaze moves to the end of the pier.

There was another mage and Anders realised that the dark shift in magic was coming from them.

“Fuck. Blood magic.” Varric growled from behind him. “Why is it always blood magic?”

There was no chance to answer as Hawke launched another fireball and Anders couldn’t help but stare at her, feeling the strain in her magic. Whatever this blood mage was doing, it was putting a massive strain on her mana, and he just had a feeling that this had been happening for a while.

Hawke’s fireball seemed to do nothing.

She was breathing hard, her expression furious, but she still didn’t notice as the others stepped forward, even Bear cautious, having been in these types of fights many a times. “Just leave me the fuck alone!”

The laugh that came back was cold, cruel and anger began to make Anders hands shake. “What’s the matter Champion? Have you finally met your match?”

The yell of anger from Hawke was both filled with fury and desperation, but she doesn’t get a chance to launch another attack, the other mage launching their own attack, Hawke barely managing to block it and it was then Anders caught side of the blood.

Hawke was bleeding. Badly. There were cuts on her arms and blood trickling between gaps in her armour, a deep gash down one of her cheeks.

With horror, Anders realised why this blood mage was affecting Hawke so much, and before he could even think, the mage launching another attack, he was in front of her deflecting the blow.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hawke growled from behind him, breathing hard. “I can handle this.”

“Yeah, you look like you have it handled Hawke,” Varric was by her side quickly, Bianca firmly in his hands. “You can tell us how you found this creep later.”

Hawke grits her teeth, her gaze locked on Anders, who was still standing in front of her. “Anders…”

“We’ve got you now, love.” Anders voice was quiet, his hand white knuckled on is staff. “This bastard isn’t going to hurt you anymore.”

No one was going to take Hawke from him, especially not some insane blood mage.

Isabela caught Hawke as she staggers slightly, her eyes worried. “Have you two got this?”

“Get Hawke away from here Rivaini.” Varric said, watching out of the corner of his eye as Anders begins to glow, his control finally snapping. “And don’t take no for an answer.”

“Varric-”

The blood mage recovered from the interruption, a cry of rage leaving them as they launch on the attack, Anders deflecting the initial blows as Bear charges forward. Hawke tries to shake of Isabela, but her grip was firm as she pulls her away from the fight, Varric firing quickly, lightning and fire igniting the air as Anders took charge of the fight.

Hawke clutched her stomach, her body aching, her mana all but depleted. She knew that this was the worst she’d been in a while, she knew that she would’ve probably died if they hadn’t found her, but it wasn’t making it any easier to swallow.

She come out here for air, the sea air had always helped her focus, she’d been unable to handle the voice of doubt in the back of her mind anymore. The drink hadn’t helped, having more than what she would drink normally, and she knew that she’d had some sort of outburst, but it all became irrelevant once she felt the magic at work at the docks.

Isabela rested her against a wall. “Will you be alright here for a moment?”

Hawke grimaces. “As long as another blood mage doesn’t turn up.”

“I’d laugh, but given current circumstances, it’s not funny.” Isabela looks at her concerned. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m not about to let blood loss kill me Isabela,” Hawke said and nodded back the way they came, where magic was still crackling through the air. “Go help.”

Isabela disappeared before her eyes and Hawke sunk against the wall. The mage had taken her off guard, opening up the wound on her arm, giving them extra power. The ensuing fight had only made Hawke angry, that she couldn’t even get a break when she felt so low, and because of that, she hadn’t been as careful as she should have been.

Resulting in the other injuries.

Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying not to let herself worry about the fight, knowing that they could handle it, but it wasn’t easy, her doubts coming back loudly in her mind.

Groaning, Hawke gave in the emotion and started to weep, burying her head against her knees, her body hurting, everything hurting, and for the first time in a long time, she wanted to be anywhere but here.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, somehow it all no longer seemed to matter, even though she was worried for her friends, it all seemed so distant and she felt so alone.

Gentle, cool hands rested on her for a moment before she was being pulled into his arms, her head tucking under his chin as he gently hushed her.

“It’s over now love, it’s all okay.”

She let herself believe that, she had to, scared that the tears and the pain wouldn’t stop if she didn’t. The familiar touch of Anders magic washed over her, her wounds healing, the physical pain starting to ease, and for the moment, this was enough.

There was a small whine and she opened her eyes enough to see Bear step forward, licking her hand gently. She reached up and scratched his head, glad to see that he was okay.

“One of these days Hawke,” Varric said, strapping Bianca back to his back. “You’re going to have a nice normal day.”

Hawke chuckled weakly, closing her eyes again, letting herself bury against Anders. “Then we wouldn’t get to have any fun, sounds like a boring life to me.”

Varric watches grimly as Anders eases his magic off her, the worst of the wounds healed over, but it was very clear she was still hurting, the two of them sharing a look.

“Well, I think after this eventful night, I need another drink.” Isabela sighs, but smiles between them. “Are you alright Hawke?”

“You know me, I bounce back easy enough.” Hawke said through a faint smile, but she makes no effort to move. “I’m sure I’ll be as good as new in the morning.”

“Let’s get you home Hawke,” Varric said, nodding at Anders, who sighs and kisses the top of her head. “You can get some proper rest there and Blondie can finish patching you up there.”

Hawke groaned but made no real complaint about being dragged back to her feet, Anders not leaving her side and supporting her weight, Isabela taking the other side and they made a slow journey back to Hightown.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbles quietly at one point, all three of them sharing a look as Bear happily pants away at the front. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble for everyone.”

“Don’t be like that Hawke,” Varric said. “You’ve saved our asses enough times, it’s about time we paid you back one.”

Hawke mumbled something in reply, but none of them could make out what it was and decided it was best left unheard.

Isabela left them at the door, Anders managing to get Hawke through, Bodahn looking more than worried, Varric quickly brushing him off as they got Hawke upstairs, Bear whining from his spot by the fire as Hawke told him to stay.

Seemingly glad to be back in her own home and room, Hawke managed to take the few shaky steps to the bed and collapse down onto it, burying her head into her pillows.

“Will you be alright with her Blondie?” Varric asked quietly as he and Anders watched her, Anders looking very concerned.

He nods, slowly. “Yeah, I’ll give you a shout if we need anything.”

Varric waits another moment before looking at Anders. “Are you going to be alright?”

Anders glances at him, goes to say something, thinks better of it and sighs. “Not by a long shot.”

Varric can’t help but let out a small chuckle, clasping Anders briefly on the arm before leaving the two of them be, the door closing softly behind him.

There was a moment of silence before Hawke shifted in the bed slightly, enough to be able to look back at Anders. “I'm sorry.”

Anders gives a small smile and makes his way over to the bed, joining her and pulling her close. “You're okay, that's all that matters.”

Hawke sighs and rests against him, listening to his heart beat. “Are we?”

He doesn't answer straight away, letting his magic build again to ease the remaining pain in her body, causing her to shiver slightly, even as she relaxed.

“Anders?” Her voice is smaller this time, the same question hanging in the air.

“I love you Hawke, more than anything.” Anders said finally, his voice quiet. “And I will do whatever is in my power to keep you safe, no matter the cost.”

Hawke tenses slightly but she resists the urge to look at him, half terrified, half worried of what she'd see. “I love you too, which is why I don't want to see you get hurt. I want to help Anders. Please. I don't care about the cost.”

His heart ached and for a single moment his resolve crumbled, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, one that caused her to raise her head, to finally look at him. He held her gaze for a heartbeat before relaxing again, his resolve strengthening, and he gives her a soft smile, fingers brushing lightly through her hair.

“Tomorrow love,” He said softly. “Once you've rested. I'll explain everything.”

She took a moment to search his eyes and then relaxed, sharing his smile and pressing her lips to his. It was slow, lingering, a kiss worth a thousand promises and words.

Anders heart ached as Hawke settled back against, his arms tightly around her as she relaxed and quickly drifted into sleep. He allowed his fingers to trail over her, his mind a million miles away as he thought, thought about what was to come, about the love of his life in his arms, and about all the things that could and should have been if the world had just been different.

For now though, this would have to be enough. She was here and that was enough.

For this moment both of them could let themselves believe that there was nothing wrong.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #hawke x anders #anders #hawke #female hawke #female hawke x anders #fem!hawke #fem!hawke x anders #angst #varric is the best friend we all deserve #varric #isabela

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aspiritofcompassion · 4 years ago

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🌹💋🔮🌸 !!! so many questions but i love your OCs :)

Hi there! Please don’t worry about asking multiple questions! Ask as many as want I will never be upset. I love talking about my children ❤❤

🌹 How easy is it for them to connect with others and make friends? On the flip side how easy is it for them to make an enemy of someone? Are they the kind of person who hangs around the food table at a party and never talks to anyone or are they the type who can talk to anyone?

Merinia: Merinia is emotionally detached to say the least. Connecting with others and making friends is not a strength of hers. That’s not to say she can’t make friends, it just takes her an extra long time to open up. On the flip side, make an enemy of her isn’t hard at all. She has been hurt in the past and refuses to allow anyone to hurt her again. I definitely see her being the type of person to hang around the food table at a party and eat. (though Zevran will probably stay by her side to make her smile)

Camilia: “Haha what do you mean I can’t make friends with the man who stole from me Varric?” Camilia is so open and could make a connection with anyone. I think Camilia is the type of person to be upset if she had to make an emeny of someone. She’d probably hear that someone did an awful thing and shrug her shoulders and say “Okay guess they’re dead to me”. If it were someone she were close to I’m sure it would be harder for her (*ahem* Isabela). Camilia is definitely the type of person who would be the “life of the party”. Honestly she’d probably get on top of the table and mayhem would ensue.

Veris: Veris is very open to friendship. I’m pretty sure once she got got back to Haven and saw Cassandra angrily swinging her sword her first thought was “Yep she’s going to be my best friend”. As for enemies it’s pretty taxing on her. She understands that there are people who are unforgivible but it hurts her so much. I think Veris would accidently spend most of her time at the food table if she were at a party. She’d find a really good snack and just keep leaving the crowd to eat.

💋 How affectionate are they with their friends? Their family? Their romantic partner(s) (if they have any)? Are they more physical or emotional when it comes to displaying their affection? Why?

Merinia: She isn’t an affectionate person. The most you will get out her is a smile and maybe a hand on the shoulder (as a treat). Zevran is the closest person to her every once in a while she’ll lay her head on his shoulder or give him a playful punch on the arm. I think that you’re more likely to get physical affection from her than emotional. She wants to hold someone close rather the tell them how close she’d like hold them (if that makes sense)

Camilia: Very loving, very affectionate. She will give people hugs and tell them how much she loves them all the time. This goes for friends, family and Fenris. Well too be fair, she also likes to give Fenris smooches. She’ll do anything to make sure Fenris knows how she loves him. She’s a fan of both physical and emotional affection.

Veris: My baby is very loving. She’ll give her friends kisses on cheek and hugs. She’ll also hold people’s hands.Despite her being very physically affectionate, she loves to be emotional with Solas. Telling him how much she loves him and how much he means to her.

🔮 Star gazing or cloud watching? Hand-holding or snuggles? Early mornings or late nights?

Merinia: Star gazing, snuggles, and late nights

Camilia: Cloud watching, snuggles and early mornings

Veris: Star gazing, hand-holding and early mornings

🌸 What does your OC’s voice sound like? Their laugh? Are they good at singing? Do they have an accent?

Merinia: She has a deeper voice, silky and smoothe. Her laugh usually comes out a huff or heavy exhale. She is a good singer though she hardly ever does. She doesn’t really have an accent.

Camilia: She has the exact voice that Hawke does in DA2, there is no doubt in my mind. Her laugh is a giggle or chuckle most of the time. She has a very good singer and does so often.

Veris: Soft voice, slightly higher pitched. She does have an accent. Her laugh is almost always a giggle. She is a good singer and you will sometimes catch her when she is gardening dancing around and singing cute little songs.

Thank you for the asks babes!! They are always so appreciated ❤❤

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secretsfromwholecloth · 5 years ago

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Dragon Age: Inquisition, day 15.

Welp, Doom Upon All the World time. Let’s do this.

I’m going to be boring and do the “usual undroppables plus Solas in the free spot” thing again, which in this case translates into a party of Dorian, Blackwall, and Solas.

Wow, the thunder outside really adds to the drama as I play through this. :D

Why’s Cassandra—I didn’t put her in the party by accident, did I—oh, poor Harding—oh, there we go.

Thanks, Morrigan!

Can blood be “engorged”? Sounds weird. I think you might’ve wanted a different word there, stretchy man.

Was that Dorian he was calling “one more rattus emerged from the garbage”? Not nice. You’ll get extra stabbed for that.

Now that I get a good look at him, have mages’ feathered capelets (if they go all the way around the back, they’re not pauldrons) really not changed style at all in so many centuries? Anders’ was sleeker, due no doubt to graphical limitations, but they’re otherwise nearly identical.

Oh, a break for dragon time. Eat it, stretchy dragon.

And the stretchy man has been thoroughly stabbed. Solas needed a couple of healing potions, but as for the others, a full guard bar is a beautiful thing.

YEET

Aw, poor Solas, his orb is broken.

Hello, babies. <3 All right, let’s have a nice chat with everyone before we move on.

Avasis has spent half the game wanting to give most of his inner circle big, squishy hugs (I know, it surprised me too to see him develop that way), but the game doesn’t want to give me that option, so nice chats will have to suffice.

Aww, Dorian’s romantic bit when leaving the party is sweet.

And let’s jump into Trespasser, shall we?

Oh, bless you, Josephine, and your very strange idea of what constitutes a quiet evening out.

You know, it makes me kind of uncomfortable the way not only this DLC but the endings of both the base game and Origins spend their time jumping up and down and yelling “Didn’t you want this? And this? And this? Look at all the things you always wanted!” And even if I genuinely did want the thing, the way we’re given it feels...wrong.

Case in point: “Look! Cullen is happy this time, and he’s playing with a dog instead of being mobbed! Aren’t you happy? Isn’t this what you wanted the whole time?” It’s better than a repeat of his treatment in Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, but...hrnnnngh.

Did Bran sound this much like Sebastian doing an accent in DA2? I can’t remember that being the case. I mean, I know it’s the same VA, but...

OK, he’s back to normal after his first couple of lines. Weird.

I love to play Avasis as blithely Not Getting It when his friends try to complain to him. You’re the viscount now, Varric? That’s wonderful!

I’d absolutely read about the adventures of Aveline and Shokrakar.

“Assignment: Free Marches, Vimmark Mountains, reporting to Warden Stoudenmire in ongoing investigation of Vimmark Prison” Wasn’t that what Varric said Carver was off doing? Say hello to him for me, Thom. And if you find any of the Awakening babies on the way, give them a hug for me.

Cassandra, you dork, I think you’ve been reading too much of that smutty literature. You’ve put an idea in Avasis’ head, certainly, but he and Dorian both have work to do and marriage won’t be in the cards for a while yet if it ever is.

Heh, the thing with the Chargers is cute.

Aww, Cole.

Aww, Dorian.

Teagan’s hateboner for the Wardens and their involvement in Fereldan politics never stops being utterly bizarre in a timeline with a King Alistair, especially given the involvement of Teagan himself in Alistair’s court (as evidenced by the fact that he’s here at the Winter Palace to be complaining). Were Anora ruling alone, he might have a leg to stand on.

It was even worse in Linniva’s timeline, where Alistair’s seemingly well-loved queen was doubling as Ferelden’s Warden-Commander—at least Alistair himself banged out of the Wardens when he took the throne!—but it still makes very little sense here.

Today on “So, who gets the free spot in the party?” The only clear shoo-in for eluvian-related shenanigans is obviously gone. I brought Varric last time, though he does have some great dialogue that I wouldn’t mind hearing again.

Mages are useful, and unlike last time I don’t have a Knight-Enchanter as my Inquisitor. Let’s air out Vivienne for a bit.

I’m sure the supply caches littered around the place are very useful on higher difficulties, but between Vivienne’s effectively inexhaustible barrier as a Knight-Enchanter and everyone else’s guard-on-hit armor, it’s fairly rare for anyone in the party to have so much as a dent put in them.

I can see where Teagan is coming from—shouting and open defiance let him rid Ferelden of a tyrant before, so why not use the same tactic again if he sees the Inquisitor as a potential second Loghain?

That said, Teagan, honey, it’s not going to work this time.

I love that you may not actually have Sandal waiting to enchant your stuff before you face the endgame in DAI, but with his diary sitting next to a “Modify Weapons” workbench, it’s almost like he’s there!

Dorian. You are not a tank. You are not even a Knight-Enchanter. A full guard bar is a beautiful thing, but that still doesn’t mean you have any business in melee range right now. Not with enemies who can deplete that guard bar in a few swipes unless you step the fuck back to the designated mage area. Please, before you give your boyfriend a heart attack.

And Dorian now has a bees-on-hit staff, which I expect to be delightful fun in the fights coming up.

Weh, Dorian. Don’t you worry, Avasis isn’t about to die on you. Not yet.

To the Darvaarad!

Oh, this is great, there are bees everywhere. I haven’t stopped giggling.

Lord Inquisitor Kill All The Dragons did not kill the dragon this time. Thanks, wiki walkthrough! Oh man, the looks on those Qunari’s faces.

The season finale of Avasis Blithely Doesn’t Get It: The Viddasala is clearly confused or lying, and Solas is his kind of racist but staunch and helpful friend who’s clearly in trouble and needs Avasis to save him, right? Right?!

Things got hairy a couple of times on the way to Saarath, but the actual fight against him wasn’t too bad. Whew.

And the Inquisition will be kept going, because they have to find Solas and convince him not to do the thing, right?

This is the first time I sat through the credits. Varric’s writing and Cassandra’s impressions of everyone are great. BRB, dying.

And since we’re saying goodbye to Avasis, a picture of the baby, as per SOP. (I wasn’t kidding about that red thing being unflattering on him.)

#dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #avasis adaar

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patricianandclerk · 5 years ago

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Choices

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Dragon Age Discord | Requests always welcome!

Cole felt… bad.

They had made camp on the road back toward Skyhold, having made their way up and out of the Hinterlands, and he was sitting on a folded mat beside the fire, which was crackling quietly, the warmth reaching out and gently licking his skin. Around the camp, he could feel the lulling ease of people dreaming, the soft susurrations of the rippling Veil as people dipped their toes into the Fade.

Varric and Solas were both still awake. Cole could hear them talking quietly on the other side of camp, although he couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying – he would have been able to tell, before, exactly what they were saying, exactly…

He felt bad. His shoulders ached, and his wrists, too, and his chest hurt, and his eyes hurt. It was a funny, sticky hurt, not one that he really remembered feeling in the longest time – he was used to his body getting a little bit tired, or a little pain in his body, or injuries, but this was a weird, sticky pain, it weighed him down.

There was something in his throat, and he didn’t like it. It felt heavy and thick at the very base of his neck, and he wanted it to crawl out and go away somewhere else, but it wouldn’t, no matter how much he wished at it, even when he opened his mouth and moved his jaw around, trying to coax it free.

Across the fire, he saw a scout yawn, and his body acted of his own accord: his jaw widened a little further, and he felt a weird rustling in his ears and his cheeks and his throat, and the yawn came through, some of the pressure going away.

Not all of it, though.

“Hey, kid,” Varric murmured, and Cole looked up at him. He and Solas stood together, looking down at him, and he looked between their expressions, both quietly… concerned, he thought. Expressions were hard. He had to get better at them, Varric and the Iron Bull said, but it got easier, the more you looked at them.

Varric felt satisfied, but concerned, and Cole reached out for his feelings: looks so small and still so thin but I don’t know if he’ll ever put on a little weight reminds me of Daisy sometimes all wide-eyed and too trusting but we can make him feel at home we can help he just needs a fa—

Cole looked to Solas.

His pain was bigger, but quieter than anyone else’s, always: his pain was buried underneath the barrier he kept it under, like he kept all his spirit underneath his funny clothes and the way he talked, sometimes. He could be like Dorian and Vivienne, Cole thought, all shine and wonder and easy nobility, but he chose not to, and Cole didn’t understand…

He understood more than Solas wished he did, Cole thought.

Solas reached out, and because Cole’s hat was in his lap, it was Cole’s hair that he touched, gently drawing his fingers through the lank, white locks. Cole let his eyes close shut, and it felt better, to close his eyes, somehow, it didn’t feel as heavy or sticky, but he didn’t want to open them again.

Needs to sleep. He’s made his choice, must be more human now, must sleep and touch the Fade in the way that he now can, but how to teach him? And how will he learn to die, when…?

Cole opened his eyes, giving Solas a doleful look, and Solas drew his hand away. He looked regretful, but Cole knew it was over what he would do, and not what Cole had done.

“It doesn’t have to happen,” Cole said. “Not every wall has to come down. Sometimes—”

“You’re tired, Cole,” Solas said quietly. “You need to sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” Cole mumbled, reaching up and rubbing his eye, but while rubbing his palm against his eyelid soothed it a little, it didn’t make all of the sticky tiredness go away. It felt worse, somehow, than it had before he’d closed his eyes. Was this what it felt like, to go to sleep? But it was awful, and it was so heavy and achy and uncomfortable, why…?

“Coulda fooled me, kid,” Varric murmured. “Come on, pick your mat up. There’s space in the tent.”

He got up reluctantly when Varric nudged his shoulder, and he followed them to the tent he and Solas shared – they didn’t mind sharing, Varric and Solas. Solas didn’t mind sharing a tent with anybody, except that Vivienne wouldn’t share a tent with anyone, and Sera wouldn’t share a tent with him; everyone shared with Varric and didn’t mind. Cassandra would share with Sera but not with a man; Sera would share with Dorian but not with the Bull or Blackwall, because they were too big and they got in the way; Lavellan—

It was all very complicated.

Where would he fit in? How would it work, if he had to share tents, now, if he had to lie down on a bed roll for too many hours in the dark and the quiet and do nothing at all? When everyone else was sleeping, before, he would go and listen to rivers babble or trees whisper, or watch people’s dreams, or look over someone’s shoulder as they were reading, and everyone slept for nearly a third of the day, it all took so long.

He laid his mat down between Varric and Solas’ bedrolls. Solas’ was the way the elves made, like Lavellan had: it was made with furs sewn onto a lining of neatly layered leaves, and Cole had watched Lavellan make the bedroll for Solas, had watched him carefully pin the fabric into place on each segment and then sew it perfectly in place.

It had hurt Solas, when Lavellan had brought it to his office, and Cole had asked him, afterwards, why.

“But he did it to be kind, and thoughtful,” Cole had said, sitting on the scaffold that Solas sat on to paint and staring down at him, and Solas had sighed quietly, had looked up at him. “Why would it hurt you? He likes you, and you like him.” A moment had passed, and Cole had said, “He’d like for you to like him more. Noble, proud, like the People should be, stronger than he looks, wish he’d smile more often, he looks so sad when no one is watching him—”

“Is that you narrating my thoughts of him, or his of me?” Solas had asked.

“He made you a soft bed, and it makes you sad that he thought of it. It makes him too real.”

“Yes,” Solas had said.

Varric’s bedroll was expensive. Hawke had brought it for him even though he had come from far away, had brought it with sweet words of how he knew Varric missed feather beds and a hairy chest to lie on when he was in the field, and Bianca’s name had hung between their hands like an anchor as he’d handed it over.

“No,” Cole said when Varric laid a third bedroll down, between the two of them. “That isn’t mine. That’s Mahanon’s.”

“Yeah, he’s sleeping in a hammock tonight,” Varric said, waving a hand. “He’s already out of it, Cole – you know our Inquisitor likes to sleep up in the trees, if he can swing it.”

Would have been made for the crystal palaces of Arlathan, would have slept on the beds of glass and—

Cole turned away from Solas’ sadness, and he laid down on the bed roll. It was soft. He felt the leaves, neatly packed inside, rustle quietly but not crinkle, he looked at Varric in the darkness as he lay down on his back. Varric slept like that, on his back; Solas slept on his belly, one arm wrapped around his pillow, but now his pillow was laid gently under Cole’s head, and Solas’ cheek was rested on his own arm.

“You don’t have to,” Cole said.

“No,” Solas agreed.

“My eyes hurt.”

“You’re fatigued. It’s your body’s way of telling you it’s time to sleep.”

“It doesn’t need to tell me like this,” Cole muttered, pressing his cheek into Solas’ pillow an crossing his arms over his chest. The pillow smelled like Solas did, like pencil sharpenings and parchment pages and the Fade, and he felt himself relax a little as Solas laid a blanket over Cole’s shoulder. He was lying under his own cloak, and Cole wanted to feel guilty, but he liked the weight of the blanket on his body, liked that it was heavy on his shoulders, on his hip. He liked… heavy.

“S’gotta tell you somehow, kid,” Varric said quietly. “How else would it make you listen?”

“How do I make it happen?” Cole demanded, feeling irritable – churlish, he felt the word from Solas’ mind, but affectionately, still tinted with that funny sadness he had when he thought of Cole, now, he didn’t think of him so sadly before, but now, because he’d chosen…

“Well, close your eyes, for starters,” Varric murmured, and Cole obeyed, his eyes closing. He laid there, for a moment, his mouth shut, his eyes shut, his face pressed into the pillow, his body underneath the blanket. “Kid,” Varric said, and Cole felt the so funny it’s cute really he just doesn’t know the first thing about, “are you still wearing your boots?”

Going to sleep was the same as being under the blanket. It slipped over him, warm and heavy, and weighed him under.

When he woke up, it was still dark, but he could feel that someone had taken his boots off, because his feet were light and only wrapped by his socks, which the Iron Bull had bought for him, because Cole had gone without them before, and the Iron Bull had said it would hurt him, if he did that, and then Blackwall had sat with him and told him how to put them on, and told him he had to change them every day, and that he had to keep them dry if he could, and make sure that they came up to his ankle so that they protected his ankle from the rub of his boot, and make sure the heel and the toe didn’t rub, and Cole had said it was too much to remember, and Blackwall had said, low and wry, “Well, tough.”

He sat up. His mouth felt… Scratchy. Dry, nasty, parched, like desert sands without rain, the old Cole had felt like this, for so long, thirsty—

He grabbed at the water skein on the other side of Varric’s waist, drinking from it, swallowing down too much water and making himself cough wetly, but over the sound of Solas’ quiet, rhythmic breathing, and Varric’s low, rumbling snoring, the other two men didn’t snore.

Cole, in the middle of them, was framed by their hands, because Solas had stretched out his arm above Cole’s pillow while he slept, and Varric’s had reached out to meet it, interlinking their fingers, his thumb pressed loosely to the centre of Solas’ palm.

Sera laid on top of people, when she shared a tent with them. Sera got cold at night, and she’d wrap around anyon warm – it was why she wouldn’t share with Solas, because she didn’t like to touch him, didn’t want to get too close to him. Dorian liked it when the Iron Bull let him be on top, and lie on his chest, his face pressed against the Iron Bull’s warmth, and Cole wondered if that’s what Solas and Varric would do, if he wasn’t here, between them.

It was complicated, when Varric…

Bianca set his heart on fire, but it burned too hot, so hot it hurt him, sometimes, and left him charred and gasping. Hawke was just warm, a warm body and a warm smile and a warm friendship. Was Solas warm, like Hawke was, when Varric thought of him? Was he simple, like Hawke was? But then, what was Hawke?

It used to be easy, to reach for the feelings when people were sleeping, but it felt harder now, like it was a river churning too fast, and there was too much pressure if he tried to put his fingers in it. When you dip into people’s heads, and take a drink…

“Cole,” Solas said in a low voice, and Cole looked at him. Solas eyes were still closed, and he didn’t draw his hand away from Varric’s. “It is hours yet until dawn. You need more sleep than you’ve yet had.”

“He’s holding your hand.”

Solas flinched suddenly, wrenching his hand back from Varric’s, sitting up, and he Cole watched Varric stir, his snoring stuttering, one eye opening. “Maker’s breath, what is it?”

Embarrassment reached for him and I shouldn’t have of course he reached back when he was asleep I didn’t mean to didn’t expect him to—

“Why are you embarrassed?” Cole asked, yawning without meaning to. “It’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“Go to sleep, Cole,” Solas said softly. Shame radiated from him like heat.

“I’m cold,” Cole said. It was true, somewhat. He was cold – it was a cold night.

“My cloak, then,” Solas said, reaching for the cloak at his hip, but before Cole could argue, Varric grumbled wordlessly and shoved his bedroll closer to Cole’s, pulling Solas’ closer with one sudden drag of his hand, and Varric put one arm around Cole, over the blanket.

“Just get closer, Chuckles, can’t let the kid freeze.”

Knows exactly what he’s doing fenhedis the little shi—

“I’m not little,” Cole complained, and Solas curled in toward him, not actually reaching to hold Cole, like Varric did, but curling his body in toward Cole’s, bracketing him in between himself and Varric. Cole felt Solas sigh, felt his breath touch through his hair. Important, to be touched. Important, not to go without. Hard to ask for, but you must, Cole, you must, don’t reply out loud. “It’s not easy,” Cole mumbled.

“Haminas, da’len,” Solas murmured. “Haminas dia, melava somniar.”

Cole slept – slept well, as instructed – and his dreams were strange and wandering things.

#as defined by dictionary #solas #varric tethras #cole #dragon age #fanfic

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kagetsukai · 5 years ago

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Lazy Afternoon - Raphael Trevelyan/Hannah

It’s been a while since I’ve written my adorable dorks from Drops of Satina, so I decided to whip out some quick fluff. If you had followed along with the challenge, it fits neatly after Chapter 14. Also, this is dedicated to @out-of-the-embers, who desperately needed something happy after having written an intensely emotional story.

Rating: Everyone (this is fluff, just saying) || Words: 1,081 || Pairing: Raphael Trevelayan/Hannah of Highever - Raphael belongs to @out-of-the-embers

Hannah was spending her midday meal - two hours late, of course - sitting under her favorite tree in the Skyhold gardens with a book in hand and a small basket of scavenged food at her side. She wondered if she should have waited for Raphael, but after a brief conversation with Varric, she knew it could be hours before he’d be available. So she quietly munched on her cheese, crackers and fruit, and delved into the newest adventure story by the resident writer.

She wasn’t sure exactly how much time had lapsed when she heard the door to the Great Hall open and close with an ominous thud. Whoever had walked through was in a particularly foul mood, because the footsteps that echoed off the stone floor were loud and angry. It didn’t surprise Hannah in the least when she saw Raphael rounding the paved pathway, his face folded into the grumpiest expressions she’d ever seen him wear.

The moment he noticed her, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly in relief and his mouth shifted into a soft, happy smile; the fact that seeing her made such a difference in his countenance had all sorts of butterflies take flight in Hannah’s stomach, her own face reflecting his expression. He bee-lined straight for her spot and sat down next to her.

“Hello,” he said softly.

“Hello,” she replied with a smile. She reached one hand to cradle his cheek and brought him closer for a kiss.

In all honesty, Hannah still wasn’t used to this kind of intimacy with Raphael. It had been two days since he had first kissed her on the dance floor and then proclaimed his desire to court her; it had felt like a fairy tale come true. He had spent a lot of his free time around her, talking, laughing -- kissing.

“How did it go?” she asked quietly.

He briefly dropped his forehead to her shoulder and lightly rubbed against it.

“Long. Frustrating. Pointless,” he counted out and lifted his head again. His eyes were a little red-rimmed and he looked exhausted. “Frankly speaking, I am so done trying to rehash everything that happened at the Winter Palace. Leliana and Josephine keep asking me the same questions, over and over again, as if my story might change from one moment to another. I even wrote a fucking report for them! Still, it never seems to be enough.”

Hannah kissed him lightly again.

“They’re probably just trying to be thorough,” she pointed out. “At least it’s over?”

He grimaced. “For today.”

To distract him from further dark thoughts, Hannah reached for her basket and put it in his lap.

“Are you hungry? I brought extra food, since I figured you wouldn’t have eaten during the meeting,” she said and pulled the napkin away. “There’s some cold chicken legs, cheese, bread and grapes. I had apples too, but I ate those already. Sorry.”

Raphael’s face lit up as he took stock of the basket and immediately grabbed one of the chicken legs.

“You’re the best,” he announced and leaned in to place a sound kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

That made Hannah laugh.

“You’re welcome.”

Hannah thought she’d let him eat in peace while she finished reading the current chapter of her book, but the speed with which Raphael was consuming his food was both distracting and awe-inspiring. She watched, mesmerized, while everything seemed to vanish before her eyes as he happily chomped away. Soon enough he was done, licking his fingers clean and wiping himself with the napkin.

“Do we need to make another trip to the kitchens to grab you more food?” Hannah asked, amused by his antics.

He shook his head.

“No need,” he said. “This should carry me over until dinnertime.”

Then he proceeded to lay down on his back and placed his head in Hannah’s lap. She stared down at him, surprised.

“Excuse me?” she asked. “What are you doing?”

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face as he carefully readjusted his position.

“Well, I ate and now I’m sleepy, so I figured I’d take a nap,” he explained. “And since I so rudely interrupted your reading time, you’ll be able to return to your book!”

Hannah gaped at him for a few seconds, gobsmacked, then burst out laughing.

“I was reading to pass the time until you showed up, you dork!” she exclaimed, then shook her head in exasperation. “I thought you wanted to spend time with me.”

Raphael sobered up at once, though his eyes remained soft. He gently picked up one of her hands and pressed her palm to his lips for a feather-light kiss.

“I did. And I am,” he said and shifted her hand to kiss her fingers. “I can think of no better way to spend my time than to gaze at your beautiful face as I drift off to sleep.”

The effect his words had on her was immediate; Hannah felt her face heat at a record speed, which meant she probably now resembled a tomato. She made a little indignant noise and tried her best to hide from his stare - and failed.

“You said that just to fluster me,” she muttered and looked away. She pressed the back of her free hand to her cheeks in hopes it would help cool them down.

“Said t’ truth,” he mumbled in response and fell silent.

Confused, Hannah looked down and saw that Raphael was well on his way to being fast asleep, while he held her hand captive against his face.

Seriously? This quickly???

As if hearing her thoughts, Raphael shifted a little, rumbled something incoherent, and went still against her.

Whether she wanted to be there or not, Hannah was stuck. She probably could have moved Raphael’s head out of her lap, but she didn’t have the heart to jostle him; once the Fade had claimed him, his face relaxed and all the worry lines smoothed out, leaving a peaceful expression that melted her heart. Yes, he was an attractive man, but it was in moments like these, when he completely let his guard down, that Hannah truly found him beautiful.

As soft snores started issuing from his mouth, Hannah slowly pushed her other hand into Raphael’s hair, caressing it. Perhaps this wasn’t how she had envisioned their time together, but she’d be a fool to complain. Instead, she enjoyed the quiet moment together as she traced idle shapes into his scalp.

#fanfiction #dragon age #da:i #male Trevelyan #female OC #Raphael Trevelyan #Hannah of Highever #Hannah Fox #Hannah/Raphael #fluff #it's so fluffy I could die #cuteness ahoy!#non-sexual intimacy #I love these dorks

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impossible-rat-babies · 5 years ago

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For the @dadrunkwriting monthly prompt “oh no we’re stuck here!” Funny enough most of this came from some very old writing I did back in 2016 that I’ve held onto for several years now. I changed a great deal of it around, but it’s still very interesting to compare between my writing skill then and now.

Pavellan | 2445 words | some character introspection really + pining

Elven ruins would be fun, he had said. On top of the searching for any references as to why Corphyeus was ransacking them all over Thedas, it would be fun to see a slice of history and ancient magic. Hopefully without any negative side effects, but luck was rarely if ever on their side. Dorian was kidding himself; luck was rarely on their sides, especially taking Darva anywhere. He was a magnet for anything and everything going wrong. It shouldn't have surprised him that much when they stepped into some little alcove--at his behest--that some magical switch or another would trigger and drop a rather large stone door over the entrance.

Sera had yelled, let out some ungodly sound with the cacophonous crash. Both Cassandra had tried to grab to lift it open, but it was a futile effort in the face of thousands of pounds of rock. He should have seen it coming, but hindsight was only kind in the pitch black dark and the sure feeling that they were completely and utterly stuck.

"This is the most excitement we've ever gotten out of these old ruins." Dorian grumbled, listening to Darva still fussing about the door, cursing under his breath. Dorian ran his hands down his face, a heavy sigh escaping him.

"Could be more exciting if you could make some light to see how much fun my face is having." Darva mumbled, abandoning the door to yank his helmet off. He shook his head, pulling down the wrap around his hair.

"Oh I'm sure it is utterly delightful." Dorian replied and Darva squinted at the sudden spot of flame in Dorian’s hand. It casted shadows across the whole of the small enclosed room and onto Darva’s scrunched up face.

"You look more like you're going to sneeze. And your hair is a mess." He noted and Darva huffed, tucking his helmet under his arm to ruffle his hair. It only served to make the curls poofier, which looked not unlike a strange bird nest on top of Darva’s head.

"You're impossible..." He muttered under his breath, turning back to the door. “At least Sera and Cass saw it happen, so hopefully they'll figure something out." He heaved and sigh and ran his fingers down his face.

"It was the magic that affected it, I’d wager...do we still have that bet going? On how your extraordinary bad luck is magical?" Dorian asked, a hint of cheekiness in his tone.

"My bad luck isn’t magical; it’s as you put once: you're simply a complete and utter fool a great deal of the time." Darva replied with a wave of his hand and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“You’re far too charming with your ability to make friends and be...friendly with everyone to be that much of a fool.” Dorian spoke and Darva chuckled, glancing over at him with his green eyes reflecting in the dim light.

“Do I have you all fooled then? Because it rather feels like the blind leading the blind.” Darva mocked him and Dorian scoffed.

They'd been traveling all across Thedas for months now, following threads of rumors on who was planning to kill the Empress and what was going on with the Wardens. Only slivers of leads, but a small lead was better than nothing, even if it took them to the strangest places. Deserts had left Sera with a terrible sunburn she whined about for weeks and sand still in the pockets and crevices of old gear. Many pairs of boots had been ruined by rain and mud seeping into the leather, others worn to the barest sole from sliding and skidding across rocky ground and putting one foot in front of the other. Countless whetstones and spare cloth had been used to sharpen daggers and swords alike; hundreds of broken bow strings had nearly costed Sera her eye, but each time it happened she laughed and got to work restringing her bow. There was little around but the four of them on the long treks, only the four of them to talk to, to keep entertained. There was only so much “sightseeing” one could do before it as mind numbing. Camps in the wilderness left little to entertain them beyond talking to each other or making a game to pass the time; none of them quite had Varric’s talent for stories, but Sera still tried and they were all plenty good enough at cards even with Darva cheating. Even more so after he had taught Sera how to cheat too.

It was a strange collection they had, the company that was presented as the Inquisition, but they were trying their best. It was all anyone could ask of them, all that could be asked of Darva.

“Best not let them hear you say that, or the facade of their great leader in shining armor would be ruined.” Dorian jested and Darva laughed.

“Yes, the wicked skill and integrity of a dalish elf with zero leadership experiences. They should all be disappointed.” Darva remarked, his tone skirting the line between jest and genuine self deprecation. A narrow line.

“You’re selling yourself awful short. I’ve never quite met a man so set on exploring ruins, even if they might kill you. A wondrous shame to die alongside you in a horrid ruin." Dorian spoke, letting the flame go. It rose up to the ceiling, casting a pale orange light all across the small alcove.

“At least dying would be for a good cause. You could be a martyr, Dorian! Even if your magic is the one to blame.” Darva joked, plopping down among the dirt and grime, examining and picking his nails.

"Hardly my fault if the ruins decide that magic isn’t their forte." He resigned himself and grimaced at the ground. He would rather sit than stand, even if the ground was rather...ghastly. He sat himself down beside Darva, almost close enough to touch--to reach out and brush fingers against skin.

“Oh? Where is all that pride in your great and wondrous skill in magic?” Darva smirked and Dorian rolled his eyes, tucking his staff against his neck, resting his hands on the haft.

"Now you're just making fun of me." He huffed.

"I am not." Darva insisted and Dorian’s face curled, mustache raising in indignation. "Well, only half making fun of you, but I’m being honest." Darva patted Dorian's thigh, his hand drifting away before the shock of the simple touch wore off. Dorian cursed his reaction, how it felt like electricity on his skin with just the simplest touch; it was a simple reassurance, nothing more. A touch from...a friend to a friend, nothing more. Not all it took to break the thought from his head, but enough for his reaction to quiet.

"You flatter with reckless abandon, I’ll have you know.” Dorian replied quickly and Darva snorted.

“It only means something if you’re honest about it.” Darva pointed out. “Which I was in this case. And I do learn from the best.”

"You know you do have a tone for that and it’s a sickeningly sweet flattering tone. Perfect for the ladies who flirt with you with reckless abandon." Dorian remarked and Darva laughed, bright and warm, like sunlight in the depths of summer. It never failed to color Dorian’s cheeks, light up the little places in his chest.

"Never going to get anything past you, hm?” Darva raised a brow and his lips curved to a grin just so. Dorian casted his eyes away, ears burning. Always and forever foolish notions bubbling in his head.

“Maybe, if we ever get out of here.” Dorian leaned his head back against the stone, neither warm nor cool to the touch, almost tingling against his skin. Old elvish places were full of magic, just crackling below the surface.

"You think they forgot?" Darva wondered, lips quirking. He had no clue how long they had been sitting in the dark, alcove room. His butt was numb and Dorian fussed with his mustache, tweaking the ends over and over in a nervous tick.

"I would hope not.” Dorian sighed, drumming his fingers against his staff haft. The flame bobbed steadily above them, carried by the air still flowing into the chamber. It hardly seemed designed to choke them, but dying in other ways was much less enjoyable.

"You don't have to keep the light on, you know. I can imagine it gets exhausting..." Darva told him and he put his hands on his knees, willing his legs to stand. He shook out his ankles, gingerly rubbing the numb out of his butt.

"It makes it feel less like the temple is going to trap us here forever and kill us." Dorian droned and Darva sighed, rocking from one foot to the other, hip to hip.

"Cheery thought..." He brushed himself off and looked back at the imposing block of stone that had blocked their way.

"Maybe it's a puzzle or something." He added, looking at the stones. "Not like any of the temples give you their secrets readily, but the ancient elves were fond of puzzles." He mused, biting his finger as he scanned the patterns of the stone. A nervous habit of his own.

"Might as well give it a try." Dorian blew a sigh out of his nose, watching as Darva’s foot tapped on the ground, fingers fidgeting.

How he was going to figure it out was beyond Dorian; he didn’t necessarily doubt Darva's abilities, but skepticism wasn't unwarranted. Darva could be foolish, but many would be fools to think he was stupid. He had a head on his shoulders, one capable of frightening amounts of determination. Dorian had witnessed it when he took the burden of leading the Inquisition, taking the struggles of it in stride with a half grin on his face, saying it was another adventure along the way. Or even back when Haven was destroyed when Cassandra and Cullen carried him half frozen into the camp, lips and ears a deep blue, shivering all over, but eyes still open. Struggling to stay open, but still open.

"Indulge me, will you Darva?" Dorian questioned and Darva took a moment, foot still tapping on the floor.

"What'cha got?" He replied, eyes still on the stonework.

"You didn’t want to be Inquisitor, but you took it up anyway. You didn’t go running, or leave when you could have. You kept going. Why?" Dorian asked, watching as Darva looked all around the stonework. The silence stretched on and on between them until Darva finally spoke up.

"Combination: conscience, and making it up along the way. No one else was going to do it, so I decided I was going to do it. I don’t want to be a savior. I’m just helping people." He spoke surprisingly sincerely, his focus still on the stones as he mouthed numbers and pressed against them.

Dorian chuckled in disbelief. "Just like that then? You make choices that influence the whole world and the future of it by making it up along the way and doing it because no one else will?" He pressed and Darva shrugged, putting his hands on his hips.

"I may be oversimplifying it. There are people around whom I rely on to help make choices. Informed ones hopefully. Leliana gives me reports, plus Josephine does a lot of the heavy lifting. Plus you. You do read to me in fact.”

"Giving me as much credit as them? What will people think?” Dorian snickered and Darva laughed quietly.

"Right? Mother Giselle would have a heart attack." Darva shook his head, his grin lopsided--his big tell on his genuine enjoyment.

"But, still," Darva cleared his throat, "you are a mage, which I am not, and you have insight and abilities the other Mages in the Inquisition do not have. You are also from Tevinter, and there is a rather large lack of such opinions in the Inquisition.” Darva explained.

“An opinion many would not want.” Dorian reminded him and Darva gave a casual shrug as if the weight of the statement ran right off of him.

“You are Tevene, but not all Tevene people are you.” Darva reminded him, giving him a pointed look. “You hardly meet the expectation of the horrifying legend the south has built up. You want to do good and to help the people you care about. You have faith in them--in how they can be better. You haven’t sat idly by. You’ve risked everything to help people who don’t even like you, Dorian.” Darva spoke quietly, keen eyes watching Dorian the whole time.

“I value your opinion highly.” He concluded, looking back at the stones. Quiet filed the space between them and Dorian sat in it, unsure of what to say next. Genuine praise from a man who was rarely genuine, who hid much of that behind a mask of niceties, of strained happy looks. He bore the burdens as well, but underneath Dorian saw the cracks--the strain.

It was easy to see, seeing how they shared that much between them.

“You are selling yourself awfully short as well, Darva.”

Darva turned back, brow raising with a question on his lips.

“Playing the paying a compliment back game?” Darva asked, something in his tone, something in his eyes: skepticism, frustration.

“No.” Dorian spoke plainly, meeting Darva’s eyes. He pushed himself up, only a few short steps to reach him. “I am being honest and genuine. Not many could do what you are doing, and you are doing it well. You’ve been trusted to this position and you’ve worn it well. It’s...brave.” Dorian spoke plainly--plainer than Darva had ever heard him speak before. No gimmicks hiding behind his teeth, or testing the boundaries of it in his eyes.

Darva managed a half chuckle, looking away from Dorian. “I keep expecting a joke. Genuine honesty in hard to come by, I’ll have you know.” Darva half grinned and Dorian snickered.

“It’s strange to say, I’ll have you know.” A faint smile twisted Dorian’s face and Darva chuckled.

“Well I do rather appreciate genuine Dorian honesty.” Darva gently reached out, lightly patting his hand against Dorian’s chest, fingers lingering longer than they needed to--longer than appropriate.

But it only took a second for Darva to pull his hand away, for the touch to end and the intimacy that came with it. The warmth snuffed out, as quick as flame with a cover pulled over it. Only smoke remained, the touch still felt.

“We’re going to get out of here.” Darva spoke to clear the smoke, the embers dying back to nothing once more.

#dragon age #da: inquisition #da:i #dragon age inquisition #pavellan #dorian x lavellan #m!lavellan #owen writes #oc tag #darva lavellan #can i get a big side of just utter pining?? bc that's these two nerds

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bigfan-fanfic · 5 years ago

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OC Details - DA OC Canon Posse + MGITs

From @3n-vee‘s “Extremely Detailed OC Ask Meme”

For Tash Adaar, Owain Bonneville, Henry Lucas, Cal and Ava Hawke, Morgan Walker, Aster Amell, Katie Cousland, and Reyn Caron

I started with Tash, then decided to only do the fun ones and add more characters. *shrugs*

The Basics

1. Age, Birthday, Star Sign (Tash only)

12-13 at the beginning of Inquisition, 15 at the end of Trespasser. Born 18 Guardian, 9:28 Dragon. Sign: Fervenial

3. Orientation and Relationship Status

Tash is a child, but when he is older, he will find he is gay. I kind of ship him with Kieran so that everyone is one big happy familly (Aster is cousins with the Hawkes, Cal adopted Tash, who eventually marries Kieran, son of Morrigan and Morgan.)

Owain is also a gay man who I have not yet settled on a canon relationship for. but whom I ship quite hard with @herald-divine-hell‘s OC Amayian Trevelyan

Henry is a panromantic asexual man whose relationship status I have not decided yet. Perhaps Cole.

Cal is a bisexual man married to Varric.

Ava is a straight woman married to Sebastian but also in a polyamorous relationship with Fenris.

Morgan is a biromantic and demisexual man in a committed relationship with Morrigan. Although I also ship him with @herald-divine-hell‘s OC Alexandra.

Aster is a homoromantic graysexual man married to Alistair.

Katie is a bisexual woman and single.

Reyn is a demiromantic bisexual man who I might decide to put in a relationship.

6. Headcanon VA (Tash only)

Unknown - although Tash does have a Marcher accent, slightly less thick than Blackwall’s.

7. Occupation (Tash only)

Former Lord Inquisitor, Lord of Ylenn Basin, and Heir to the Viscount of Kirkwall - also Knight-Enchanter?

12. Own any pets?

Tash has a pet fennec fox named Harold.

Ava and Cal have a mabari pet named Socks.

Aster has a mabari hound that originally belonged to the late Elissa Cousland that he named Barksy, although to anyone besides Alistair or Aster, he must be referred to as Ser Barksy or Lord Barksy.

13. Have any kids?

Morgan, of course, has Kieran with Morrigan. He wouldn’t mind more if she was up for it.

Cal has officially adopted Tash with Varric as of Trespasser.

Ava and Sebastian are trying for an heir to the throne, although she may already be pregnant by Fenris. None of the others have children.

Owain, Aster, and Katie will want children eventually. It’s more complicated for Alistair and Aster since the Ferelden throne passes by blood. Aster wouldn’t mind taking care of Alistair’s child by a surrogate should circumstances prevent adoption.

Reyn doesn’t think children will happen for him, as a Warden, but should a child be born, he will love and care for them above all else.

Henry is undecided on children. As is Tash.

15. Can they sing? Can they dance?

Tash loves to dance and sing. He’s an average singer, but was trained well in court dancing, and enjoys making appearances at balls and events.

Aster is more clumsy than a drunken druffalo, and is terrible at dancing, but he’s a surprisingly good singer, who would sing many duets with Leliana back during Origins.

Cal and Ava only sing when drunk, although Ava learns to dance well.

Owain both dances and sings like a trained bard.

Reyn and Katie never sing, but both are passable dancers.

Morgan likes singing to Morrigan and Kieran, and dancing with his wife (and occasionally with Zevran or Leliana), but isn’t comfortable with very many others.

Henry can’t dance very well, and can only really sing in a crowd, but does both on his own anyway.

18. Have any special keepsakes?

Tash keeps a pair of specialized horn cushions Josephine had commissioned for him at Skyhold and finds them wonderful to sleep in. He also adores the handcrafted chess set he whittled with Blackwall.

Owain will keep anything given to him or made for him by his lover, wearing it if possible or at least keeping it nearby.

Henry has his phone, with all the memories it brings. It has long since lost its charge, but he keeps it close anyway as a reminder.

Morgan has the ring given to him by Morrigan, as well as a smooth river stone that Kieran inscribed with the same rune Morgan has tattooed on his bicep.

Aster still has the rose Alistair gave him, enchanted to never lose it’s beauty. It reminds him of his husband’s sweet nature. He also has a small figurine of a Circle mage that an older apprentice in Kinloch (Anders) made for him when he was very sad one day.

Katie has her charm bracelet from before she came to Thedas which acts like a talisman for her to know that she really did come from another world.

Reyn has a scarf made for him by a stable boy he loved before leaving his family estate for the Academie des Chevaliers and a Dalish wedding ring given to him by an elven bride who he spared before going into exile and joining the Wardens.

Interests

19. Hobbies (Tash only)

Singing, dancing, writing, doing paperwork, chess, listening, dog care, designing fashion and furniture for the Inquisition, collecting Orlesian masks, and attending Orlesian theatre.

21. Fave food(s) and drink(s)

For some reason, Tash loves the notoriously awful-tasting Orlesian pastry known as the “Exquisite Misery.” It serves as an inadvertent power move in Orlesian circles, but his absolute favorite food is fresh-baked bread (reminds him of his home). Tash also enjoys hot cocoa ever since the Iron Bull shared some of his supply.

As a rule, Aster likes sharing Orlesian charcuterie with Alistair as a picnic in their chambers or the courtyard when they can get away from affairs of state. He’s also partial to fruit juices.

Morgan, Henry, and Katie all wish pizza was a thing in Thedas. There is a dish similar to it in Antiva, but nothing quite resembling it. Katie has gotten the closest to having actual pizza, being a noblewoman with cooks she can instruct. Morgan has inadvertently addicted Morrigan to coffee when he found out how to make it using magic. Henry likes water, but it’s hard to find a stable source of clean drinking water in Thedas. Katie adores tea.

The Wardens don’t often have fine food, and Reyn misses petit fours. He enjoys his personal Warden liquor mixture - Commander’s Concoction.

For Fun

37. Do they have any phobias?

Tash is a timid person in general, and is afraid of miscellaneous things from spiders to dolls with buttons for eyes. But no real debilitating phobias.

Cal, Ava, Aster, and Henry all fear spiders.

Owain hates heights.

Nugs freak Katie out.

Morgan and Reyn feel fear, but have no phobias.

43. What pokemon would your character be (if they’re already a pokemon/gijinka tell us what they are, and how that’s affected them)?

Tash Owain Henry Cal Ava Aster Morgan Katie Reyn

44. What’s their pokemon team? Try to pick all 6.

Tash Owain Henry Cal Ava Aster Morgan Katie Reyn

45. Theme song (and a playlist if you’ve got it!)

Tash: “Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift or “It’s a Good Day” by Kay Starr

Owain: “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine and for romance: “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles

Henry: “No Rain” by Blind Melon or “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding

Cal: “Dream On” by Aerosmith and for romance: “I Can’t Help Myself” by the Four Tops

Ava: “Royals” by Lorde and for romance: “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince” by Taylor Swift

Aster: “Can You Tell Me How To Get to Sesame Street?” (2000) and for romance: “Love on Top” by Beyonce

Morgan: “People Are Strange” by The Doors and for romance: “Beauty and the Beast” by Angela Lansbury

Katie: “I Love It” by Icona Pop feat. Charlie XCX

Reyn: “The Wanderer” by Dion

46. If this character was in a musical, what would their motif be (what kind of instruments do you hear, what’s the tempo, ect).

Tash: Simple peppy flute that gradually becomes joined by other instruments to form a full-sounding orchestra with complex melodies.

Owain: Slow, sad piano that is joined by violin and becomes strong and anthemic.

Henry: Plucked cello strings. Inquisitive.

Cal: Brass section, room for improvisation. Bright and joyful.

Ava: Oboe and Bassoon, deep and reflective.

Aster: Fiddles and flute, playing simple fast-paced dance music.

Morgan: Orchestration accompanied by electric guitar - shouldn’t work together but it does here.

Katie: Sharp woodwinds and guitar. Very formal, almost like wedding dance music.

Reyn: Acoustic guitar trio. Perhaps Spanish guitar. Contemplative and sexy.

The Deep Lore™

49. What are some themes tied to your character’s story?

Tash, Aster, Henry, Katie- Loss of Innocence

Owain, Ava - Self-Acceptance

Cal, Reyn - Mutual Pining/Unrequited Love

Morgan - Found Family, Parenthood

#OC #dragon age #my ocs #my inquisitors #inquisition #wardens #tash adaar #aster amell #henry lucas #katie cousland #owain bonneville #ava hawke #cal hawke #reyn caron #morgan walker

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