#turned into getting emotional about anders and the wardens again

[dolores-slay]

Nanders is a ship that will always slay for me. It's anime it's sweet inside sour outside and the reverse it's tropey it's lovely it's guy who doesn't know he's queer but when he does he's so chill and earnest with it and guy who knew but keeps it under seventy eight layers of emotional distancing intimacy issues and self loathing because he was told all his life everything about him is shameful and the one time he did dare to get close how did that end up for him. What I'm saying is they fucked and are still the bestest of friends. Even with ship goggles off I'm glad they had each other even if it was brief and ultimately didn't change anything. Anders had a life and freedom and friends. Wardens are a family Alistair was so right actually.

[professorsparklepants]

welcome to fanfic I won't write fridays, where I talk about fanfic I won't write

happy dragon age 4 to those who celebrate it's time to put all my "pevensie siblings isekai'd into dragon age pcs" thoughts in one post

peter is the inquisitor; i considered lucy for this but she's more what the inquisition wants you to appear to be (a divine prophet protecting the people) rather than what you actually are (the head of a military organization with fingers in politics and heavy religious propaganda

edmund is the champion of kirkwall; the entire point of da2 is that everything is in shades of grey and there are no right answers, and edmund is painted as the most familiar with moral ambiguity and the most forgiving of it

lucy is the grey warden originally through process of elimitation but being dropped in a dying world, told there's a near futile mission to hold back the decay that's eating the continent, and not only facing it whole heartedly but succeeding so well you have time to run off and try to cure it yourself with no backup is EXTREMELY lucy behavior

susan is "sir not appearing in this film (until dragon age 4 comes out)"

all four of them land around the same time. lucy gets wrapped up in the origins plot immediately, and da2 happens mostly simultaneously iirc so so is edmund. peter is biding time doing the qunari mercenary backstory until da:i starts. susan is also biding her time but by clawing her way up the local social hierarchy.

DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS

lucy is a mage with the spirit healer specialization, but based on her canon weapon use i think also has traces of the arcane warrior.

duncan literally finds her by the side of the road and goes "hey kid you wanna fight darkspawn." lucy asks if they're evil and he says yes so she signs up immediately. a simple woman.

she absolutely makes the full party her bisexual polycule. yes even the unromancable ones. i have faith in her.

morrigan: i'm straight lucy: for now.

leliana is her favorite but don't tell anyone.

lucy adores mabari. absolutely nothing in thedas is more narnian than the mabari. when she meets her siblings again they are all going to be so fucking jealous that she has one.

lucy doesn't make alistair king because he seems like he's kind of bad at it and i think she can sniff that out. my sister is of the opinion that lucy would make him king and then marry him bc she knows she would do a good job. i think she only said this because she finds it funny.

however i do think lucy would convince alistair to do the ritual because she sees absolutely nothing wrong with him having sex with a woman he hates who turns into a giant spider sometimes.

lucy, has attended dozens of bacchanalia: who hasn't slept with someone they dislike while under the effects of magic? all her companions: where did you say you were from again?

she does absolutely kill loghain though because a. all the shit he did is deserving of an execution, b. edmund isn't here to stop her, and c. alistair threatens to quit if she doesn't and despite having a mabari he's her emotional support animal

DRAGON AGE 2

i couldn't decide if edmund was a mage or a warrior but i decided it would be funnier if he were both, because it has such hawke energy. you surpress his magic? he has a sword. you disarm him? he has a fireball!

i don't know what warrior specialization i would pick for him, but he's definitely a force mage

i think edmund literally falls out of a portal and saves bethany/carver's life so the hawkes just decide to adopt him. he's theirs now. leandra just full on lies and says he's her son. what the fuck is her brother gonna do about it.

edmund walks into the den of sin and darkness that is kirkwall, sighs, and rolls up his sleeves to get to work. he is going to make this city a better place one back alley brawl at a fucking time. try him.

edmund romances anders because he has "i only date disasters/i can fix him" vibes and i think it's funny for him to be a former sovereign whose boyfriend is a wanted terrorist.

but also the da2 polycule IS real edmund is just not dating everyone at once. he's busy and also i hc him as only into men. imagine what you want though this isn't a real fic.

sorry the image of edmund just pspspspspsps-ing all of his sad, angry, morally grey companions into being friends is so fucking funny to me. local man brainwashed by evil as a child is too full of love and the belief in second chances to say no to a blood mage, guy who is willingly possessed at all times, escaped slave who lives in a mansion full of rotting corpses, a cop, and a romance novelist who keeps stealing your life story.

DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION

peter has the qunari mercenary backstory, and is absolutely a warrior build. probably champion build?

also i think he romances cassandra. i considered josephine but that's more a susan romance. if peter were into men that way he'd be all over iron bull and he says as much after a couple drinks.

peter, cornering cullen after their first war meeting: you haven no military experience do you. cullen: please don't tell anyone. i need this job.

he takes one look at solas and goes "oh this guy is not normal. idk what his deal is but this is some kind of oak god at least."

varric doesn't know edmund and peter are siblings until edmund shows up and he is INCREDIBLY offended by it. what do you MEAN i've been calling you hawke for years and it's not even your fucking name. the BETRAYAL.

edmund: my ex-boyfriend blew up the chantry and started the mage/templar war peter: HEY DORIAN, MY HONORABLE GOOD FRIEND WHO IS GAY, HAVE YOU MET MY VERY GAY BROTHER

"well his family owns slaves that's enough of a project for Edmund"

you know the table mission where the warden send you a letter? instead of that i think lucy just turns around and immediately heads back to thedas. THAT'S HER FUCKIN BROTHER!!!!!!!! she shows up after edmund does obviously for maximum "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!!!!" drama

[scene: all three pevensies are roaring drunk in skyhold and casting members of the inquisition as Narnian creatures] Peter: I think Solas is a centaur. He's wise, respectful, and vaguely condescending. Lucy: [sniggering bc she clocked Solas] I think he's a wolf. Edmund: I think he's a marshwiggle. [Peter and Lucy absolutely lose it]

Lucy, halfway through stumbling back to her room: WAIT. DORIAN IS A PEACOCK. Peter, three floors up: [ugly donkey noise]

DRAGON AGE: VEILGUARD

obviously there's nothing 2 say about this yet

however i will say for certain that if there's a noble human background i'll be giving it to susan

idc that she literally got portal fantasy'd into this world. she's pretty and socially dangerous she wormed her way in there. she's got those diplomatic social climber stats.

she's also a rogue, no question.

[mxanigel]

Tagged for WIP Wednesday by @anderstrevelyan, @poeti-kat, and @mxkelsifer (thank you!!! <3). I'll no-pressure tag @milesmentis, @galfrey, and @lazyadmiral for a WIP Whenever since I got to this late~

Given my recent Mass Effect brainrot, it might surprise you that I picked a Neri snippet for this week's entry. It surprised me. But I miss them. This is part of the scene where Neri reunites with Anders for the first time since he disappeared from the Wardens.

-----

We’re alone. Andraste preserve me.

“Are you here to drag me back to the Wardens?”

No greeting, no acknowledgment of anything that once existed between us, just an accusatory question. I swallow my emotions; I barely remain upright. “I didn’t know you were here until just now.”

“Oh.”

“But I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“Me?” He snorts. “Or the abomination I’ve become?”

“You.” My voice cracks.

“And you think I’d believe that?”

“It’s the truth.” I attempt a casual shrug. “But I won’t push you to believe it.”

Anders gazes at me for a moment, the silence stretching onward, adding distance between us despite our lack of movement. Then his eyes flick to my right arm. “You’re bleeding.”

I glance down. “Still?”

“Shit.” He exhales heavily. “Sit down.”

There’s a small wooden stool nearby, and I take a seat to begin dismantling my armor. The undead managed to slice its weapon across the less-protected underside of my arm—I’m not sure when that happened—which explains how much I’ve bled, though I’m slightly alarmed that my arm was dripping throughout our conversation. When did the bleeding start again? Or had it never stopped? Is this why I’m feeling dizzy?

“Drink this.”

I didn’t hear Anders approach me. That’s concerning. I cautiously sniff the clay cup he offers; it smells, well, medicinal.

“It’ll help with your blood loss. You haven’t changed, have you.”

I don’t dare meet his eyes. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here accepting treatment.”

He grunts and reaches for my now-bare arm, the exposed gash angry against skin smeared crimson with blood. It’s worse than I expected. A thrill runs through my entire being when his fingertips make contact. He gently applies pressure to the wound while cleaning the skin around it with the damp cloth in his other hand. The faintest trickle of magic warmth flows from his touch; by the time he finishes cleaning my arm, the gash appears less fierce.

As I force myself to finish drinking the incredibly bitter concoction, Anders applies a poultice and wraps it with cloth to secure it in place. “Treat your arm gingerly for the next day or two. If you can.”

I finally meet his gaze, finding his eyes ringed with dark circles. “I will. I promise.”

Surprise darts across his face before wariness returns. “What will you do now?”

“Find a place to camp for the night. Unless this village has an inn of sorts?”

“The tavern keeps a few rooms. They’re less keen to take on strangers these days, though your aid to Corin on the road changes things.”

“Would you prefer that I leave the village tonight?”

A muscle flexes along his jaw. “You’re wounded and there’s undead about. Camping alone isn’t a good idea.”

He still cares enough to say that. “I’ll visit the tavern. I appreciate the advice.” I push myself to my feet with my good arm and wobble once upright, waving him away when he looks like he’s about to support me. I can’t accept that yet. Not with this maelstrom of feelings threatening to burst out of my chest.

He hands me the blood-stained pieces of armor we removed from my forearm. Great. I need to clean those the first chance I get. I nod once in gratitude and turn to the door.

“Thanks. For looking for me.”

I glance over my shoulder, unable to hide my astonishment. A new softness has eased the lines on his face. I manage a weak smile before I step outside.

Perhaps there’s still reason to hope.

[moss-flesh]

I'm incapable of choosing just 1 or 2 questions, oops! 💖

Aila/Alistair - 2, 7, 16 Adahlen/Solas - 3, 19, 31

i dont know what possessed me but i loves these questions so much i wrote a lot ! so here u go !! <3

aila x alistair

2. What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?

Grey wardens and their nightmares am i right ? Both of them had really bad nightmares before killing the archdemon, but Aila suffered from nightmares most of her life already. They morphed her fears of her father, of the circle, n everything she went through there, with the archdemon stuff n it rlly fucked her up. She’d toss and turn and scream herself awake, on these occasions Alistair wraps his arms around her and brings her to his chests, stroking her hair gently. He’d hush her and reassure her of where she was, safe with him.

when Aila was not able to sleep (which was most of the time), she would see alistair struggling in his sleep, and get as close as she could to him with her ear against his heart and hug him gently, listening as his heartbeat and breathing became calm again.

7. Would they build a pillow fort together just because?

yes !!! god of course, this is very them, and they would make it everyone elses problem too.

alistair: STEN! give me your pillows

sten: no.

alistair: but your kadan is my girlfriend!

sten: something i still do not understand.

aila: wow morrigan youre looking hotter than ever, new necklace?

morrigan: yes. you gave it to me. what do you want ?

aila: …… gimme ur blankeys….

morrigan: take them. i dont want to know.

16. Can they stay up all night just talking?

Thats like all they did the first few weeks of knowing eachother. they would move their cots a little closer to eachother and talk for hours staring at the stars. Alistair would mindlessly throw logs on the fire listening to Aila intently as she goes on about flowers, herbs, arcane histories and silly shit her few friends (jowan n anders) use to get up to. And she would stare at him wide eyed as he told her stories of duncan and his warden friends. They wouldve continued but wynne and zevran complained about losing sleep coz they wouldnt shut up. They continued once they started sharing a tent lmao.

adahlen x solas

3. Do they wear the other’s clothes? (sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

oh yeah Adahlen is a little thief n she always takes Solas stuff lmao. she usually just likes to wear his necklace or sleep in his tunic. But the first time she wore his tunic as an undershirt everyone in skyhold was like

Shes pretty small so he cant really fit in her clothes but he ALWAYS steals her fave blanket and uses it for naps.

19. How do they feel about PDA?

Solas is surprisingly fine with it as long as its not too inappropriate, sometimes even so he shocks her by how affectionate he actually is in front of others. Sera would say some shit about them to tease him and hed just grab Ada and smooch her. At first Adahlen was actually so nervous about it though, like she wants to do pda but shes like “oh no what if he doesnt, will he think im weird, oh gods oh fuck” coz sadness alert, solas is her first love, lonely baby. But while she’s distracted vibrating from anxiety, he would just grab her hand and kiss her head as hes really perceptive of her emotions.

31. Can they sit side by side without touching the other or are they handsy? (lacing fingers, touching knees, etc.)

absolutely not lmao, solas likes to think adahlen is the touchiest out of them but they both cant help mindlessly grabbing onto the other, neither of them even notice until varric is like “i gotta write that shit down” because it’s embarrassing, they practically stand on top of one another.

[fanfoolishness]

under a new morning sun (1/?)

Turns out, being trapped in the Fade isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Rogue Min Hawke learned this at Adamant. Luckily for her, her lover Varric Tethras refused to believe that she was really gone.

Varric rescued Hawke from the Fade with the help of the Inquisition, but there were consequences. Spending time in the physical Fade has left them Fade-touched: Varric is now a dwarf who can dream, and Hawke has developed mage abilities. Together, they’ve returned to Kirkwall for a well-deserved rest.

Old estrangements, new powers, and ghosts from the past make for a homecoming that doesn’t exactly go as planned, even as the Inquisition’s mission marches on and Kirkwall struggles to rebuild. Hawke must find a way to master her newfound magic and strike a path forward with family, friends and Varric at her side.

Chapter 1: Rearranged

It was the scent that got to her first.

Hawke hadn’t expected that. She’d thought that seeing the stone walls of Kirkwall, rising in the distance beneath the new moons, might have been the thing that first made her feel that she was home. Or maybe it would have been the gentle lapping of the waves in the distance near the docks, or the great chains stretching up into the sky.

Instead it was the scent of the Wounded Coast, breathed deep into her lungs, that made her stop dead in her path.

Spindleweed, peppery and sharp. Rosemary from the shrubs rooted in the sandy soil. Sage, coast juniper, scrub. The scent mingled with the salt on the breeze, and she found herself frozen, tears streaming down her face.

“Sparrow?” Varric murmured. She shook her head, realizing he was still beside her. He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed.

“It’s just… it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she asked, swallowing. “I -- I thought I might be emotional getting home, but this has taken me rather by surprise.” She sniffed. “Seems I’m getting terribly sentimental in my advanced years.”

At that Varric let out a snort. “Your advanced years, my ass.” He raised their clasped hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Oh, Varric. You always know how to cheer a girl up,” Hawke said, the stinging in her eyes fading. She smiled down at him, letting out a long breath. “All right, then. Let’s get on with it.”

***

She hoped that their return wouldn’t pose too much of a problem for Bethany. They’d managed to exchange a letter or two on their journey from the Western Approach, and she prayed it would be enough to prepare her sister to see her again in the flesh, as opposed to within the harrowing confines of the Fade. If nothing else, they could avoid some of the more fraught discussions they were probably due for by gossiping about Varric.

She smiled inwardly. They’d had important things to go over in their letters -- Hawke’s newfound, Fade-touched mage abilities, the Inquisition bearing its weight to pardon her, the logistics of assimilating back into life at the estate, the devastation with the Wardens, Corypheus’ false Calling -- but she’d been gratified to read her sister’s response to her romance with Varric:

What? WHAT??? SISTER! Tell me EVERYTHING!

At least some things, like gossip between sisters, never changed.

They stopped just short of the city walls, Hawke adjusting the straps on her pack. The gates of the city looked the same as she remembered them, but this time she wasn’t a refugee fleeing the Blight in Ferelden. She was coming home.

She tried to remind herself of this, but home had been such a nebulous concept the past few years, between fleeing with Anders, saying goodbye to him, and then scrambling to help Warden Alistair and the Inquisition with the threat of Corypheus. She half-expected the guards to stop them at the gate and insist on knowing their business, but they seemed to recognize Varric and waved them through without another glance.

“I quite thought people might holler at me and call me Champion,” Hawke muttered. “Arrogant of me, perhaps, to assume people remembered.” Is it such a bad thing, if they’ve forgotten?

“You have a very different silhouette in your travel gear,” Varric pointed out. “Right now you’re just another traveler. An uncommonly beautiful one --”

“Rubbish. We’ve been on the road for weeks, I know what a fright I must look --”

“-- but to anyone looking, you’re just another traveler all the same,” said Varric, sublimely ignoring her. “You want to cause a ruckus? Paint a smear of red kaddis across your nose and put on the Champion’s armor, and you’ll see these people lose their shit.”

But her face was bare aside from travel dirt and a new scar or two, and her Champion’s armor was bundled safely in her pack. After the disorientation of the Fade, seeing wisps and spirits by the dozens taking on her form, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to put on the old red and black. Maybe after she had reclaimed her place here….

“Fair enough,” she said. “Maker, it’ll be good to get back to Hightown.” She adjusted her pack, yawning as she did so.

They made their way up through streets still busy despite the late hour and dim light, though she was pleased to see more lamplight than she remembered. Lights in the streets were safer, better than the dark corners she remembered fighting so many battles in. She wished she was more awake after their long journey to take things in, but they were climbing the stairs to Hightown in what felt like a flash, exhaustion blurring the details.

She did note one detail: Varric deliberately avoided taking the path that crossed near the Chantry. Where it used to be, anyway.

They stood before the Hawke estate suddenly, jarringly. Amell red banners hung still instead of fluttering, the evening spring breeze having faded some time ago. Hawke laughed, the noise ringing in the square. “Well! It’s really still standing.”

“You were expecting…?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time. I hoped it’d be the same, but… wasn’t particularly optimistic about it.” She shook her head. “My key’s still buried in my pack. I forgot to get it out. It’s been rather a long time since I needed one.”

“”S’all right,” said Varric. He dipped into a pocket in his cloak, pulling out the spare key she’d given him upon leaving Kirkwall, and slid it into the door.

“You still have it,” said Hawke, giving him a tremulous smile.

“You told me to keep it safe,” said Varric, gazing up at her. “You know I’d never let you down.”

“I know it. Maker, don’t I know it.”

He pushed open the door, but it was dark within, the manor carrying that heavy feeling unique to an empty home. “That’s strange,” he said. “I thought Bethany was going to meet us.”

“I did, too.” She frowned, finding her way in the dark by feel. She searched for the hall lamp -- yes, there it was. Light flared out. She spotted a parchment on the side table and picked it up, reading aloud.

“‘Dear Min, I’m afraid I’ve had to go to Sundermount on urgent business. There’s been a darkspawn attack in the area, and I’ve gone with Molossus to sort it out. Don’t worry - he’s strictly on guard dog duty at his age. We should be back soon to help you and Varric settle in. Make yourselves at home. Bethany.’” She lowered the parchment, fighting mingled disappointment and relief.

Varric patted her on the back. “Well, it’ll give you some time to get used to the place again.” He gave her one of his big, easy grins, but she could see a hint of wariness on his face as well. He’s worried about me.

She sighed, looking around the dim front room lit by the flickering lamp. Perhaps I’m worried about me too.

***

It took Varric a few moments to pin it down, the tension stiffening in her back and jaw, the way her steps faltered. She moved here like a guest, like she was in a museum, and it tore at him to realize it.

She was too careful with her things after they’d climbed the stairs to her room. She opened the bedroom door the way one might ask a question, and once the room was lit, she seemed unsure of where to put her things. The bed was freshly made, and no dust had settled here -- last he’d heard, Bethany had Orana by once a week to help clean up around the place -- but Hawke’s face looked stricken all the same.

“You all right?” he asked. “It’s a lot, I know.”

“Like walking into a bloody mausoleum.” She blinked wide eyes at him. “You’ll stay here with me, won’t you?”

“I hoped you’d ask that, since I had them move my things from the Hanged Man into storage almost a year ago,” said Varric, trying to keep his tone light. “I mean, I could always squat at Bartrand’s old place, but I think I’ll pass. Last I heard it had a lively vermin population I’d rather not displace.”

Hawke sighed. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Of course they’ve not held your room at the Hanged Man, not after all this time. I’m sorry you got pulled into all this, Varric. Leaving Kirkwall. The Inquisition. Corypheus. All of it.”

“That goes both ways, Sparrow. You didn’t ask for this either,” he said softly.

“Still. I’d thought -- well, I don’t know. That things would be just as we’d both left them, I suppose.” Hawke raised a hand, gesturing to the arrangement in the bedroom. “There used to be plants from Merrill on the windowsill. Daisies, a buttercup, embrium… just pretty things she said reminded her of me. They must have died after…” Her voice trailed off. “And did you see how many books there are in the study now? They must be breeding. And the furniture’s been moved, and there’s a new dog bed for Molossus by the hearth, and it’s -- Have I made a mistake, do you think? Coming back here?”

She sank down heavily on the bed, resting her face in her hands, and Varric clambered up beside her. Under his breath he cursed the height of the four-poster, and wondered vaguely if he might sneak a stepstool into the room later.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder. “It’s all right to take a minute.”

“I might need rather more than a minute,” she said thickly. “Four years I’ve been trying to get back here, Varric, and now I’m here and I’ve no idea if it’s even home anymore.”

Varric slipped his arm around her, resting his head against her. Her chest rose and fell beneath his cheek, and she leaned against him, sighing.

“I know a little about that,” he said quietly, speaking into the spaces between her ragged breaths. “Skyhold’s… important. I need to be there, to make up for the part I’ve played. But the Inquisition’s not home.”

“Good,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “So you’ll definitely be coming back once your work with the Inquisition is done.”

He chuckled. “You doubted me? I’m wounded, Hawke.” He felt the smile falter, and he glanced up at her, catching her eye. “Things change. But there’ll always be a place for you in Kirkwall. This is still your city. It’s just gonna take some time.”

“And I have it, thanks to you and your friends and the Inquisitor,” she said. “It’s still hard to believe. Not just no longer having to hide, but being in the Fade… knowing what it’s done to me… I just hope Bethany and Merrill can help me figure things out.” Her face fell.

“If you can survive the Fade, the Arishok, and Kirkwall in general, I know you’ll make it work. I mean, it’s weird as shit. But you’ve got this,” said Varric firmly, giving her a little shake. He’d only seen her like this a few times in their long friendship; when Bethany went to the Wardens, when Leandra died, and when she knew that things were starting to go wrong with Anders. She’d come through those times before. He knew she could do it again.

Didn’t she know it, too?

She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “Well, perhaps we ought not to have such weighty conversations after so much traveling. Everything feels fuzzy and far away after so long on the road. Though at least I had a good companion at my side.” She hugged him, hard, then slipped off the bed and began undressing. “What do you say, master dwarf, care to join me?”

“You know you don’t even have to ask.”

***

Bethany sat beside her, overlooking their Lothering farm. “Things are changing, Min,” she said mildly.

Hawke leaned back, crossing her hands behind her head, and stared up at the clouded summer sky. Green light flickered around the edges of the clouds, creating shifting patterns that reminded her of something important, something heavy. “I hope you’ll be proud of me, whatever happens,” Hawke said.

Bethany merely raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t all about you, you know,” she said. “Perhaps things are changing for me as well.”

“For all of us,” said Anders, gaunt and sallow in his black robes. He sat down beside them, watching green wisps dance over the fields. A dull black smudge hung heavy in the sky beyond the horizon’s edge.

“Oh, Maker’s arse,” said Hawke irritably. “This is turning into one of those creepy mage dreams again, isn’t it.”

“It doesn’t have to,” said Varric, shirtless and broad-shouldered, his smile broad, his eyes glinting with a violet sheen. “Unless you think my ravishing chest hair is creepy.”

“Come off it,” Hawke groaned. “Can’t I ever just sleep again? I’m so wretchedly tired after the journey, and you lot of spirits or demons or whatever you are are not helping. Who are you really? Bethany -- guilt, is it? And Anders? Oh I don’t even want to untangle whatever you are right now. And Varric, really, desire? I can wake up and have the real Varric, thank you very much.”

The faces of her loved ones twisted and shimmered, sliding into forms inhuman and half-recognized. “I’m quite tired of this, you know,” she grumbled, and the farm shifted into the Fade as she knew it all too well, a formless place of rocks and dripping water and broken green sky. She sat down on a stone hovering ten feet in the air -- after all, it was about will here, and she willed having someplace to sit down and rest -- and wrapped her arms around herself, wondering if she’d ever get used to mage dreams.

***

Varric blinked. The darkness around him was heavy, but there was a glimmer of pre-dawn light edging the bedroom window. Varric rolled over and realized Hawke’s breathing had changed. “You awake, too?”

“It’s these dreams,” she said sleepily, burrowing against him to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know how Bethany and Anders and Merrill stand them. I thought once I’d left the Fade that I’d really, you know, left the Fade.”

“You and me both,” Varric said, breathing in the scent of her. He’d never tire of this, not as long as he lived, he thought. “I know it’s not the same thing, but Solas says I’ll dream like humans now, and I gotta say, it’s weird as shit. I think I dreamed I was drowning inside a giant tankard at the Hanged Man while the Inquisitor did backflips into it. How do people actually have time to rest with all that crap going on?”

“I don’t know. They used to just be funny scenes like that for me, or sometimes something scary or just plain strange, but it used to seem normal. A bit of a holiday from the waking world. Now it’s like… things in the Fade see me. I’m not the only one there,” she said, clearly discomfited. “I dreamed--” She burst into giggles. “Oh dear. I remember now. A desire demon tried to tempt me.”

“And how’d it do that?”

“How d’you think?” she asked, kissing his cheek, his neck, his shoulder. “It impersonated this particularly dashing dwarf I happen to know rather well.”

“Ahhh. Bodahn, naturally.”

“You’re incorrigible, Varric. I love you for it, but really, you are.”

“All part of my charm,” he murmured, kissing her.

Here in the pre-dawn dark, the world of dreams seemed far and distant when there was Hawke against him, warm and real and soft. They could figure that shit out in the morning. For now, they could lose themselves in each other, in skin and sweat, in whispered words, in kisses beneath the lightening gray.

And the Fade? It could just go fuck itself.

-

Chapter 2: Making the Rounds

[lesetoilesfous]

I can’t decide if I want “sensory overload” or “on a leash” for Fenris and Fenders, so um, whichever sparks your interest please!

Oh my gosh I had too much fun with this. And "on a leash" gives me a bingo, thank you so so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Prompt: On A Leash

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Slavery, Brainwashing, Mindwipe, Implied Sexual Abuse, Attempted Prositution, Graphic Depiction of Injury

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Isabela, Varric Tethras, Merrill

Additional Tags: Angst with a Bittersweet Ending, Hurt/Comfort (mostly), Evil/Red Hawke, post-canon, what if Hawke sold Fenris back to Danarius and then the gang went and saved him

Anders knew it was going to be bad. He was - had been - blinded by his own ignorance and pain in the past, too busy trying to scream loud enough to get people to stop ignoring the people murdering children to listen to anyone else. He’d been young and single minded and irrational, and then older and bitter and furious with a terrible, poisonous kind of pain that made it hard to see the world around him. But he wasn’t naive. He’d spent ten years nursing criminals and refugees. Before that, he’d spent nearly a decade in the Grey Wardens, with former slaves and blood mages and Dalish hunters and Antivan crows. Anders had not been naive since he’d first drunk from the Joining Chalice.

Still.

It’s almost impossible to see in the placid, polite, half-naked man the proud warrior he’d once known. Fenris’ hair has been shaved close to his head, a fuzz of powdered snow that’s bright as the moon against his brown skin. There’s a thick, silver collar hanging around his neck, and in it the reflections of his lyrium tattoos twist and shine like mercury. His chest is mostly bare, and thin white linen is wrapped in a loose skirt around his waist. His body is sculpted and unmarred and beautiful, and Anders does not for a moment believe that it means he has not suffered pain. His wide, green eyes no longer hold any of the intelligence, or humour, or fury that Anders had once fallen in love with. Instead he stares, docile, into the middle distance. A greatsword is slung on a strap of leather over his back, but like this Fenris looks no more capable of wielding it than a kitten. Again, Anders knows better than to trust in appearances.

Attached to the collar is a long, silver chain that ends in a black loop of leather. There are runes stitched into the leather in silver thread, though Anders cannot see what they are from where he’s sitting. Opposite him, relaxed, fingers hooked in the loop of Fenris’ leash, Danarius studies him with open curiosity.

Anders tries very hard not to vomit.

“So, you’re a Spirit Healer?”

Anders ducks his head, feeling his fingers beginning to shake and fighting hard to resist the urge to fidget. There’s a clocktower visible through the white marble arches of this balcony. He only has to last until the hour. Five minutes. He can do this. He tries very hard not to look at Fenris, or the way Danarius’ thumb is stroking possessively over the handle of his leash.

“I - I am, yes. I showed a talent for it when I was young.” Anders twists his hand in the air, summoning a wisp without catching his breath, and Danarius gives him the same indulgent, condescending schoolteacher kind of smile that Uldred used to offer before he beat you. Anders snaps his fingers, and the wisp returns to the Fade. At the back of his mind, Justice shifts uneasily, trying hard to resist his own urge to set the whole blighted mansion on fire. Anders tries to ignore the heat racing up the back of his neck and into his cheeks, and clears his throat. “I, uh, heard you were looking for apprentices?”

He can’t help the nervous tic that has him looking up, again, at Fenris as the lithe strength of his muscles. Again, he looks into those green eyes, searching for the spark of defiance that had drawn him so close so many years ago, like a moth to a flame worth dying for. “I’ve read your work an anatomical augmentation. It’s...fascinating.” Horrifying, he means. Anders had read the essays, in preparation for this. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop having the nightmares. Not least the ones which superimpose Fenris’ face and body over the all too familiar anatomical sketches of Elven Subject 003.

Danarius twitches his hand with a tinkle of the chain like the ringing of a bell, and to Anders’ horror Fenris folds onto his hands and knees in one fluid motion to kneel beside Danarius’ feet. No emotion passes across Fenris’ face. Danarius runs his fingers over the fuzz of Fenris’ shaved head, and Fenris shuts his eyes in open, simple pleasure and Anders nearly throws up. Danarius runs his fingers down the back of Fenris’ neck, squeezing the back of it posssessively before looking up at Anders’ with a terribly possessive gleam in his clear grey eyes. “You’re a fan of my little wolf, then.”

Anders swallows the bile in his throat and stares at the clocktower. Three minutes. He can do this. Sweat tickles down his spine beneath the loose Tevene linen robe he’d bought for this occasion. He resists the urge to fuss with his hair, braided out of the way of his neck and ears in a fashionable Minrathous style. He forces himself to incline his chin. “Y-yes. Among other p-things. Among other things.”

Danarius chuckles, sitting back with a creak of his wicker chair, the crushed purple silk cushions huffing behind him as he moves. “Why so nervous?” Anders forces himself to huff a self deprecating laugh. “You knew him, didn’t you. In Kirkwall.” Anders’ jagged, insincere smile stiffens on his lips and Danarius laughs, moving forward to press both hands onto Fenris’ bare shoulders. Fenris shudders and looks up at him, eyes wide as a child’s. Danarius caresses the back of his head, and leans down to murmur intimately close to his ear, still loud enough for Anders to hear. “Do you recognise him, little wolf? Do you know who this is?”

For the first time since Anders had arrived at Danarius’ damn mansion, Fenris’ expression shows a flicker of emotion. Confusion flickers across his brow in a brief wrinkle followed by sudden, mute fear that freezes his expression with stiff tension when Danarius slips his fingers beneath Fenris’ collar and shakes him, gently. (Like a dog, Anders thinks, and imagines what setting this man on fire would smell like.) Danarius laughs, polite and performative. “How rude, Fenris! This man has come all the way from Kirkwall just to see you! Go on, thank him.”

Fenris hesitates for a millisecond, and Danarius sets a sandaled foot on his shoulder and kicks him forward hard enough that he chokes, briefly, as the leash goes taut and pulls on the collar around his neck. Anders sits forward without thinking, the muscle memory of ten years spent protecting this man’s life before Garrett Hawke ruined them both taking over any conscious thought of deception. Danarius doesn’t remark on him giving himself away - Anders is well aware that that game is long since given up.

Instead, the magister sits back, adjusting his grip on the handle of Fenris’ leash as Fenris sits up with tears of pain bright in his eyes, his fingers moving to dip beneath the skirt of Anders’ robes as he lowers his head towards Anders’ lap.

Anders has about three seconds to look up at Danarius and see the perverse glee in the old man’s eyes before Fenris' mouth bumps his cock through the fabric of his robes and his smalls, and suddenly Anders is two years younger on his back in The Hanged Man with his hands buried deep in silver hair thinking hopelessly that he’s fallen in love again.

Then he’s touching Fenris - ignoring the lightning bolt of rage that twists Danarius’ face as he does so, and gently pushing him away. Fenris looks up at him with an expression of quickly stifled terror, and Anders’ heart shatters. “No, no, it’s alright, it’s not you.” His fingers squeeze, reflexively, against the warm, smooth skin of Fenris’ biceps. “It’s going to be ok. I promise, love.” Again, a flicker of confusion wrinkles Fenris’ brow.

The clocktower strikes twelve. As the bells ring throughout the city, Anders becomes abruptly aware of the street below them: the sound of hawkers and tourists, the shouting of slaves and soft music of minstrels. Danarius is staring at him with a sneer twisting his thin lips blue. Anders gives him a wide, open smile. “Well, since we’ve given up on pretenses.” Then he punches Danarius in the face, harder than he's punched anyone since he escaped Kinloch Hold, relishing the way the man’s nose buckles beneath his fist.

He has a heartbeat to think, Nice job bleeding a Blood Mage, idiot, before Danarius’ blue-veined hand is curling into a rigid claw, and Anders’ body is lifting off the ground, his limbs contorting behind him in an agonising rictus that rips his left arm out of its socket and twists his ankle until it cracks.

Then there’s a thunderous BOOM that rumbles through the building, shaking plaster dust from the painted canopy over their heads, and the balcony on which they’re standing begins to list like a ship at sea. Danarius loses concentration on the spell, and Anders falls to the ground. He doesn’t take the time to breathe through the white hot splinter of pain in his ankle. He grabs the leash and pulls fire into his hands until his fingers are blistering and melts the metal until it breaks. Then he turns to Fenris.

Fenris, who has drawn his greatsword. Anders stares at him, and thinks about sitting with him beside a fireplace, sleepy and soft with wine, and stroking his hair as Fenris admitted that of all the things he feared, one of the ones that terrified him most was killing his friends. The building lists with a grinding rumble like a broken bone beneath a qunari sten, and amphorae and flower pots go flying across the tiled floor, hitting the building across the street in fireworks of soil and clay dust.

Anders’ bad ankle slips on the tiles and he grunts and turns it into a smile, and meets Fenris’ eyes. “No matter what, I want you to know that I forgive you.”

Then he runs forward and tackles Fenris, throwing them both off the side of the balcony. Behind them, Danarius screams, and Anders calls up a shield around them both that materialises a hair’s breadth away from the clinging red vines of Danarius' magic.

It’s only when they’re airborne that Anders registers the blade skewered through his chest.

He breathes, and salt and copper splatter against his lips and tongue. For a moment, in the golden, multicoloured kaleidoscope of sky and street, suspended in the air in a terrible embrace, everything is quiet. Fenris frowns at him, and blinks, and his green eyes flood suddenly with recognition and grief as he looks down at the sword hilt between them, intimate as a lover’s embrace. “Anders.”

Anders grins at him, and thinks he isn’t crying because of the pain, his tears rising behind him as they fall like backwards rain. He cradles Fenris’ head in his hand, and wraps his arms around his shoulders, and chokes as his organs shudder against the blade attempting to split him in two, and he feels Justice’s presence building in his mind like lightning in a thundercloud. “Be right back.”

*

What happens next returns to Anders in snatches of lucidity. Justice takes over, and draws the fade around them like a cloak as they fall through the wall of the building across the street like a comet. Fenris is unharmed and panicking, covered in Anders’ blood, his white linen skirt pink and red with it, the damn collar still locked around his neck. Justice had drawn the sword out of their chest and filled the wound with a magic simulacra of the blood vessels, muscles, organs and nervous system that needed to be there, in the way he had once reconstructed Kristoff’s corpse. (Both of them had quailed, at that comparison, but neither had time to linger on it.)

The building they’d fallen into was, of course, riddled with magisters, but before Justice could exorcise his frustration with a little smiting, all three men and women were dead with a bolt to the back of the head. Isabela appeared from the shadows in a puff of smoke like a mage herself, and Varric waved at them to follow him onto a waiting carriage. Merrill barely waited for them to get on board before she snapped the reins, and they bolted into the panicking crowds, most of whom were running to get away from the collapsing mansion.

In the carriage, consciousness had begun to make its slippery way out of Justice’s hands like a wriggling fish. Both of them had registered Fenris’ wide-eyed panic: the way he’d stared at their old friends with no hint of recognition, and held Anders’ arm so tightly it would bruise. But at that point, the blood loss had overcome them both, and they had passed out to Fenris shouting Tevene interspersed with Anders’ name, and Isabela trying to understand why.

*

Two years after Garrett Hawke sells him back into slavery, Anders, Isabela, Varric and Merrill free Fenris from Danarius’ service. They don’t go back to Kirkwall - all of them are too conscious of the so-called Champion’s stomping grounds to trust those streets. But Isabela has a contact in the Antivan Crows (or formerly of them - it’s complicated), so instead they go to Antiva City. Two days later, Anders wakes up.

Fenris is staring at him, wearing real clothes that seem to sit uncomfortably on his shoulders. His collar is gone, and there’s a small frown on his brow - a lifting of his eyebrows towards the bridge of his nose that he always used to wear when he was puzzling over particularly cramped handwriting (or, later into his studies, when he was attempting to accurately interpret and summarise abstract Qunari poetry). Anders breathes, and his chest sets itself on fire, and he groans and lets his head fall back against the richly perfumed pillow behind his head. It does relatively little to drown out the thick stench of hot leather that is as thick in the air as molasses.

Fenris startles when he moves, and stands, moving to the door. Anders frowns at him, turning his head to one side with all the energy he can muster. “Where’r’you’goin’?”

Fenris hesitates, turning back to him before lowering his gaze to stare at his still bare feet. There are new scars there, Anders registers, sadly, in neat white bands around his ankles. “I thought I’d fetch the mistress.”

Anders snorts, “Have you told her you’re calling her that?” He tries again to force himself to sit up, and Fenris starts forward, hands freezing in the air between them. His fingernails are neatly, perfectly filed and it ruins Anders’ tentatively building appetite.

“You really shouldn’t be moving.”

Anders grins, trying to ignore the sweat running down his temples as pain racks through every muscle in his body. “Why? Worried I’m going to split in two?” Fenris grimaces, and Anders grunts, giving up and collapsing to the bed with a thunderbolt of pain. “OW. Sorry. Bad joke.” There’s a rustle of fabric, and when Anders is able to stop seeing stars, he turns to find Fenris on his knees beside the bed, head lowered, hands palm up in front of him. “What in the name of Andraste’s perfect silky knickers are you doing?” Anders asks as if he doesn’t know. He thinks it’s going to be easier not to take this seriously, at first. At least whilst he recovers from the mortal injury.

Fenris flinches, and Anders regrets his bad attempt at humour, feeling Justice rumbling in the back of his head like a bowel movement. “Sorry, sorry. Look, Fenris, I’m not going to...punish you, or fuck you, or whatever it is you think I’m going to do to you. I actually have a very busy day planned of, uh, staring at that crack on the ceiling and pretending it doesn’t hurt when I breathe. Or speak. Fuck. I talk too much. I need to - ow - work on that.”

For a long moment, Fenris says nothing. Outside, there’s the sound of someone playing violin in the street, and the rich, warm sound of Antivan spoken loudly and with laughter. Now that he’s acclimatising to the leather, Anders thinks he can smell cured meat frying, and he’s beginning to reconsider his aborted appetite. He’s trying so hard to see if he can actually hear the sizzling of street food that he almost doesn’t hear Fenris’ voice when he speaks, barely above a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” Anders responds, more muscle memory than conscious - hey he doesn’t remember anything about you maybe we should start slowly - thought. Fenris stares at him, eyes wide, though his mouth twists in apprehension before he smooths it back into impassivity.

“Domine - My master loves me.”

Anders sighs, falling back in the bed to stare up at the crack in the ceiling and try to ignore the hot-cold flushes of pain rocking up through his body. “You don’t remember anything about me, so I’m not going to take that personally.”

Fenris is very still. “You do not...like him?”

Anders chuckles, and regrets it when his tattered organs throw a violent protest. “What gave that away.”

“You broke his nose.” Fenris says, solemnly, and Anders does laugh then, so hard he thinks it splits something open, and he finds himself clutching at his side in the sudden fear that his organs are going to fall out. When he can breathe again, he coughs on his dry mouth and shifts his gaze to Fenris, who’s watching him with wide eyes and the curl of a smile at the corner of his lips which Anders doesn’t think he knows he’s doing.

Anders’ gaze falls to a pewter jug of water on the bedside table and a wooden cup beside it. It may as well be in the Nocen sea, for all the nauseating pain running through him.

“Would you please pour me a glass of water?”

Fenris immediately hurries to obey with a soft, stifled sigh of something terribly like relief. He offers Anders the cup, and when Anders’ shaking, sweating fingers slip on the wood his hand comes up to cup the back of Anders’ head whilst the other pours the cup against his lips. The feeling of Fenris’ fingers in his hair, after so many years, holding him like this, is almost too much for Anders to bear. He keeps his eyes shut for a long time after swallowing, and breathes as tears tickle between the seams of his eyelids and run quietly down his cheeks.

Fenris’ thumb gently catches a tear and brushes it away from his skin, and Anders forces himself to open his eyes and stare up at the elf in the sunshine yellow and orange painted room in which he’s been laid to recuperate. Fenris meets his eyes, so briefly Anders thinks perhaps he imagined it, and draws his hand away. “My master said that I knew you. But that I had forgotten.” Fenris hesitates, mouth stiffening into a firm line that is so painfully familiar Anders thinks he’d choose the greatsword again. Then he looks up, “Did I - did we - it seems as if I meant a great deal to you.”

Anders smiles at him, though his lips tremble, and tries to ignore the feeling of his heart breaking. Outside, on the street, an older woman walks past, singing quietly to herself and humming when she forgets the words. “I think we meant a great deal to each other.”

Fenris purses his lips, and looks away, out of the window. Over the street, the silver-green leaves of an olive tree brush the windows of nearby buildings. Elsewhere in the building, Anders can hear the familiar purr of Isabela, and Merrill’s chirping, and the soft old gravel growl of Varric. Occasionally, the floorboards creak when they move across the lower floors. At last, Fenris’ shoulders drop, and he shakes his head. “I don’t remember you.” The words are rich with regret and apology.

Anders blinks against the new tears tickling his cheeks, and shakes his head. “I know.” Then he reaches out, his fingers cold and numb with pins and needles. Stiffly, fumbling, he grabs Fenris’ fingertips in his own like a much older man, and squeezes them. “I just wanted you to be free.”

[kirkwallgremlin]

Giveaway fic #1

for @jewishtabris, featuring Arana Tabris, Zevran and their toddler Alma 💙

Zevran watched his opponent, stepping to the side as she stepped towards him. It wasn’t hard to avoid her - his daughter was, after all, only two years old. She giggled as she toddled towards him again, poking at him with the blunt knife she clutched in her hand.

He wondered if the kitchens knew they were missing one of their butter knives.

“You have wounded me, Alma,” he said as the knife made contact, clutching his hands dramatically against his stomach. “I am bested by your superior knowledge and skill.”

He stumbled back, dropping to the ground in an exaggerated movement. Still giggling, the toddler followed him back, brandishing her knife before her.

“Win!” she said, climbing atop Zevran’s chest, her tiny fingers grasping at his tunic as she pulled herself closer. He steadied her with his own hands as she beamed at him.

“You are a master already,” he told her, brushing a few strands of dark hair from the side of her face. “But, dear one, I fear you neglect one vital piece of information.”

She gazed at him, the meaning of his words beyond her but clearly still delighted by the time and attention with her father.

“You forget I can do this,” he continued, scooping her up in his arms. She squealed with laughter as he buried his face against her stomach, her fingers in his hair.

“Don’t take your loss too personally,” he told her, clutching his daughter safely in his arms as he stood again. “You were up against an expert former Antivan Crow. One of the best, so they say.”

“Win!” she said again, her knife still clutched in her hand, and Zevran shook his head.

“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that logic,” he said, lifting Alma high up into the air as she giggled again.

“More!” she said. “Up! Up, Papi!”

“As you wish,” Zevran said, raising her once again before dipping her down low. The knife still clutched in her hand slipped, clattering to the ground and they both jumped.

“Knife,” Alma said, pointing frantically at the ground. “My knife.”

Behind them, somebody coughed and both Zevran and the toddler in his arms turned to look at the elf standing in the doorway. His partner didn’t look at all impressed, and Zevran could understand why. Her experiences with weapons at a young age - much like his own - had been significantly less safe or enjoyable than the game he and Alma had found.

“Mame!” Alma said, twisting in Zevran’s arms, her own arms outstretched, the knife apparently forgotten. He set her down to run across the room to her mother. He could reassure his partner of their daughter’s safety later.

“I missed you, my love,” Arana said, pressing a kiss against Alma’s cheek as she lifted her, the kiss followed by a second.

“We missed you too,” Zevran told her. “How was your trip?”

“Busy.” She smiled fondly at her family, though a hint of emotion, of worry and fear, still lingered. “I’m glad to be home.”

“And we are glad to have you,” he said, Alma’s tiny hand against his face as he kissed her mother on the cheek.

“Knife!” Alma said again, straining in Arana’s arms, the exciting new toy suddenly back in her memory. The woman’s arms tightened around her, seemingly hesitant to set her daughter down but Alma was persistent. She raced towards the metal object as soon as her feet touched the ground, demonstrating an impressive amount of speed for somebody so small as she scooped it up again.

Arana looked at Zevran.

“Why does our child have a knife?” she asked, her tone making it clear she wasn’t pleased at the development, and Zevran smiled sheepishly. He’d had the same question earlier.

“I believe it was a gift from Sigrun,” he said. “Apparently she tried to make her way into the armoury with a group of Wardens while Anders was watching her. They said she walked right in like she’d been there all her life.”

“I can imagine,” Arana said, her voice softening, watching the toddler confidently stomp her way around the room, brandishing the knife in question in front of her.

“I thought it safer to let her keep it than allow her to find an alternative, should she keep seeking,” Zevran said, taking her hand in his own, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles against her skin.

“I just worry about her,” Ariana told him softly, her concern still clear. “I don’t want her to have to fight.”

“I know,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “I do too. But she is safe, having fun. There is no danger.”

Arana sighed, not looking convinced.

“She will not have the childhood we did,” Zevran assured her. “We can ensure this remains a game, something fun for her.”

Across the room, Alma wobbled, landing on her bottom as she overbalanced. From the expression on her face, she wasn’t quite sure if she should be upset at the development but Zevran stepped across the room to her regardless.

“We can keep her safe,” he promised, looking back at his partner as he scooped their daughter back into his arms. “Now. Have you bathed? Unpacked? Had a moment to yourself after all your hard work?”

He kissed Arana farewell, promising to bring Alma back to her after dinner, as she left the two of them alone once more. Alma waved goodbye to her as she left, still in Zevran’s arms.

“Now, let’s get you some food,” he said, carrying Alma towards the same door her mother had just left through. “And yes, you will be eating your vegetables tonight.”

“Veggie-bles,” Alma frowned and Zevran sighed.

“Perhaps we can negotiate,” he conceded.

And though the vegetables may be negotiable, he knew that his child’s safety never would be.

[tofiam]

Fenders

I started to write #18daysofFenders

My stories will be short and I'll finish as my work allows me. (So not on the deadline, probably.) You can find all of them here:

Luv ya! <3

And the first one:

1. Freedom

It wasn’t enough. He expected the world to change, to narrow, to give him some great relief which he couldn’t grasp. And it did, for a while, revenge tasted better than freedom and filled his belly, warmed his blood, pointed his steps. But no meal could sustain him forever. Now Danarius was dead and he felt lost like a doll without its limbs. Fenris tried to drink it away, until oblivion ideally. The second bottle only let him think more thoroughly, while he was watching a fire in his bedroom’s fireplace slowly die. He was too heavy to get up and put another log in it. One part of him also feared that if he moved, the fragile equilibrium between his emotions could shatter and the world could hear it and the world would take the freedom back. And maybe, just maybe he would be grateful. He felt like a crook, sitting on the dirty floor in the bedroom of the stolen mansion and not being happy enough. Fenris tipped the bottle upside down again, only to find it empty. He loosened the grip of his fingers and let it roll over the floor, the sound of glass made him chuckle but he didn’t know why. “Andrastes’ tits, you’re a mess,” a harsh familiar voice spoke from the door. Anders entered, grabbed a few wooden logs, put them in the fireplace and ignited them with magic. He reached out with his hands, warming them for a minute with a content half smile. Fenris was sure of the smile, although he couldn’t see his face clearly. It created a little dimple in his cheek, because once his face hasn’t been so bony and hollow. It was weird to notice such a thing about someone, however he also noticed how Varric clutched Bianka as if it’s the last thing under the sun and how Hawke still mourned Bethany and how Carver almost cried that one time he saw a girl with blue ribbons in her nut brown hair. Is that what freedom meant? The inescapable loss and torment? Then sure, he was free, venhedis. Anders turned to him, eyes glinting. “When I ran from the Circle for the third time, I really thought I had everything covered. So I went to Redcliff and ended up sloshed as a skunk. I still don’t remember how templars found me or how they transported me back.” He smiled, melancholically and proudly. “After that it became a little bit of a game of how far I could run. I knew they had methods to find me. They did, again and again. Becoming a Gray warden seemed like a liberation and lesser evil.” “Isn’t it a death sentence?” Fenris asked quietly. Anders laughed and sat next to him, feathers on his coat mingling with spikes on Fenris’ armor. “You didn’t really listen when I talked about the Circle, didn’t you? Because the Circle was worse, the only difference was that the Circle was an uncertain death sentence in methods of the end. The thing is, you don’t have to stay what you are. When you are free, you don’t have to do that.” “You said…” Fenris looked at him, “... that you are not my friend.” Anders sighed and stretched his long legs. Soles of his boots almost touched the brim of the fireplace. “I don’t want to be your friend. I would never be your friend, if I stayed in the Circle, and you would never be… well, you,” he replied, his tone sad and broken. Then he touched Fenris’ ear, almost shyly and hesitantly, long fingers gently caressing a helix and a lobe and sliding to his jaw. The touch burned him, yet coldness clenched his stomach. “I don’t know what to do,” Fenris admitted. Anders laughed, a little tingling laugh of someone exhausted by life itself but still living it and keeping score for a petty revenge. “That’s the bloody point. You don’t have to do anything, or everything.” “And you don’t have to stay not my friend,” Fenris pointed out. “That would be great,” Anders sighed, following silence heavy and bittersweet with unsaid wishes and promises. Fenris gulped the aftertaste of alcohol in his mouth and asked: “Can I kiss you?” “You don’t need my permission to do that.” And so Fenris did, clumsily, hands stupid from the bottles of wine, his lips moving lazily as Anders sucked them slightly, his body akwardly distorted to reach. When they broke

apart, Anders fingers playing with his ear again, the coldness in his stomach dissolved. He let his head fall into the feathers and smiled. Freedom smiled back.

[goth-surana]

Scars of the Past

Anders/M!Hawke, read on AO3

Written for the prompt “kiss on a scar” from @pinkfadespirit 

(Also pssst if anyone wants to give me some hurt/comfort handers prompts from this angst list I’m all ears)

Garrett Hawke was a humorous man, a man many accused of being irreverent and unable to take anything seriously. He was always ready with a joke, some witty comment to alleviate the situation. 

The one man who stopped Hawke in his tracks, however, was Anders. Anders was passionate, took things perhaps too seriously. He spoke with fire in his eyes and fury in his heart, and that set Hawke’s own heart ablaze. 

The two men had been dancing around each other for years now, and finally Hawke was waiting anxiously in his estate. He had left the door open, set the fire in his room, even groomed his beard somewhat and washed up. He had no idea how far Anders might want to go tonight, but Hawke would be ready for anything. Really, he just wanted the other man desperately. 

Anders did arrive, nervously confessed to some kind of “obsession” with him, which made Hawke grin and definitely stroked his ego a bit. 

Anders smiled back nervously, adorably. Hawke was giddy, had been waiting for this moment for so long. Had flirted badly for so long, and finally convinced Anders that he was serious. 

Anders kissed as passionately as he spoke, driven by some deep hunger inside. Hawke grasped the other man as he returned the kiss, wrapping his large arms around the man’s small frame. 

As the kissing grew more intense, as heat pooled inside Hawke’s body, as his own hunger grew, Hawke began to push Anders’ feathered coat from his shoulders. Anders let him, and the coat and all its ridiculous buckles eventually fell to the ground. Hawke sneaked a hand up Anders’ side, untucked the hem on his shirt and slid a hand alongside warm skin. 

Anders shivered under Hawke’s touch, and Hawke somehow wanted him even more. Even if all they did was fumble around tonight, Hawke just wanted to touch him. To feel the man he had admired for so long and to see him laid bare without the layers he kept around himself. Those layers were needed, Hawke knew the world was cruel to Anders and he had to protect himself, but Hawke wanted to create a place where Anders did not need protective walls. 

Or clothes, ideally. 

Hawke put another arm inside Anders’ shirt, began to lift, but then felt Anders go stiff under him. And not the kind of stiff he had been hoping for. 

“Anders?” Hawke asked, pulling back slightly. He still held on, but kept his touch light so that Anders knew he could get away if he wanted. Maker, Hawke hoped he didn’t want to.

Anders stayed, but looked worried. “Uh, I’m not…I’m not much to look at.”

“I beg to differ,” Hawke grinned, trying to boost Anders’ self esteem. 

“I mean I’m not...I don’t want to disappoint you,” Anders said, not meeting Hawke’s eyes. “I haven’t been with anyone for a while, and not since...uh...since Justice.”

“Is he not okay with this?” Hawke asked, heart sinking.

“He’s fine with me being with you, although it took some arguing. I’m just not as pretty under my clothes, that’s all.”

“Anders, I assure you I very much want to see what’s under your clothes,” Hawke said, again trying for levity. 

“I know,” Anders said quietly. “I want to be with you too. I just...you’re so handsome, and I’m...Well, you’ll see.”

“If you don’t want to do anything else tonight, that’s fine,” Hawke said earnestly. Sure, he would be disappointed, but Hawke would respect Anders’ boundaries. Anders shook his head, steeling himself. 

“No, I want to do this. I just...I’m just nervous.”

“It’s okay,” whispered Hawke.

Anders took a breath, then began to remove his shirt. Hawke watched inches of skin revealed slowly, and then understood. 

First off, Anders was skinny, too skinny. But that wasn’t as noticeable as the multiple scars that were scattered across the man’s chest. Most prominent was a large patch of scar tissue stretched over his heart. The wound must have been gaping, Hawke realized with a sinking feeling. 

The other scars were small things, no doubt scrapes from his time in the Wardens. Battle marks that were low priority on a battlefield when he needed his mana for other uses.

After casting his shirt aside, Anders looked around the room nervously. Hawke tried not to openly stare at the chest wound, but he probably failed. 

“What…” Hawke couldn’t stop himself from asking. “What did that?”

Anders let out a low chuckle. “See, it ruined the mood. That was from Rolan, one of the Wardens. Former Templar.”

Hawke placed a broad hand over the mark, marveling at it. “How did you...survive this?,” he whispered into the room. Hawke knew Anders led a dangerous life, but it was another thing to know something had almost taken the man from him before they even met. 

Anders took a moment to reply. “Justice,” he said. “It was after we merged. Rolan tried to kill us, but Justice saved me. The sword...it went through us.”

“Maker…” Hawke breathed out, running a thumb along the edge of the scar. 

“Ugly, isn’t it?” Anders asked, smiling sardonically. 

“No,” Hawke answered, stronger than he meant to. “It means you survived. You’re beautiful, all of you.” 

Anders looked like he didn’t know how to respond, only looking into Hawke’s eyes. Hawke placed a hand on his elbow and gently led him to the bed, guiding him to lie down. Anders settled back against the pillows, still looking at Hawke in awe and confusion. Hawke lay on his side, peering over Anders. Again, he touched the gnarled flesh, stroking it. 

Anders took a sharp breath. He covered Hawke’s hand with his, still unsure. 

Hawke leaned down, slowly, questioning. Anders let him kiss him again, this time more gentle and less frenzied. More of a slow press of lips. Hawke liked kissing Anders this way just as much. As the two men kissed, Hawke ran his hand over Anders’ chest some more, feeling for all the small scars along the way. He caressed them, almost, wanting no doubt in Anders’ mind that they were just as beautiful as the rest of him. 

Anders tensed under him again when Hawke ran a hand over his shoulder, slightly behind him, and Hawke felt why immediately. There were scars there too. Hawke pulled back, and looked at Anders. 

“May I see?” Hawke asked. If Anders still wanted some part of him hidden, Hawke was fine with that. After all, Hawke had felt from the shape what kinds of marks these were. What had caused them. Hawke’s heart ached for the man in his bed, but he didn’t want to get emotional. Anders might view that as his own fault. 

Anders nodded, then sat up and turned around, baring his back to Hawke. All across his back were the unmistakable marks of a whip, slow and methodical. Hawke thought he could handle seeing what he knew was there, but the image of Anders being brutalized sent a fury through his veins. He took a deep breath. 

“From my fourth escape,” Anders said, somewhat distantly. “The Templars that caught me weren’t too happy. The circle didn’t, uh...sanction this, but it happened all the same.”

Hawke touched these scars too, soothing his hand up and down. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say. He also didn’t want to think about how something must have stopped Anders from healing the damage, how it would have been deliberate. A disgusting act of violence and vitriol. 

Boldly, unthinkingly, Hawke leaned down to kiss the place between Anders’ shoulder blades. The man shivered under him, let out a small breath. 

Hawke couldn’t quite form the words, but he wanted Anders to know that these were beautiful too. They too meant he had survived. Every mark on his body was a testament to how Anders had looked a cruel world in the face and said no. Said he would live, despite it all. 

Hawke moved up, kissing a scar that ran across his shoulder, hoping his actions could convey the words that were caught in his throat. 

“You’re being very serious right now,” Anders commented. “No jokes this time?”

“Nothing here to joke about,” Hawke said, his voice thick. “Just...turn around, okay?” 

Anders complied, facing Hawke. Hawke guided him back down, and situated himself over the other man. He leaned down and placed a kiss over the scar on Anders’ heart. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hawke said. 

“That’s sometimes hard to believe,” Anders admitted. 

“Well,” Hawke replied, smiling somewhat. “I have all night to convince you, if you’ll let me.”

Anders also smiled, a smile that lit a fire in Hawke’s heart. A smile that could rival a sunset. 

“I would like that very much.” 

[rainwolfheart]

for the writing prompts! could you do “That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.” for Anders/Nathaniel (i also love trans masc anders if you'd like to include that)

Thank you for the prompt! This was my first time writing Nanders and it was really fun!! @dadrunkwriting

rating: T

trigger warnings: mentions of sex

--

The bann requested formal attire. Not formal armour.

Anders hadn’t expected that to be such a dreadful idea until he was looking at his trunk. Aside from his Warden armour, he had standard-issue underclothes and nightshirts, his old Circle robes, mud-stained trousers he kept for sparring practice, a warm scarf from Dael, a heavy pair of winter gloves from Sigrun, and a silky shawl he had nicked from a visiting noblewoman who called him “an accident waiting to happen.” None of that seemed apt for a soirée, except perhaps the shawl, but it wasn’t his style.

“Anders! Almost ready?” asked Sigrun, through the door.

“No,” he groaned.

“Can I come in?”

“S’pose.”

Sigrun was grinning from ear to ear in a wine-red dress and leggings.

“Lillith hemmed this for me. Whaddaya think?” she asked.

“It’s pretty,” said Anders. “Has she got another?”

“You don’t have anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Never thought I would prefer to wear formal armour. But we runaways don’t get to keep a lot of nice things.”

“Velanna might have an extra dress that fits you, if you want. But I have a better idea!” said Sigrun. “Come on!”

Anders followed her into the hall, and opened his mouth just a moment too late to stop her

“Nate! You decent?” she said, to the door. Nathaniel said something, and Sigrun threw open the door, dragging Anders by the hand into the room.

“Anders needs nice clothes, and you’re like the same height so it probably fits!” said Sigrun.

Nathaniel met Anders’ eyes, an inquisitive smile on his face.

“Sure. I’ll sort him out,” said Nathaniel.

“Great! See you in a bit!”

Sigrun shut the door and Anders could swear he heard her giggle.

“Need help?” asked Nathaniel.

“I guess. You don’t have to…” said Anders.

“Well, I can’t let you embarrass yourself in front of the bann and her Orlesian husband,” said Nathaniel, deadpan. Anders rolled his eyes and took a step towards the wardrobe, following Nathaniel’s  hands with his eyes.

“I’m afraid my options are a little plain, but they should fit you,” said Nathaniel. He pulled out a pale green shirt, and an identical blue one. “How are these?”

Anders reached out to touch them. They weren’t silk, but they were soft and delicate, and looked like they were new.

“They’re nice,” he said, nodding. “I like the green.”

“Try it on.”

Anders’ heart jumped. He hadn’t expected Nathaniel to be so casual about it. Anders wasn’t necessarily one for modesty, but Nathaniel always came off as so… prudish.

As Nathaniel rooted around for trousers that might fit, Anders pulled his dark grey jumper over his head and side-stepped toward the mirror to try on the new shirt. Halfway through buttoning, he felt eyes on him, and looked over at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel looked away quickly, and Anders was pretty sure that was a blush across his cheeks.

“What do you think?” asked Anders, turning to the side to see how it fit.

“Looks good. Maybe a little big,” said Nathaniel.

“We don’t all have broad archer’s shoulders,” teased Anders.

“Think these will fit? They’re a little big on me,” said  Nathaniel, tossing a pair of black trousers at him. Anders caught them and held them against his leg. Too long, but that could be fixed.

“Maybe.”

Nathaniel didn’t seem to expect him to leave, so Anders slipped off his comfortable trousers and stepped into the stiff, formal ones. They were tight around the hips and thighs, but bearable. The legs were comically long on him.

“Have you got platform boots, by any chance?” he asked. Nathaniel smirked and kneeled down in front of him. He began rolling up the legs. Anders froze, unsure if this was a normal thing. He had spent too much of his life wearing robes to be sure. Once or twice, an offer to tie the other’s shoe had turned into a quick blowjob at the Circle, but Anders doubted that was Nathaniel’s intention. As nice as that thought would be.

“There. That seems… Presentable,” said Nathaniel, standing up.

Anders turned back to the mirror to assess. By some alchemy, the trousers looked like they were the right size, and with the shirt tucked in, it looked light and billowy rather than simply oversized. Next to him, Nathaniel’s outfit unsurprisingly fit him well, but Anders didn’t look out of place. Maybe even good.

“More than presentable. Thank you…” he said. He bit his lip to hold back the emotions.

“You’re welcome. Oh, wait, your collar’s off…” said Nathaniel, reaching up to smooth down the back of Anders’ collar.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Nathaniel’s hand lingered on Anders’ shoulder.

“I should get my boots,” said Anders. Nathaniel swallowed.

“Yeah. See you in a bit.”

The spell broke; Nathaniel turned away to gather the other clothes he had tossed around the room, and Anders gathered his own. His heart raced down the hallway and into his own room, and he let the clothes fall in a pile by his trunk.

The first bell rang. Anders quickly combed his hair with his fingers and pulled it into a braid. Dael would surely fuss over it and fix it for him before dinner, but it was good enough for now.

“Ready to go?” asked Sigrun, at his door again.

“Yes!”

“Race you!”

Anders laughed, and considered taking her up on it, but something stopped him, as Sigrun’s skirt disappeared around the corner. Nathaniel was lingering just past Anders’ door, hands in his pockets, like he wanted to walk with him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” said Anders. Half of him wanted to smile and tease, but Nathaniel’s soft smile made him hesitate.

“Hey, Nate, I…” he said, unsure where exactly he was going. They turned the corner together.

“What’s up?”

“Thank you. Really. This means a lot.”

Nathaniel blushed, which surprised Anders.

“It’s nothing. You can keep them, if you like,” he said.

Anders inhaled sharply. The words from the vulnerable, emotional place inside him that he usually ignored tumbled out.

“Nate, this is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Nathaniel didn’t say anything, but he reached out to Anders. Anders leaned into whatever it was, uncertain, but going on instinct at this point.

What it was was a hug. Another kindness Anders had little experience with.

“Let’s not be fashionably late,” said Anders, trying to brush away the emotions after Nathaniel pulled away.

“What does that even mean?” he asked. Anders shrugged.

“Maybe we’ll find out.”

[hawkepockets]

alright here’s how karl lives & fixes everything

awakening

after killing the architect & saving amaranthine, max goes to denerim and asks for an audience with queen anora. she declines, so he sends letters (nice ones!) asking why the circle at kinloch hold hasn’t been released from chantry control, like she promised.

meanwhile he’s trying to reverse engineer the tracking spell on morrigan’s ring to locate her & kieran, with no luck. anora finally writes back that the divine wouldn’t “permit” her to mess with the circle. at that point max gives up on mages ever being given freedom if they don’t take it, and on ever finding his family again.

he leaves nathaniel in charge of vigil keep and storms kinloch hold alone. with his 100% coercion stat & a little accidental blood magic, he convinces dozens of mages to rise up with him, but is blindsided when wynne turns against him. she beats him in a mage duel and while he’s down, the templars restrain and brand him.

the first mage rebellion fails before it starts, and max is tranquil in the tower for the next 10 years. stricken with grief for his commander & oldest friend, anders deserts the wardens and sails for kirkwall.

da2

when anders & garrett find karl in the chantry, justice offers to take control so that anders won’t have to feel himself strike the killing blow against his friend & lover. but being stabbed by a possessed mage is one (very messy) way of being touched by a spirit—the tranquility cure. karl’s magic and emotions return just in time to feel a knife in his guts.

justice realizes what’s happened. they pull back, allowing anders to heal karl. garrett bundles up the confused, blood-soaked ex tranquil in his coat, while anders makes karl promise to leave kirkwall and never look back.

karl flees and tries to lose himself in the wilderness, but meets an avvar tribe instead. they take him in so he can heal properly. while recovering, karl becomes fascinated by the avvar mages’ relationship with spirits. after several months with the avvar, karl joins them permanently and studies under an augur, hoping that more contact with spirits might help settle his magic & emotions and maybe even replicate the “fluke” that cured him in kirkwall.

he learns more about the tranquility cure, bonds with a spirit of patience (sloth, when they’re in a bad mood) and when the chantry explodes he’s none the wiser. but as the mage rebellion spreads, word reaches the avvar, and karl and several other mages come down from the mountains to help if they can.

inquisition

hawke & anders break up and anders flees kirkwall. on the road he hears rumors about the rebellion gaining strength in ferelden. he travels south to the hinterlands, where he meets karl and the avvar mages. they tearfully reunite, share a kiss that neither is ready to talk about for a while, and travel together between rebel cells.

karl tells him about sharing a body with patience and about the tranquility cure. wherever they meet tranquil mages in the wilderness, patience & justice heal them, and those who are stable and hopeful enough go back to the avvar to learn.

of course, there’s really just one tranquil anders cares about more than any others—max. anders & karl make their way to kinloch hold, but find the place abandoned except for a few dying templars. it takes them weeks to track the missing mages to redcliffe. by that time, they’re gone again, allied with the inquisition, and many of the tranquil are dead.

but not all. max found the headless bodies stashed in redcliffe’s cellar and, though unable to feel grief or anger or even fear for himself, he knew the deaths were wasteful and wrong. he gathered the other formari and they escaped from the castle using their enchanted items, max’s knowledge of the secret windmill tunnel, and a good amount of luck.

as karl & anders turn back from redcliffe in disappointment, max and the formari show themselves in the ruins of the windmill. justice & patience cure them all, anders gets another blast-from-the-past kiss, and he, max & karl follow the rebel mages’ trail up to skyhold together. their plan: to liberate fiona & her rebel mages from the evil inquisition.

along the way, karl & anders guide max through the process of bonding with a spirit, and he chooses to be posessed by wisdom/pride.

the mages’ attempted rescue/hostile takeover of the inquisition dies with a whimper when they find out that, instead of a chantry fanatic blasting holy fire from his hands, it‘s a kind-hearted dwarf leading the inquisition. fionn is bashful at first, intimidated by the mages, but eventually stands up for himself and puts them in their new places as magical advisors.

anders guides the inquisition’s fair treatment of mages, while max lends his expertise on killing darkspawn magisters (thanks, Architect!) and karl shares what he knows about spirit healing, both circle-approved and avvar. they share the tranquility cure with the world, despite cass’s warnings. all three go on life-changing field trips with fionn, have a super tense reunion with hawke, and generally drive solas crazy with curiosity.

in the end, hawke understands how his self-destruction has hurt people who care for him (namely anders & varric). he goes back to kirkwall intent on healing himself and helping varric fix the city they both love.

max & morrigan collide at the winter palace and find they’re just as much in love as the day they lost each other 10 years ago. kieran & his parents finally get to live as a family.

and karl & anders are back together too, and there are no templars to tear them apart.

so yeah 💁‍♀️

[dirthavarens]

so i’m sick and that means i’m thinking about my warden, champion, and inquisitor when they’re sick and how their LI’s react

Warden Ghilana Surana: 

What sickness? This woman could have the actual plague and still be going. She feels like she’s going to pass out? Lmao guess again. She’s downing a lyrium potion and getting right back to business. During the Blight, she caught a cold and Alistair was severely worried because she lost her voice, thus incantations were out of the question. However, in her discomfort, she found great strength, especially as an Arcane Warrior. What she could not use through incantations, she used through her blade, through wards scribed, through sheer intent. She conjures ice to keep her fevers down and when that isn’t enough, detonates the heat as flames around her.

After the Blight (and Alistair leaving her lmao), she spends a great deal of her time adventuring and recruiting with Nathaniel Howe. This means exposure to the elements that is far less than kind. A rogue doesn’t know healing as a mage does, but that doesn’t stop Nathaniel from trying to help. 

He’s tender in his care of her, despite her abject protestations. She’s fine. She’s always been fine. She always will be fine. Such resolve can play into her downfall at times. 

Just a year before the Breach formed, she took ill while she and Nathaniel were far, far to the North, closer to Tevinter than she’d ever ventured. They had to take shelter in a small, abandoned hut and Ghilana had no energy to do much of anything. She had been staving off the illness for nearly a two weeks through magic alone when it finally caught up with her. She collapsed during a hunt and Nathaniel took her to the nearest shelter he could find. 

She slept for days, waking only when he begged her to drink, eat, and down concoctions. The ratios of his potions were almost right, leading her to sleep for too long or have too vivid of dreams. 

After all of that, she got out of bed, cleaned herself, and carried on as though nothing had happened. Nathaniel was very, very unhappy, but he knows better than to argue with his angry elvhen wife.

All in All: Very Capable of Handling Herself. Will fight and throw fire as her temperature rises. Will do anything to keep others from worrying, laughs it off when she has to. 12/10

Amelia Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall:

Her boyfriend is Anders. Her symptoms are never allowed to go beyond a stuffy nose. 

Just Kidding. There are times she tries to hide it from him. Having Eldest Sister syndrome, taking care of herself usually isn’t high on her priorities. Making sure that her friends stay out of trouble and that her mother is alright are her top priorities. She’s the Mom Friend and her own ailments can wait. When she’s sick, she does her best to mask her symptoms. A light cough can pass as dust from the Lowtown streets. Her stuffy noses can be attributed to allergies.

Oh? That pale, clammy appearance with her glassy eyes? Probably ate something bad and didn’t she say it was allergy season?

Even at her worst, she makes sure to get her rounds in, often collapsing in bed the moment she gets home. Her mother, Bodahn, and Sandal are the only ones who ever see her sweat with fever. On those nights, her mabari stays close. It isn’t often she sees Carver since he left for the Templars but she still sends a care package when Cullen makes mention that he’s ill. Even if her brother hates her, she does what she can. 

Over the years, Anders would notice how she would change when she slept. What had been a minor cough turned into a deep rattling in her chest that roused him from sleep. Most times when he heard such a rattle, the outcome was unfavorable. Winter fever was a hard case to cure, but luckily he had the fortune of catching hers early and was able to treat it. Her mabari acted almost like a nurse hound instead of a warhound. For once, Anders was grateful for the dog’s presence. 

From that moment on, he made her swear to tell him when she was ill. With great reluctance, she agreed. 

All in All: What Sickness? Eldest Sibling Syndrome to the max. She even still takes care of Carver, despite him being a shitty Templar. Big Heart 10/10 

Inquisitor Mirani Lavellan:

She sleeps heavily and often when she’s ill. The Fade has always been a comfort to her, even when demons encroach on her weakened body. Naturally, this causes some concern within the Inquisition for the Inquisitor to “sleep on the job” so to speak. But she’s there when she needs to be. Potions, herbal teas, sweaters, and thick pants abound, but she’s there. 

Solas is more than happy to comfort her and keep the demons at bay while she rests. He fills her dreams with small secrets and memories of a time long since passed. He knows he shouldn’t but the contented sigh she lets out is worth it, even if it’s through wheezing snores or a stuffed nose. 

Mirani is more emotional when sick. She is an Empath with deep connections to the Fade and the forgotten feelings that dwell there. Being ill makes her no small victim to strong emotions, either. Battle is where she feels the strongest, where her magic is purest and most powerful. 

Being a Rift Mage gives her access to powers untapped by nearly everyone, save her Trainer and Solas. But calling on the Fade takes a great deal from her when she’s ill, as she has to be wary of manifesting her intentions as energy and not invitations to demons. Her focus and emotional state causes her mana to drain quickly between powerful spells. So much does she expel from herself that Solas stands at the ready to catch her should she fall and sound the retreat.  

During the times she had exhausted herself and had to be carried back to camp, she would protest vehemently, saying that she was okay. This gained her nothing but stiff-lips and furrowed brows from her companions. Except for Cole, whose panic was palpable. 

She’s naturally freckled and has a great deal of color to her light olive skin. This color increases tenfold when she’s sick. The tips of her nose and ears turn red and her cheeks nearly glow from fever. When sickly and nauseous, her olive hue turns closer to that of pallid elfroot. This doesn’t happen often, though, and she’s thankful.

Mirani never stays sick for long. Only a couple days at most. The longest she was ill was after the fall of Corypheus. 

She was down for two weeks, doubtlessly in-part to her fatigued heart and melancholy. Even so, she would find herself dreaming in a place unfamiliar but comforting, like a forgotten lullaby from one’s childhood. A melody she can recall, but never remembers the lyrics. During the days, she’d drag herself from bed and do her best to ignore the ache in her lungs and the incessant pounding in her head. Varric often told her she looked like shit, Bull and Sera were not much kinder. Still, she had paperwork to fill out, memoirs to write, requisitions to approve and deny. The work of the Inquisitor was never done.

With the Anchor growing worse in the two years that pass, she notices her immunities starting to fail. Dorian sends special teas and potions of his own making for her that serve to invigorate her. They work for a while and when they stop being as effective Cole is more than content to keep her company, popping in and out of the Fade when he feels her hurt. It’s harder to help her, knowing that the Anchor is the infection eating away at her. 

IF AU HAPPENS: Despite having only one arm, she still holds tightly to her words to Solas and follows him into the Eluvian. Now weaker than before, she knows she has to find a way to restore herself without explicitly asking Solas to mend her. She’s gone two years without his help, despite what she feels for him, and she will continue to find her way. She taps into the natural magic of the Crossroads. Its energy is much like that of the Fade, but purer; its intents are whatever ones wish is and she channels it to build herself back to strength. Solas marvels at her tenacity. She controls old magic so freely, so easily, as though she had always known how to wield it. She feels better than before, healthier than she thought she could after dealing with the instability of the Anchor for two years. 

IF AU DOESN’T HAPPEN: After disbanding the Inquisition, Mirani is exhausted and finds that she just wants to be left alone. Now with only one arm, no Inquisition, and no Clan, she ventures deep into the Arlathan Forest. The old magic here feels familiar and she is content to feel it wisp around her like leaves being kicked up by an autumn breeze. Through careful practice and occasional mishaps, she’s able to rehabilitate herself. On her worst nights, however, she would be lulled back into sleep with dreams of foreign memories. The visions were clearer there and the tender emotion encasing her quieted her disturbed soul. The spirits there often seek to help her when she’s in need of aid and Cole occasionally appeared to keep her company, even if he was not explicitly needed. 

All in All: Naps, warm clothes, give her tea and a blankie. Very emotional but does what needs doing. Overall, very soft. 7/10 (but 100/10 in my heart)

[mageglory]

I have no idea if I have ever summed all my Dragon Age Canon Characters but in short. Oh and I treat Bioware Canon like my playground so be warned.

Galria Theirin nee Brosca: Brosca origins (obviously), two handed reaver berserker. She is the Warden and becomes Queen of Ferelden with Alistair, her romance. She is the first non human queen of an human kingdom in history and tecnically she converted to andrastianism for politics (and because she doesn't care anyway about religion) but the Chantry keeps annoying her until Leli becomes Divine Victoria.

Ignis Hawke: Fire magic, Force magic and Blood Magic. He follows Anders romance and is a ruthless supporter of Mage RightsTM. He keeps switching between Red Hawke or Blue Hawke answers depending on who he is talking to (Red Hawke with Meredith, Elthina, Orlesians. Blue Hawke with fereldeans refugees, mages, elves and similar). He is one of the leaders of the Mage Underground with Anders if not the leader (mainly because Anders keeps telling him he's the boss even if Ignis considers himself equal to him) and he helped enlarge the underground across all the Free Marches, a lot of the random apostate npc we fight on the wounded coast are gonna live as members of the underground. To protect his identity/keep his family safe from Templars and because Hawke is not Hawke without drama he wears a mask in his rebel persona and Meredith has been yelling to Cullen to bring her the apostates leader in chains for years. He doesn't want to hurt civilians, but he is ready to accept civilians casualties as necessary if it's to free his people. His mabari is called Templar and Varric keeps saying Ignis exausted all his life capacity for jokes in that one idea. He's the gayest revolutionary/terrorist (depends who you ask) in town.

Raphaël De Bougainville: The Marquis of Serault. He has an obviously smaller role and is kinda irrelevant to The Fate of ThedasTM but he is a good guy despite having a very orlesian centric view of the world out of ignorance/cultural upbringing. His main worries are to restore Serault glory, which he succeeded in (and he also annexxes Aloyns along the road since the neighboor Marquis tried to sabotage his relationship with Justinia and failed) and romance Krem while visiting Skyhold. He had the idea to pay some mages after the rebellion won to come work for him with the glassworkers and now there are a lot of Serault glassworks for nobles with sparkly enchantments, but nothing plot relevant, he's just rich because now every noble in Orlais wants Serault magical glass. His main quirk is that he's an enthusiast of scientific research (think the king guy in Eragon) and his dream is to teach at the University of Orlais.

Melkior Lavellan: This damn boi is a pacifist. IN THEDAS. He is not the First of his clan, but only because he left the position to travel around the clans and bring messages/organize things. I'm not sure if canon mentions something similar but he's basically a travelling Keeper, so he has a bit more knowledge of the world, especially thanks to his high emotional intelligence. Kind of guy who smiles even when he doesn't like you and the "if he yells shit is going down" character archetype. Clan Lavellan Keeper is his grandma because his parents were murdered by Gaspard De Chalons during a dalish hunt, in front of him. Gaspard would have killed him too but decided that a knife eared kid wasn't worthy of a chevalier steel. Years later, Gaspard will fail to recognize Melkior at the Winter Palace (because elves are all the same amiright? I doubt Gaspard remembers his victims faces) and that's how the Granduke died and also one of the two occasions in which Melkior got really angry. Also, Melkior is the host to a spirit of Hope, which made the entire Inquisition scream in fear of abominations when they heard about that. Melkior romances Cassandra (altought I made her supposed character arc/change matter uh Bioware?) and tries to spare/redeem/imprison if necessary as much people as possible when sitting in Judgment because he doesn't like to kill and he does that enough on the field. At the end of Trespasser he disbands the Inquisition but he also creates a constitution that blocks the power of the Chantry so that in 100 years no Divine will be able to recreate Circles or Templars and a council to oversee the constitution with elected officials with a mandate of 5 years max.

Alidda Tabris: Someone could ask why I put the Tabris after the Lavellan, well that's because Alidda Tabris, my non warden dual wielder rougue, is more linked to Briala than Origins. She was prisoner of Arle Howe dungeons with others during Origins, forgotten there after having murdered the Arle son. She was freed by the Warden before the Landsmeet and despite the long imprisonment she suffered she fought in the Battle of Denerim, defending the alienage. After the death of the Archdemon, she helped King Alistair and Queen Galria in dealing with the many issues the elves had and was later sended to Orlais to investigate the risk of a new invasion of Ferelden. She joined Briala during the events of The Masked Empire, helping Celene in beating Gaspard but hating the Empress for her genocide of elves, she was helping only because forced to choose between her and Gaspard. She joined Briala at the end of the book and the two got together shortly after. In Inquisition, Alidda breaks in Celene vault during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearths to get her beloved medallion back and the two keep plotting the liberation of the Dales after the ball.

Livia Amladaris: Magister of Tevinter, new leader of House Amladaris, descendeant of Corypheus and the worst person ever and I love her for that. Livia is literally my favourite classic villain tropes throwed together, because if you don't do that in Tevinter what's the point. While Livia wasn't a Venatori during Inquisition, she took control of the movement later. She is considered the most beautiful woman in the Imperium by many (the Amladaris pratic eugenics unironically) and she is a political genious and probably the greatest demonologist and necromancer (the Quentin kind, not the Dorian kind) Tevinter will ever see. Sadly, all this perfection on paper was given to a woman who respects only one thing: power and hates the other Magisters because they are limited in their ambitions. Livia intends to not simply enter in the Fade like her ancestor, but to open thousands of minor rifts controlled only by her, causing an army of binded demons to invade every nation of Thedas at once. The Imperium will rise again with her as the first Imperatrix of all Thedas. Someone could call her mad, but if she is mad then she is of the lucid and most dangerous kind. She has invented numerous evil spells (the "blood sacrifices and demons" kind) and has the power to turn others in abominations against their will. She is at last defeated at the end of DA4, but not before she blood sacrificed all of her supporters inside the Imperial Senate to start her ritual and shapeshifted into a giant monster before being slain. She is the Maleficent of Thedas and I love a good old fashioned evil witch ok?

[basementdwellercreaturefeature]

You suck so bad and I fucking love you for it.

@tevinter-pariah said something that got me both excited and depressed at the same time: “Anders is everything that people fear about mages while trying to prove that they aren’t to be feared.” 

Goddamn. The irony here is exquisite and why I so thoroughly enjoy this franchise. It’s ripe with this kind of shit. The cruel dichotomy we see in so many Dragon Age characters are why I keep falling deeper and deeper in love with it and its why I wheeze for my favorite shifty apostates. Especially my wife, Morrigan, who is my wife and we are married as she is my wife. Allow me this moment to rhapsodize about my favorite magical fuck-ups. Starting with the sewer doctor, moving on to the swamp witch and then finally the ethereal egg.

Now, I could talk about Anders all day and frankly I kind of do. That man is irony walking around in a trench coat, pretending to be human. His desire to remove the stigma about mages leads him down a hellspiral in which all he does is increase the stigma about mages. In an attempt to start a revolution and fight for mage freedom, he inadvertently increases the prevalence of fear-based ideology against mages that makes them cling to their Circles more and supports public opinion that they are imbalanced and dangerous. Anders does more for anti-mage sentiment than most Templars do in a lifetime and it makes me want to both punch the shit out of him and give him a hug because that is the last thing he ever intended.

The tragic irony here is both life-giving and devastating and it makes me feel a lot of shit and write a lot of blog posts. Justice enables him with the fortitude to take action for mage-rights, but the influence of Justice drives him toward a No Compromise™ solution that is so disconnected and extreme it entirely undermines his cause. It practically puts me in a coma thinking of post-Kirkwall Anders, a man who we are shown has immense compassion, realizing that he sacrificed lives in hopes of the ends justifying the means and then nothing changes it only gets worse for mages. 

He really sucks.

And my wife, Morrigan, who is my wife, is both harsh and gentle, cold and inviting, powerful and weak. She almost took my Warden’s goddamn kid from him and it broke my heart but man, her arrogance is somehow endearing because its so often sourced in uncertainty. The deeper you go, the more you want to reach out and offer a comforting embrace to the woman who struggles with both knowing too much and too little all at once. No, you don’t try to change her. You shouldn’t, she can change on her own. But you want to be there for her while she tears through the tangle of her own emotions, to see the untrusting swamp witch open for you when you earn it. So much of what drives Morrigan is being different from Flemythal but so much of what she does she only does because of what Flemythal herself instilled in her. 

In Origins, she is innocent of so many things. Human interaction, friendships, romantic relationships, the human-built world around her. Yet she is filled with vast lore knowledge and is both wise and willing to lend you that knowledge when you need it. She is capable of childish innocence and exceptional cruelty (ex. kittens holy cow). Morrigan is only able to keep Kieran safe for as long as she is because of the knowledge she gained from the one she is protecting him from. By the time we see her in DAI, she determined to be different than her mother but is still driven toward restoration of old magics and old histories based on the values instilled in her in her childhood. In so many ways, she has grown and changed. In others? Not so much. She still knows how to manipulate, she still can be cruel, she is more concerned with gaining access to the power of the Well than protecting the culture that created it. For someone who loves ancient lore, she is willing to shit on it to get her way.

She really sucks.

Solas is... different. I don’t have the kind of affection for him per say that I do for Morrigan and Anders. For them, I want safe spaces and soft whispers and great sex and the kind of laughter that makes their stomache ache. For Solas? I want to lock him in an Eluvian without access to the Crossroads somehow so he dies alone, gazing through the glass at a world and a woman he will never touch again. No, I am not bitter why would you think that. Honestly, I struggle with a pretty intense hatred toward the Dread Egg and find it hard to empathize with his plight after he revealed his intentions for Thedas. It isn’t a plight I find sympathetic, it downright turns me into a rage beast and I am often prone to frantically smashing my keyboard about him, staring the sentence off with “let me tell you about this mother fucker” or something of the like. But as a writer? I worship that elf. Patrick, your employment of the iam keeps me h y d r a t e d. That same exquisite tragic irony is present in everything Solas does. In his desire to restore, he destroys. In his desire to remedy, he creates more complication. It’s this heartbreaking destructive cycle that never ceases to enthrall me narratively. He is weighted with regret for a cycle he perpetuates, both sure of himself and desperately divided. He is the smartest stupid person there is. In an effort to bury the tyranny of the Evanuris, he himself becomes tyrannical in his refusal to allow the people of Thedas agency in their own fate. He is cruel and kind, humble and prideful, intelligent and foolish, childlike in his enjoyment of the sensual and austere in his refusal to engage in it. Solas is the man lighting his own pants on fire screaming, “Only I can fix it!” at the top of his lungs, as the team has put it. How can you not enjoy a villain like that? 

He also really sucks.

But its because the shifty apostates suck so hard that I love them so much, and in Morrigan and Anders case, why I am so deeply attached to them and what happens to them. I am new to the Dragon Age fandom and new to fandom culture in general, and I see something in this fandom that puzzles me exceedingly. Support is often equated to full acceptance and criticism is often equated to complete condemnation. I can recognize that Morrigan is cruel and selfish and still love her wit and strength and resilience. Similarly, I can recognize that Anders is reckless and self-righteous and immature and still appreciate how compassionate he is and his taste in cat names. With Solas, I can admire the eloquence of his writing and the subtle egg snark and his passionate nature while still recognizing that he is elitist and dangerous and a threatening antagonist. 

Being positive or negative in commentary is not about romanticizing a character or demonizing them, in my opinion. To me, it should be more about what view am I taking here? Am I looking through a lens of understanding in a desire to empathize? Or am I looking through the lens of critique to try to be more objective? Believe it or not, I can love Fenris and Anders, Alistair and Loghain. I can be anti-Circle while still recognizing the validity of them as an institution. I can be proud to be a Grey Warden while also highly critical of Duncan and the tactics of the Wardens in general. In the morally grey world of Thedas, a black and white view doesn’t really allow you to experience the full range of everything being offered. Let’s try to be more gay and more gray.

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk, have some killer piece by @withoutafuss​ because it really is one of the best Dragon Age pieces out there. 

[feymaid]

can i get a shitpost of ur DA2 fam? i am bummed out that no one is critical of characters anymore n i need a pick-me-up... :(

OF COURSE!!!! Thank u for asking ;o; (These got a bit longer than the last oop)

1) Luanna Hawke (Uli’s Aeducan’s world-state) ~

She was my first Hawke! She has a primarily purple/blue personality. 

. She worked as a mercenary during her first year in Kirkwall! Luanna gets a whole lot stronger and develops a thicker skin when working with him since she is a very emotional person. Her emotions don’t go away, but she learns how to better mask her emotions with humor to cope. She was extremely close with Bethany, much more so than Carver. Since both her and Bethany were mages, they often trained together, and Luanna was prone to leaving Carver out of her life. She still loved him dearly but it wasn’t until Bethany died and Luanna realized that Carver’s anger towards her felt justified. This was devastating to her and she tried everything she could to get the two of them to be closer, including taking him to the Deep Roads. Carver became a Grey Warden thankfully, but it was very hard for her to see him go. She romanced Fenris! She was drawn to him because Luanna’s self-confidence and will to better herself was extremely low when they met. She found his drive and passion to just get things done extremely admirable and found herself trying to mimic his strength.  She fought the Arishock for Isabela. Isabela is her best friend next to Varric and there was no way she’d let her be taken away. She faced death in that fight when she was stabbed through the stomach. Anders was able to save her but she was permanently scarred. She supported the mages! But did not support Ander’s decision to blow up the Chantry. Despite being a mage, Luanna is Andrastian and was very good friends with Sebastian. However, due to the fact that she and Anders were good friends throughout the game, she couldn’t find it in her heart to kill him. She survives the fade and goes on to have two kiddos.

2) Alphonsa Hawke (Dakila’s Word-State) ~

- Primarily Red but occasionally diplomatic personality.

Alphonsa is my weirdo meanie Hawke who has a bit of an awkward streak but through all of the bullshit, truly means well. She also doesn’t look as clean as she does in the drawing above, often resorting to a terrible hand-cut bowl she does with a pocket knife. She’s pretty quiet and introverted, not ever wanting to grand-stand or stand out. She’s a blood mage too so she wants to fly under the radar as much and hates the attention being champion gives her. With her companions, she has a slower start to forming bonds with them, but eventually considers most of them her friends. She actually ends up marrying Sebastian. So. It’s no secret that the Sebastian romance in DA2 is lacking in content in comparison to the other companions, so a lot of this is my own interpretation of events sprinkled with the canon in-game stuff. Alfie loves Sebastian because he is literally just a good-hearted, kind person. Alfie was never seriously religious. She’s one of those who believe that IF there is a Maker, he has “abandoned his creation la dee da.” She has never really allowed herself to be taken care of. And despite Alfie’s naturally pessimistic attitude, she does try. She wants to be a good person but her anger often times envelopes her when she sees a simple solution to a problem. She’s impatient and needlessly cruel at times. But she is self-aware in her anger, which makes her resent herself a bit. With Sebastian, she actively avoids him at first because the sort of compassion he offers is so alien to her, and how open he is about his heartbreak with his family’s deaths gets under her skin. Long story short, (I have like an essay tucked away about their relationship in general) The two bond over the mutual feeling of the deaths of their families. And they fall in love and get married!!  Alfie isn’t all that upset that the marriage is chaste since she is just so dumb-struck that someone loves her! Act 3 Al is sooo much happier and softer. She grows her hair out and starts taking better care of herself. THEN the chantry explosion happens and her whole world falls apart again. The Chantry represented so much for her. It was her place of healing and peace when she felt alone. It was even more so for Sebastian. In my canon too, Sebastian wasn’t with her when the Chantry exploded. So for one awful moment, she thinks he’s dead. Alfie doesn’t even give Anders a chance to speak. She just beats the absolute SHIT out of him fully intending to beat him to death. And she doesn’t stop until Sebastian literally pulls her off of him. She kills Anders despite supporting the mages. Sebastian drags her off to Starkhaven soon after and she’s glad to go. She has three boys parallel to Sebastian and his brothers for fun.  

Ezekiel Hawke (Marie’s World-state) ~ 

- Red personality. 

Ez is my rouge red Hawke and was a character I made to see how evil I could be in a game since I personally find it really hard to be mean to even video game characters. Ez was a very sickly child and was often bedridden. Throughout his life, his family never knew what exactly was causing him so much pain so the illness remained. When Malcolm died, Ez felt like he hadn’t even known his father, he had spent most of his time training with Bethany and Carver while he had been left to lie in agony. Being the oldest boy in the family, he was pleased to be the head of it and would work tirelessly to improve his strength so that he could walk without fainting. When Ez turned eighteen, he decided to do something about the sickness. He confronted a blood mage and forced him to cure him. The blood mage warned him that a price would need to be paid but Ez didn’t care and would do whatever it took to heal himself. The reverse spell cured Ez, but left him incredibly scarred. At the beginning of DA2, Ez realizes that the spell in itself was a curse, and took away the effects of his invisible illness that would eventually kill him, and instead replaced it with a painless grotesque life. His skin starts rotting off. To cover up the damage done to himself, he covers his face/hair in heavy makeup and powder. (Ez is a secret redhead I know it’s shocking lol) Ez is extremely vain and particular about how he looks and will not allow anyone to touch him out of fear of seeing under his painted mask. His resentment of mages causes him to lash out at Bethany. Carver’s death was even less meaningful to him than his father’s. For a majority of their relationship, Ez pressures Bethany to find a cure for his deformities. Bethany dies in the deep roads and Leandra’s death was almost therapeutic. A desire to erase his family and start over overcame him. The name “Hawke” belonged to him and only him. Power became very interesting to Ez, as he was powerless his entire life and he was willing to appeal to anyone who might give it to him. This includes the Arishock who he happily gave Isabela to. He worked as a smuggler for the first year in Kirkwall. Ez for the most part was never interested in romance or even friendship, just political alliances. But he ended up getting in a very unhealthy rivalmance with Anders. He never really cared for Anders in a romantic sense but enjoyed the attention he gave him. He and Anders never go beyond a few kisses since Ez just can’t stand to have anyone touch him. (Again I could write an essay on this relationship) Ez supported the Templars and ruled as Viscount. He had Anders executed (ya extra tragic for Anders again sorry lol). In my own canon, Ez gets corrupted with red lyrium in the final fight against the mages and is a brutal and ruthless ruler, so much so that a rebellion happens against him and he is driven out of Kirkwall. He immediately starts looking for the next source of power to appeal to. He eventually works for Corypheus and spies for him in Inquisition. My Inquisitor in that universe finds out he’s a traitor and leaves him in the fade. 

[lesetoilesfous]

For @alienturnipp, from the angst prompt list for Nanders, “people who are okay don’t act like this”

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Anders

Characters: Anders, Nathaniel Howe

Tags: Awakening fun, canon-typical Circle abuse

Rating: Mature

*

Nathaniel is not, habitually, heavy footed. On more than one occasion, the commander’s Antivan lover had suggested he take up a career in dance, ( “so light are your dainty footsteps, mi amigo.”) He’s not sure whether Anders knows this. This is largely because after three incidents in which Nathaniel had caused the mage to fall into something alarmingly akin to a panic attack, Nate has made an effort to be heavy footed around him.

Still, Anders jumps when Nathaniel knocks on the door to his room. The door is open - Nathaniel has never known Anders to close it, and the mage himself is standing in fairly sparse surroundings looking...lost. The expression fades almost as soon as Nathaniel catches it, like a mirage, Instead Anders gives him a smile as bright and thin as cheap paint. 

“Howe! Wasn’t expecting you...here. How do you do that? You always seem to melt out of the blighted shadows.”

Anders laughs, but the sound rings hollow, and his long fingers shake a little even as he brushes them against his robe. Nathaniel frowns. “Are you alright?”

It’s been three weeks since he and the mage were conscripted by the warden commander. More has happened in those three weeks than most of the time Nathaniel spent soldiering in the marches, but Anders still acts as if he’s only just arrived. It’s...disconcerting.

The mage, for his part, smiles again, “Oh yes, don’t worry about me, I’m not going to go all demon on you.” He wiggles his fingers, as if to emphasise his point, and his light brown eyes flicker over Nathaniel’s shoulder, to the empty corridor beyond.

Nathaniel knows that no one is there - he makes it his business to know when he’s being watched - but he turns anyway, and cannot help but feel the pantomime must be painfully obvious as he makes a show of checking to see if anyone is there. In the low, rainy grey light of Amaranthine it’s hard to tell, but when he turns back he thinks he can see Anders flushing.

Anders claps, and seems to startle himself with the volume of the sound (outside, a few of the mabari start barking, and he stiffens almost imperceptibly.) “So! Does the commander need me? Has she finally realised she has no use for me after all? Time for me to get shipped back off to the Circle? Between you and me, I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepens, and he moves to cross the threshold into Anders’ chamber, but hesitates. Something at the back of his head tells him that he needs to respect the mage’s space, and whether it’s old prejudice or gut instinct, Nate can’t quite force himself to disregard it. Instead he shakes his head, “Why would you think that?”

Anders laughs, and again, it rings hollow. “Oh, well, you know. It’s been a week and I haven’t been forced to risk my life again, so. I figured…”

Nathaniel cannot shake the irritating feeling that he’s missing something. “She cares about you a great deal. You knew each other in the Circle, didn’t you?”

Anders snorts, and it’s graceless enough that Nathaniel believes it’s honest. “As much as you could know anyone there. And she was younger than me. Mages aren’t allowed to mix with apprentices once we’ve passed our Harrowing.” Anders wrinkles his nose. “I suppose they want to stop us getting attached.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asks the question without meaning to and regrets it immediately. He’s certain he will not like the answer.

Anders shrugs, stiff and awkward in his tall frame. “Most of them die.”

Something of Nathaniel’s shock must show on his face, because Anders laughs - for real this time, though a little bitterly. His long hands flicker through the air like restless birds.

“Hate to break it to you Nate, but the Circle has a pretty high death rate.” Anders laughs again, higher pitched and a little manic. “Would you look at that? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

Nathaniel crosses the threshold. He catches Anders hands without thinking, arresting their ceaseless, anxious movement through the empty air. Beneath his hands, Anders’ wrists are too thin. Nathaniel still isn’t entirely convinced the templars who’d caught Anders were feeding him. The mage, for his part, falls into startled silence. Nathaniel watches his pulse racing through the thin skin of his throat as he swallows, and is reminded of nothing so much as a hare.

But then he looks up into Anders’ brown, golden eyes, and sees the fierce thread of rebellion there (“I think I’ll put up a fight. For old time’s sake, you know”), and Nathaniel realises that Anders has never been anything other than a fox: wily and wild and refusing to be tamed. “What is the matter?”

Anders purses his lips. This close, he smells of the embrium and elfroot he carries with him on his belt. Nathaniel is half surprised he isn’t making poultices now. He usually was. He claimed it helped him think, but Nathaniel isn’t entirely sure it’s not just a habit he hasn’t shaken from making potions for the Circle. 

Anders pulls his arms back and Nathaniel lets him, not following as Anders backs up in the direction of one of the thin, hard pallet beds they used in the soldiers’ dormitories. The commander must have dragged it up here specially, though he couldn’t imagine why. Anders follows his gaze and coughs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, that. Sorry, couldn’t sleep on goosefeathers. Too damn soft. I mean what’s laying your head down at night if you don’t wake up in pain?”

Nathaniel decides that Anders doesn’t actually want an answer to that, and presses on to the subject that he’s avoiding. “People who are okay don’t act like this.”

Anders flashes him another sharp, crooked grin and again Nathaniel catches the fire of anger in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nathaniel clenches his teeth. Delilah had never explained that being kind would take so much blighted work. (He can almost hear the commander in his head, laughing at him for that.) Anders is pacing back and forth in front of his thin, poorly appointed bed, and his hands have started moving again. Nathaniel speaks before Anders’ nervous energy manages to infect him too. 

“You have refused to acquire any material possessions other than that pillow, which you hide most of the time. You are stockpiling food beneath the floorboards,” Nathaniel nods at the one uneven plank which had often been the secret to his own childhood hiding places, “ for reasons I do not understand. You never close your door and yet you seem outright terrified whenever anyone enters a place you consider to be private. If you bathe I haven’t seen it, though I must assume that you do as you have not yet begun to smell. You are avoiding...everyone, but especially the commander, despite her efforts and obvious desire to get to know you better. For some reason you still think that she - or any of us - would turn you in to the Circle without a second thought.”

Anders frowns at that, stopping mid-step to look at him with something that is either curiosity or pain in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

Nathaniel stares at him - and feels, for a moment - his own foolish heart plummet like lead into his stomach. “I - no.” Mouth suddenly dry, Nathaniel wets his lips and tries to speak past the lump in his throat (past the voice in the back of his head, he’s afraid of you, everyone’s afraid of you, just like your father).

Anders’ expression softens, and his shoulders drop. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Nathaniel blinks, and tries to shake off the feeling of being rooted to the spot. “Of course.”

Anders’ mouth quirks upward at the corner. Outside there’s the gentle patter of the autumn rain against the muddy courtyard, bouncing off the mens’ new armour like a thousand soft, tiny bells. After a moment, Anders sits down, heavily, on the thin mattress, and gestures for Nathaniel to step forward.

Feeling as if he’s suddenly been freed of some strange, invisible spell, Nathaniel does so, almost toppling to sit on the floor in front of Anders as he looks at his hands. Anders breaks the new and sudden quiet, running the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right. “They broke my hands.” The admission is so quiet and so unexpected that Nathaniel is almost unsure he heard it. But then Anders lets out a long, shaking breath and continues. “I was...half drunk with magebane so I didn’t...have you ever felt pain without emotion? It’s so hard to describe. Like shock, I guess. You register that something terrible has happened and that it hurts. But the grief, the anger, the fear. All that comes later. They let it heal naturally. So my hands are crooked now.” Anders splays his fingers in the air between them, and Nathaniel can see now, as he hadn’t before, the way his knuckles do stand a little crooked, the way a nose heals when it breaks. 

Nathaniel’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Why?”

Anders shrugs, and his expression is distant. “I don’t remember exactly. It was whilst I was in solitary. They were always doing…” His features shutter into a mask so impassive that even Nathaniel cannot read it, and he draws in a quick deep breath and exhales again. “It doesn’t matter.” He offers Nathaniel a small smile, and nods at the door. “I keep the door open because I haven’t had a door, ever. When I was a child I was too young and small to have my own room. In the Circle only templars and Senior Enchanters are granted the luxury of such privacy, and I was neither.” Anders nods at the floorboards. “I...One of the first punishments they’d go to was restricting rations.” Anders’ mouth curls into a thin  smile. “I think some of them just wanted to see how long I could go. Caught them making bets on it, once.” Anders shakes his head, as if he’s dislodging the memory from his mind like a cat shaking off water. He spreads his hands wide. “I don’t...know what to do with all this. Everything I’ve ever been told is that I can’t have it. Whatever it is.”

Nathaniel resists the urge to say freedom. He isn’t entirely sure that it’s true. Anders, on the bed, sighs and  slides down from the mattress to the floor, easily framing Nathaniel with his long legs, the tabard of his robe falling heavy and velvet between his legs. Nathaniel averts his eyes. Anders’ laugh is rough and low and warm, and then his (crooked) fingers catch Nathaniel’s head and turn it back to look at him.

“That I understand.” Anders leans forward, until his chest is pressing against his bent knees. He smiles at Nathaniel, sweet and a little shy, and this close Nate can see that his eyelashes are almost as golden as his hair. Anders’ other hand comes up to catch the other side of Nathaniel’s face, and Nate doesn’t resist when Anders draws him closer to brush a kiss against his lips. “Thank you for asking, though.”

For a moment they’re quiet. Far off, from downstairs, there’s the sound of Oghren bellowing and Sigrun cackling, followed by a clattering or armour as one or the other of them gives chase. Anders’ thumb runs over Nathaniel’s cheek, and Nathaniel reaches up to catch his wrist and press his hand closer. He waits until Anders meets his eyes to speak. “I would fight with you.” A shadow of a frown passes over Anders’ brow, and Nathaniel clarifies before he can ask, “ If they tried to take you away. Back to the Circle. I would fight by your side.”

Anders’ mouth twitches into a rueful smile, though the pad of his thumb keeps running softly over Nathaniel’s cheek. “Even against the commander? She’s the Hero of Ferelden, you know.”

Nathaniel shifts closer, letting go of Anders’ wrist to reach up and cup the back of his head, gently, firmly, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching. “Even her. Against the wardens, the templars, chevaliers and darkspawn, Anders. I will not let them take you. Not whilst I am breathing.”

When Anders breathes out, Nathaniel feels the shudder of it where their bodies are touching. Anders doesn’t look at him when he replies. “Don’t say that. Someone might make you prove it.”

Nathaniel huffs, pulling back to look into Anders’ eyes. “Let them.” He catches one of Anders’ hands and pulls it between them, running his fingers over Anders’ crooked knuckles. “This is not Justice. I’ve met Justice.” He looks up, offering a smile which Anders returns, “He looks like a walking corpse. But, truly.” Nathaniel bends and presses a kiss to Anders’ palm, and watches pink flush through his cheeks like a sunrise. “This is not just. And I will not let them have you. I swear it.”

Anders shakes his head, shutting his eyes as his brow twists with a frown despite the smile on his lips. “I want to believe you.”

Nathaniel holds Anders’ hands tightly between his own, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Perhaps, one day, you will.”