#varric is so hot the things i would do to that short man

[sadko101]

little progress of the roommates from hell drawing i descided to do yesterday

fenris may be in hell but i'd give anything to be in that position

boutta draw merrill levitating behind the couch like this mf

(i know its a modern au but merrill and fenris are keeping the ears)

(and the quality sucks so you cant see all the little details aughhhhh)

(also wtf do i put on fenris's shirt, or how do i draw muscles, how do i draw anything??)

i used a pose base from melon_soup

[shouldaspunastory]

Thank you @tobythewise! @dadrunkwriting

Garrett Hawke x Fenris, (DA2, Act III, 574 words)

——————————

“It’s hot,” Fenris remarks, stepping back from the steaming tub with wide green eyes.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Garrett replies quickly. “Too much? I can add some cold,” the mage offers, but Fenris shakes his head.

“No. It’s fine. I just… didn't expect that.”

Garrett looks confused, then with dawning comprehension, a little angry, though Fenris knows this man, this mage, well enough by now to know this is not directed at him. Ever since Fenris expressed his discomfort and disdain for it, Garrett Hawke rarely expresses pity for what the former slave has endured. But this righteous indignation and fury on his behalf, runaway desires to hunt down his tormentors and force them to endure equivalent suffering and misery is a familiar standby, and one Fenris finds that he appreciates.

It’s a strange thing- being valued simply for *who* he is, rather than what or what services he can provide. Garrett would love nothing more than for Fenris to move in here with him, the elf knows, and yet, he has never forced his hand, never made him feel guilty or wrong for wanting his rare and hard-won independence, for keeping his stolen mansion on the hill just in case things between them ever go sour.

“Fenris, does your mansion not have hot water,” Garrett asks. Fenris shakes his head. It doesn't. It has running water, and after so long on the run, that in itself seemed like a luxury.

"I could fix that," Garrett says. The thought of Hawke on his hands and knees, under cabinets and in walls fiddling with pipes as if he has any earthly idea what he's doing is a laughable one. And yet Fenris knows he would do it. And probably wind up calling on Varric to find a more skilled laborer to fix whatever he's made an even bigger mess of. Still, the effort is... sweet. "If... you'd like me to."

Choice is another new and rather unfamiliar concept. But Garrett always offers it, however seemingly insignificant the decision is, and he always respects whatever Fenris choses. It's why Fenris chose him, another mage, despite how many have hurt him before. Because despite his initial misgivings Hawke could never be like Danarius. Garrett Hawke is unlike anyone else. And for some unfathomable reason, Hawke wants him, even three long years later.

It seems too much to ask with all he's put him through, but Fenris let fear make his decision for him last time, let it keep them apart for far too long. He won't make that same mistake again. He will trust Hawke, trust what they have, and take a risk.

"Do you- would you still have me here- with you," Fenris asks cautiously, large green eyes searching Hawke's brown ones, finding the same patience and love he always has for him reflected back in them.

"As often as you'd like and can stand me," Hawke nods immediately.

"Then perhaps, it's time I let the mansion go," Fenris replies softly. Garrett's answering smile is nothing short of blinding. Fenris feels his heart flutter, a rush of warmth rising to the tips of his ears and coloring his cheeks that has nothing to do with the steam that fills the small room. He clears his throat. "C'mon, then, the water's going to get cold," he smiles fondly back at Hawke who is already ripping his shirt over his head as Fenris begins to peel off his leggings.

[lingerxng]

of all the stupid things ira hawke had done in their short life, this was definitely the stupidest.

they made eye contact with isabela. "we'll discuss this later," they said first. she had this look in her eye-- some mixture of embarrassment, guilt, and concern-- but she nodded. when they grabbed her head to kiss her between the brows, she didn't resist. "thank you for coming back."

"please. you would have been miserable without me, i couldn't let that stand." they smiled gave her one more kiss, then turned to face their--

"hawke." they paused mid-turn, looking at fenris. he nodded them over. "you don't need to be stronger than him."

ira rolled their eyes. "gosh, thanks for the vote of confidence, fenris, really," they said, turning again.

"*ira*," he said, grabbing their arm. he never used their first name. they turned to look back at him. "you misunderstand. what i mean to say is that you need not hit harder. you only need to outlast." green eyes flicked to the qunari, but his head did not follow. "he carries two weapons nearly as big as i am. not to mention his own bulk. he may be strong, but it means he will not have stamina-- two minutes. five, tops, and he will not have the breath to raise a hand at you." he nodded grimly. "you can do this."

they resisted the urge to look at him over their shoulder. the arishok was nearly eight feet tall and, somehow, silent as the grave. they tried not to think too hard about that allusion. instead, they turned their arm to return the grip, squeezing fenris' arm in return. "thank you."

he nodded again, then stepped back. ira did not look at aveline or varric. they did not look at the crowd of nobles. they did not look at the qunari standing guard. they kept their gaze focused on the arishok, trying to spot any weak points-- none. he was a mountain of a man.

they weren't sure what made them think of it. maybe the red marks on the bare chests around them. but ira dipped their fingers into a cut on their arm, courtesy a qunari spear, and swiped it across their nose. the words the chasind had taught them came to mind, and they mumbled them softly.

*spirits, give me your will, that i may endure this.*

hawke took their place, ten feet away, staff firm in one hand.

the arishok snarled and charged.

--

hawke wasn't sure how much time had passed. five minutes? ten seconds? it was impossible to tell. the arishok moved like nothing they had ever seen. it would have been impressive, if he wasn't trying so hard to kill them.

they skidded on the stone floors, putting one hand out to keep from falling entirely over. their own lungs burned. they weren't sure how much longer *they* could last, and the arishok didn't seem to be slowing down. so much for fenris' theory.

they paused to wipe blood from their eye, head spinning. where had he--

pain.

immediate, bright, white hot pain.

they looked down at the sword pierced through their middle, feeling dizzy. vaguely, they thought heard screaming, but they weren't able to place it. the world tilted and their feet left the ground and the pain somehow increased tenfold as they slid down the sword, the wound deepening and widening. hawke dropped their staff. all they could think about was the agony.

the arishok held them there, a display of gore and power, for what felt like an age. and when he was done, he tossed them aside, skittering to a halt across the room.

their ears were ringing. they tasted blood and bile. every breath felt wet, rattled in their chest, sent more blood pushing out to stain the carpet. *move.* they pushed up to one arm, taking gasping breaths. *move.* they could feel their mana pulsing around the wound, trying to knit muscle and organ and bone back together.

"hawke, move!"

fenris. the voice hadn't been in their head. they rolled on instinct, hearing the sound of metal splitting stone where their head had once been. they lifted a hand and pulled their staff to them, and in a moment, they were gone.

from their vantage, they could see the arishok look around, great horned head swinging back and forth. his face was impassive, but in the dim torch light, they could see a thin sheen of sweat over his skin. how that they had a moment to breathe, they could see the tremble of his muscles, the way he kept readjusting his grip. he didn't have another charge in him.

the arishok stalked around the room, eyes narrowed. "stop hiding," he said-- not yelled. his voice was steady, strong, yet still booming. "come and face your death." he moved to one of the pillars, back against it, trying to find the mage.

hawke was out of mana. all of their magic was focused on trying to close the wound-- or at least keep them from bleeding out-- and holding them in place. they still felt dizzy. they reached out with ona hand, flat on stone, keeping them steady.

hawke watched as a drop of blood fell from their body, heading towards the floor.

it hit the arishok first, dripping down his face.

slowly, the qunari tipped his head back, looking up the column. hawke was attached to the side, held fast by magic and, it would appear, sheer willpower.

the arishok roared.

hawke met his scream with one of their own and launched themself off the column, twenty feet down, taking their staff in both hands, the weighted, blunted metal tip forcing itself into the arishok's eye and not stopping until it hit the stone floor.

--

dimly, ira was aware of their friends at their side, pulling them up. they felt one last spark of magic pull at something in their torso, and then they were gone.

the qunari were silent as they filed out of the room, out of the hall, and eventually, out of kirkwall. the mage kept a firm grip on their staff, golden eyes narrowed, daring any of them to try it. none did. and the moment the doors closed behind the foreigners, the grip turned into a lean, which then slowly turned into them sinking to their knees.

[blarrghe]

13 from the love confessions prompts for T and Dorian? 💖

Hmmmmmmmmm hi Viper thank u for the prompt I tried to angst it up just for you 💖

--

11. "You have to come back to me. Because I cannot do this without you.”

Dorian was not an overtly sentimental person. He was a passionate person, from the field to the bedroom, all fireballs and fiery evenings. He espoused verbose compliments, sweet but sarcastic witticisms. Occasionally a serious moment passed, but they tended to pass quickly and be followed by a drink. 

Taren was sentimental in a way that sometimes seemed to discomfort him, so he'd tried to tone some of that down. Things were still new, and if Dorian was too fiery then Taren's was a heart that tended to burn too fast. That wasn't what he wanted this to be, hot but over in a flash. Something was different, in this, and even if Dorian didn't say it, he knew he felt it too. 

It was foolish, to ask for more, to expect it, to want it. 

It was foolish, for a Dalish elf to find himself in anything more than bed with a would-be Magister. 

It was foolish, for a man from Tevinter to seek anything more than pleasure, to show anything more than physical interest. 

Let's be foolish, Taren had said. 

And so they were. Foolish like laughing over brandy up in the library, foolish like sharing tents where any scout could report it, foolish like sharing kisses in the courtyard gardens in view of Orlesian gossipers. Foolish like a fluttering heart and a giddy smile and affectionate petnames and like many more words that went unspoken, but felt. 

Dorian came on as many missions as Taren left on, now. The grumpy Tevinter who detested any temperature lower than that of a warm bath had been the first to volunteer to come out here, to camp in tents in the frozen and red lyrium stricken Emprise du Lion, where they were now, foolishly, facing down a dragon. 

Fire was good against ice. Dorian wasted no time. His walls of fire blocked shards of glassy stone, his fireballs blasted interruptions against gusts of icy breath. Taren supported his team; barriers, quick casts to heal and strengthen and deflect. His magic could be pointed and offensive in a one-to-one, but against a dragon he was better use as a strategist. He directed shouts to Bull, who gladly charged, and to Varric, who sprang lightly from one crumbling side of the old monument to the other, and to Dorian, who responded "I could do this all day!" and seemed ready to. Endless fireballs and endless foolish confidence.

But then one of those ice-beams hit. Taren shouted, flung out his barrier a second too late, there was a flash of ice and fire colliding with a crash, and then Dorian dropped from his sight. 

The dragon was dead on the ground moments later, but next to it was Dorian. 

Taren ran to his side, his heart beating frantically, his breaths short, his mana all but entirely drained. He tore into a lyrium potion, spitting away its cap and downing its contents while his hands hovered over Dorian's cold, frozen chest. Dorian's cheeks were pale, the faintest thread of breath and lingering magic trailed from his lips, leaving him for the void. 

Taren tore into the veil too, reaching across with too much panicked force for the spirits that always seemed to dance close to Dorian. The ice melted under his hands, but Dorian's chest did not rise. 

"Come on," Taren muttered in graceless frustration, his knuckles tight, his breath uneven. He forced himself through an inhale, an exhale, and tried with little success to get his own heart to slow. "Come on, come on, Dorian —" 

Spirit healing was a patient art. The help from beyond the veil needed to be coaxed, gently guided, whispered to. Demands and force were as likely to be met with demons as with nothing, and either way meant death. Taren squinted his eyes shut and willed away the dark and smokey shapes intruding on his thoughts.

"Please," he whispered. Too long. This was taking too long. 

A whisper of something soft and gentle twirled under his hands, blue light and warming energy, prodding at Dorian's motionless lungs and cooling blood. 

"Come back," he demanded, then begged, "come back, come back to me, vhenan, please." 

That spark met Dorian's, kissing the dim flame that still burned within him and working to build its heat. Taren lowered his hands until they were pressed into the leather over Dorian's chest, and beyond him his magic searched out for lungs of air and the slow pump of a heart. He could feel it pulsing, struggling against a weight of heavy cold. He pushed at his spirit some more, dangerously close to too hard. He bent his head in and tried not to listen to the panic of hopeless words as they passed through his mind, to the regret of all the things he'd yet to say. 

"Come back to me. I can't —" the spirit under his fingers faltered. With a grimace and a push of force, Taren gripped it back under his control. "You have to come back. I cannot do this without you." Heat spread from his fingertips, fire burned dim through Dorian’s chest. His cheeks began to colour again, his breaths to rasp out ragged. 

Dorian coughed, and Taren caught his head to his own chest as he jolted upright again.

“Alright, alright, I hear you. I’m here.” Dorian’s voice was hoarse and quiet and sank into Taren’s chest with warm relief. 

The whisping spark of his spirit aid flitted away into the void, and Taren wrapped Dorian in his arms tight, radiating more warmth with the last of the mana afforded him by that potion. He dug at his belt and pressed a healing tonic quickly to Dorian’s lips before he could speak again. 

[magic-multicolored-miracle]

Dragon Age: Absolution Episode 2/3 It’s All About Dynamics

The episodes were short and the plot moved quickly, so I’m combining some episodes’ posts because I don’t have enough clever things to say for titling

Episode 2:

I like that the character that looks like Cartoon Matt Mercer is not one of the ones voiced by Matt Mercer 😂

Pavus, you say? An ancestor of my beloved and best, Dorian? Do we get to see him again? Please oh please say we do!

Since when do Spirits have names? Besides Cole. Wasn’t Solas’s whole thing that they weren’t really individuals and Varric was trying to change that making Cole a Real Boy™?

All of Tevinter will burn? I never had any intention of doing such...Solas, are you being a problem egg again?

This bitch stupid. And fully deserved Pride Demon to the face.

I like the way they fight together though.

Oh it's cus they're in love and haven't admitted it! Excellent!

"One way or another" ...bitch, why the fuck would you say that? That is on a list of phrases NEVER to say. Especially when dealing with demons and unknown magics.

Help. I am once again deeply attached to an accented, talented, and most importantly sarcastic man named Roland. Also to Qwydion and Fairbanks, but those aren't an "if I had a nickel for every time, I'd have two of them."

What? No!! Shit...I shouldn’t have said anything (RIP)

I agree with the dwarf

Episode 3:

You know, I respect it. But Roland ain't stupid: survival's always trumped by fame

Oh no, I ship it and I love them. They're stupid and probably going to die, but I ship it. The Magister/Templar Knight-Commander should-be-enemies angle just makes it sweeter

How the hell is this child of a man the highest ranking person in this place? Honestly where is anyone older?

That's...an Old God?

Oh Neb is a construct? A risen body by other means? Something that's going to be heartbreaking.

Always at The goddamned Hanged Man...

This is what you get for getting distracted watching your boss's cool stunts. Consider yourself lucky soldier

Not an Old God, still a dragon.

Planning is nobody's strong suit here, is it?

Except my girl Qwyd! Hot damn with the lightning rod. Anyone order their ghouls extra crispy?

Hira's going to come back evil isn't she?

Of course she knows them. It wouldn't be dramatic if she didn't. I feel foolish for not putting that together already

[alienturnipp]

Heed the Morning Star

Mage Hawke & Anders & Justice (pre-relationship)

Read on AO3: [Link]

Summary:

She hesitated for a moment, then looked up and held his eyes. “I mean it though. This?” she gestured at the made-up clinic around them, “It’s impressive work. Brave. I’d be blind to not see the good things you do. To not admire it. And if it—he, Justice, helped you to do all this, then… I don’t know. I’m willing to know more, I suppose.” . Hawke reflected upon her relationship with Anders and Justice through the first years of their intertwining lives. Set before All That Remains, pre-relationship.

.

This short story was a result of my talks with @1ichen, who gave me wonderful & inspiring questions about my character along with their own thoughtful insights. Thank you again <3

Title is taken from Kalandra - Brave New World.

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

“Your mind is your greatest strength, love, and your most vulnerable weakness,”  Malcolm Hawke had once said, as he taught his daughter about the Fade and its dangers, “You can converse with spirits and demons, even bind them, yes. But if they take hold of your mind, you will be forever changed. No creatures of the Fade are made to survive in our world, nor are we made to contain their drive. A possession would bring death to both you and the being you carry.”

.

The first time Anders glowed blue in front of her eyes and half a dozen Templars, the Fade pouring out of the cracks on his skin, Cirilla remembered her father’s words with a shiver of dread crawling up her spine. Void take her, this is what Father warned her and Beth against. Run. Run. Get the hell away from here. Move your legs.

But Karl was a silent, gazeless shell of a man behind them – a standing nightmare, and the pain in Anders’ roar and the hatred in his eyes matched her white-hot anger. Next to her Varric cursed, Bianca snapping into motion with a smooth click. Carver didn’t waste any time standing between her and the Templars, even if he looked so conflicted and scared he might burst.

“Haul ass, Sister!” Carver growled.

As the Templars rounded in on them, she switched off her fear. Her blade and magic took care of the rest. Fuck running. Look where running got them all.

She didn’t need to be possessed to hunger for bloodshed that night. She thought she should be terrified, ashamed of herself. She was not.

.

“You seem wary of me and Justice, Hawke.”

She acknowledged his remark with a dip of her head, but otherwise focused on washing the bundle of linens and bandages he had set out for them both to clean. There were just the two of them now, laboring silently under the forever-dim light of Darktown, barely sufficient with the lanterns Anders had put on around his clinic. Only the occasional rumbles of machinery resonated through the walls, doubtless coming from the industrial area above them and the dock nearby, and Cirilla almost got lost in the turbulent space of her own head.

His gaze would not leave her.

He continued. “I can see you are keeping an eye on me, even if I’m thankful for all your help around here. Don’t trust me to keep my control and not burst out into demons?”

“I want to,” she snapped a little too quickly, and thought at the last moment to direct her temper into her current task. The piece of linen twisted and stretched under her tight squeeze. “You joke about it like that. I’ve only been taught to fear possession. I don’t even know how it’s possible that you still managed to be… you.”

“You saw me at the Chantry, Hawke.”

“I lost it and killed those Templars too, and I didn’t even know Karl like you did. I’m hardly in any moral high ground to judge.” She pursed her lips. “Your spirit probably saved our collective ass, as it was.”

“… You’re welcome?”

She hesitated for a moment, then looked up and held his eyes. “I mean it though. This?” she gestured at the made-up clinic around them, “It’s impressive work. Brave. I’d be blind to not see the good things you do. To not admire it. And if it—he, Justice, helped you to do all this, then… I don’t know. I’m willing to know more, I suppose.”

He blinked. “You would ‘fuck the Circle, fuck the Chantry, fuck the Maker himself’, but you’re willing to believe Justice?”

“Yeah. Seems more real anyway.”

He regarded her then, long look but not hard nor scrutinizing, only contemplative, maybe a little fond, and she felt an odd familiarity with the lessons she had with her father all those years ago. She wondered what Malcolm would think of her now. His runaway daughter, who had only come back home to watch him die, then proceeded to let her younger sister fall to an ogre. Joined a gang – another gang. Killed Templars. Made friend – were they friends? - with a mage housing a spirit of Justice in his head, who insisted that he and his spirit were not an abomination. Came a long way, indeed.

Father was gone though. He didn’t get to reprimand her now.

“Few people are willing to take that step,” Anders finally said with a smile. “I’m starting to have more faith in your Expedition, Hawke, if you’re still planning to have my aid in the Deep Roads.” He smiled. “A Healer who likes you will keep you alive longer.”

.

They kept each other alive through the Deep Roads. She failed Carver, but her little brother could still walk out of that place thanks to him. Then they kept each other alive for a lot longer. Months. Years. Their group of friends was rowdy and danger-prone, annoying and confrontational more often than not, but she fitted right in just so. Their fortune seemed to change with the winds, but she and Anders did not fail each other once.

She still had questions, but it was more a curiosity than anything these days. Frankly, she was impressed that an embodiment of Justice would be able to hold out for so long in this rotting corpse of a city. Surrounded by the walls of the old Tevinter, amidst oppressions old and new, the long war they set out to fight seemed as inspiring and real as it seemed futile. She knew which version of the tale Varric had already decided to tell.

Sometimes she walked her dreams in the Fade, and she saw her mother sitting serenely with her book next to the fireplace, Brandy a slumbering, snoring pile of warm fur at her feet. In her dreams she would read Carver’s letters over and over, taking solace in knowing her little brother was now thriving as she knew he deserved to be, even if the life he’d come to live was not easy. The scenes played out just like her every waking day, but they somehow feel less fragile here, no threats of the outside world disturbing their peace. Safer in her imagination than anywhere else.

A familiar spirit sometimes visited her in those dreams, and it would remind her that this, her family, is her Purpose. You lost it once, it would recall, and you almost couldn’t carry on without it. If the Goal drives you now, then your life still has meaning. And when she woke, it was with those words that she gritted her teeth and carried on, washing her blade with blood and washing the blood away before she got home. No matter the price to her soul. She believed in it most days now.

Cirilla Hawke knew she sold her own morals already, her growing reputation a mocking testament of her marks on the world. Justice and Anders though, they glowed bright as two souls and one. She selfishly basked herself in the intense warmth of it, drawing closer and closer like a moth to a flame.

So no, she didn’t doubt Justice, hadn’t been since a long time. But hers and Anders’ friendship only grew along the years, and so did her curiosity. She wondered about the kinds of character Justice and Anders were before their merging, about the palpable and surreal determination that drove their actions now, what fueled the burning sun in their heart. She wondered if she could reach for that greatness too.

.

“Anders thought many things about you, Hawke,” Justice called to her just before they prepared to leave Feynriel’s fading dream. The boy’s mind was no longer trapped inside the Fade, and without its Dreamer the place slowly dematerialized and disintegrated, pulling her and Anders’ – Justice’s – consciousness alongside them.

But they were still in each other’s presence now, a rare moment of relief where she could see and talk to Justice without any immediate danger plaguing their minds. So she willed herself to stay a little longer.

“We are very close friends.” She shrugged, then put a hand on her hip and turned toward him, consciously keeping her chin high and her eyes hard. As if preparing to brace any kind of judgement he would throw at her. Mostly instinctual, but she was still annoyed at herself for that.

“He admires your spirit and strength, and greatly values your support. I will not disclose more than that, but I can see why he would look up to you. You have a strong sense of Purpose. Even if I dislike your methods, I can understand your drive. He— We believe that we can achieve great things with you by our side. I would like you to know that.”

She was suddenly aware of how the thick fur wrap graze her neck with each blow of the winds, and how the seams of her scarf crumbled away with the currents swirling around them. Justice’s eyes were bright like two burning stars, and she remembered how it was this… this magnificent being that had brought Karl Thekla back from his Tranquility, something they all thought impossible, however briefly that moment was. He stood tall and proud in front of her, undaunted. A beacon.

It had been a long time since she last felt self-conscious by a compliment. Cirilla swallowed, a wave of emotions threatening to escape her. She felt a little weak at the knees, and at the same time invincible. She could get drunk on it.

She stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. He squeezed his own hand on top of hers.

“Onward, Justice,” she said, reveling in the course of the Fade beneath and above her palm. It had a rhythm, a strange pulse, and it was as real as the waking world. “Anyone who want to cut us, I will cut them first. I’m by your side for as long as you need me.”

[emerald-amidst-gold]

fluff prompt: “You’re an idiot.” “But you love me.”

for the dragon and the wolf? :3

A bickering old couple you request? Ohhh, yes~! >:3 If it's one thing Fane and Solas do well, it's grow more and more exasperated with each other's less...thought out moments. PFFFT!

-----

"What is Fane doing?"

Solas and Mhairi were standing side by side when the latter asked that question of him; he with his arms behind her back; she with her own folded in front of her. They were currently watching the aforementioned man, Cole and Varric flanking him, as he knocked on an elemental barrier with an obsidian gauntlet. The resounding thrum had Solas closing his eyes for a second, the magic reverberating unnervingly along his skin and mind, before he reopened them and heaved a soft sigh. This boded poorly, but he would not interfere. His dragon would learn this time.

...Hopefully.

"He is preparing to dispel the barrier.", Solas said with dryness and a blank expression. 'Dispel' was perhaps too generous of a term for this display. He dispelled; Fane disturbed.

To match his thought and what nearly had Solas letting out another, more exasperated sigh, Fane butted his shoulder against the barrier--magic warbling before it lashed out with tendrils of fire, causing the reckless man to jump back quickly with a snarl and a scowl. Cole would occasionally glance back at him, veiled eyes peeking through blonde bangs with the same question that Mhairi had posed, 'What is he doing?', but he merely shrugged and continued to watch. Again, he would not interfere. Mhairi's voice came again, more questions with its lilt.

"Dispel?", the woman asked, turning her gaze towards her brother once more. Solas caught how petite hands squeezed themselves with anxious energy, but whether she knew what Fane was about to do or not, he had no clue. "How is he going to dispel that barrier? He doesn't have any way of doing that."

"Indeed he does not.", Solas agreed blandly, actually feeling his face deadpan further as Fane ordered Varric to launch a barrage of bolts at the crackling ward. The two men had to scramble away when those projectiles ricocheted; the arrows were on fire, as well. Unfortunate.

Mhairi cringed at his side, but relaxed as the two men appeared unharmed; Fane only seeming more annoyed and Varric merely laying upon the ground in a position that said, 'Why did I sign on for this?'. Cole hovered around the defeated dwarf like a baby bird, concerned and confused. Solas wished he could answer that question of presence for the poor Child of the Stone. Sadly, he could not beyond saying it was to clean up mistakes not the dwarf's own. Just as he could not interfere despite how this debacle had his more scholarly nature crying for release. A simple spell of ice would negate the barrier, or any, truthfully, but he would let his dear, idiotic dragon learn that when one touched fire, they were bound to get burned.

"Do you think we should--?"

"No.", Solas shot down Mhairi's question immediately, glancing down at her and raising an eyebrow when she only pouted up at him--bottom lip protruding rather childishly. Such a look would not sway him.

"But, Solas, he'll--!"

The Dalish woman attempted to argue once again, but Solas merely turned his gaze away and refocused it on Fane, who was now on his own and glaring literal daggers into the barrier before him. How painful this was to watch. How desperately he wished to aid the one who had aided him countless times for countless ages.

But he would not.

"Lessons must be learned, da'len.", Solas explained, inner exasperation growing as he felt a ripple in the air. He growled under his breath. "Fenhedis lasa, ma'isenatha. Why must you do this every time? More force does not cause them to fall like a body of flesh and bone."

Mhairi stared at him, obviously confused and lost before turning her gaze quickly back to her brother, but Solas knew all would be made clear as a spectral claw appeared along the length of the Fane's arm--blue and silver swirling with magical essence and whispers of ice. An ivory visage was twisted, vines and flowers of Sylaise matching the contortion easily, as Fane let out a deeply, deeply primal snarl--one that made Solas shiver despite his annoyance, but he steeled himself as that spectral arm pulled back.

Class was in session. Unfortunate.

Mhairi's eyes widened. "Wait, he's going to--?", she began before seeming as if she wished to run forward to stop what was about to transpire, but Solas placed a hand upon a delicate shoulder, squeezing it firmly and halting an unneeded flight. "Solas, he's going to--!"

"I am aware, da'len.", Solas said, calm and once again, flat. He knew this line of actions all too well. All. Too. Well. "Let it play out."

Mhairi's head snapped up to him, blonde hair whipping around with her. "What?! But the barrier will--!"

Before known words escaped frenzied lips, the sound of an explosion echoed around them. Solas heaved a loud sigh and flicked up a barrier without a tremor in his hand to shield both he and Mhairi. The young woman let out a screech of surprise and fear, immediately scrambling behind him and finding purchase on his robes with her hands. He barely flinched at that. This too was a common occurrence.

"Explode.", Solas finished Mhairi's earlier statement with so much dryness he thought his voice would crack and flow away like sand in the Approach. "As would any force when more force is enacted upon it."

As the smoke and fire cleared, and his barrier slowly decayed--Fade borne energy wiggling back through the tears he had made in the fabric holding it back--, Solas saw that both Cole and Varric had thankfully managed to get to an alcove in time to shield themselves. They had unfortunately been too far for him to reach, but so was one other. One that was now, not surprisingly, laid out upon the ground, chest rattling with harsh coughs and snow white hair coated with ash and soot, as was the material of their armor. They were, however, in one complete piece, so the minor panic in Solas' chest abated to be replaced by his common friend this day; exasperation.

"I trust you are not burnt too horribly, Inquisitor?", Solas called out to the other man, keeping his position of distance for the time being. Mhairi was still behind him, but he caught the sight of her head peeking around from his peripheral. He could feel her want to bolt forward, but the fire seemed to have spooked her to the point where she couldn't.

"I'm..cough..fine!", Fane called back, voice raspy from smoke and possibly a shout of his own that had been swallowed by the explosion. "I got the...cough...barrier!" A lazy hand came up to point at the entrance to the cave; it was, in fact, open and free to traverse.

"Well done, vhenan.", Solas praised, but he kept his voice literally dripping with sarcasm and with the air of not being impressed at all. "Although, perhaps a minor spell of either I or your sister would suffice next time? It would certainly help in keeping your foolishness from leaking through."

Solas watched as Fane's head craned back upon the ground, emerald and gold looking far more brilliant due to the appearance of blackened soot. They spoke with a thousand words, a thousand voices, and he could see that his dear dragon was not pleased with his words. Oh well.

"What are you trying to say, you old fool?", Fane snarled out at him, but Solas was unfazed, so used to these words and this haughty display.

Solas shrugged. "In short terms?", he asked, raising an eyebrow before smirking when Fane nodded once for him to continue. "You are an idiot."

Solas heard Mhairi softly gasp from behind him, but he paid it no further attention as Fane's face flashed with several emotions; disbelief, indignation, anger, but then...warmth. The appearance of that had him blinking, brows drawing together. Interesting. Usually an answer such as the one he'd given would spur his dragon to sulk and glare until his eyes shut for the eve. But this time, Fane appeared...conniving; he had something up his sleeve to retort with.

Unfortunate, but also, welcome. How the fires blaze. How they burned and allowed him to wash clean.

Fane hummed, head slowly moving back to its former position so that emerald and gold could gaze at the very sky they had once witnessed from a different view. Vines of Sylaise went lax as an ivory visage went lax, softness making his dragon look centuries younger and like he did not have the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The sight nearly had Solas taking a step forward, suddenly eager to join his heart upon the ground, but he went rigid when rumbling words exited fondly smiling lips.

"But you love me despite that." Fane chuckled, hooded eyes rolling back to him with more fire than the dissolved barrier could ever possess. "Isn't that right, ma tarasyl?"

Solas felt his whole body, but most importantly, his face blaze at that utterance of Elvhen and Common. Now, this was not something expected. Fane rarely voiced his affection so publicly, so unabashedly--emerald nearly drowning in gold as emotions ran high and voice loud to project it for all to hear. A tiny giggle from behind had Solas quickly bringing a hand up to cover part of his hot face. It would appear he had been bested. Unfortunate, but not unwanted.

The 'oooo' from Varric however was highly unwanted. It would seem he was flanked and would soon be quartered. How foolish for him to think he was in complete control.

"Perhaps I am the idiot.", Solas muttered to himself, smirking behind his hand as he continued to keep he and Fane's gazes locked, entwined. He did, however, usher the giggling elf behind him forward with a gentle hand. "If you would, da'len?"

Mhairi offered him a knowing smile, raising an eyebrow. "What about you, hah'ren~? I bet a kis--!"

"Mhairi. Go.", Solas commanded tersely, but could only sigh as she let out another giggle before bare feet and short legs hastened to her brother's side. Fane was still watching him, but his eyes were quiet, silently asking him, 'Too much?'.

Solas smiled a bit at that and only shook his head, doing his best to answer as only dragons could.

'More would not be unwanted.'

He knew his message was seamlessly received when golden-emerald orbs widened and an ivory visage flushed several shades of delicate pink, usually flat lips going slightly agape before they clamped shut with coyness. Solas chuckled fondly as he found his legs again, seeking to join Mhairi in assessing the damage done, but all he could think as he closed the distance, as Cole and Varric moseyed their way over, and two toned orbs met his own again was:

'I do love you, my dragon. Every side of you. The anger and the care. The tears and the laughs. The intelligence and the idiocy. I love every side, and one day, I hope to scream it as you do--unbidden and until my lungs burst.'

[ilovehallas]

Can it not just wait til morning

Relationships: Anders & Justice, Anders & Varric Tethras

Summary:

Anders wanders the streets of Lowtown at night to try and recover from a disturbing nightmare, but the implications of what he dreamed won't let him go and Justice only makes matters worse. When things reach a fever pitch, Anders rushes to the Hanged Man in need for friendship and reprieve.

Tags: Night Terrors, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Dragon Age II - Act 3, Friendship saves the day

Warning for graphic violence

[One of my favorite relationships in Dragon Age 2 is the friendship between Anders and Varric and the change in tone in their banter between Act 2 and Act 3 always gets to me. So I wrote a self-indulgent piece about it that completely went out of hand! There's a lot of other stuff I still wanted to get in there, but I did actually try to keep it brief. This oneshot takes place a short time after the Legacy DLC, between Acts 2 and 3. Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!]

Read on AO3

Acrid fumes hung heavy in the air of the tunnels. The stench almost had its own physical presence in the way it crept into his air ways and made it hard to draw breath. It had made them all quiet as they tried to avoid stepping on the strange fleshy growths covering parts of the ground and the walls; if Anders looked too long he could swear they were pulsing slightly, feeling every pulse like the beat of his own heart.

Something lived here that Anders didn’t want to see. He tried to keep his eyes fixed to the back of the Warden-Commander, on the familiar griffon heraldry emblazoning her shield. Nothing in the way she moved betrayed whether she could sense it too. Her hand rested easy on the hilt of her sword.

The winding tunnels got progressively more difficult to traverse, forcing them to walk on the growths as the ground became uneven. They would give ever so slightly under Anders’ weight with a sickening, squelching sound. Everything was damp and warm, and Anders hoped that it was sweat that ran along his brow as his breathing grew more and more shallow.

Soon they were in place that Anders recognized well. They were in one of the many tunnels sleeping deep beneath Vigil’s keep, walking past long abandoned dark spawn barricades. How long had it been since they had walked these halls together? Sigrun smiled at him with understanding when she glanced over. When they reached a fork in the road, Anders found a weight finally lifted off his chest. Two massive holes were gaping in the stone, the one on the right side leading down another cramped path, and the other opening up to the inside of a large structure illuminated by an odd blue glow. The walls there were of solid stone adorned with careful geometric designs of lyrium, reaching up so impossibly high that Anders couldn’t even make out a ceiling when he entered. From far away, the soft echo of running water called out to him.  

A flicker of hope lit him up like a spark in dry kindling. This was it! The place they had been looking for! The exhaustion of their grueling eternal march fell off him like opened shackles as he turned and ran back to the others, cursing the way his robes would slow him down. When the canal spat him out, he was back in the deep roads. This time there was not an inch that was not covered in organic matter. The walls were infested with empty egg sacks sprouting from the flesh and Anders’ blood rushed in his ears, whispering to him in clicking and chittering sounds that whatever had nested there was watching him. His body and chest seized up around nothing in anticipation of a threat he couldn’t see, his limbs stiff and useless as the paralyzing poison of panic set in. But no, he could see it. When he looked down, through the grate of the drain under his feet, the thick tentacle of a broodmother emerged from the dark in greeting. When he lifted his head, he looked right into the bulging humanoid face of one of her Children, perched on its grotesque legs.

“We need you, Grey Warden” it spoke with a calm voice. Its claw-like appendages poised, it jumped at him baring its needle teeth and buried them deep into his neck. He didn’t even get to scream, his blood pooling in his mouth as his skin tore. He could feel the way the creature sucked the rest of it right out of his veins. His legs gave in, crushed by the weight of the childer now feasting on him.

“Why can’t I help you?” Justice wailed mournfully from Kristoff’s body, half swallowed by the wall. “I’m stuck here. Anders, what can I do? This isn’t right!”

“I don’t know!“ Anders forced out, his hands pushing fruitlessly at the darkspawn burrowing itself in his body. The fade was silent and sliding away further and further the deeper the teeth went. “Get off of me!”

“I apologize for what I must do to you” the childer said. “But the Father says we need your blood.”

His arms were getting weaker, he still tried to dig his fingers into the creature’s eyes.

“It’ll make us free. Wouldn’t that be just?”

Anders sought Justice’s eye, his own despair reflected back at him. Justice opened his mouth as he struggled, his words coming out as a death rattle. “Why can’t I change this? Why aren’t you letting me?”

“But it’ll hurt us too. It’ll be sad.”

Everything was becoming blurry, colors and sensations mixing together in agony. He couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. There was only the sound of this voice.

“We’ll miss the song. Oh, the beautiful song! How we’ll miss it!”

“I can hear it too, Anders” a woman whispered. The Warden Commander! She had to do something! He had watched her cut down dragons, why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wasn’t she helping? Nothing had ever stopped her before, not archdemons, not self-preservation, not reason.  “It’s heart-wrenching. There is a part of me that understands the darkspawn now. Why they long to hear it so much…”

She began to hum an unfathomable melody that was alien and familiar at once, like the impression of a song he’d forgotten in his childhood. Blindly he tried to reach her so he could make her stop, somehow, whatever it took, but there was nothing, only a great expanse of nothing where her voice became a drop in the ocean of the song.

It thrummed in his chest like it came from inside his bones—

“They call to us! They need us! Please! Grey Warden! Oh, Grey Warden!”

The whole world shaken by the song calling—                

  Anders awoke drenched in sweat with a sob. Eyes unfocused and mentally still entangled in the images of his nightmare, his hands shot up to touch his neck to convince himself that there was no darkspawn there. Relief when he felt that his skin was intact but it was running hot, crawling with something that weren’t there.  He was trembling all over, couldn’t stop gasping, his stomach was rolling, there was a flash of blue. Quick, quick where—

Scrambling to get up, Anders managed to take a few steps before he had to lean against the wall for support and retched once, twice. The nausea was still there, but it receded just as much as Anders needed it to so that he could reach for a cloth and wipe the saliva and vomit from his mouth.

He looked around frantically, taking a moment to recognize he was in his own clinic. It was pitch dark in the room save for a little lantern and it slowly dawned on him that he must’ve fallen asleep in the evening, only to wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare. And how lucky that he did wake.

A nightmare… Anders always kept a bowl or two of clean water around when treating patients. Knowing this place better than the back of his hand, he found one of them even in the relative darkness and splashed his face with the water. For good measure he rubbed his hands over his face, hoping that if he convinced himself enough that he was awake, the sick sense of dread looming over him would disappear. The scratch of his stubble was oddly grounding, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

It had been so visceral. Even now he felt little aftershocks of the “song”. And if there were not the usual noise of a night in Darktown, he was certain that he would be able to hear a faint melody from deep underground.

Maker’s breath, he had to get out of here.

As Anders headed for one of the exits to Lowtown he passed the faces of people he’d seen too many times. There were children that were growing up before his eyes in the dirt. He hastened his pace.

To wander the maze of Lowtown alone at night as a mage was among the most stupid things one could do in Kirkwall. Anders could not find it in himself to care, feeling himself embraced by the night’s chill when he reached the surface. It soothed his burning skin much like ointment did to a wound. A sigh came over his lips as he tipped his head back to gaze upon the stars. See? he thought triumphantly to himself. No ceiling, no stone. Only sky. Just a regular night in Kirkwall, whatever that meant these days.

He drifted in and out of alleyways he’d never seen in the years he’d lived here to stay out of the templars’ sight, along streets he’d last walked before he’d met Hawke. There was no one place he really wanted to be in right now, he was simply grateful for the quiet in his skull that the movement and the cold afforded him. Hadn’t really had much of that lately, or ever, since he’d let Justice in. He looked down from a ledge of a dead end to the docks, his gaze sweeping across to where the few lights of the Gallows gleamed. It was a bit strange, if he thought about it. Justice made it hard to remember dreams usually. Somehow Anders had assumed that if he were to experience a nightmare again, it would involve a templar. It would have been kinder.

The wind tugged at Anders as he stared transfixed at the circle, strands of hair falling into his eyes. The longer he looked, the louder his heart thumped in his chest, the muscle squeezing like a clenched fist as images flashed before his eyes. He tried to push them away, but Justice would not relent. When Bethany’s face entered his mind, Anders pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

“I was just going for a walk” he muttered, bracing himself against Justice’s reproach. “You know, I thought it was you who said that there’s beauty in this world and now you won’t even let me appreciate the moonshine. That’s more than just a little unfair.”

He raised his head again to the one moon shining bright tonight, hands trembling once more. Something in him stirred at the sight so that even Anders had to smile a little. The serenity of night. The gratitude of a mage holding up pieces of their broken phylactery. The relief when the fever of a patient finally broke against the odds. Finally storming the baroness’ estate. The amulet Hawke had given him that he kept under his shirt, just out of sight but he always knew it was there. Darkspawn blood gleaming on the Warden Commander’s blade. A cat purring on his lap. The granite fortifications of the keep. A ring, a ring made of lyrium, she’d given him a ring. The people of this plane couldn’t hear it, but he could. Like the fade woven into sound, a beautiful song that calls…

Ander’s stomach lurched unexpectedly and he managed to clasp his hand over his mouth before he threw up this time. With great effort and his insides still twisting he swallowed it back down, coughing and gagging as he stumbled away from the ledge.

A spike of irritation. It’s not that kind of song, Anders thought. He retraced his steps to an intersection, taking a path that lead left through a narrow alley as his restlessness returned with a vengeance. And it wasn’t his memory for sure. A rat squeaked in panic when he nearly stepped on it and he cursed as the critter hurried past him. He darted out of the alley, then down a flight of stairs hewn directly into the stone, starting to feel as though something was lurking right behind him.

Why was he angry? The Warden Commander had never wronged them. Because it wasn’t about her or about wrongs. Anders’ coat nearly caught on one of the iron spikes jutting out from the ground. The problem was that he had never wanted to go back there, but Hawke had taken him anyway. And what did he do? What did he hear?

He’s not Vengeance. Or wasn’t he? He’s not a demon. But we’re an abomination. Anders gritted his teeth. Fenris was right on that account at least. He had become an abomination long ago, even if the process wasn’t as sudden as the Chantry would think. Justice wouldn’t like to be reminded, but if it weren’t for Hawke and the others, they would have slain that poor girl they’d meant to protect. And underneath the Vimmark Mountains they’d turned his magic even against his friends. All because—

Anders’ throat was beginning to hurt even though he wasn’t even running. Feverishly he touched his neck to prove to himself once again that there were no teeth. A piece of himself had never left the Deep Roads. And what remained of Justice now? Some memories and a rage that seared him to the bone. Behind him he heard footsteps and the rattle of armor.

What if it was a templar?

Yes, what then?

Somehow the question didn’t come with enough fear. Or any. The truth was that right now Anders almost hoped a templar would come and find him. He didn’t need a staff anymore to defend himself, thanks to Justice magic would pour all too readily through the veil. One dead templar, one dead mage, Anders feared that at this point it didn’t even make a difference anymore. Anders peered over his shoulder. A guardswoman stopped in her tracks when she noticed him, narrowed her eyes, and then continued to walk her round without a second glance.  Likewise Anders picked up his pace again as well.

He wasn’t an abomination. Vengeance was angry now. He was spewing Chantry propaganda at himself because it was difficult to care about this world, beautiful and broken as it was. He couldn’t give up now just because it was difficult. There was too much here that had gone unpunished and not a day would pass without more suffering heaped onto the pile unless this whole damn system crumbled. He wasn’t an abomination.

Anders recognized the area they were in now, the streets broader to accommodate the crowds that usually mingled here. There were people shrouded in darkness in the corners of the market, but none of them looked his way. His nails were digging into his arm and he wondered if maybe he could...

It was a trap; every mage lived in a trap. Push a little to pull your head from the noose and the rope around your neck only tightens, every single time. Vengeance prodded, reminding him of Karl until Anders had to bite the inside of his cheek. Thousands of voices in Thedas were crying out for Justice! Somebody had to answer the call, even if it was a losing battle, even if he was going to try to hold back a tidal wave by himself! He wasn’t an abomination!

He was a liability! Anders took two stairs at a time, his blood boiling despite himself. Chill had turned to cold in the time he’d wasted running around, but he was pretty certain there was a passage back to Darktown nearby. If he was lucky he could get another hour or two of sleep before the daily grind picked back up.

Was he running away again?

He wasn’t running. Wasn’t he? The Warden Commander smiling at him, one of her rare smiles. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Anders or Justice remembered her reciting the motto to herself in a light-hearted tune before leaving for Amaranthine to defend it. This was his chance to remedy his cowardice. 

Anders didn’t have the energy left tonight to argue. He knew, yes, he knew there was no turning back and that he had chosen this. There was no escape from the Wardens, no escape from the Calling, from Justice, from himself, from the path he’d chosen, from the path the templars were forcing. But wasn’t he allowed to be angry to know this for a little while? Wasn’t he allowed to mourn that for all the freedom he fought for, Anders had forsaken his own? He hadn’t wanted to be an abomination.

Vengeance didn’t understand anymore. It would be the most beautiful thing of all to see the circles fall, no matter what it took. No more Ser Rylocks, no more Ser Alriks, no more Merediths.

Anders frantically looked around—

It’d be beautiful but it wasn’t all that Anders wanted. He’d wanted to be free, and now he’d never be. He had made a demon out of Justice, he couldn’t trust himself to make the right decisions. All of this had been a mistake. And even if he succeeded, one day the taint would come for him. 

Don’t think like that! It wasn’t his fault that the world had made him like this! This was worth every price! He knew that!

There had to be something to get him out of this, change of course—

He couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be relied on! He didn’t know what to do!

He would find a way, he had to! The circles had to go! They had never cared about the suffering they inflicted on mages, generation after generation! Whatever he could do it would be justified! They had sealed their fate centuries ago!

They had to go, but—

IT WOULD ONLY BE JUST!

Anders winced, the words booming in his skull with terrible finality. Something in his mind was burgeoning against his defenses, the veil around him straining and warping under its stress. Anders hissed, stemming against the tide of righteous fury and frustration that incensed Vengeance. The pressure abated not long after, but the damage was done. His heart and head were pounding, everything in him was reeling as it had when he’d woken, but suddenly he remembered: he knew where he was. Down this street past the merchant’s stand, one more set of stairs, then turn right. He was nauseous with resentment, though he couldn’t say if it was his own or who it was aimed at. He almost stumbled his way up. It was embarrassing that it felt as though he would be okay if he just made it there, maybe, but he’d lost all of his dignity already running through Kirkwall like a madman. Might as well act like a child and pretend the bad things can’t get him so long as the candle was burning. He rounded the corner, his heart skipping a beat. When he saw it, relief washed over him warmly and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Somehow he’d made it to the Hanged Man just in time.

Not giving himself the time for second thoughts he pushed past a drunken patron through the entrance door, praying that they weren’t closed yet. With a creak the door swung open for him, allowing him to step inside, the tavern reeking of desperation and hundreds of beers and ales spilled over the decades. Barely anyone was still here. The old man who was always muttering to himself was sitting at one of the tables by himself, apparently only half-awake, and a man was leaning on the counter where the tired bartender Corff was already eyeing Anders. No Isabela, no Varric. Shit.

“We’re about to close.”

Anders paused and dug through the pocket of his coat for coins. “Enough time left for me to get a drink, right?” He gave the man a strained smile and slid the silver he’d found across the counter, hating the way he couldn’t keep his hands still. The man caved.

With his freshly-purchased drink in hand and a view to the door Anders plopped down on one of the benches in the back of the room, sinking in on himself a little. He hadn’t planned to actually drink anything, but the longer he sat the more he became aware of how drained he really was. A dull ache spread through his whole body from exhaustion and his throat and mouth were parched while hair stuck uncomfortably to his forehead with sweat. His mind was suspiciously quiet when he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The sense of doom and the heat of anger however still formed a tight knot in his chest that kept him tense, so he knew it wasn’t over yet. Static buzzed in his ears.

When the entrance door creaked once more, Anders perked up.

Sheer dumb luck, Anders couldn’t believe it, it was sheer dumb luck that the person who entered really was Varric. When he spotted Anders he raised his hand in greeting and made a beeline to his table.

“Varric, we’re closing!” Corff yelled in dismay, but the dwarf only waved him off.

“You know, you should probably consider listening to him” Anders commented as Varric took a seat across from him against the bartender’s protests. “One day he’ll stab you in your sleep.”

“Oh he’s harmless” Varric said. He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but something in his expression changed when he looked at Anders. Then after some apparent deliberation with a bit too much sincerity: “…You look like shit.”

The corners of Anders’ lips twitched up reflexively, unsure yet if he wanted the concern. “And here I was thinking I only felt like it!”

Anders didn’t feel like joking, he hadn’t felt like it in weeks but there was something soothing about when they both broke out into nervous chuckles over his quip. A bit like a reassurance that oh right, so he could still talk like a person.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

Anders made it a point to yawn. “I just fell asleep in the clinic. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Varric didn’t inquire further even though Anders could see that he knew it was a bit more than that. There was a twinge of disappointment and unease. Usually Varric would fill moments like this with empty talk but for some reason he was holding off on it. So they sat suspended in unnatural silence until Anders had drunk the last drop from his bottle. He licked his lip, waiting for Varric to strike but nothing came. The only quiet sounds came from the bar and the fire crackling nearby, the static in Anders’ head grew louder. He was getting ready to abandon ship if this was how it was going to go, when it occurred to him what Varric was doing.

Anders studied his companion’s face, who was pretending to read a letter he’d pulled from one of his pockets. It would be terrifyingly easy to tell him about everything that was troubling him; really, a part of Anders yearned to let it all spill out of him in the hope that maybe once it was out this pressure in his head would be gone. That used to work. But there was too much to put to words by now, steeped in too much shame, and too much that Varric for all his kindness simply wouldn’t understand. Or shouldn’t have to hear. Once he said it, he would never be able to take any of it back. But, Anders didn’t want to leave. He desperately didn’t want to leave and be alone with himself. And there was something that he knew would be safest with Varric. It would be a compromise.  

“I should come back in the evening when the others are here” Anders ventured.

Varric didn’t even look up. “Oh come on. You don’t come by the Hanged Man much anymore, would be a shame if you left so soon. You must’ve missed the filth.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Don’t be so serious, of course you have! It goes great with your look right now. So, are you staying?”

Corff was glowering at them now. “Sure.”

Varric stuffed the letter back to where it came from with less care than one would a handkerchief and got up. Anders hesitated one last moment before he followed suit, swallowing his reluctance as he took the familiar path up to Varric’s room. In all the years he’d known Varric, somehow the room had stayed mostly the same. Much of that was probably to blame on the tavern itself, but it still struck Anders now that it had been some time since he’d last been in there. The biggest difference he could make out was that there were now chairs to accommodate a human or an elf; there were little traces that friends had left. It was weirdly cute.   

Anders sank on the chair closest to Varric’s favorite little throne, stretching out his legs. For a room at the Hanged Man it was really quite nice, even if the lack of windows was depressing. He felt a bit out of place.

Varric took his seat and wrung his hands. “So what are you in the mood for? Need an editor for your manifesto, or do you want to brainstorm—“

“No” Anders cut him off sharply. “Not tonight.”

“Somebody’s touchy” Varric scoffed. “But alright. What is it then?”

Anders tried to collect his thoughts, frustrated with himself that he was so out of practice that he couldn’t be like Varric and talk about things without mentioning them. His gaze lingered on the vase with wilted flowers Varric kept on his desk next to an unopened bottle of a Tevinter vintage. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ve gone into the Deep Roads twice now since leaving the Grey Wardens.”

“Oh? You’re not getting nostalgic now, are you? I know I said you should reconsider your career but…”     

“No. No, not at all. I absolutely despise the Deep Roads. I’m still angry at Hawke for asking me to come along at all. I thought he knew better than that” Anders admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. Acrid fumes, the unnerving feeling of another creature in his blood. “But it’s hard to say no to him, so guess I’m the idiot.”

At that Varric’s expression briefly turned serious again. “It’s just our luck that whenever the Deep Roads are involved, we either get screwed over or somebody’s got it out for Hawke. But I could also live without ever having to go down there again.”

“That isn’t the point. But it’s actually a bit funny. Hawke reminds me at times of the Warden Commander.”

“How so?”

“Charismatic bastards that attract a special kind of trouble and surround themselves with the worst kinds of people” Anders deadpanned, relieved when Varric relaxed again.

“We’re just a bit rough around the edges” Varric replied. “But go on, I’m interested in hearing this.”

“How much have I told you before?”

“Aside from the story of how you were recruited and how mad the templar was that the Hero of Ferelden and the King were both telling her off? A story here and there. If I didn’t already know the Order is fishy, I’d have guessed as much from how you talk about them.”

Anders clicked his tongue. “Well then. Care to hear about my dark past?”

“Sure” Varric said with a wink. “It’ll come in handy if I ever need inspiration for unrealistic Grey Warden characters.”

Anders grinned. “So have you heard this one before: the Hero of Ferelden, a drunk dwarf, an apostate and his cat, a member of the legion of the dead, the son of the disgraced Howe family, a slightly homicidal Dalish mage and a rotting corpse walk into the Deep Roads…”

“A corpse?!”

“And yet somehow the dwarf smelled worst” Anders joked. “Oghren was a complete pig. At first I didn’t really understand why we were bothering with him, but apparently he’d traveled with the Warden Commander during the Blight. Turned out he really had a hand for cutting down darkspawn. So much so that he left his wife and unborn child to go kill more of them. …Thinking about it, I’m sure he would have loved the Hanged Man. Filthy, barely any sunlight during the day, cheap alcohol…”

“Ouch, that was unnecessary” Varric grumbled. “But I’ve heard that name before. Maybe he should’ve just stayed in Orzammar, Maker knows they’re always trying to get their hands on lunatics like that. A corpse though—”

“The strange thing is that they were all like this” Anders insisted. “And if they weren’t from the start, they would be by the end of it. Nathaniel made the classic mistake of trying to assassinate the Warden Commander in revenge for daddy dearest and got recruited as thanks. He was a terrible grump about it too and said he'd rather be hanged. But give it a little time and before you knew it he was fully indoctrinated. So maybe what Orzammar really needs is better recruiters.”

“I’ll let them know somehow” Varric snorted and rose from his seat. Anders watched him grab a bottle and pour its content into a glass. He was beginning to feel as though a string that was cutting into his flesh was threatening to loosen, only a little bit. Varric placed the glass in front of him and settled back into his own chair, keeping an expectant eye on him. “Go on.”

Anders nodded to Varric in silent thanks and eagerly drank the watered down ale. “She’d recruited really anyone who seemed half-way capable and was unlucky enough to cross our path. So that’s how we ended up with Velanna and Sigrun. I think Velanna only listened to us because the Warden Commander was Dalish herself. When we found her she was having a grand time burning down trade caravans because she was convinced her sister had been abducted by humans, when it was really darkspawn. Sigrun got recruited after we fought our way through a thaig together. She was an awfully cheerful lady for someone who was supposed to be dead. Pick-pocketed me at least six times for sport though.”

“And it kept working?”

“She was really good.”

“I’m sure she was. And…?”

“And then there was Ser Pounce-a-lot, the best kitten anyone could ask for. There isn’t much to say about the corpse, Varric.”

Varric put his hands up defensively. “Excuse me, but you can’t drop that in there and expect me to not be curious!”

“That was Justice’s old host” Anders explained, overcome with a shiver that wasn’t his own.  “He doesn’t want me to talk about it. Just know that he was there.”

“Oh.”

Anders’ vision zeroed in momentarily on the wine bottle. Another bottle just like this always stood in Hawke’s study where he needed it most. “But I think that gives you a pretty good idea of what we were like.”

Varric hummed and scratched his chin. “Should I be worried that you’re comparing us to that little cult you’re describing?”

“In our defense, we were a pretty fun cult sometimes.”

Anders set his glass down softly before he crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling in thought. He’d always kept to the stories that didn’t require context or detail beyond the way the hurlock had tripped over his staff and off a cliff. He hadn’t thought before about how to convey personalities or meaning while leaving the important things unspoken. The Warden Commander wiping blood from her cheek, bent over the dead body of the ogre she’d killed. Hawke breathing hard, checking to see if he had killed the Arishok for good.    

“Think about it: If it weren’t for Hawke, none of us would given the other a second glance” Anders began. “That’s what it was like with the Warden Commander as well. They’re the kind of people that draw others to them and make you want to stick around just to see what they get up to next.”

“That… puts it well actually.”

“How many times has Hawke asked you to join him to do something that is obviously a bad idea? And you went along anyway? That happens practically every other week.”

“Like all the times he decided he’d pick a fight with every gang in Hightown? Or maybe when he took us to the Wounded Coast and got involved with hunting down an extremely dangerous criminal? Everything involving the Qunari? My personal favorite is the time he went to kill some dragons with us in the Bone Pit.”

“Exactly—“ Anders had to swallow, “but you always expect things to go well just because he seems so convinced that it will.”

“And it usually does.”

“It does. Every time we go into a fight I can’t help but trust him.”

He stopped himself there. Why had he agreed to come with to the Deep Roads? Because so long as Hawke was there, it was as though there was a lifeline. The inevitability of this world seemed to hold less power over him and it was eating Anders up with envy and admiration. He had no choice but to want to stay near.  Varric waited patiently. Perhaps he understood what Anders couldn’t think.

Eventually he asked: “So what did the Hero of Ferelden do that gained your trust?”

“Oh, I saw her do a vertical leap and ram a sword straight through an ogre’s skull.”

“…You’re shitting me.”

Anders shifted for comfort, glad to direct the conversation into a different direction. “I’m serious. And she made it look easy, too. It was equal parts disgusting and impressive.”

“What did that look like, exactly?” Varric asked, sounding casual but Anders recognized that curious glint in his eyes.

Anders felt another grin pulling at his mouth. “We were harmlessly traipsing around the Wending Woods killing darkspawn, when suddenly that big stupid beast charged at us. All the Warden Commander did was to jump straight up and angle her sword right and the ogre practically impaled itself. She braces herself against the ogre that is still barreling forward, yanks her blade out and blood explodes everywhere. We’re all hit by the spray while she manages a perfect landing as the ogre collapses behind her.”

“Do you have more details by any chance?”

“She had her sword enchanted with a rune that imbued it with electricity, so it smelled of smoked darkspawn in the whole clearing. Is that graphic enough? If not, I can go on all day. Grey Wardens kill a lot of darkspawn.”

Apparently delighted by what he was hearing Varric sat straighter, his hand hovering near a quill but not grabbing it. Anders took it as an invitation anyway, blowing the spider webs off memories he’d kept stowed away. He started off with the easy things, stories like the ones with the ogre. Violence was mindlessly entertaining after all. Gesticulating dramatically he told of encounters with sylvans, of blighted wolves, of the ghosts of dwarves conjured by stone hacking at impressions of darkspawn, reenacting their deaths until the end of time. He regaled Varric with all the darkspawn heads that had exploded from shield bashes, arrows and magic blasts.    Whatever bound him was unraveling. His heart beat fast in excitement whenever Varric interjected and needled him, when they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Nathaniel once shot a genlock with its own arrow. One hurlock was so confused to see its fellow darkspawn beheaded in one swing of Oghren’s axe that it suffered the same fate. Velanna’s fireballs had singed Ander’s robes on more than one occasion. Soon Varric began to share his own tales, giving Anders the space to remember the little things quietly by himself. Taking a week to learn that the Warden Commander’s name was Serket because nobody ever used it. Sigrun proudly showing off the brass telescope she’d been given. How he smuggled Ser Pounce-a-lot along on missions and had to chase after the cat through half of Amaranthine.  He was feeling more like a person, more like himself than he had in months.

Vengeance’s ache continued to sit with him through it all but it was different now. What had split his head in half hours ago with every heart beat was just the occasional throb behind his eye. The separation between then and now may only be paper-thin but it was there. No, so maybe he wouldn’t tell Varric of the Architect with his intelligent darkspawn and that Hawke and Serket thus had more in common than immunizing against common sense. He wouldn’t talk about the children or how he was being eaten alive by his choices. But with Varric he didn’t have to for the pressure to ease.

By the end of it Anders was curled up in his chair, his coat hung over the backrest for cushoning. The conversation had trickled away somewhere along the way. The stasis wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tinged with the melancholy of knowing that morning had come. There was a sliver of light coming from under the door. Varric had gotten up and laid down out of sight from him some time ago. Anders scratched his neck in anticipation, static back in his head as he bated his breath. This silence wasn’t empty yet, the way it was when people decide to go to sleep. This was the twilight hour in between. The backrest dug into his cheek.

“Why did you leave the Wardens then?”

And exhaled. “That’s complicated.”

“So?”

“I was a different person back then.”

“Well yeah, people change. That’s what being a person is like.”

Feeling the fade touch his mind when he agreed to take Justice into him, believing with all his being that this would be the key. A queasy mixture of joy and bitterness accompanied the memory as he and Justice couldn’t agree. The water had only continued to rise around him. What did he have to show for the person he was now?

He could hear Varric turn over. “Listen, Blondie. So maybe you weren’t a good Grey Warden. But you’ve picked another battle that’s about as insane and that unfortunately seems to be working for you.”

Anders stared into the darkness of the room wordlessly, blinking as though stunned. He waited until he was certain that Varric was asleep, listening close for his breathing. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Of course he’d say that. If he were to mention it to Varric later anyway he’d brush it off and find a way to paint it as the most incidental thing in the world. Anders curled in more on himself even though would become painful soon, finally closing his eyes. A deep calm crept into the space the tension had left behind.

Varric’s friendship was so often understated like that. It made it so easy to want to confide in him, simply because he didn’t ask too much. Nothing had to be serious. He cared in a way that Anders hadn’t had enough mind to appreciate lately. Maybe you couldn’t trust him to keep all your secrets, but you could always trust him to remind you that you were only a person. Varric was a good friend. He’d have to find something to give to Varric, something that would leave a trace of him, something to express… He’d find something… something…

Hours after Anders had left, Varric noticed a single tawny feather on the ground under one of his chairs. He picked it up, held it between his fingers briefly before he placed it gently among his other keepsakes. 

[scurvgirl]

Summer Heat

Good gracious I actually wrote something and it’s um. Naughty. It’s PWP, y’all. Fluffy PWP. Because before there was heartache with Miriel and Solas, there was joy - beautiful, sexy joy. Rated E - Explicit

Please remember to reblog if you like! Help your creators out :)

~~

Summer had overtaken Skyhold with a heat wave and sun. For the many southerner occupants, the heat was unwelcome and odd with the mountain elevation, but for northerners like Miriel, Bull, and Dorian, the heat wave was welcome after a long and difficult winter. For the first time in months, Miriel shed her outer layers and walked around in her preferred traditional garments. Her arms were bare and her hair up, letting her dreadfully pale skin greedily soak up the sun while it could. Dorian had even emerged from his cozy book nook to enjoy the heat, or Bull deciding to run his northern accustomed Chargers through drills. 

Miriel could feel the flowers and trees bask in the glory of the light and heat, or at least she liked to think she could. She was not gifted with magic but she liked to imagine that the plant life was eating this up as much as she and the other northerners were. 

The southerners were even more disrobed than the northerners, fanning their faces and avoiding the sun. The troops Cullen was running were down to their breeches and boots. Metal weapons had been turned over in favor of wooden poles for training purposes. All of which Miriel found more than a little amusing - it wasn’t that hot. She had walked the plains in Antiva in the height of summer - she knew heat. But these southerners were accustomed to snow, sleet, and cold. 

Feeling delighted Miriel walked across the bridge from Cullen’s office to the rotunda. She meant to use it as a shortcut to Josie’s office to discuss an incoming noble from Orlais, but stopped short upon seeing Solas. He was up on the scaffold, painting in a new section of the panel depicting their victory at Adamant. Paint coated his hands and upper arms and his shirt was delightfully discarded to the couch below. Miriel grinned, happy to be waylaid by the sight of her lover’s form. 

Solas was a man who took notice of...everything, but he was often engrossed by his painting that the rest of the world fell away. When he read, he became similarly engrossed. She used his distraction to her benefit and stepped quietly to his chair, then took a seat to watch. 

Some did not understand her attraction to Solas. He was certainly older and was not built like a warrior, but an active scholar. He was bald, and barefaced too. She knew all these things, and it did not dampen her desire for him. If anything, she found his form delightful and deliciously proportionate - he was tall and lean and his legs were so well shaped. His intelligence and knowledge were exceptionally attractive to her, and she practically crooned at the way his voice sounded when he told her tales of his explorations of the fade. He was artistic, and quite frankly, hot as fuck. Her friends could not understand it all they wanted - he was what she wanted, and she had a wonderful penchant for getting what she wanted these days.

She leaned forward in her seat and removed her vest, leaving her just in a loose under shirt and tight breeches that highlighted her shapely legs. With the vest gone, her strong shoulders and arms were full on display, leaving no wonder to her prowess with a bow. He did so love her muscles. She only left the small wrist length leather glove on her left hand, not wishing to have the green light of the Anchor give her away just yet.

Watching Solas paint was always pleasant -  the classical style with which he worked was so interesting to watch take shape. She waited until he sat back on his heels to look at what he’d done in a way that signified he was done for the day. When he nodded silently to himself, she let out a low whistle. 

“I can’t tell which is prettier, the painting or the painter,” she said. Solas whipped around, his face turning bright red to match the paint on his hands. Still, he smiled deviously, pleased at the comment.

“I am glad my skills please the Inquisitor,” he said and she rolled her eyes.

“Do I look like the Inquisitor right now?” For emphasis, she reached up and undid her ponytail, letting her blonde hair fall to her shoulders. She fluffed it with deliberate slowness, knowing he loved her hair - loved to thread his fingers through it, loved to bury his face in it while they -

“No, you do not,” he said low, interrupting her trail of thought. He climbed down from the scaffolding and walked over to the water basin to wash. As he grabbed the washcloth, Miriel stood up and walked over to him. He began to run the cloth against his skin and she ran a finger lightly up his back.

He paused briefly before resuming his wash, “I gather you are in a certain way, vhenan.”

“Always so observant,” she murmured, then angled herself to lean up and steal a quick kiss. Well, it was supposed to be quick. Solas kissed her back, his tongue sliding across her lips. She sighed, leaned into him and deepened the kiss. 

Solas broke away and she leaned up quickly to kiss the tip of his nose. He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers.

“You are insistent today.”

“I’m not the one starting with tongue, vhenan,” she teased, still pressed up against him and even angling her head to brush her lips along his jaw. Early on she learned just how starved for affection he was, just how much his body craved touch. Since then, Miriel had touched him as much as she could without being overwhelming - a hand to his back when she approached, a kiss to his cheek to say hello or good night, holding his hand at the camp fire when in the field, anything to make him remember that he was here and so was she. She once asked him if he had no one to touch him and he had paused and then only said that the Fade was imperfect and it had been a long time since someone had touched him, or wanted to touch him, like she did. 

“I’ll just endeavor to touch you as much as I can, then. Have your Fade adventures, and when you wake up, I’ll be here,” she had told him. His eyes had squeezed shut and when he opened them, they were full of overwhelming emotion.

“Thank you, vhenan.” 

Now, he put his hands back in the water and she maneuvered herself out from under him. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could get him up to her quarters. 

He washed as quickly as he could, taking care to remove every fleck of paint and plaster from his fingers. She knew he moved quickly, but there were moments where it almost felt like the world slowed as she watched the slim length of his fingers be washed, saw them flex in the water. She met his eyes and a distinctive mirth entered his expression. Wonderful, filthy man. 

As soon as he was finished with the wash, she grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing his fingertips then his pulse. 

“Brazen indeed, vhenan,” he murmured before stepping forward to cup her face and kiss her once more. Heat bloomed between them, putting the heat wave to shame. She adored kissing him, and would happily do so for hours. Today, though, she was very much in a particular mood - a mood that desired Solas and herself naked and writhing with passion.

She broke the kiss, took his hand and began to lead the way to her quarters. It was still the middle of the day at Skyhold, and the rotunda was entirely too public for her. She liked her privacy, as did Solas. 

Of course, there was no doubt as to what was happening as they traipsed through the great hall to the door that led upstairs to her quarters. Without evening looking, she knew Varric was smirking and shaking his joy as if he didn’t take immense joy in seeing his friends happy. 

As soon as they were through the door, Solas shut it behind them and pressed Miriel up against a wall. His mouth was on hers, his hands mapping her body, relearning it. She gripped his shoulders, pressing herself into the heat of the kiss and to his body. Moments like these made the world fall away, made her forget all about her duties as Inquisitor, even about the Mark blazing in her hand. 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders then jumped up to wrap her legs around his waist.

“Yes, vhenan,” he murmured against her lips. His hands were on her ass, holding her even as he felt her up. She smiled into the kiss, nearly laughing, forcing it to break. 

“Something funny?” He asked.

“You love my ass. I just...it’s funny!” 

His brow furrowed but he smiled, “Ah, well, it is a very nice one.” He gave her a firm squeeze, making her gasp. Before she could respond, he adjusted his grip and fadestepped all the way up the stairs. She held on for dear life until she was being thrown back, landing on the softness of her bed. 

Her heart raced, head swimming as she tried to orient herself. And there was Solas, already pulling his leggings over his shapely form. She bit her lip, her body’s interest blooming with renewed vigor. Miriel followed her lover’s example and removed her undershirt, then wiggled out of her breeches. She did away with her breast band and underwear, leaving her bare to his gaze. The single glove on her Marked hand remained. Solas’s gaze roamed over her body with obvious desire, so she arched her back and shifted backward.

“Solas,” she murmured and that was enough to have him crawling after her onto the bed. He was over in her a moment, slanting his mouth against hers once more. She felt her entire body sigh on a singular thought of yes as he pressed his body to hers. He had his Fade, but she was in the physical world and she could have him here, feel him groan with pleasure, feel his erection pressing against her hip. Her fingers dragged down his back and he shivered with pleasure. 

He slipped a hand between them, his fingers delving for her hot, wet sex. She moaned into his mouth as he began his ministrations, thumb rolling and fingers stroking. She spread her legs wider, but while she meant it as an invitation he stopped.

“Solas, please,” she panted against his mouth, but his mouth was already moving away...and down. “Oh good, nnnngh,” she groaned as his mouth replaced his hands. That wicked tongue of his stroked and delved and made her moan ceaselessly with pleasure. She gripped the bedspread instead of clawing at his bald head. That would be entirely too obvious. 

His tongue circled her clit with purpose and his fingers returned to slip inside of her. Her hips undulated against his touch and her moans spurred him onward as he brought her off, his fingers preparing her for his length. Her muscles tensed and he crooked those fingers inside of her as he increased the tempo of his tongue lashing.

“Fuuuh,” she moaned as her pleasure washed over her, her sheath spasming around his fingers. Even as her pleasure washed over her, she felt herself crave more. 

Solas moved up her body, licking his lips in clear appreciation. She glanced down to see his erection, flushed and hard. 

Miriel put her hands on Solas’s shoulders and in one motion, had him flipped onto his back with her straddling him. As she ran her hands down his body, he held her hips then squeezed her backside. 

“Watch me,” she instructed, reaching for his cock. She adjusted herself and then was sliding down his length, inch by inch.

“Miriel,” he groaned, eyes glued to the sight of her taking him into her. She grinned with victory. Miriel loved this. Loved seeing how mad she could drive him, loved riding him into oblivion. Once fully seated, she took a moment to simply enjoy the feeling of being filled. He had prepared her well and she felt only pleasure at the sensation of stretching. She flexed around him and his hips bucked in response. 

“Patience, sa’lath,” she teased. She leaned forward and pressed kisses to his neck before sucking a bruise right below his earlobe. He groaned, grip tightening on her backside. Taking mercy on him, she rolled her hips, moving herself up and down his length. 

She rose back up and rolled her hips again. And again. She moved on his cock, riding him at a quick pace that had him gasping and thrusting for more. They moved together, chasing their pleasures in sync. Her head fell back, falling into the sensations of heat and tension and the delicious slide of him in and out of her. 

His fingers on her clit shocked her and she mewled in surprised delight. Sparks of pleasure suffused her sex and love seemed to take a singular hold over her heart. 

“Vhenan, yes, yes,” she chanted, grinding on him. He returned thrusts in kind, keeping with her. Her Marked hand throbbed as she felt his magic permeate the air as it always did when he was close. She opened her eyes to watch his glorious face in the throes of passion. Creators, he was beautiful. Gorgeous tension in his face as he neared his end, his full lips and bright eyes, that nose…

“Ar lath ma,” Miriel panted. Solas’s lips parted and he groaned, hips snapping upward and his magic surging as he reached completion. She felt him pulse inside of her, and with a quick motion of his fingers, her world bloomed with sensation and she came with a high pitched cry. 

Her body trembled with aftershocks, and he was still inside of her, softening. Part of her loathed to part, but she knew better. Carefully, she moved off of his cock, but she remained on top of him. Unable to resist the pull of his lips, she kissed him gently. 

Solas sighed and cupped her face. The kiss was languid and sweet, communicating without words what they felt for each other. The closeness they felt with each other, separate from the rest of the world that was a mess and so demanding of her and by extension him. Here, in bed, it was just them, enjoying themselves. 

Miriel let herself enjoy the moment then pulled away with a smile. “Be right back,” she said, giving him a quick peck to the cheek. She dashed over to the washroom and took care of herself. When she exited the washroom, Solas was laying in beautiful naked repose in her bed.

“The windows were open,” he said, nodding to the open balcony to the garden below. 

“Well, it’s not like anyone doesn’t know. Besides, it’s good for the Chantry sister and mothers to be scandalized every now and then.” She left the windows open, with the tower up so high there was a nice cross breeze to counteract the heat anyways.

She looked back over at him and his lovely body, “You’re beautiful.”

He blinked in surprise and a blush spread across his cheeks, “You flatter me, vhenan.”

“I tell the truth! You’re beautiful and sexy, especially after I had my way with you,” she couldn’t help it, she laughed a little. Not at him and not because it was a joke but because she was happy. 

Solas chuckled, “You are beautiful and sexy as well, particularly after you have had your way with me, as you so aptly put it.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed, stalking forward. “I wonder if we’ll be as beautiful if you have your way with me.”

“An excellent wondering, we should investigate.” He leaned forward on the bed just as she reached it, their lips coming together in a heated kiss. And Miriel did so love the heat.

[katedoesfics]

All This Shit is Weird | Chapter 1

“I know dwarves don’t exactly frequent Haven, but this is just humiliating.” Varric swung his legs back and forth under him, then turned his attention back to his drink. “We like to drink just as much as the next guy, yanno.”

Cullen glanced at him at the corner of his eye. “Should I get you a box?”

“Go fuck yourself, Curly.” But he grinned, then picked up his beer.

“Remind me again why you’re here.”

“Cassandra will die before she admits it, but you guys need me more than you realize.”

Cullen took a moment to drink. He wasn’t exactly what one would call a barfly. Truth be told, he never had the time for it. He felt anxious in the dimly lit bar; he should have been doing something. But Varric had a point; there was nothing for him to do. Not until after tomorrow. After the Conclave. “We don’t even know what will happen tomorrow.”

Varric pointed his glass at him. “Exactly.” He paused, drank. “When shit hits the fan - and you know it will - you will need my expertise.”

“And what exactly is that? You’re no soldier.”

“Sure, not by your standards. But I’ve seen a war or two. And I know people.”

“What kind of people?”

“Don’t you worry that pretty blond head of yours.”

Cullen grunted, annoyed with the dwarf, and they had only just met a few hours ago. “I don’t know how you talked me into coming here.” 

“Because clearly you need a fucking drink,” Varric said. “Tightass templar.”

“Not a templar.”

“Once a templar, always a templar.”

Cullen turned and sneered at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, why are you getting all defensive? I thought templars were all proud and shit.”

Cullen turned to stare into his glass. “It’s complicated.”

Varric sighed. “Tragic. How do I always attract tragic people? Everyone’s got a fucking story.” He drank, then brightened. “Hey. Maybe yours will be worth writing.”

“What? No. Write what?”

Varric laughed. “I may be known to thread a tale or two.” He frowned. “I guess you haven’t read my books.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Cullen muttered.

“So, what’s yours?”

“My what?” he snapped.

“Your story. Sister killed by darkspawn? Lover killed in the blight?”

“What’s yours?”

Varric smiled. He straightened and pulled his shoulders back. “Me? Well, I always just seem to be in the right place at the right time.” He drank. “And that’s how I know that this may be a story worth writing about one day.”

The door to the bar opened, bringing with it a rush of cold, winter air that sent a chill up his spine. Cullen looked up at the two women who stepped into the bar, and his gaze met a pair of warm, golden eyes, bright and stark in the dim lighting, contrasted by the dark hair that fell in waves over her shoulders. Pointed ears that marked her as Elven jutted out from her hair, studded with various piercings. Her jeans hugged the natural curves of her body, while her blouse was looser, hanging off her shoulders delicately and exposing a bit of torso. Tattoos marked her arms and shoulders, vivid and bold, but were fainter on her neck and face, in fewer, softer tones, outlining her eyes in elegant swirls. She smiled before turning to the short haired blonde woman at her side, and they disappeared into the crowd.

“That was the first time he ever saw her,” Varric narrated. “The woman that would change his life forever.”

“Shut up,” Cullen hissed at him.

“She’s hot,” Varric said. “Even for an elf.” He laughed. “Now that would be a story.”

“You’re going back to Kirkwall after tomorrow, right?”

“Aw, come on, Curly. Loosen up. That’s why I dragged you down here. Hell, go talk to her. Take her in the back alleyway. Enjoy yourself, and never see her again.”

“No, thank you,” Cullen muttered.

“Aw, are you the romantic type?”

Cullen stood abruptly.

“Alright! Alright! I’m kidding! Sit your tight ass down and drink with me. I won’t say another word.”

Cullen grunted, but sat.

“I’m starting to think Giggles would have been more fun. I thought elves liked to drink? But then again, he is an apostate. Trying to keep a low profile and all. Ha. You must be dying over that, huh? Joining forces with a mage?”

“I’m not thrilled about it.”

“They’re not all so bad, you know.”

“I am aware.”

“One of these days, though, I am getting Cassandra drunk. We’ll see who’s all tough and scary, then! She seems like someone that has a soft interior, though. Like you.”

“Rum and Coke.”

Varric turned to the voice that came from his other side. His gaze met the dark haired woman’s, and he offered her his most flattering smile. “Well, hey there.”

She leaned against the bar as she waited, but turned so her body faced him. “Is that your phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Varric laughed. “I’m supposed to be the one throwing out terrible pick-up lines.”

She smirked and shrugged. “Figured I’d save you the embarrassment.”

“Actually,” Varric started. “My friend here is happy to see you.”

“Varric,” Cullen hissed. 

The woman’s gaze moved past Varric and met Cullen’s. “Your friend doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Maybe I can help him with that.”

Varric frowned. “Is that gonna cost me money?”

She laughed. “Maker, no!”

“Maybe it should,” the blonde woman said, pushing herself through the crowd and sliding up beside her friend. “If you’re gonna keep looking to get laid, you could at least make some money off of it.”

The dark haired woman grinned, then held her hand out. “Calliope.” She gestured to her friend. “This is Jenny.”

Varric shook her hand. “Varric,” he said. “Cullen.”

Calliope met Cullen’s gaze once more and smiled. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” She took a moment to look him up and down, then winked. “I do have a thing for templars.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Varric said. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a beautiful woman.”

The bartender returned briefly with her drink before hurrying off to tend to other patrons. 

“You flatter me, Varric.”

“I only speak the truth, my lady.”

“Ugh,” Jenny said. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” She turned away from them.

Calliope took her drink, then moved to follow her friend, glancing at Varric and Cullen one last time and offering a smile in parting.

Varric turned to Cullen and frowned. “What the hell? I set you up! Where the fuck were you? She was ready! She practically threw herself at you! You had her!”

“I - what?”

“You could be fucking her right now!”

“You’re impossible,” Cullen muttered.

“You need to get laid,” Varric said. “It’s painfully obvious. What’s the harm in a little stress relief?”

“I don’t -”

“I don’t care, you giant baby! You’ll never see her again! Get out of your damn head for one night, will ya?”

Cullen moved his gaze around the bar, but in the dim lighting, he could not pick her out. “I don’t… I wouldn’t… what do I even say?”

Varric shook his head. “Curly, you poor, deprived boy. You work too much. You’re too serious. It’s bad for your health. You need to have fun once in a while.”

“Bad for my health?”

“Just go out there and flirt with her. You can do that, right?”

Cullen hesitated, and Varric sighed.

“She is way out of your league. She’s smart, witty, beautiful. One word out of your mouth and she’ll be running for the door, no matter how much she might want it.”

“Thank you for that confidence boost,” Cullen muttered.

Varric grinned. “You’re considering it?”

Cullen sighed, then quickly finished his drink. He tapped on the counter, signaling for another.

“Alright! Let’s get you laid!”

A second drink was brought over, and Cullen quickly finished it off.

“Don’t over do it,” Varric warned. “We don’t need you sloppy and embarrassing.” He scanned the room for a moment until he finally picked Calliope out. “There. With her friend. Tell ya what. I’ll distract the friend so you can get her alone. Buy her a drink. Talk to her like she’s just another person. You got this.” He turned to the bartender. “Four of those rum and Coke things.”

When the bartender brought the drinks, Varric slid two to Cullen, then took the other two. “Let’s go!”

Cullen begrudgingly took the drinks, then followed Varric into the crowd as he approached the two women. Calliope smiled when she met Varric’s gaze.

“Ladies,” he said in greeting. 

“Couldn’t stay away, I see,” Calliope said.

“We brought drinks.” He offered his to Jenny, and she rolled her eyes.

“I don’t do dwarves,” she said.

“I think I could make you change your mind,” Varric said with a wink.

Jenny laughed sharply. “You’re just trying to get them alone together.”

Varric raised a hand defensively. “You got me.”

Jenny shrugged. She took his drink, then flashed a grin at Calliope. “Bye!”

Calliope frowned, then turned and met Cullen’s gaze. “Is that for me?”

“I guess so.”

Calliope smiled and took it, allowing her fingers to brush against his. They lingered for a moment before she pulled away. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”

“Ignore him,” Cullen said. “Ignore everything he has said tonight.”

Calliope gave him a flirtatious smile. “So you do know what to do with a beautiful woman?”

“I - uh - no. Yes. I mean. You’re not - you are, but -”

Calliope laughed. “Man, and I thought you templars were smart.”

“I’m far smarter than I must appear right now,” he muttered.

Calliope smiled over her glass as she drank, meeting his gaze. “I think it’s cute.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“You two are funny,” Calliope said. “How long have you known each other?”

“Oh, about ten hours.”

Calliope’s eyes widened. “What? Really? That’s hilarious.” She paused to drink. “Let me guess; he dragged you out here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet?”

Cullen hesitated. “A mutual friend introduced us.”

She nodded. 

“Uh. What about you and Jenny?”

“We’ve known each other forever,” she said. “Practically grew up together. Now we’re just out here traveling. Seeing the world. Living life. Are you from around here?”

“Ferelden.”

“Ah. Sure.”

“What about you?”

Calliope smiled devilishly. “Around.” She finished her drink, then grabbed Cullen’s wrist, pulling him to the bar. “Buy me another?”

“That depends,” he said. “Are you going to keep using me for free drinks?”

She smiled. “Alright, fair enough. This one’s on me. It’s the least I can do since you finally made… some kind of a move.”

“Are you expecting me to make a move?”

She met his gaze. “Do you want to make a move?”

“I did not come here looking for a hookup.”

She smiled. “That wasn’t what I asked.” She leaned closer, putting a hand on his chest and whispered in his ear. “If you want to make a move, then make a move.”

A chill ran up Cullen’s spine and his pulse pounded in his ears. 

Calliope leaned away slightly. “Or, I can go rescue my friend and continue on our way. I’m down either way.”

“I guess I’d have to be an idiot to pass up that offer,” Cullen said. 

Calliope shrugged. “Not at all. But for what it’s worth, we’ll never see each other again after this.”

“Alright. To never seeing each other again.” He held his glass up, and she tapped hers against it. She smiled, then grabbed his wrist once more, guiding him through the bar and out a back door. 

*****

Calliope strode down the alleyway, stepping around the corner and down the sidewalk. Jenny was leaning against the far end of the building, a cigarette between two fingers as she moved it to her lips. She glanced at Calliope, then straightened as she approached.

“Anything?”

Calliope shook her head.

“Fuckin’ piss,” Jenny muttered. She flicked the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of her boot. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Calliope said. “We’ll find out everything we need to know at the Conclave tomorrow.”

“I dunno how you do it,” Jenny said. “I wanted to kill myself hanging around that dwarf. How you can flirt around and shit? Where’d ya go, anyway? Don’t tell me you fucked that templar.”

Calliope smiled. “Let’s go,” she said simply, and she strode across the street to the parking lot. She clicked the button on her keys, and the black car beeped twice, unlocking. She slid in behind the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Haven behind them for good. 

[5lazarus]

Anders in Autumn, Ch.7

inspired by @cozy-autumn-prompts! Chapter Seven, First Frost: After Varric’s party at the Hanged Man, Anders wakes up hungover and freezing in Fenris’ home. They talk around what’s actually bothering. He sobers up. Read the rest of it here.

Anders woke up shivering and feeling hungover. Someone had thrown his shawl over him and taken off his boots, and tucked a pillow under his head. Alas, the fireplace was unlit, and dusty besides. He winced and pulled himself into a sitting position. Hopefully he hadn’t embarrassed himself too badly the night before. Alcohol and embrium hit him harder since Justice had found a space. He thought, there was to be a spell to magic hangovers away. He felt the echo of smugness from Justice that meant that there was, and that Justice had no intention of teaching him. Mealy-mouthed and parched, Anders left the room and began to wander Danarius’s mansion. At least Fenris had finally disposed of the corpses. He found the elf stirring a pot of oats over the fireplace of the main hall. Fenris growled, “Mage.” Anders winced. He hadn’t thought the wisp was going to indulge all three of them, he had not intentionally invoked it, and he had gotten perhaps too comfortable with spirits since Justice tended to scare the demons away. Anders decided to play it safe. “Thanks for not killing me in my sleep, Mage-Killer,” he said. Fenris grunted. “I’m sure you considered it.” Fenris grunted again. Anders shivered again, and rubbed his hands. If Fenris were less unreasonable--that is not fair, Justice twinged at him, look at the lyrium-brands--if Fenris were less uncomfortable with casual magic, he’d spit a little fire into his hands to warm them up. He said, “Mind if I take a seat?” Before Fenris could tell him no, Anders grabbed a stool and sat next to him at the fireplace. He huddled in his shawl and inhaled deeply: nothing quite like gruel in the morning, after a good party. Was it a good party? He had a moment of grace, so that was good. Fenris stirred the pot, then added a dollop of honey, and then kept pouring. Anders watched with growing amusement as he emptied an entire jar into the pot, and then cinnamon. “Get that for me,” Fenris said, indicating with his chin. Anders turned around and found another jar sitting on the floor: sliced walnuts. He handed it to him. “If you want to be useful, you could slice a few apples. There’s a sack downstairs.” “Oh no, I much prefer being ornamental,” Anders responded. Fenris snorted, but kept stirring. Anders wandered down the grand staircase. He really was living like shit, squatting in his own home. He may have finally removed the corpses, but the mansion still stunk of death, and there were scorch marks everywhere from the party he had thrown in the beginning of the month. The Veil was particularly thin in the cellar. A thin scream stretched across the stone floor. Justice thought, I came too late. Anders blinked and he was holding a knife in one hand, an apple in the other. It was a good apple, solid, smooth, red. He hoped it would be good enough for the gruel. He headed upstairs and announced, “Your cellar’s haunted, you know.” Fenris said, “I live in a mansion formerly owned by a blood mage. Yes. I know.” Anders sliced the apples and added them to the pot. He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He’d had tenser breakfasts in the Circle, after one of the apprentices disappeared or an enchanter attacked. This felt a little too similar. He drew closer to the fire. The first frost was settling in, and Fenris’ mansion was freezing. When the apples softened, Fenris ladelled the gruel into two bowls, offering him one. They ate in silence, sitting on stools before a magnificent fireplace in a magnificent hall, that Fenris had turned into a kitchen. Anders kept trying to catch Fenris’ eye, but he wouldn’t look at him. “So,” he said into the chill. “You cleaned up the corpses.” Fenris grunted. He tried again, “The gruel’s good. Thanks for taking me home last night, embrium oil’s hit me harder since Justice moved in.” Fenris paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He put it back in the bowl and set it aside. “‘Moved in.’ Like a bad roommate, who occasionally urges you to murder people.” “Well, it’s not like he pays rent, but he does give good advice sometimes,” Anders said. “It’s not all doom and gloom. Justice is very healing, you know. Transformative. Catharsis is not an inherently violent process.” He smirked. He was particularly proud of that line. The other Liberati in the Circle  would parrot it back at the aequitarians, when they would accuse them all of being fear-mongering extremists. It is not violence if it’s self-defense: but tell your oppressor that. Anders sniffed. Fenris said, “You’re possessed by a demon who pays rent by giving you occasionally good advice. You’re worse than Merrill.” “Hey!” Anders was indignant. “Spirit, not demon. I’m not a blood mage. Merrill deals with demons. Justice is as unbroken as he can be, living in the waking world for so long. It’s hard but we’re trying.” Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated. “Both of you say there’s a difference in the work you do but I see no evidence to the contrary. That demon Merrill’s been dealing with has her running manic around Kirkwall. You, you’ve been getting more reckless too. Letting the trade unionists host meetings in your clinic--what are you going to do when Varric finds out? Because he will find out. I told him I’d keep an eye on you, but how could you be so reckless?” “Wow, I didn’t know you cared so much,” Anders snapped back. “I’m not turning patients away. I can take care of Varric. I know how to be discreet.” Fenris lifted a single eyebrow. “You look like a molting bird in that shawl. You occasionally have long conversations with yourself. Your eyes glow.” “Your body glows!” Anders cast the bowl aside. “You’re squatting in a mansion in Hightown and regularly let Isabela start bonfires! You are the last person to call me--unsubtle.” Fenris let a short gust of wind out through his nostrils, like an annoyed horse. “I don’t mean--I do not want Varric to catch wind of the dockworkers’ strike. He has people watching you, for your own protection, but he will not risk losing face with the Carta by allowing the Merchants’ Guild to negotiate with them. And the Lavellan are known troublemakers. They don’t have her wanted poster up in Kirkwall, not yet at least, but I know the Carta--” “They’re planning a strike,” Anders said blankly. “You don’t mean they’ve already organized a union. They’ve already organized? I thought yesterday was the first meeting!” Fenris looked abashed. “I should not have said that,” he said stiffly. “It is better you know as little as possible. This isn’t your fight, mage.” “It isn’t yours either, elf,” Anders said. “Half the men working the docks are shem. And Ferelden, too. So don’t give me that excuse. Mages don’t make shit but still have to work and sell for the Templars and the Chantry. The Tranquil do most of the enchanting topside and they’re just kept as mindless--” “Slaves,” Fenris said. “Yes. I’ve thought of the comparison.” Anders flushed. He never felt comfortable talking about Fenris’ past. Not only was it not his business, but the elf was so prickly, and he always felt he was blundering into saying exactly the wrong thing. The Circle was a kind of slavery: mages were not paid for their labor, but at least they were not chattel. They were not possessions, though of course they could always be possessed. “Fine. But I strongly advise you do not let them have any conversation about anything pertaining to the strike in your clinic. You need to steer clear of this. Varric’s sympathy only runs so far. I’ve told him I’d keep an eye on you, that I suspected Justice was gaining a stronger hold on you. So he no longer needs to send guards. But the less you know, the better.” Anders looked at him, hard. Who did he think he was? He ran the fucking Mage Underground--but of course he was not going to tell him that. Aveline was good at looking the other way on her rounds. Donnic was good about vacuously gossipping about templar drama, overheard in the Viscount’s Keep. But Fenris had no sympathy for any mage accused of blood magic, and little interest in hearing what may have driven them there. “Fine. But why do you know? How are you involved?” Fenris shrugged. “Elves talk. I don’t spend my entire time skulking up here, you know.” A smile played at the edges of Fenris’ lips. Anders had the sudden, irrational desire to trace the edges of his mouth: down, boy, he told himself. He kills mages. He’ll kill you if he thinks you’ll lose control. And these days, with so much injustice, how easy it would be, to let it wreck, to let the spirit take the streets and give them a show Kirkwall would never forget. In the cold Anders left and shivered in the first frost of the year, drawing the feathered shawl Mahariel had given him around his shoulders, and wished for the warmth of the hearth. He kept his head down as he walked through Hightown, eyes darting at shadows as the wind rustled the few manicured trees the aristocracy let grow in the public square. Lowtown was bustling as always, and as he passed by the entrance of the Alienage on his way down to Darktown, he noticed that Dalish woman at the gate, speaking to Merrill. When they noticed him they turned away, and he kept walking into the wind, into the gray autumn morning, wishing he had said something better, said something right, because the joy of last night seemed an entire age away. When he got to the clinic there was already a line: three sick babies, a retired miner with a chronic cough, a weaver with arthritis, and too many people who just needed to eat. He did not have enough hot food to last them through the day. He had so little left to give, to get through the first frost, and Justice said: there is more that you can do. Find a better way.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 21/32 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

All around Yvanne the enormous cypress thrummed with life. If there was a world beyond the belly of the hollow tree, she didn’t quite believe it.  

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Of course you don’t understand,” her great grandmother said kindly. Distant bells seemed to ring with every one of her words. All of a sudden Yvanne wasn’t sure if the old woman’s lips were actually moving when she spoke to her. “Who could possibly expect you to?”

“Why did you bring me here? That spirit I saw—was that you?”

“In a way,” the old woman allowed. “But I did not bring you here. You brought yourself.”

“But you called me. You told me to come home.”

“Is that what you heard?” She smiled. “Oh, my daughter.”

That stung. “Stop it,” Yvanne growled. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not as well as I’d like. But we have met, in the world beneath the world.”

“You’ve been spying on me,” Yvanne realized. “Through the Fade. Just what gave you the right?”

The old woman’s bright eyes flashed. “Precisely the same thing that gives you to look in on those you wish to see.”

“That’s—that’s not the same,” Yvanne faltered. “I didn’t want to look. I tried not to look. I couldn’t control it.”

“But you’d like to. And so you are here.”

“No, I’m here because you called me. I’m here because I had just settled into a perfectly contented life when all of a sudden I became tormented by these voices—your voice.”

Yvanne could load quite a lot of furious accusation into a short phrase spoken softly, but the old woman remained unmoved. “Believe me, my daughter, I do not have the power to bring about what you experienced. If you heard my voice, it was as a trickle in a torrent. You have begun to awaken as a spirit mage.” 

“And just what in the void does that mean?”

In tones of infinite patience: “For years you have hobbled yourself; now you are beginning to walk freely for the first time. Of course you were overwhelmed. Anyone would be. Nobody here in Dairsmuid awakens in their third decade of life, without the benefit of any guidance whatsoever.” In tones of bottomless sorrow: “You have been done a great disservice.”

Yvanne stood for a while, feeling all the hot air leak out of her.

“So can you help me?” she said, defeated. “Or not?”

“Of course I can. And I will. If you choose it. But how far you walk along the path is always up to you.”

Something sat uncomfortably in Yvanne’s stomach. “Alright, fine. Can you at least answer me this?” she said wearily. “Where is my mother?”

The old woman cast her eyes down. “That I do not know. She never came here.”

An unspoken hope died in her chest. “My father, then? My sisters?”

“Three of your sisters live,” the old woman said. “In one way or another. But of all who I called, only you returned.”

All she did not say fell upon Yvanne like a mountain. She dropped her head. “I see.”

“Oh, my daughter. I am sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. 

More questions sprung to her lips. When did my father die? And how? Which of her four sisters lived? And how? But as soon as they occurred to her, she thought better of them. She didn’t want to know. Of course she didn’t. If she’d wanted to know, she would have seen it in the Fade. It was a cruel thing to know about herself. 

“Why me, then?���

“You are the one who answered.”

“No. Why call at all? My father never spoke of his home. We have nothing to do with each other, blood relatives or not. What do you want with me?”

“Is it so wrong for an old woman to wish to see her lost daughter?” The old woman’s eyes closed. She said no more for many long moments. “I apologize. I am tired now. I must walk in the Fade for a time.”

“What? But I’ve only just arrived!”

“We will speak again. For now you will go with Itai; he will be your companion today.”

“Now hold on, I—” Yvanne began to protest, but the old woman was already asleep, having slipped into dreams in the space of a few breaths. She was alone. But she did not feel alone. If anything she felt like an intruder. The tree keeping her great-grandmother alive thrummed steadily, like a heartbeat.

“Yvanne?”

She turned to face a young man with wide cheekbones and a halo of black curls. “How did you know my name? Or that I was here?”

He gave her a polite, puzzled smile. “Buya called me, of course. I’ve finished my training for today, so I can show you around.” He was younger than her. Was he even twenty? “I’m Itai—I think we might be cousins.”  He crossed his right arm over his chest and tilted his chin down in greeting.

She stiffened. “Well, maybe we’re cousins, but you don’t know me, and I’m only staying here for as long as it takes me to get this—this problem under control, so don’t get too comfortable. There’s no need for all this…this…”

Itai shrugged. “Well, you’re going to have to wait at least a few hours anyway before she wakes up, so you might as well see the city, right?” 

—

On her way to the great cypress, Yvanne had paid no attention to her surroundings at all. A compulsion to reach the tree where her ancestor dwelled had consumed her, and only now had it loosened its hold on her. Now she was finally seeing the city with clear eyes.

Dairsmuid was a city built upon the water. Wooden planks, shiny and smooth from the thousands of feet that walked upon them, were its streets, but so was the water; everywhere were gondoliers carrying goods by canoe, chatting with each other as they passed. Some of the buildings were built in the trees themselves, and what trees they were; they flared at their twisted, knotty bases. Some grew fused together, making masses large enough to support homes. Circling steps were bolted to many of them, and cables ran between the boughs, sending packages and messages zipping overhead.

Itai introduced Yvanne to more distant cousins and uncles and aunts than she could possibly keep track of, men and women of all ages. Each one greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a quick embrace, too swiftly and with too much assurance for her to protest.

And not a single one of them batted an eye at all the magic.

Magic didn’t seem to exactly be common in Dairsmuid, but every once in a while she would spot a shopkeeper levitating his wares, or a gondolier lighting a lantern with a snap of his fingers. Everywhere she saw spirits, mostly formless wisps, but larger, more distinct spirits, too. Children chased them like chickens, earning scoldings from their parents when they were caught. She watched, rapt, one group of mage children play a game of spark-shooting with each other. As she watched something cracked open deep inside her, and suddenly she wanted to cry.

“Alright, there?” said Itai. She snapped out of it, drawing her eyes away from a scene where one child chased a wisp right over the edge and into the water, where he was fished out by an irritated gondolier. She just barely managed to nod.

Itai kept rambling as he took her around, away from the center of the city—”Dairsmuid’s mostly on the water now, but old timers will tell you how the sea used to be much further out“—past rows of fishermen hauling in oysters and crayfish—”They’re best with lemon sauce,”—inland towards residential areas that were raised over mud and peat rather than standing water. They went past shrines to Andraste laid with offerings of fire-lilies—”What? Of course we worship Andraste! What a strange question,”—past spirit-lanterns nestled in the branches of the cypresses—”They’re always lit, so nobody falls off the platform. And if someone does, the spirits signal the night watchman to come over and fish them out…it’s usually just the drunks, though.”

Yvanne found herself liking Itai quite a lot. Until—

“And my Templar training isn’t so bad, usually, but master has us getting up so early, and usually at night I find myself thinking of so many things and unable to sleep—”

She stopped in her tracks. It took him a few seconds to notice, and he turned, puzzled.

“Your what training?”

“Templar training,” he repeated. “Are you alright? You look like you ate something curdled.”

“I didn’t realize Dairsmuid had Templars.” She did not try to keep the hiss out of her voice. Including my own family.

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Sorry, I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

How in Thedas was she to respond to that? “So was that why they picked you to give me the tour? Were you supposed to keep an eye on me and cut me down in case I turned out to be dangerous after all? I knew I was right to be suspicious—”

“Hold on!” Itai was laughing. Actually laughing! “I think you’re confused. In Dairsmuid, Templar is a ceremonial role. We don’t take lyrium or anything like the westerners. I’m not even being taught to fight with this thing—” He tapped the ornate weapon belted to his hip. “It’s all just rituals and basic forms.” 

“Then—” She stumbled. “Then what’s the point?”

He shrugged. “Tradition? Got to be a Circle at Dairsmuid, with Templars. So we have them. We’re supposed to keep the Seers safe, but the Seers don’t really need protection, so it’s pretty boring. Once I finish training, I’m probably going to be a fisherman like my da. Look, the sword’s ceremonial—it’s not even sharp.”

She must have still been staring. He smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I don’t really know much about western Circles.”

Maker, but this place was weird.

“I can’t believe the Chantry lets this place exist,” Yvanne said just as the silence was growing awkward..

“Well, Rivain’s pretty far from Orlais.” He shrugged. “We do things our own way. Really, the Qunari up north are a much bigger problem, but Dairsmuid’s not anywhere near Kont-Arr. Anyway, the Seers wouldn’t let anything happen.”

“Just what is a Seer? Exactly?”

Itai looked at her like she’d just asked the color of the sky. “Huh? But you’re a Seer. Aren’t you?”

She shook her head.

“You know—a woman who communes with the spirits. You call them mages out west, right?”

“But plenty of men are mages,” said Yvanne. “What do you do with the boys who are born with magic?”

Itai snorted, laughing.“Nobody’s born with magic. Spirits pick who they want to talk to. And sure, boys can talk to spirits, but they can’t be Seers.”

“Why not?”

“They just can’t.” He scratched his head. “Look, I don’t really know. Why don’t you ask Maita? She’s not a Seer yet, but she will be. Come on, you’ll like her. I have to get home and help da clean today’s catch, anyway, so I’ll leave you with her, if that’s alright.”

Three girls sat laughing and weaving reed baskets as Itai and Yvanne approached. One of them stood in anticipation, her eyes widening in delight. All three girls wore bright brass jewelry, but one—the Seer?—wore the most; bangles on her wrists and ankles, and a headdress of overlapping discs that glittered and clinked with her tiniest movement. 

“Is this her?” she demanded of Itai, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, it is! Oh, welcome! We are also so glad you have come.” She jangled as she wrapped Yvanne in a tight, loud embrace. “Ambuya told us you had come.”

“But how—”

“Oh, but your hair!” Maita gasped. Never had Yvanne heard anyone sound so heartbroken over hair. She glanced over her shoulder to plead wordlessly with Itai, but he was already grinning, waving goodbye, and backing away, the traitor. “You poor thing, you must have been through so much.” 

Yvanne suddenly became aware of her body, sharply and unpleasantly. She hadn’t looked at herself in so long that she had forgotten that others could still see her. Maker, she didn’t even want to think about how she probably smelled She self-consciously tucked a piece of it behind her ear. Unending months of neglect and salt had caused it to dread up into unsalvageable masses.

“You must let me fix it for you. Oh, I love to do braids, but–may I?” She reached out to touch Yvanne’s hair. She struggled not to flinch. “No, I don’t think there’s enough left to do braids. How about knots? Or twists? I do the best twists; ask anyone.” She turned to her two friends, clinking, for confirmation. Both nodded earnestly.

Nobody had done Yvanne’s hair since she was nine years old. Loriel had been useless at it and nobody else had come close to earning the right. “I—Okay.”

“Yes! Wonderful! Please, do come in. You must have some of my beads. I’m getting married soon, so I won’t get to wear them, and I don’t even have any sisters to give them to. Only brothers–it makes me so sad!”. Then an expression came over her face. “Wait! You aren’t married, are you? I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have assumed…”

Yvanne felt the absence of the ring upon her finger, and answered, truthfully, “No, I’m not married.”

Maita’s animated expression returned. “Oh, good! Then you can have the beads. Come, come!”

She tugged her inside, enticing her friends to come join her in solving Yvanne’s hair problem. She was altogether reminded of Leliana. Yvanne slipped out of her grasp. “Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but—we’ve only just met.”

Maita gave her a confused smile. “But of course we’ve met. In the world beneath the world.”

Again that phrase.

“Maita, you’re shaming her,” one of the others said, rolling her eyes. “She has no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh,” Maita said, suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, no, you really don’t, do you?”

If Yvanne had not spent the past years being humbled over and over again, she might have taken offense. As it was, she only shrugged.

Maita covered her face in shame. “I’m so sorry—I assumed, since you were training with Ambuya—we were all so jealous when we heard…”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m afraid I only look Rivaini. I’m not a part of any of this. I’m certainly not a Seer.”

“But you are a Seer,” Maita said encouragingly. “Or you will be.”

She crossed her arms, doubtful. “She said I was only beginning to learn. That I was already late.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll learn. You’re her blood, after all.”

“Isn’t half of Dairsmuid her blood? I’ve lost track of how many cousins I’ve met today.”

Maita laughed. She had a musical laugh. “Perhaps not so much as half! Our Buya had many sons, but even those who are not her blood are still her family; she is buya to all of us.”

Yvanne, who had been assuming that ‘Buya’ was the old woman’s name, made a small adjustment.

Dairsmuid had a public bathhouse, and she was in luck—today was the women’s day to use it. The next several hours went to matters of hair and beads and other things so trivial that Yvanne had nearly forgotten they existed. Was there really still a world of moisturizing hair cream and scents and jewelry? She had liked such things, once, because in the Circle they had been—if not forbidden, then strictly discouraged, and difficult to get a hold of. The habit had stayed with her as the Vigil’s keeper, and she had yet to be cured of it. It was so ridiculous. It was so nice.

Somewhere in this process she told the story of her travels. She hadn’t meant to—she’d thought it far too painful—but somehow it all came out. She started with hiding in Highever—she left out that she had ever been a Grey Warden—and by the time she got to the part with the pirates her hair was done. It had been long all her life, and was twisted close to her head and bound with bells and beads. She looked both like and unlike Isabela, like and unlike her old self. She had never felt so light; she couldn’t stop tilting her head back and forth and feeling the absence of the weight. It was strange, but not—bad. No, not bad at all.

By then it was time for the evening meal was upon them, and Maita’s mother—a stout woman who had clearly never taken no for an answer in her life—was insisting. Yvanne ate with Maita and her mother and her younger brothers who stared at her with curious eyes the size of dinner plates. Maita’s mother, it turned out, was not from Dairsmuid, but from a village on the eastern coast. 

“—I came here to be with my girl, of course. She wanted to learn here in the capital, and I was not about to let her go alone,” she said proudly.

Yvanne slept there on a palette by the smouldering hearth, sick with imagining what it would be like to have a mother like that.

As the days passed and her great-grandmother did not summon her, she was folded into Maita’s family almost without noticing. Maita had three younger brothers who Yvanne somehow fell into the watching of—boys of six, ten, and twelve, who begged her to show them how to make lightning. She helped with the chores, kept the boys busy. She even learned a few words of the local Rivaini dialect. On the last day of the week, she helped decorate the household shrine to Andraste with marsh-lillies and necklaces of carved wooden beads. The prayers spoken over the shrine were not entirely unlike the Chant, but not entirely like it, either.

Finally came market day, so Yvanne saw the Dairsmuid market. Maita tugged her along as she did her family’s shopping, informing her of what fruits were in season and asking frequent questions about what things were like in Ferelden. 

“Oh, I used to love the star-reader,” Maita sighed, pointing out a woman’s nondescript stall. “Of course, it is not Seeing, but that’s what made it special. My friends and I used to giggle for hours over the fates the stars had in store for us. The men we would marry, how many children we would have…” She trailed off, then finished cheerfully, “But I’ll be getting married soon.”

Yvanne could not help but notice that no husband-to-be was in evidence.

Maita clinked loudly as she laughed. “I haven’t met him yet, of course! He lives in a village far away from here, one that needs a Seer. Once I have passed the ritual, I’ll be ready to serve. I’m told he’s very kind. Is it bad that I hope he’s handsome, too?” She giggled behind her hand. “But you aren’t married! Do you want to consult the star-reader? Don’t you ever wonder what your husband will be like?

“Hm,” said Yvanne. “No, thank you.”

Soon after Maita encountered a friend of hers, and fell inextricably into an animated conversation that Yvanne couldn’t follow at all. Slighted, and resentful that she felt so, she wandered away. She could hear in the middle distance bell-like music. The source of it turned out to be a Vashoth woman sitting cross-legged, producing the tune from an instrument Yvanne had no name for, a wooden box lined with metal rods that produced unearthly music under the Vashoth’s careful fingers. Too soon, the song ended, and she lifted her hornless head to smile in thanks at the crowd. 

Only then did Yvanne notice the scars around her lips.

“Did you mean to buy something?” the Vashoth asked suddenly. Yvanne forced herself not to stare.

“I have no money,” she stammered, then added, “Sorry.”

The saarebaas sized her up, and smiled. As she did, her scars instantly became the most noticeable thing about her. “Oh, I see. You’re new; one of Buya’s girls, aren’t you? I am called Amarna.”

“So I’m told,” Yvanne said stiffly

“You’re a bit old to start training.”

“I’ve had training.”

The saarebas laughed shrugging. “Mm. Well, it was probably better than the training I got.”

Yvanne’s eyes flicked to the woman’s scars again. 

Amarna snorted good-naturedly. “Admiring these?” she said, touching her lips.

“I wasn’t—”

The former saarebas laughed. “Go ahead and look, I’m not ashamed.”

Yvanne wanted to apologize, but now she worried that it would only make it worse. Luckily the awkwardness was broken by a little Vashoth girl in pigtails, no more than eight years old, and already as high as Yvanne’s shoulder.

“Look what my friend showed me how to do!” the little girl said breathlessly to—presumably—her mother, ignoring Yvanne entirely. She extended her pudgy, little-girl hands palms up. Fireballs bloomed there, first, red, then yellow, then green and blue. Yvanne startled backwards and nearly knocked over a rack of fishing spears. “Are you proud of me?”

“Very good!” her mother beamed as Yvanne desperately tried to stabilize the rack of spears. “Indeed I am proud of you. But do you remember the rules?”

The girl let the fireballs dissipate. “No fire without my tutors watching,” she said ruefully, rolling her eyes. 

“That’s right. Now go play.”

Only then did the little girl notice Yvanne and mutter a shy ‘hello’ before running off again.

“Sorry for her,” said the saarebas. “She’s always trying things she’s not quite ready for yet.”

“That…must be difficult.”

“I can’t even tell you how many times she’s hurt herself!” She shook her head. “But if she makes no mistakes, she’ll never learn.” 

Yvanne had been that age when she’d first discover her magic. She never would have dreamed of showing her father. She’d hidden it. Had prayed for the Maker to take it away. “I’m surprised you don’t worry.”

“Of course I worry! What mother doesn’t? But she has good teachers here. I’ll never be much of a mage, but the Seers take care of her. And if she’ll receive some scars for her own foolishness, she will never have scars like mine.” She said it in well-rehearsed tones, like this was a speech she had been obliged to recite too many times.

Yvanne remembered Cheddar, and what had happened to her sarebaaset. But no, she daren’t ask. Instead she said, “What kind of instrument is that?”

And like so Maita found her some minutes later, profusely apologizing for leaving her alone, exchanging pleasantries with Amarna, and finally dragged her away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” she said in hushed tones. “I forget that most people outside Rivain aren’t used to the freed saarebas. Quite a lot of them live here.”

That night Yvanne could not get to sleep beneath the unfamiliar ceiling. She thought of Amarna’s little daughter whose magic would only ever earn her a gentle admonition, and envy rose in her gorge like poison. What she would have given to have grown up here in Dairsmuid. What might she have become if her father had brought her here instead of to Ferelden? Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he loved her enough to bring her here? All those years in Kinloch, the wretched thing that place made her—

She thought of Amarna’s scars, and thought—yes, it could have been worse. But it could have been better, too.

Yes, she was here now, but what good did that do her? It didn’t make up for it. Nothing ever would. Dairsmuid was not her home. If she had ever had one, it had been Vigil’s Keep.

That home was lost to her. Perhaps did not exist at all. Just like her mother and her father and her sisters. Everything was lost, lost—all that remained was here. A wave of nauseous longing rolled over her like the evening tide, and she went to sleep no less conflicted and confused.

—

She dreamt again of Loriel, buried deep within her tower of stone.  Her hair was longer now than it had ever been, neatly parted in the center. Somehow in their time apart it had stopped frizzing, and fell to her back in elegant feathers. Were there new lines on her face? How old was she now?

She was writing busily in a blank parchment manuscript, occasionally consulting a tome at her elbow. She scribbled for hours, only occasionally pausing to sip water or stand up to stretch. All these little gestures, so familiar, so utterly strange.

Who was she? Who was she?

“I never even knew you, did I?” Yvanne said to her, knowing she wouldn’t be heard. “Not that you were any better. You never knew me either, did you? I don’t think I ever felt more alone than when I was with you.”

And Loriel kept scratching away, oblivious. It was starting to make her angry.

“You know,” she said, “If it hadn’t been for all that fucking blood magic, maybe you could have heard me say all these things. Maybe you could have heard me at all. I was too much a coward to say what I meant to your face, and now you’ll never know how I really felt. You selfish fucking bitch.”

And then—

—Loriel looked up.

Her forehead wrinkled in that burningly familiar way. Her mouth began to form the shape of the word, who—?

The dream collapsed.

—

Yvaanne woke in the middle of the night, knowing that she was summoned to Dairsmuid’s great tree. She received no message; only a conviction that she was wanted, and an intuitive understanding of where to go. She walked there, barefoot, the ancient half-drowned forest singing all around her.

Buya was exactly where she had been, awake and bright eyed. “I am sorry to have woken you. Did I interrupt your dreaming?”

She shook her head. “I did not want that dream.”

“I see.” The old woman’s lips still did not move when she spoke. “Have you decided, then, if you will stay and learn from me?” 

“I…”

A heaviness lay on her heart. After a week in Dairsmuid, she had never missed the Vigil more. She missed her high grey walls, her fluttering banners, the smell of smelting iron in the air. She missed the training, the drinking games, the knowledge that everyone around her knew her name, that people would care if she was gone.

But here in Dairsmuid, everyone somehow knew her name. They would care if she was gone. So they didn’t know her, so what? Nobody had ever known her. 

Dairsmuid was here. Dairsmuid was now. And was love not born of base familiarity? Was love anything besides mere exposure, mere proximity? 

“Great-grandmother, I want to stay,” she said. “But…”

Ambuya waited, patient.

“But there’s someone I still love. Far from here.”

“Ah,” the old woman said. “I see. I will not pretend I am not disappointed, but it was good to lay my mortal eyes on you, my daughter.”

Yvanne shook her head, and knelt. Then she looked up, her eyes streaming. “And I never want to see or think about her, ever again. Please, grandmother—I am yours. Please, teach me.”

Ambuya smiled, reached out, and placed a hand on Yvanne’s bowed head. She was resolved; she would become a part of this. She would be one of many, and she would make this life a good one if it killed her.

[varricmancer]

Can you write something where Varric finds out a female dwarven servant has a crush on him??

Okay, so this one isn’t quite drabble-sized! I began writing and my fingers just started flying and couldn’t stop. I blame the fact that this one was a Varric fic. I just can’t help writing about him getting the loving he deserves. Also, I’m sorry if this wasn’t quite what you had in mind, but Rosie’s been a character in my head for a while and I was pleased to have a chance to do something with her. 

Varric Tethras x OC || Fluff || 1,673 WC

It had taken him a while to realize that something was different. During his tenure as Viscount Tethras he’d of course gotten used to servants being around. He asked for ale and someone rushed to get it. He got blood on one of his favorite jackets and it was gone a day later. 

However, there was someone here paying him special attention. He didn’t really mind much, as no one was standing around while he bathed or trying to press him into a suit with as much give as steel. That was the whole reason he’d forgone the use of the valet they’d tried to give him. No, this person was watching for the little things. 

He always had plenty of his favorite foods around, even the hot cocoa The Iron Bull had gotten him hooked on. That in itself wasn’t odd with servants around, but the fact that most of the servants were ordered to stay until he put away his work and started eating was. Books would appear on his desk with a little note saying they thought he’d like it, usually a mere day after he’d finished the last one. Without ever asking, he somehow always had tea when he was ready for bed, a mug of ice-cold ale when the weather was unbearably hot, and a glass full of liquor when he was stressed. The most telling thing was the few times he’d been feeling sad, lonely, and overworked all of his meetings would suddenly be canceled and one of his friends summoned to the mansion. 

He had a feeling it was the new housekeeper, as most of the changes hadn’t happened until she took over. Before, the servants had been happily making him keep the same schedule and habits as the previous Viscount. He could barely even remember the day he’d hired her, as he’d been ass-deep in the reports and demands that were now the bane of his existence. He was fairly certain all he’d done was grunt, wave, and sign his name on the paper. It wasn’t until a month later that he realized he was steadily growing less overwhelmed and he owed someone a great debt. 

Once he realized that, he began to notice her all around the manor. She was dwarven - surface dwarf most likely, as she didn’t hold herself like a noble or have the grim air of casteless. It was perhaps a bit off to have a dwarven servant actually in charge of all the others, but hey, he was the damned Viscount of all Kirkwall, so why not? The servants seemed to accept her authority easily enough, he noticed, with her walking around like she was the one that owned the place. She was quick to berate someone for slacking off, but just as easily put everything on hold if someone was hurt or needed help. 

Varric felt like a creep once he realized how much he’d actually been paying attention to her without her knowledge. Why would he find it so fascinating to watch her marching through his halls with her curls bouncing along behind her? To see her bring cookies to his office with flour smeared on her cheek? Or to watch her laughing and playing with the other servant’s children in the garden?

Honestly, he had a pretty good idea what his issue was, but he was such a good liar he could even convince himself that the feelings slowly bubbling to the surface were nothing important.

He was particularly grateful for her influence around the manor today, as he already had enough to worry about. It was the first “anniversary” without any word or quick visit from Bianca. He finally has accepted that whatever crazy relationship they had was now over. He was free, and it was both saddening and a little exhilarating. It was weird to think of the possibility of moving on without the shadow of her tainting it. It was also really insane that when he considered moving on he thought of a specific face. 

He sighed wearily as he trudged up the neverending steps to his suite. It was days like this, when he was bone-tired and emotionally exhausted, that he missed his old rooms at The Hanged Man the most. But ultimately it was worth it, since he knew his firecracker of a housekeeper would have the bed turned down, the fire blazing, and a glass of something warm waiting for him. 

As he reached the last step, he heard the rumble of voices coming from the direction of his room. His hand instinctively reached back to touch his bow, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the familiar giggle of Mistress Housekeeper herself. He grinned and leaned against the wall near the door, listening in. 

“All I’m saying is that you should think about it, Rosie!” one of the elven servants said, the rustle of fabric giving away that they were probably changing his sheets. 

“Why, because we are both dwarves?” Rosie laughed, “That’s a horrible reason.”

“No, because you have a huge thing for him. You pine. There are sighs and sweet little smiles and blushing. I see it!” 

Rosie is stuttering enough that Varric thinks the elf might have hit a sore point. He smirks as his chest suddenly feels lighter. So she might feel the same way, huh? 

“It’s…not like that. He’s the damned Viscount and a ton of other titles combined. I’m not blind - obviously, he’s handsome.  And I admire how he stepped up to care for the city. And he treats everyone around him thoughtfully. He tells the kids wonderful stories in the garden. And when he laughs it’s so warm. And his smile is - oh Maker I’m in love with Varric Tethras.” 

Her stunned tone sent her companion in a peal of laughter, Varric himself so amused he almost joined her. He suddenly felt fifteen years younger. 

He silently stalked back towards the stairs to act like he’d just walked up them, making a big show of stomping his feet and yawning loudly as he got closer towards the door. 

Rosie and the elven servant - he believed her name was Seraya - were just finishing up putting his bed back together. The fire was indeed already warming the room and a steaming cup of tea was waiting for him on a little table. Rosie could barely maintain eye contact with him and her cheeks were still blushing brightly. 

She shooed Seraya away and gestured towards the tea. 

“Everything is ready for you. I had heard you had a tiring day, so I only prepared the tea, but if you’re still hungry I can fetch something quickly.” 

He shook his head, staring at her as he grabbed the cup and chugged it down in a few seconds. 

“Too tired to eat,” he grunts, setting down the cup and dropping onto the edge of the massive bed. 

Rosie hums sympathetically and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Sleep well, then, sir.” 

Varric’s hand takes on a mind of its own and reaches up to swiftly grab hers before she can take it away. He threads their fingers together, staring at them as she gasps in surprise. 

“Rosie…I…uh…me too.” 

Her shocked expression morphs as he watches her internal battle. Shock, confusion, embarrassment, until finally…

Rosie snorts and narrows her eyes, a slight grin lighting her face. 

“I should have known not to try having conversations with a sneaky dwarf around, no matter how high he’s risen.” 

“Sorry,” he shrugs, smirking up at her. “Habit.” 

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, her blush belying how confident she’s trying to act. “So…you heard that. And…you too?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, voice low with promise - and not a little exhaustion. He tries to hide his yawn because this is a very important discussion. 

“You’re not still seeing that woman?” 

“Nope,” he responds with a tired grin, a little surprised that she knew about Bianca. But he guessed he’d never really made it that much of a secret. 

“You’re rather short on words today, I see,” she chuckles, letting him pull her closer and wrap his arms around her waist. He tucked his head into her stomach, breathing in her scent freely for the first time. 

“Too tired to make the words go,” he mumbled against her dress as she tugged his hair free from the tie. 

“Mmmm, then go to sleep. We can talk more about this tomorrow.” 

“Sleep with me,” he blurted. 

“What?”

He glanced up, grinning at her sheepishly as she quirks an eyebrow. 

“I mean just sleep. Lay down with me. Please?” Varric Tethras was begging? Shit, he was more tired than he thought. 

He realized it was worth it though when it seemed like she softened before his eyes, lips turned up in a fond grin. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He kicked off his boots and threw his jacket onto the floor as she laid her shoes neatly nearby and took off her apron. Varric watched as she tugged a couple of plain combs out of her hair, letting the curls tumble freely down her back. He wanted to just sit there and watch her like some Darktown creep, but his eyes were watering and burning with exhaustion. 

He slumped into the covers, sighing as his body was finally happy with him enough to stop hurting so much. His eyes barely opened as she slid in next to him, just as clothed. Her stuttered breathing gave away how nervous she was, but she wrapped herself around his back anyhow. 

“G’night, Rosie. Remind me to kiss you in the morning.” 

Her muffled laughter vibrated against his back, earning a sleepy grin. 

“Alright, now sleep.”

And for the first time in ages, Varric Tethras fell into the black void that was a dwarves lot excited and hopeful for the future. 

[modernagesomniari]

Fic ‘Measuring the Veil’ Part 4!!!

The final part of Measuring the Veil!

I am a bit embarrassingly proud of actually finishing this as I’ve done nothing but oneshots and snippets so far.

Anyways, here we deal with the fall out from Part 3 which left our eli in a rather precarious position. The whole fic is on AO3 here and is part of the Mala Suledin Nadas series.

Solavellan, ~4900 words

PG-13

Part 4 - For Now

There was something coming for her.  It pulsed with light, far away but moving closer.  It was calling her name.  

She couldn’t see anything solid.  There were clouds of grey and shadows of thick trunks around her, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t turn.

She wasn’t alone.

Somewhere in the thick of the trees, a shadow stirred.  Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t made of light like the other, but of darkness and hidden places. These were not the benign shadows that flitted under trees of a summer evening.  These were the dark, cold corners between hacked off chunks of fallen ruins, the damp darkness underneath the aravels where she’d feared monsters dwelled when she was a child.  Images of these things ebbed and flowed in front of her mind as whatever it was shifted towards the advancing light.  A wolf howled soft and forlorn somewhere far from where she hung, but the clouds in front of her eyes shifted like it was calling them.

Then the light was upon her and it had arms that lifted, beckoning her forward and into its embrace.  It spoke with no mouth, its body warm and soft, a breath of heat blossoming on the left side of her chest, almost hot enough to burn.  The wolf howled again, long and slow, but the light called her name and she felt it pulling at the very core of her, ripping her away from this place that didn’t want to let her go.  Again and again it called.  The heat at her chest flared into pain and she felt her body arch, eyes and mouth open in a gasp of sensation that curled her toes and blinded her with light…

…only to fade into sunlight catching on pale crags of rock, her feet almost losing footing on the path.  She staggered to one side, not quite in control of her body, her mind processing what was happening too fast for it to fully reach her subconscious.  She had been shot.  The light was a spirit and she needed to move because it couldn’t survive long outside of the task Solas had set it.  The memory of Varric’s chest being slashed open by a blade seconds after being brought up flashed through her memory, but her body was sluggish and recovering, pain in her chest making it hard to breathe.  She still wasn’t alone.

Something that wasn’t her own consciousness brought her head up in time to see the second arrow, and her arm came up to ward it off.  Like a tear in cloth, the spirit tore itself away from her down her arm and she watched it lose its cohesion, spreading like a wall in front of her to knock away the arrow, another from beside it, a third that followed.  By this time she was shaking her own head to clear it, mind losing the fog and the memory that went with it.  She dropped belly down on the ground, blindly grabbing her fallen staff and taking advantage of the protection to crawl behind the nearest rock and take a moment to breathe.

“Lavellan!” Cassandra yelled from below.  “Herald!”

“Firefly talk to me!”

Eli tried to shout back, but her breath caught painfully where the arrow had pierced her ribs and she had to try twice more before she could call out loud enough for them to hear.  She looked down at her chest, but there was no arrow.  Blood made her shirt stick to her skin, cold and clammy, but she knew without looking that the wound had closed.  Completely closed, unlike what she had seen earlier.  That was new.  Unbidden, the flash of unnatural light in Solas’ eyes after he’d smashed the amulet and the calm satisfaction in his expression came back to her.  The spirit had stayed, been more powerful somehow.

She didn’t quite know how to feel about it so decided not to, peeking around the boulder to see the lay of the land.  It was more mercenaries, assumedly coming to avenge their fallen companions.  She took a moment to wonder whether it had been these archers who had loosed their arrows into the backs of unarmed farmers and let the sneer of anger on her face fuel the fire that travelled down her corded arms to her staff.  The tip of it lit, not with soft light but with rich red, flashing pulses of fire.  She waited one more moment until she heard Cassandra let out a yell that was surely going to draw the attention of anyone within distance, then she rolled out and let loose the flames on them all.

Through the haze of battle and roar of the fire from her hands she started to hear cries of alarm from the mercenaries.  They had clearly assumed that Solas was the only mage and another  making fire leap from the ground at their feet sent the archers into panic.  From her position high on the rise, Eli could see the lie of the battlefield, however, and their chances were not necessarily good.  The mercenaries had come back in force and there was a large man, massive in his armour, stepping with purpose towards Cassandra with a hammer in his hand that probably weighed more than Eli herself.  She called out a warning, trying desperately to keep the archers busy and watching as Varric tried to harry the mercenaries flanking Cassandra’s side, Solas having to dodge and weave between trees as men and women with hard eyes and sharp blades came to stop the torrent of ice flowing from his staff.

The behemoth shemlen got within range of his hammer and went to lift it, hefting it upwards ready to strike.  The lightning bolt hit his armour directly in the back and he froze, his suddenly shaking hands dropping the hammer behind him.  There was a yell of rage from the other side of the group, back towards the road and Eli’s heart soared into a cry of fierce joy as she turned back to the archers.  Mihris had not just made it past the advancing mercenaries, but she’d come back for them.

It proved enough to turn the tide.  A third mage, raining lightning itself down upon them, mixed with ice that froze them to the ground unable to escape the flames - this was more than any company had bargained for.  Cassandra let out a shout of triumph as the archers turned tail and any man that wasn’t engaged with her began to move backwards.  The behemoth, now recovered, started yelling orders, but was stopped short by ice crawling up into his helmet and a bolt that took him through the visor.  He staggered backwards into a number of his colleagues, who dropped their own weapons and began to drag him backwards.  Eli knew they could pick them off now, vulnerable as they were, saw the grimace of rage on Mihris’ face as she advanced, grim determination in the set of Cassandra’s shoulders.  She called a halt.

Mihris and Solas looked up at her immediately, although both let their staffs hang at their sides.  Varric stood his ground beside her and nodded.  If they killed them all now, they would never find where they retreated to.  These men and women would leave tracks, a trail her people could follow back to wherever they hid.  There they could be found, possibly even reasoned with.  She took a breath as she remembered the farmers again.  Most of these people probably had families at home, were doing what they could for the coin.  She could be merciful.  She knew that her actions were informing the world what kind of organisation the Inquisition was.  She couldn’t stop it being associated with the Chantry, but she could make it more than a group of zealots massacring any in their path.

The five of them kept a close eye on the retreating mercenaries as they collected in the dell, Eli freely throwing her arms around Mihris and smiling warmly at her.  Mihris smiled back, nodding.  She would be alright, Eli realised.  Keeper Ista would set her right.  She’d be ok.

“We should tell the scouts we need them to track.  The trail will not stay fresh for long.” Cassandra warned as she came up, wiping her sword on the nearby grass before sheathing it.

“Why not track them yourselves?” Mihris asked.  Cassandra answered before Eli could.

“We are not about to risk the Herald unless we must.  Tracking is something our scouts can do.”

Eli shrugged at Mihris’ questioning gaze, uncomfortable.

“I’ll go now, meet you at the arch.  Want me to introduce you, Crackle?”

Eli had to stifle a smile as she watched Mihris realize Varric was talking to her.  Then she nodded.

“I think you should go with him, Mihris.  Once the scout knows who you are he can direct you to other members of the Inquisition.  They’ll get to the Highway safely.”

“I will go instead.” Cassandra interrupted.  “I wish to speak to them about protecting the road here.”

Mihris still looked a little unsure, but Varric gave her a cheery wave as she left and she smiled weakly back, following Cassandra.  Eli watched them go for a moment before turning to Solas, who was sitting on a large rock wiping blood off his foot.

“That spirit, Solas.”

He looked up at her and then nodded slightly.

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t do that before.”

“No.”

This time, his apparent desire not to elaborate wasn’t enough.

“Did the amulet do that?”

“The amulet gave me the power to enhance the spell, yes.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?  Do you need further aid?”

“No, thank you, I’ll be fine until we get to camp.  And I’m just curious.”

“As someone who does not consort with spirits on the battlefield, I doubt it would make much sense to you.”

That rankled, coming seemingly out of nowhere as it did.

“Try me.  I think I grasped the theories of the artefact in the ruin quite well, what’s wrong with this?”

What was wrong had nothing to do with Eli at all, she realized as Solas gave Mihris’ back a brief glance before looking back to her and shaking his head.  Once she figured out he wasn’t going to answer she moved closer to him, sitting down just when he was about to stand.  He paused.  “You said you were glad that she hadn’t got the amulet for herself, that she would have used it badly.  What were you afraid of?”

“I was not afraid.  What she does with her magic is no concern of mine, although it is always disappointing to see one’s suspicions constantly confirmed.”

“What suspicions?  Of whom?”

He looked over at her, a short frustrated sigh leaving his mouth.  He paused again and something in her gut told her that he was busy deciding whether to fight with her or not.

“The Dalish see spirits in a very simplistic way, although they would say their views are vastly superior to shemlen.  Regardless, it is just as wrong.  Any Dalish with the power to influence a spirit in this way is likely to misuse it.”

Clearly he’d made his choice.

“Any Dalish?  I realize we might be difficult to tell apart for those who think so little of our customs, but I assume you of all people consider yourself able to.”

His warning look brushed off her like water on waxed leather and she knew the expression on her face was bordering on the insolent.

“I do not know why you wish to have this conversation.”

“Because I object to having the actions of one woman affect your opinion of me.  Why does her foolishness mean you now won’t tell me anything?”

“My attitude to you has nothing to do with her.”

“Liar.”

She’d shocked him and there was something in her ability to provoke his anger that thrilled  in her almost as deeply as when she’d realised his body was pressed against hers earlier.

“That is not an idle insult.”

“Neither is what you are doing, Solas.  You’re just assuming we are all the same.”

He stood and she followed, unwilling to let this go and knowing it was unwise before she opened her mouth.  “Solas, I know they hurt you.”

He went very still, emotion wiping from his face.  Gods but he was tall when he didn’t stoop.  Alarm bells started pealing at the back of her mind, but she ignored them.  “I saw you, in the ruin.  The way she spoke to you?  I know you said you’d come across Dalish before and that the meeting didn’t go the way you wanted, I can see how they might have…”

His chuckle interrupted her, nothing of mirth in it.  In fact it sent shivers down her spine to hear it.  His voice when it came was quiet, but there was a tremor of anger and bitterness in it that almost frightened her.

“Ah, I see.  You have seen pain in me and now all my opinions must surely be due to that pain, nothing more.”

“Solas, that’s not what I said…”

“No, truly.  I have no control over my emotions, they surely cloud every genuine observation I have ever made to twist my conclusions  I am, in fact, clearly incapable of making clear judgements on this issue.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Is it not?” he asked, turning to her, his body and voice tightly controlled in his anger.  “Do you not think that I have tried to give the Dalish their chance?  I have seen them for what they are and this child we picked up today has only reassured me of my conclusions.  I was a fool for even trying.”

“Solas,” Eli tried again, something hard suddenly in her throat as she remembered him attempting to speak with Mihris, looking back at her like she’d persuaded him to.  “All I’m asking is that you try and see that there are some of us who are worthy of your attention, more than just the idiotic children you seem to have decided we are.”

His eyes were harsh and angry as he answered.

“I have seen nothing to convince me otherwise.”

Something dropped in her stomach and she suddenly realised what this whole conversation had been about, why she’d started it in the first place.  She knew the hurt showed on her face because she heard Varric tut from beside them and Solas frowned slightly, clearly a little confused.  She wasn’t about to let him see it for longer than she had to.

“Fine.” She said, keeping her voice as calm as she could.  She was good at this when she needed to be.  “I will stop wasting your time with my presence then.”

She turned and walked away, trying desperately to focus on calmly putting her staff away, clearing up, preparing to leave.  Still, she couldn’t help but hear Varric’s low voice floating over from where she’d left them both.

“Well, Chuckles, that didn’t go particularly well.”

“If I want your advice, Stonechild, I will ask for it.”

“Oh, so that’s the way you wanted it to go?  Her walking off after you’d hurt her feelings - that was the idea, was it?”

She didn’t hear Solas reply and decided she wasn’t about to wait around to listen, so she signalled to them that they were leaving and stepped onto the path, half-heartedly keeping an eye out for any further attack.  In a sudden whim she decided that today was the day she was making a statement about shoes, plonking herself on the hard ground to pull off the awful leather shemlen boots and socks.  Still sitting, she spread her toes out on the ground and even the rough earth and stones of the path felt blissful.  Levering up again, she let the sensation distract her for a few moments, if only a few.

On one hand she hated how she had apparently decided that his good opinion of her was worth her making excuses for her people.  On the other, she knew she had disagreed with a good few of her people in her time, especially at the last Arlathvhen, but in the face of his sweeping disdain she suddenly wanted to defend ideologies she had always argued against.  She hated that he seemed to have her caught in the middle.  She hated worst of all that he seemed to neither know that was what he was doing or care that he was doing it.  She had managed to forget how aloof he had seemed in her first few days of knowing him, how sometimes she would catch him watching the people at Haven seeming so very far away from them all.  It was all the more frustrating because she respected him, admired his magical talents and was entranced by the way he thought through problems, applied whatever learning he had come by to any challenge they encountered.  That he had done so out of nothing was something she felt such admiration for, coming from where she did.  The Dalish had nothing, had so very little to work with.  To see someone take even less and turn it into his level of talent was nothing short of miraculous and she wanted it to give her hope for her people.  Perhaps that was why it hurt so much when his apparent wisdom gave him only disdain for everything that she herself wanted to save.  

Every time she thought they were beginning to understand each other, there would be something to derail them.  She could only try so many times.  Perhaps it had been the wrong time to bring up the Dalish hurting him, when he was already angry.  Her chest hurt.  She was pretty damn sure it wasn’t just the residual bruise from the arrow.

Their short trip back to the stone archway that marked the crossroads was uneventful.  She kept out in front, not wanting to talk to Solas and not really wanting Varric giving her sympathetic eyes either.  She could barely understand herself, let alone trying to make someone else do so.  Cassandra was speaking to a small group of recruits when they arrived, Eli enquiring just enough to find out that they had taken Mihris under strict instruction to treat her with respect to join the main Inquisition scout party heading to Wycome.  They waited for a while for Cassandra to finish, Eli munching on an apple Varric had handed to her as she watched how Cassandra dealt with them.  There had been a move recently towards Eli ordering around these scouts herself and she wasn’t afraid to openly soak up advice and experience like a sponge when she was around people like Cassandra or Bull.  Her training for leadership had been somewhat different and she still wasn’t entirely sure how to apply it to this.  After Cassandra was finished, they headed into the crossroads, ambling along the main path until Varric spotted a merchant and hauled their pack onto his back, winking at them and moving off to where the man stood (in surprisingly good clothes considering he was supposedly a ‘refugee’).  Eli, still uncomfortable with all of the stares, kept walking until she started getting to the outskirts, idly hopping over a wall to wonder along the small allotments that the refugees were trying to set up for themselves.  

She felt someone come up behind her and, given that she couldn’t hear armour, assumed it to be Solas.  True enough, he fell into line with her as they walked along the brow of the hill, heading to the camp further up.

“I believe,” he began, sounding slightly unsure.  “That I owe you an apology.”

Eli suddenly felt very tired.

“Do you?”

“Yes.  I did not mean to imply that your presence was of any detriment to me.”

“Then what did you mean to imply?”

He grimaced slightly, not really able to hold her eye for long.

“I’m afraid implying anything was not on my mind.  I allowed my emotions to overcome my judgement of you and to get the better of me.  I spoke out of turn and from anger.  Forgive me.”

It startled her to hear that last, but he seemed sincere when she glanced over at him.  It surprised her that he could be so open, was so willing to put himself in this position to make amends.  He was a mix of extremes, this man, just when she thought she had the measure of him he’d turn a different way.  She was going to forgive him, she thought to herself drily, she had to admit that to herself.  Although he didn’t necessarily need to know, yet.

“Why did you get so angry?”

He shook his head, fingers tangling like he’d forgotten he was doing it.

“You…so often you think of things, say things - that I do not expect.  Your comment about the Dalish?  It took me by surprise.”

“I’m sorry for that.  It was the wrong time to bring it up.” She said, bumping her arm against his.  He again looked surprised, a wry smile blooming briefly on his lips.

“Like that, for example.  You are…unexpected.”

She grinned.

“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He inclined his head to her briefly.  She suspected he knew he’d been forgiven.  She laughed a little.  “You’re actually quite a hot-head, aren’t you?”

“My childhood tutor would certainly agree with you.” He chuckled back, something youthful and vibrant in his expression.  She’d just decided it was slightly addicting when it faded.  “I was not expecting a situation where that would matter.”

“What do you mean?”

He stopped, leaning up against a nearby fence with his arms crossed.  The look he gave her made him suddenly seem older than she’d thought.  From one extreme to another.

“My judgement of people I meet often has little bearing.  Most of the time they do not care.”

“And when they do care?  When you hurt them?”

“It is very rare that I do so.”

“Really?”

He didn’t answer directly, just looked at her steadily, if gently.  It felt like he was asking a question and she found herself answering.  “It’s not as if I’ve never questioned my people’s methods  - we’re all so very different now, so disparate.  But it’s just - this whole situation is almost engineered to surround me with attacks on everything I’ve known as home my whole life.  Even Sera.  To have it from you too, when I…” she stumbled a little.  “…when I respect you so greatly, it can just feel like too much sometimes.  So I get defensive, or try and pick holes or find reasons for you hating us that don’t hurt so much.”

He was quiet beside her for a moment.  She didn’t want to look at him, so instead cast her gaze down the hill towards the settlement and the sky beyond.

“I would not wish to count myself amongst those you feel you must defend yourself against.” He finally said, softly.  “And it is not just that you care about my opinion of you that makes this situation unfamiliar.  I…I myself am not accustomed to caring if I hurt someone.”

Now she looked at him, something wary and very, very vulnerable in his eyes.  When there was the smallest flinch, a tightening of his eyes as he looked at her face, she saw it for what it was.  It still hurt, but better that there was something in her tattoos that pained him than it be something he judged her as less for.

“They did hurt you, didn’t they?”

He kept very still, even as she turned her body towards him.  He nodded, the tiniest of movements.

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

“I’m not asking you to speak of it, Solas.” She assured him, quickly but gently.  They were so close the rigid line of his crossed arms almost brushed her open coat.  “I wouldn’t ask that.  We don’t know each other that well and I know that you’ve often been alone, you’ve said so.  Spirits often know things without you needing to tell them, so I’m not demanding anything of you.”

“Save my acceptance that my feelings for the Dalish may inform my judgement of them?”

“Is that something you haven’t accepted?”

He genuinely seemed to consider the question.

“I have never thought of it that way.  Perhaps I should.”

She smiled, strangely grateful for the honesty of his answer.  “And, if it must be said - whilst I maintain that the Dalish are often wrong, I do not hate them.  Or you.”

“Well then, maybe we should try a truce.”

His interest was clearly piqued and she wondered if, like him, she had an expression of her own that meant she was about to suggest something to him he was pretty sure he was going to approve of.  “How about, you try and wait before jumping to sweeping conclusions about the Dalish and I will try and stop being overly defensive.  With full permission for the both of us to fight like wolves and pole cats if we really feel we want to.”

He was trying not to grin again and it was unfair that she found it arousing.

“Wolves and pole cats?”

“It’s an expression.”

“Is it?” He asked, but there was an amused resignation on his face and he was nodding, so she was pretty sure she was winning.  “I see your point.  I believe I can accept those terms.”

She smiled at him, her heart skipping slightly at the warmth in his voice.  Or perhaps it was the warmth from his body, which she realised seemed extremely close all of a sudden.  A thought occurred to her and if her voice came out lower than she initially meant it to she wasn’t complaining, especially when she felt his breath suck in slightly from her place in front of him when he heard it.

“I was meaning to thank you, by the way.”

“Thank me?”

That addictive little anticipating smirk was on his face again.

“Yes.  For saving my life.”

“On the hill?”

“Well yes, although I was thinking more in the ruin.  With the falling rock.”

He looked momentarily confused and she could tell the moment he remembered when his gaze grew heated, the memory of their bodies tangled on the crumbling remnants of the stone flooding fresh through Eli’s veins.  His tongue darted over his lips before he spoke again and Eli couldn’t look away from them.

“You are quite welcome.”

They were quiet for a moment, Eli allowing herself to revel in this company, in this moment of mutual attraction, of feeling like she was really with him for one of the few times in their acquaintance.  Then he moved, unfolding his arms and suddenly it was all a little much, her body almost swaying with the effort not to close the gap between their bodies, feel the press of her breasts against the thin cotton covering his chest.  So she swayed backwards instead, chuckling a little at them both as she stepped away.  To her great satisfaction, he looked far more unsure than she did and she could see him beginning to decide that he needed to say something sensible and stupid to make anything about this situation appropriate.  Appropriate, at least, to what he thought the Herald and her resident apostate Rift-mage should be, anyway. Why were intelligent men often so very foolish?

“Don’t think, just walk.” she interrupted before he had a chance to speak.  He stood fully, cocking his head at her in confusion.  “Don’t think, just walk.”

She hooked her fingers around his arm, briefly tugging his body to join hers in continuing their journey to camp.  He allowed her, the weight of his body comforting and promising under her hand for just a second before he moved with her, matching her strides.

“Don’t think, just walk?” He repeated.

“Exactly.” She answered, although she was quite sure he hadn’t intended to imply his agreement.  She quite enjoyed having the upper hand.  “There is so much to think about, Solas, it’ll weigh us down to think about it all the time.  Sometimes, of course, deliberation must be undertaken, but when you are able….”

She left it hanging, looking up at him and jogging him slightly with her shoulder in encouragement.  When he made that expression again, the addictive one, she realised that she probably adored it because it looked like he didn’t know whether to be exasperated or charmed.  Well, if he could keep her on an edge between two emotions, then it was only fair and equal that she place him in a similar predicament.

“Don’t think, just walk.” He finished, obedient and making sure she saw it.  This contrary element to his personality was a new if slightly worrying development, given what it did to very specific parts of Eli’s body.  Still, to his credit his smile turned slightly pensive like he was actually thinking about it.  “Very well.  Perhaps I will experiment with this advice.  For now.”

She beamed up at him, suddenly walking lighter on her toes than she had all day.

“For now.” She repeated, accepting it for the promise it was.  She looked down and saw their feet, now both uncovered, against the rich brown soil of the valley.  The soft earth gave way gently under their toes like it was welcoming them.  “For now.”

[xfandomwritingsx]

Scars - F!Hawke/Varric

Description: 5 times Hawke's clothes came off. (A prequel of sorts to Reuniting. Not necessary to read Reuniting to read this.)

Warnings/Labels: Nakedness? No smut. The smallest mentions of depression? Really there aren’t many warnings here.

Approx. Word Count: 3,400

A/N: I posted this on AO3 a while ago but figured I’d post it here too.

1. The first time Hawke stripped out of her clothes in front of him was down in the Deep Roads. It had been at least a week since Bartrand had trapped them down there and they’d wandered into a heat pocket. The sweltering heat slowed their pace even more than the quickly growing hunger did. Carver looked the worst of them all, but the rest of them weren’t fairing much better.

They’d stopped traveling to take a break, the entire group’s energy level draining. Isabela leaned down to Carver as he sat and propped himself against a stone, trying to get him to drink a little more water. Varric watched as they argued about it quietly and wiped his sleeve along his forehead.

Hawke stood off to the side of him. He watched her slip her staff off of her back and set it on the ground. Her long, black hair was tied up messily on top of her head with one of his spare hair bands he’d given her when she’d lost hers over the edge of a bridge. He caught himself staring blankly at her, dehydration making his vision a little fuzzy and tired.

His vision cleared again when he noticed her unbuttoning her robe.

“Uhh, Hawke?” he called out curiously as he approached her. “You okay?” She had an angry, frustrated look painted on her face. She ignored him completely as she opened the robe down to her waist and shrugged it off her shoulders.

“It’s way too hot for this,” she told him bitterly. She tied the sleeves around her waist, effectively making her robe a bulky skirt and leaving her top in only her breast binding. The relief was minimal, but she sighed happily anyways.

“Is that the best idea?” It wasn’t that he had a problem with her lack of clothing. He wasn’t a man to blush at a little pale flesh presented in front of him, but he did worry it wasn’t the best choice for their situation. “There’s still a whole lot of darkspawn roaming around down here.” She shot a sideways glance at him.

“A lecture about armor?” she snapped at him a little rougher than she meant. “Coming from the man who leaves nothing but skin and chest hair between a blade and his heart?” He chuckled at her and nodded.

“Point taken.” A small smile tempted her face and her irritation seemed to fade.

“Although, it’d probably be best if you watched my back instead of Isabela for now.” She threw a look over her shoulder at her and Carver before looking at Varric again. “I don’t think I can handle her staring and making comments about my rippling back muscles.”

“So, I shouldn’t stand behind you and narrate every graceful movement?” he teased. Her laugh may have been dry, but it was good to hear nonetheless. She leaned down to pick up her staff, turning just enough for him to see the small, deep gash on the back of her shoulder. “You should clean that,” he mentioned. She didn’t even look up.

“With what? The little drinking water we have?” She shrugged before standing back up. “I brush the dirt off it once in a while and that’s about as good as it’ll get for now.” He twisted her neck in an attempt to look at it before conceding she couldn’t bend that way. “Scars are sexy anyways, right?”

“Well I was more worried about impending death due to infection, but I see where your concerns lie.” They smiled at each other and Hawke threw a friendly wink in his direction before walking towards her brother to aid Isabela’s cause to hydrate him.

2. “I do believe you owe me an article of clothing,” Isabela gloated, laying her cards down on the table.  She had been cheating, which Varric suspected she did at least ninety percent of the time, but this time he actually saw the cards hidden in her bodice. He kept his mouth shut though. He wasn’t actually partaking in the festivities this time.

The group of them had been down by the bar for their usual night of Wicked Grace, but a small lot of them had somehow inhabited his room after hours to continue on with more risqué rules. He’d had enough ale to know he was going to be sloppy and enough sense to decline the invite. He didn’t need to end up in his smallclothes in front of everyone tonight. Maybe another time. For now, he sat at his desk alternating between watching them and trying to write.

“Alright, alright.” Hawke was already lacking her tunic shirt and her boots and the table was clearly interested in seeing what she was going to choose to remove next. Varric noticed Ander’s eyes do a once over on her chest binding and he chuckled to himself. Blondie wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was. (Though subtly wasn’t exactly needed since Hawke had made direct eye contact with him when she lifted the tunic over her head earlier.)

“What’s it going to be, Hawke?” Fenris asked. Varric admitted, it was nice to see the guy enjoy a good time once in a while. He found his attention was drawn to the table, curious himself to see how this played out.

Hawke had a wicked smile on her face which only enthralled the group more. Isabela rested on her elbows, leaning forward towards the woman across the table from her. One of these days she was just going to end up crawling across the top of it, Varric believed. He just hoped it was on one downstairs instead of his personal one.

Hawke leaned back and slid her hands under the table. Her eyes danced between her three opponents who waited with a high amount of anticipation. From Varric’s angle, he was the only who could see that, despite her wiggling of her hips and act of difficulty, the only thing she was doing, was pulling a piece of clothing out of her pocket. He had to bite his tongue to keep the grin off his face.

With one last show of bending at the waist, as though she was freeing clothing from her lower half, she lifted her hand with pride and dangled a pair men’s underwear. They were slim shorts that would have hung low on her lips had she actually worn them, the waist being too wide. The group was shocked and impressed at her maneuver, missing her deception entirely. Hawke triumphantly tossed the underwear onto the middle of the table as the questions started pouring in.

“How did you do that?” A confused Fenris.

“Whose are they?” Anders trying to hide his jealousy.

“Are they comfortable? They look comfortable.” Isabela already picking them up and inspecting them.

It took Varric a few more moments than it would have sober to realize that the underwear displayed on the table, that had been hidden away in Hawke’s pocket for Maker knows how long, were in fact his. The grin he had slowly fell off, melting into confusion. When had she gotten those? He could tell they were clean (thank the Maker) but how did she get them? Hawke looked at him from the corner of her eye and gave him a quick wink. It didn’t matter he supposed. The bafflement of the party was entertaining enough to let them keep his underwear.

Hawke put a stop to the game after that, knowing that if they kept going, she’d be forced to end up removing her bottoms which would reveal that she had not been wearing those underwear and would unravel her entire rouse. She waited until everyone vacated before handing them back to Varric.

“I grabbed them from your drawer when I went to the bathroom,” she explained for him.

“You mean you aren’t a crazy stalker? Well now I’m disappointed,” he teased, putting his underwear on his desk and making a mental note to wash them again. “Put a shirt on before you leave.” He wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot in her state and started wandering the Lowtown streets without it.

“Yes, yes, fine.” It took her a moment to find it and during her search, his eyes glanced over her body. Her time in Kirkwall had peppered her skin with imperfections. Dark spots, bruises, small scars. It suited her appearance. “Are you leering Serah Tethras?” she teased, words slurring just slightly.

“Told you, you should have cleaned it.” He pointed to the small scar on the back of her shoulder. Really, he was surprised that was the only physically mark remaining from their time in the deep roads. Could have been worse.

“And I thought I told you, scars are sexy.” She wiggled her shoulders in an overly exaggerated way and he wasn’t sure if the absurdity of it was on purpose or simply ale fueled. Either way, he chuckled.

“Get your ass home to bed.”

3. Blood was everywhere. Her blood was everywhere. Varric willed his hands to stay still as Fenris and Anders carried her. It was a wonder how she was still alive, let alone conscious and making smartass remarks. He walked swiftly in front of them, ushering a path and trying desperately not to stare at her blood on his hands.

The Arishok had stabbed her clear through her middle in a last ditch attempted to win their duel. Varric had felt his entire body go weak and numb, watching her hoisted up on his blade. He, like everyone else, thought for sure that was it. That was the end of Hawke, the end of his best friend. Against all odds, she somehow not only survived, but triumphed. He suspected Anders did something, sent some subtle healing spell her way or something, but he didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care right then either.

They laid her on a cot in Ander’s clinic and she made a joke about them jostling her to cop a feel. No one so much as smiled. Blondie’s hands were all over her in an instant, feeling and prodding, making her wince. Everyone was surrounding her bed, but Varric made sure he stood at her head, out of the way, but closer enough to tear off his glove and hold her hand. Her skin was cold.

“So, when you tell this story,” she said to him, holding weakly onto his hand. “You better make it sound epic.” He coughed out a laugh for her benefit and started stroking her hair.

“Chuckles, I won’t even have to exaggerate,” he assured. “This is crazier than the Ogre.” She smiled, coughed, and then winced. Anders was tearing at her robes, trying to open them to see the wound, but wasn’t getting very far.

“Move,” Isabela commanded, quickly unsheathing a blade from her bodice and pushing her way up to Hawke. She sliced open the thick robes right down the middle in a single motion, the tattered edges billowing away from Hawke’s body in the places where the blood hadn’t soaked through. The fabric stuck to the wound and Anders had to carefully peel it away.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when it was revealed that she hadn’t been speared straight through the middle. It was slightly off to the right, which probably managed to save her life. Varric held onto her hand tighter and brought her knuckles to his lips.

“She’s going to be okay,” Anders said, mostly to himself as he worked. “She’s going to be okay.”

“Hear that?” Varric asked her. Her eyes were bright as she looked at him and that, more than Ander’s words, gave him a feeling of hope. “You’ll be fine.” She opened her mouth to say something, but hands pressed on her and she cringed.

“I have to…” Anders faltered in his words. “Her breast bind.” A bloody hand pointed to the dirty wrappings. “It’s in the way.” Hawke’s eyes rolled upwards and she groaned. “Alright, everyone out.” His voice dropped into that commanding tone and with quick kisses and touches of affection, everyone started filing out without question.

Varric went to take his leave as well, but when he went to release her hand, she just held on tighter. He and Anders exchanged a single look and they both knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Anders nodded briefly before turning his attention to her breast bind. And Maker, was he slow and ginger about it. Varric knew he’d seen her naked before and now was no time to be shy about it.

“You are not to exaggerate those,” Hawke teased, giving his hand a weak, but playful squeeze. Anders was finally done with her binding and Varric made sure to keep watching her eyes, partly out of decency, but mostly to make sure she was still okay.

“Well now you’re just being stingy.” He really didn’t feel like teasing her, but he’d do anything to keep her smiling right then. “What good is a story without a busty heroine?”

“You have my full permission to make Bethany extra voluptuous.” The smile faded just a little bit. “She died a hero.” She looked away from him and looked up instead, wincing again. He saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. “Carver’s dead too. And Mother.” He patted her hand and ran his thumb over her skin.

“How about I make sure to give Carver the juiciest chest of all of you?” That seemed to pull her back to him, the smile slipping back onto her face.

���This next part is going to hurt. A lot,” Anders warned. “I think it might be time to put you to sleep. You’ll need the rest anyways.” Varric saw a flash of fear in her eyes and he squeezed her hand.

“We’ll be right here when you wake up,” he promised because by the Maker, she would wake up. She took a deep breath before looking down at Anders and nodding. When he came up the table to place a kiss on her lips, Varric looked away to give them privacy. He would have stepped back completely, but her hand still clutched his and he wasn’t about to let go.

Anders pulled back and gave her a flask filled with what Varric assumed was the potion to make her sleep. She grimaced when she drank from it and sputtered through a cough, but she got it down.

She gave Varric one last smile before her eyes fell shut.

4. Two main things led to Hawke stripping away all her clothes and climbing into Varric’s bed. The first being she was very drunk. The second being that she was sad and lonely, practically bordering on depressed, though she would never admit it.

Anders had abandoned her again that night, something he was making a habit of doing which in turn was making Varric want to punch him in the mouth. He didn’t know what was going on with that guy, but he was dragging Hawke down into his moping and Varric didn’t like it. So, he never denied her when she showed up at his door alone, that night being no exception.

Either Corff’s drinks were extra strong or she had drunk more than he’d realized because she by the late hours of the evening, Hawke was stumbling through his room and slurring her words. Usually her drunkenness was something of amusement, but tonight she had a sad, empty look in her glassy eyes that made Varric sink.

“Do I need to leave?” she asked as she plopped herself down onto his bed. She didn’t ask out of courtesy, but rather a suppressed desire for validation. She wanted someone, anyone, to tell her she was welcome and wanted. Varric smiled softly at her before crouching down in front of her and unlacing her boots.

“Chuckles, there is no way I’m letting you leave this room tonight.” She returned his smile and helped wiggle her feet free from the confines of her boots. “If we put aside the fact that you’d probably end up passed out in an alleyway if you tried to get home, I would be greatly offended that you thought my company not fit to remain in anymore.” He could tell she wasn’t quite following his words, the sound of his voice probably a little wishy-washy and broken in her drunken head, but that was okay. The point was that she knew she could stay.

He tossed her boots aside and left to straighten up his desk a little. He heard her shuffling about and when he turned around, she was stark naked and crawling under his covers. Varric averted his eyes to the ceiling and held back a laugh, but before unintentionally noticing that the intimate parts of her skin were much paler than he thought.

“What-chya doing there, Hawke?” He heard her say something in response, but her face was already buried into a pillow and her voice was too muffled to understand. “Yes, of course. Makes perfect sense,” he muttered to himself, chancing a look back towards her. She was covered for the most part, sprawled on her stomach with the covers up to around the middle of her back.

Normally, he would have just made up his little cot on the floor like he used to do when she spent the night, before she insisted he could share the bed, but her war hound (if one would even call that slobbering doofus of a dog a war hound) had destroyed it with copious amounts of drool. He toyed with the idea of getting into bed next to her. It wouldn’t be that absurd, but there was some kind of line he felt he would be crossing, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

So, instead he settled for his desk chair. He could make do for one night. He paused to look at her before swiping his pillow from his bed. She was already passed out, snoring softly. He smiled lightly at her, finding a comfort in the simple look of peace on her face. He didn’t even care if it had been the ale or his company that put her at such ease. The woman deserved it.

He pulled a spare blanket out and set up his chair to sleep in and found it much easier than he thought it would be to fall asleep to the sound of her snoring.

5. Hawke had more scars now. As he stripped her of her clothes, he took notice. He laid her back on his bed and gently pulled at the layers of fabric that covered her and noticed all the scars freckling her body. Some of them he recognized, others were new.

As he slid her tunic up her belly, he ran his fingers over the red puffy line that marked where the Arishock had skewered her. He dipped down and kissed it before letting his mouth follow his hands up her body. There was a new scar beneath her left breast and he kissed that one too. He placed his lips over every scar he ran across; the one on her shoulder, the new slash on the back of her thigh, the small and nearly insignificant mark on her left hand.

Hawke moaned and ran her hands through his hair as he took his time with her, relearning her body after so long apart. He took a pride in the way he knew her body without ever actually having it before this night. He suspected she knew his own nearly the same when he found himself on his back with a naked Hawke gently running her fingers over the small white mark on his lower back that she instinctively knew was there.

He asked himself once again how he didn’t see this coming. How did he not realize how intimately they had always known each other? It was so clear and yet through all those battles, all the long nights together, the drinks and laughs and conversations, he never realized it.

She made a twisting motion with her hand wrapped around him and his took a deep intake of breath, or tried to anyways. With his lips on her neck, all he did was suck on her skin. It sent them in a short cycle. She would moan and twist causing him to suck harder on her until he gave in and pulled away from her.

She had a sly smile on her face and a purplish bruise bubbling up on her skin. Varric smirked to himself. Even if it was a temporary one, he was going to leave his own mark on her. Add one more onto her body that for once wasn’t brought on by hate or fear or violence.

And by the seductive sparkle in her eyes, he assumed she was going to do the same to him.

[tevivinter]

Here’s a prompt for @johaeryslavellan​​! It took me a while but I hope you like it! :D ——— "Someone like him shouldn't be here."

Marel’s ears twitched slightly upon hearing that comment. Dozens of conversations happened simultaneously at the Herald’s Rest, but this one in particular caught his interest. The voice came from a couple tables behind them. Marel lowered the mug from his lips, paying more attention as the man continued to speak.

“Lower your voice,” another man whispered. “The Inquisitor is here. He might hear you.”

The first man scoffed, disgust clear in his words. “I don’t give a shit. He should know better than to mingle with that shitty Tevinter.”

“Uh-oh,” Varric said from the other side of the table upon noticing Marel’s tightened fist. He knew the elf well enough to identify when his patience was running short - not that it was a difficult thing to do.

Dorian rolled his eyes. He was already used to being insulted in the South for pretty much any reason, all of them always connected to some ‘evil magister’ concept. Frankly, he didn’t have the time to argue with drunk men. Not when he had better things to do at least.

“Don’t bother yourself with that, amatus.” Sitting right next to Marel, Dorian placed one hand at his stiffened shoulder. “These men are hardly worth our time.”

Marel tried his very best to take a deep breath, unable to ease the sound of heartbeats thumping inside his chest. He still held the mug with one hand, the other one resting on the table. “They are talking shit about you, Dorian.”

As if hearing their conversation, the man continued.

“Besides, what would he do?” His voice became increasingly higher, drawing the attention of other tables nearby. People started to look at him with curiosity. “I doubt the mighty Inquisitor could fight me; he’s too busy fucking the Tevinter after all.”

The whole tavern went silent after that.

Marel slammed the mug on the table with a loud thump. He stood up at once, fully realizing that everyone’s eyes were on him now. Everyone except for that man, who continued to drink as if nothing had happened. He didn’t move a muscle even when Marel’s shadow hovered at him, fists clenched together and voice sharp as steel.

“Say that to my fucking face.”

The man finally turned to face him, lips twisted into an arrogant smirk. He stood up calmly and stared at Marel, unafraid of the molten anger glaring right back at him. His broad shoulders were almost a match for Bull’s and he was at least a couple inches taller than the elf - who was already six feet tall.

“I told ya, Jack.” He glanced at his partner, who swallowed nervously at the situation. “I was sure the Inquisitor would defend that Tevinter piece of sh-”

A solid punch to the gut kept him from finishing that sentence. The man gasped, his surprised expression quickly turning to anger before he lunged at Marel.

The silence was soon replaced by the sound of people cheering at their fight. Most of them stood up to watch as Marel and the man fought near the center of the tavern. Dorian did so as well, a worried frown taking over his face. Southerners, he thought, noticing the overall excitement over a stupid fist fight. Bull chuckled and took a sip from his ale.

"No need to worry about Boss." For someone who looked so entertained by the fight, Bull's analysis was surprisingly accurate. "The man is large, but lacks footwork. This will be over real soon." He shrugged.

"Careful, Sparkler.” Varric smirked with an amused tone. “If you keep staring at him like that, there’s a good chance you’ll dig a hole into his head.”

Only then Dorian realized that he was barely blinking, too absorbed by the scene. He grunted and crossed his arms defensively before glancing at his companions. “Won’t both of you just shut up?”

The crowd booed when a punch struck the side of Marel’s face, strong enough to almost make him to lose balance. Dorian quickly looked back at him, a string of Tevene curses running through his mind. He would never understand why Marel was so eager to protect him, not only in real battles but also in stupid fights such as this one. No matter the situation, the elf wouldn’t think twice before standing up to him.

Dorian loved and hated him for it.

Marel felt the hot taste of iron in his mouth. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he waited for the next blow, and when the man ran straight at him, his lips twisted into a victorious smirk. That fight was over.

Two punches - that’s what it took for the man to fall on his kness, breathless and groaning. The severe pain on his left side indicated at least one broken rib.

“Fuck!” He hissed through gritted teeth.

Marel grabbed the human by his collar. Unspoken rage still burned inside his golden eyes - it made his voice sound dangerously low. “Disrespect us again and I’m throwing you off this fucking castle myself.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, simply because there was no need for it. The man grunted and cursed silently, his partner soon appearing to help once they were done. Marel walked away from the tavern without looking back. Even if he wanted to continue drinking with his friends, his presence alone would cause people to gossip and glance at him after what happened. 

And he definitely wasn’t in the mood to deal with that.

Marel took a deep breath once he reached the stone railings on the upper courtyard. It didn’t take long before he could hear the sound footsteps approaching him.

“You certainly know how to make a dramatic exit.” Dorian's comment made the elf smile a little. He strolled closer. "Are you alright, amatus?"

Marel felt the light touch of Dorian's hand on his shoulder. "Yeah." He tilted his head to meet the mage's gaze after a short moment of silence. "Just tired, I guess."

Dorian crossed his arms and leaned back against the railing. He searched for injuries on Marel's face only to notice a thin stripe of blood at the corner of his mouth. It was drying out already, but the punch that caused it would certainly leave a bruise on his cheek.

"What?" Marel asked, noticing the thoughtful look on Dorian's face.

"You started a fistfight because of me,” Dorian stated. “I'm honestly torn on whether to be honored or angry at you."

Marel shrugged. "I don't regret any of it."

"Why?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Marel took a step closer to Dorian. His anger had completely vanished at that point, replaced by a warm feeling of care that softened his frown. He brushed his fingers lightly against Dorian's cheek. "I won't let anyone talk shit about you. I don’t care where or when."

There was that look on his face – raw fierceness mixed with determination. Most people knew that look and they couldn't tell the difference between Marel and the imposing Inquisitor figure. They only saw his warrior side, the harsh part of him that appeared on a daily basis.

What they didn't see was his caring side. The man who would do anything to protect his loved ones, the passion that burned deep inside his eyes. Few were able to see Marel as a whole, and Dorian felt extremely lucky to be one of them.

The mage finally sighed. "You're an impossibly infuriating man, did you know that?"

Marel smirked, running his thumb up and down Dorian's cheek. If anything, he looked entertained by Dorian’s frustration. "You're always saying that. What else?"

"And you never listen to me." Despite his scolding, he couldn't help but notice how Marel slowly closed the distance between them, faces only a few inches away from each other. Dorian uncrossed his arms to wipe away the blood from Marel's chin. Fingers hovered over the elf's bruised knuckles and caressed them dearly, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "...Though I admit that was quite the show."

Marel gave him a quiet laugh, eyes glancing at Dorian’s lips. “I thought you were angry at me,” he breathed.

And he was. Still, Dorian decided to answer with a kiss so that none of them would be able to talk. Not that Marel would complain about that - his smile actually grew wider when Dorian pulled him into a hug. They would have plenty of time to argue later.

For now, Dorian just wanted to kiss that silly, irritating and beautiful smile away from his pretty face.