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allisondraste · 4 years ago

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Ambivalence: Chapter 3

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe x Female Cousland

Story Summary: It has been just over a year since Nathaniel Howe and Elissa Cousland were reunited, childhood friendship forged into a love that endured a decade apart. However, every love is tested at some point. Presented with circumstances that could either make or break their relationship, Nate and Liss are no different.

Chapter 3: Bull-Headed

Chapter Summary:

Previous Chapter

[AO3 Link]

Chapter 3: Bull-Headed

Chapter Summary: Liss turns to Alistair for advice and supportive words, only to ignore every word.

Vigil’s Keep, Solace 9:33 Dragon

The path from one end of the Keep’s main hall to the other stretched on for a million miles. Or so it seemed to Liss, who had to use every ounce of restraint she possessed to resist making a mad dash toward the door. Hers was a desolate sojourn through a space that was far too loud to be so painfully empty. Then again, she had no assurance her own screaming thoughts would quiet once she made it outside, thoughts that told her she was a stubborn fool and a coward, the ones that insisted she turn on her heel at once and speak with Nathaniel as he’d begged her to do, those that demanded she truly acknowledge the extent of his hurt.

How in the Maker’s name was she supposed to do that? It was far simpler to pretend that she had not heard him sigh in frustration and call after her, that she didn’t know she’d ruined his day before he even got out of bed. Face him? No, she couldn’t. Coward though it might make her, she was not prepared to have the conversation he wished.

Still , she thought, Nate did not deserve the way she was treating him. She could have at least reassured him that she loved him more than anything, and that she would explain everything once she was ready. Once she managed to cobble together the proper words. Just before she reached the door she turned abruptly, just to see if he was still there, if she could rush back to him and apologize.

It was too late, however, as he was sat on a bench talking to Sigrun and Velanna. Shame boiled in her gut and rose to warm her cheeks. She wondered how much the others knew, how much he’d told them. Did they think she was an awful person? She certainly felt like one.

Shaking her head she spun back around, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped out to the Keep’s exterior. It was an especially cool, cloudy day for midsummer, with a storm brewing along the dark horizon. The perfect weather to complement the turmoil that brewed inside of her. Better that than the sun blazing brightly above, mocking her misery.

Luckily, there were few people outside, with the exception of guards and the Keep’s servants. Those who would have recognized her, her fellow Wardens must have been inside or otherwise preoccupied. Even so, she kept her head down as she made her way to one of the battlement towers, and went inside, climbing the stairs in a near run.

That was until she collided into something, someone if the cool metal sting of armor and exclamation of surprise were any indication. A pit hollowed itself into her stomach as she wobbled backwards from the impact, her balance slipping away from her completely. She slammed her eyes shut, the entirety of her terribly short life flashing before her eyes as she braced for impact. Would this be how it ended for her, tumbling down a flight of stairs and breaking her neck, without ever getting a chance to fix things with Nate?

That would certainly have been a cruel twist of fate, if she were to have fallen. However, just as soon as she began to fall backward, there was a rustle of movement and a firm grasp of her wrist by a gloved hand, tugging her up and back into balance with both feet planted on a step. Letting out a sigh of relief she allowed her eyes to open, revealing her friend’s frowning, worried face.

A bewildered “oh,” escaped her as she blinked up at the man, who appeared to be examining her with a mix of amused curiosity and concern. “Hey, Alistair.”

“That could have been... disastrous,” he observed sternly, then softened into a lopsided grin, “Y’know, I hear that ‘watching where you walk’ is all the rage these days.”

She shook her head, laughing. “R-right. I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize. I get it.” He waved his hands in front of him. “I’ve always preferred tackling staircases with my eyes closed, too. It’s not quite as dangerous as juggling swords, but I take my excitement where I can get it.”

Liss snorted out a graceless laugh that turned into a sob as the emotions she’d been tamping down surged forward past her broken guard. She brought her hands up to her face, embarrassed at her loss of control. She was a grown woman, the sister of the Teyrn of Highever, and a Grey Warden, and yet she stood trembling and sniffling like a child over entirely self-inflicted wounds.

“Whoa,” Alistair said, chuckling as he placed a hand on each of her shoulders. “Didn’t realize sword-juggling would give you a fit. You have nothing to fear, my lady. I can’t actually juggle a damn thing.”

It was another joke, she knew, his preferred method of providing emotional support in a pinch. She looked up at him, smiling and attempting to scrub tears from her face. “Maker, I am such a mess.”

“Yes,” he replied, matter-of-factly, “But that’s not new.”

She shot a dagger of a glance at him and he smirked, raising his hands in defeat. She rolled her eyes before straightening her posture and brushing away the unruly strands of hair that had stuck to her tear-dampened cheeks. Her eyes were still full to brimming, but she fought back another wave of sobs, hoping to recover at least a shred of her dignity.

“Right, well,” she said stiffly, “These past few weeks have been a very difficult time for me.”

Thoughtful brown eyes examined her more closely, clearly unconvinced by her flimsy attempt at brushing off her feelings. With a sigh, he held his arm out to her, tapping his bracer with an index finger. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” she muttered, taking the offered arm anyway and letting out a breath she’d been holding, “But… maybe it’ll help me sort things out.”

They continued on up the stairs toward the top of the tower that opened out onto the battlements. When Liss had lived in Highever, she had always found strolls along the outer walls of the castle to be soothing. As she grew into maturity, she realized that the change in perspective achieved by peering out over the landscape from a distance, helped her to see her own problems more clearly. It was in that space between her feelings and the world that created them where she most frequently found her clarity.

Liss released Alistair’s arm, and stepped forward to rest her elbows on the parapet, and look down at the grounds below. Part of her hoped that Nate would come outside at any moment, having escaped conversation with his friends to search for her desperately. The other part of her knew he was far too sensible, too considerate of her boundaries to ever do such a thing.

“You know he’s not going to come looking for you, right,” asked Alistair at her side. She’d been so lost in thought she had not even noticed him, the lumbering mass that he was, sidle up beside her and lean over the parapet as well.

“Only too well.” Liss slouched forward even further with a groan before glancing back up to Alistair. “That infuriating man is about as bull-headed as they come.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose so far up on his forehead at her statement that Liss thought they might escape. He blinked at her skeptically.

“What,” she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

A laugh burst from his chest and he shook his head. “Do you want the honest answer or the supportive one?”

She thought for a moment then answered. “Honest.”

“Nathaniel’s not the one being bull-headed about this. You are,” he explained, words direct but not harsh and each one stinging as if they were tiny shards of glass thrown at her.

“That’s not… I’m not…” She trailed off, unable to form a proper argument. “Okay, I’ve changed my mind. I’d like the supportive answer please.”

“Nathaniel’s not the one being bull-headed about this. You are,”he repeated, more gently. He smiled and added, “And I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,” Liss answered with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Liss,” Alistair said, taking her shoulders and squaring them up to him, “I don’t think he blames you for feeling the way you do.”

“Why? Has he spoken to you?”

“Hardly. I just—”

“You just think you understand,” she cut him off, swiping his hands from her shoulders and taking a few steps back and away from him, “But you really don’t.”

“Fine.” Alistair snorted, and looked down at his feet, then back up to her. “Don’t say I didn’t try to help you.”

Liss frowned. “You did try. I’m just beyond help at this point.”

“Yes, of course,” Alistair snapped, voice sharp with sarcasm, “In fact I’m not even sure why I bothered. You might as well just end things with Nathaniel right now. Save you both some misery.”

“You really think that?” Her bottom lip quivered despite her efforts to stop it.

“Do I really think—? No! ” He shook his head and laughed out of, what seemed to be, disbelief. “What I really think is that you need to talk to the man.”

“I—” she began to protest, but thought better of it. He was right, after all. “I know. I just don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“I hope you’re right.” She kicked at the stone beneath her, and let out a sigh. “Thank you for… putting up with all of this.”

“Hey,” Alistair said reassuringly, “That’s what friends are for.”

After a brief hug, Liss excused herself from Alistair’s company with a promise that she would try to talk to Nate. She did not, however, give him a timeline on that promise. She would take that daunting step when she was ready, and no sooner.

She wasn’t certain how she found herself reclined on the bed she and Nate shared, alone in her casual wear and pages deep into a campy little serial she’d picked up last time they’d visited the market in Amaranthine. Swords and Shields , by one Varric Tethras, was the story of a Guard-Captain who fell in love with a Templar Knight-Captain. The first of the books, at least, was poorly paced, with overused tropes and repetitive language that was difficult to ignore. The story, however, was solid, with brilliant characters whose lives Liss now took a vested interest in.

She could not say how much time had passed before a gentle rustling at the door and the sharp mew of a cat pulled her from her book-induced trance. She hopped up quickly, marking her book carefully with a slip of parchment and setting it on the nightstand before heading over to the door to let Ser Pounce into the room. The cat had been staying with them frequently, since Anders left, and especially since Liss sent Bear to Highever to keep Fergus company. Liss missed the mabari desperately, but she did not want to risk exposing him to the taint of darkspawn blood, and she figured her brother could use the company anyway.

When she opened the door, Ser Pounce just sat there staring up at her with his big kitty eyes, tail wagging slowly behind him. He made no attempt to move, and instead, meowed in expectation. Liss bent over to give him a scratch behind the ears, but just as her fingertips grazed his fur, he darted away from her and off down the hallway.

“That damn c—” she began to mutter to herself as she rose back up, breath hitching in her throat at the realization she was not alone. She had not noticed Nate approach, and she had wondered if he was there the entire time she tended to the cat, or if his footsteps were simply too light for her to hear. He had a bad habit of sneaking up on her like that, not that she ever particularly minded.

He said nothing—well, nothing with words anyhow. His tired, piercing eyes spoke volumes in the silence between them, volumes she selfishly did not wish to hear. It was suddenly so very hard to breathe, lungs unable to expand past the weight of emotion that had fallen on her chest. She swallowed hard, biting back the hot tears that burned behind her eyes before speaking.

“Hey, Nate,” she managed, smiling to hide the other feelings currently choking her, “I’m afraid I haven’t done much in the way of preparing for our trip. I got caught up in a book and lost track of time, you know me.”

He still said nothing, simply offering her a nod and entering the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He walked over to one of the chairs in the corner, and quietly began to remove his boots, unlacing each of them with dextrous fingers. It must have been later than she realized, she thought, if he were undressing. She let out a few mental curses at herself for letting so many hours slip by.

“Is it a good book,” Nate asked, much to her surprise, as he stood up, pulled off his gloves, and began to work on the buckles of his armor.

“I, um, no,” she fumbled out a response, half-hearted laugh falling off the ends of her words, “It’s poorly written, but I’ve fallen in love with the characters.”

He snorted, the hint of a smirk at the corners of his mouth, and he stopped what he was doing to look at her. “How very Liss of you.”

“I think you meant irresponsible . ‘How very irresponsible of you.’”

Another smile flashed across his lips at her response, and he resumed working on his many buckles. Reflexively, Liss moved forward to help him. “Here, let me,” she said, but stopped short of reaching out and touching him. He’d always welcomed her assistance before, but she knew it would be inconsiderate to assume that he still would. “Can I?”

He looked up at her again, an unstated question on his brow. “Of course.”

She nodded, and began to work undoing the buckles that would be harder for him to reach. It was something they had done for one another innumerable times since Liss joined the Wardens, a bit of casual intimacy she had come to expect from their relationship. However, nothing about the present situation felt casual. It had been just over two weeks since their return from Highever, and they’d barely spoken, let alone touched in a way that was anything other than affectionate and chaste. She missed him. He was inches away, warm breath pouring down atop her head, but Maker , did she miss him.

The desire that pooled in her belly shamed her, as she finished up her work and stepped back, watching him remove the rest of his armor. He folded and stacked each piece ever-so-neatly until only his faded remains of an undershirt and breeches remained. Her pulse jumped as he untied his hair and shook it loose, raven strands swooping down and into his face.

She focused her eyes intently on the floor, and attempted to drum up some topic of conversation with which to distract herself, but all she could think to say was, “I’m sorry about the way I behaved earlier. I didn’t mean to cause a scene, or embarrass you.”

She felt him near her again, and forced herself to meet his gaze. It was intense, but gentler than before, and he reached out to brush one of her many stubborn locks of hair from her face. She trembled at his touch, aching in so many different ways she couldn’t tell whether she wanted him to make love to her or hold her while she cried. Perhaps both in succession.

“I’m all right,” he stated firmly, but she didn’t believe him. He’d always been far better at lying than she was, but he wasn’t fooling anyone with those sad eyes of his. “You needn’t worry about me.”

Before she had a chance to argue with him, to ask him for honesty she was not yet ready to offer up herself, he leaned down and kissed her. It was slow enough that she could have stopped him— something she very much did not wish to do— but still urgent, passionate, full of need. She returned the kiss, pressing her body flush up against his as she did so, allowing her fingertips to dance just under the hem of his shirt. The shaky breath that escaped him at the gesture was a relief, a sign that despite everything that happened between them, he still desired her, and she reveled in the way he clung to her so tightly, running fingers through her hair.

Nate interrupted their kiss, whispering a question against her lips. “Shall we?”

She smiled, indicating her consent by kissing him again, then leading them to their bed. They fell easily into one another, familiarity and muscle memory taking over where their connection and communication lapsed. Even as their limbs and bodies tangled, as they clung desperately to the moment they created for themselves amidst overwhelming turmoil, and even as breathless ‘I love yous’ left their lips, Liss felt empty, a pit hollowed in her chest by guilt over each and every gaping wound left undressed due to her stubborn cowardice.

When they were finished, she lay with her head on Nate’s shoulder, quietly plucking at the dark hairs dusted across his chest. He traced tender circles over her shoulder before running the tips of his fingers gently through her hair. On normal occasions, they would stay like that until they both drifted off to sleep, lulled by gentle caresses and one another’s heartbeat. However, Liss presently found the quiet unbearable, her own thoughts running circles around her head.

She was grateful when Nate spoke up, the hum of his voice vibrating in his chest. “I’ve missed this.”

“It was certainly a fun way to avoid packing for another hour.” She laughed, but it was short lived, trailing off as Nate’s entire body tensed beneath her. She rose up on her elbow in order to see his face, and she wished she hadn’t.

For a brief flash, she was not looking at the strong, stoic man she had come to know in recent years, but rather the young boy she’d met so long ago, broken, and lonely, and insecure. Then, his mask was back on and he snorted out a laugh. “It was, wasn’t it?”

He slid his arm out from under her, sat up, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, bending down to pick up his clothes from the floor.

“What are you doing,” she asked, trying to hide the panic that seized her.

“Getting dressed,” he explained, tone dry. He slipped on undergarments and pants, fumbling with his shirt before continuing. “What does it look like?”

“I—” She suddenly felt very naked, and not only in a literal sense.

Nate picked her clothes up from the floor as well, and tossed them at her gently, offering her the most pathetic attempt at a reassuring smile she’d ever seen. “You should, too.”

“But—”

“We have many things to tend to if we are to be prepared to head out tomorrow morning,” he explained, interrupting her protest, “I am uncertain about you, but I would prefer to not spend the entire night doing so.”

“Don’t you think we should talk,” she asked weakly.

“Yes,” he admitted, tone softening even as his frown deepened, “I do, but right now I am angry, and I worry that will not be conducive to a proper conversation.”

“Angry… with me,” she asked like a child. Of course he was angry with her. He had every reason to be.

He let out a long breath and shook his head. “No, not at you. Not really.”

“It sure seems that way,” she joked, even through the blur of tears.

“I am angry at our situation, that you won’t talk to me, and that every day that passes since Highever, feels like one day closer to losing you,” he confessed, agitation slipping past the calm he’d managed, “I’m angry that our time together this evening only illuminated how disconnected we are becoming, and that you don’t seem to be taking it seriously. That is all I care to discuss at the moment.”

“Nate.” She leaned forward to touch his arm, but he shifted away and he might as well have pierced her heart with an arrow.

“I love you,” he stated with so much certainty, “But I can’t keep pretending that everything is fine, when it isn’t.”

“I love you, too,” she echoed, watching as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. There were so many other things that she wished she could say to him, but it was not the time, not for either of them, and she could settle for mutual agreement upon the one thing that remained fundamentally true. They loved each other.

“I am glad,” came Nate’s reply, as he pushed up from his seat on the bed and walked over to the wardrobe, beginning to select items to pack.

Rather than hop up to join him, Liss scooted back up against the headboard, propping several pillows behind her back, and reached for the book on the nightstand. If she finished it, then she would only have to bring along the second novel as they made their way to Kirkwall.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age awakening #nathaniel howe #nathaniel howe x coulsand #fanfic #my fic #my writing

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braincoins · 4 years ago

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WIP ...uh... Saturday

Better late than never?

We’re still with Alistair and Anders visiting the Circle Tower. And my ongoing theories about honey-cakes... though this one is really @tybunnythehellmoose ‘s theory. ^_^

Alistair thanked both men and assured them they could find the way out. But, of course, as soon as they were out of earshot of the room and its occupants, Anders was saying, “Let’s sneak down to the kitchens and see if there’s some honey-cakes.”

“There are honey-cakes in the Circle?” He was beginning to wonder how he’d missed this delicious baked good when they seemed to be all over Ferelden.

“We get elves from the alienages, y’know. They brought the recipe with them, and Maker bless them for doing so! If we’re really lucky, there’ll be the mixed berry ones. Ooh, or apple. Honestly, any honey-cakes are good. Also, I like the ones with raisins.”

And Alistair wasn’t going to argue this time. “Okay, just don’t mention it around Kiv.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” He snickered. “Velanna, too, for that matter. They have opinions on honey-cakes.”

“They do. I nearly got kicked out of bed for liking the alienage honey-cakes so much.”

“Pff. Only way she’d kick you out of bed is if it were on fire.”

Alistair smiled. “I suppose so. She is my wife now. Sort of.”

“I know, I was there. You are ridiculously in love.”

“Sorry, do I need to tone it down a bit?”

“Would you if I asked?”

“Probably not.”

“Then no point in asking. And it’s good you two are so happy. Gives the rest of us hope.”

“Do you mean Nathaniel?”

“I mean Nathaniel,” Anders agreed with a definitive nod. “He’s got it bad for Velanna, and aside from some occasional compliments, he doesn’t do anything about it!”

“Were there many… uh… liaisons between humans and elves here?”

“Oh, of course. Being an elf here usually doesn’t mean as much as it does out in the real world. It doesn’t carry the same weight because, well,” he spread the hand not holding his cat out to indicate the tower they were walking through, “we’re all in the same boat. Tower. Tower-Boat.”

“It’s different with a Dalish though. They’re a proud people.”

“They’re a human-hating people,” Anders translated.

Alistair cleared his throat. “That depends on the specific Dalish, uh, person. Kiv never hated us, but she was definitely wary. And I completely understand why. But it was easier for me to build trust with her, because she didn’t have any other Grey Warden to lean on back then, and neither did I. Not after Ostagar.” He frowned but pressed on past the reminder.

“Nate and Velanna have fought together, but they still have had other Wardens around to help them. Velanna’s leaned on Kivral a lot. So it’s different for them. It’ll take more time.”

“You left out the part where Velanna started out reeeaaally hating humans.”

“True.”

“I mean, a lot.”

“Yes, I know.”

“A lot a lot.”

“Got it,” he said shortly. But then a warm, sweet smell wafted to his nose and he shared a glance with Anders.

“We’re in luck!” the mage declared, and all but shoved his way into the kitchens. Alistair chuckled and went in after him.

After some honey-cakes were wheedled for, they enjoyed their snack on the way back across the lake to the inn. Anders pointed out they’d basically had dessert first and settled in for some rabbit stew and fresh bread once they reached The Spoiled Princess. Alistair ate until he thought he’d burst, then they retired to their separate rooms. Kiv had given him money enough for that, and he was glad not to have to share with Anders and Ser Pounce-a-lot.

But it meant sleeping alone again, and he sighed as he settled in. It’s only temporary. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll straighten everything out and we can be on our way again. Though, at best, they’d be on their way to Denerim first, to pick up the phylactery, and then home.

And then, come spring, they’d leave for Soldier’s Peak, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A whole new bed to get used to, for one thing. And the fact that the place was more or less haunted, though at least some of those spirits had to have been put to rest with the closing of that tear in the Veil and the well-deserved death of Avernus.

Still, he was glad to be away from the politics of the arling, and he knew Kivral’d be happier, too. She didn’t like being in charge, but she was good at it, a natural for it, and she was the sort of person to see what needed doing and just… getting it done. And she did what was right, not what was easy.

Stop thinking about her. It’ll only make you miss her more.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, on the feeling of a belly full of warm food, and on the comfort of the bed, even if it wasn’t one he was used to. It took him a bit, but sleep did come.

#WIP Wednesday #on a Saturday #Dragon Age: Schism #lost track of the days this week #they got eaten by Battlebots and cross stitch #finally getting back to the writing here

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lesetoilesfous · 4 years ago

Note

'It's clearly not nothing.' or 'It'll be over soon.' from the angst prompts for Nanders?

Oooooh oh I love an angst prompt, thank you so much!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age ficlet, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Nanders

Characters: Nathaniel Howe, Anders

Tags: awakening-adjacent, PTSD, the Circle was terrible, past abuse, angst, pre-relationship

Rating: Mature

“It’s clearly not nothing.” Nathaniel is trying, hard, to remain calm. He’d been working on it with the warden, who had politely suggested that Oghren might not be the best man from whom to take anger management lessons.

In front of him, Anders leans heavily against the dusty, finely carved wall of what was once a building in the slums of Kal Hirol, and refuses to look at him.

Nathaniel waits a heartbeat. Two. Then, “Anders -”

“Just, give me a minute, alright?” Anders’ jaw is tight when he speaks, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat over his skin. In the watery half-light of the thaig, it’s hard to tell whether it’s any paler than normal. Nathaniel had commented on it once, and been met with a level stare. (Ah, yes, I forgot to mention all the time I spent sunbathing in the windowless tower in which I was raised.)

Pushing away his own unease, Nathaniel glances back over his shoulder in the direction of the warden and what he had no doubt would be the latest addition to their motley crew - a strange, strangely cheerful legionnaire named Sigrun. Around them, the shadows are unnaturally still, trapped by the stone in a permanent tattoo.

The smell of spider-flesh and venom is acrid in the back of Nathaniel’s throat, and dust lies thick on his tongue. He breathes, and tastes the scent of brackish water. Talen meets his eyes, the Dalish tattoos on his face even stranger in this place, where such branding holds such different meaning. Nathaniel shrugs, and the warden’s mouth pulls downward into something of a grimace.

Despite himself, and his certainty that if Talen could forgive an attempt on his life then he could forgive a minor delay, Nathaniel feels his heart beat faster when he turns back to Anders. “The commander is waiting.”

Anders nods, once, and his long fingers curl into a fist at his side for a moment, squeezing tight enough for his knuckles to go white before he stands up straight and gives Nathaniel a blinding smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Anders tosses his head, “Far be it from me to get between you and your authority complex, Nate.”

“My name is -”

Anders pushes past him, waving him off as he does so, “Yes, yes, I know, Ser Howe.” He speeds up a little once he’s gone, step getting noticeably lighter as Talen looks up to grin at him. “Did you miss me, commander?”

Talen grins. “How could I not?”

Nathaniel watches as Talen claps Anders’ shoulder, despite their difference in height, and gives him a quick once over whilst Anders rolls his eyes and flushes faintly pink. Just behind Talen, he meets Sigrun’s eyes where she is watching them, too, mouth pulled down into a slight frown. Then she turns and walks away.

The rest of the day dissolves into skirmishes with darkspawn and the unforgettable obscenity of four adult broodmothers. Anders doesn’t come near Nathaniel, and Nathaniel chooses to believe that it’s only a matter of coincidence.

But when they return to the barracks and Anders sits, somewhat awkwardly, down beside Talen (himself in warm conversation with Velanna) - instead of in the spot he had insistently invaded at Nathaniel’s side ever since they’d been conscripted, Nathaniel decides that something is wrong.

Anders barely touches his food, and excuses himself early with some lie that Talen doesn’t believe - judging by the look in his eyes - though he offers a kind smile to Anders’ blushes as the mage ducks his head and flees the hall. Nathaniel frowns, picking up his tray of food and passing it to the kitchen staff on his way out before following Anders’ likely route into the Vigil.

It’s more habit than anything that lets Nathaniel step into the shadows, and it’s only when they’re approaching Anders’ chambers (another oddity about the man - he’d moved out of the soldiers’ dormitories some days after he’d moved into them, with no explanation from either the mage himself or the Warden Commander. Nathaniel had been working hard not to be jealous of it) that it occurs to Nathaniel he might frighten Anders if he suddenly reveals his pursuit of him outside his bedroom.

Fortunately he is spared the agony of choice when Anders freezes, suddenly, and turns with a sudden charge in the air that prickles over Nathaniel’s skin and lifts the hairs on the back of his neck. Brown eyes wide and almost gold in the light of the torch beside his head, Anders looks down the apparently empty stone corridor. “Who’s there?”

There’s a tightness to his jaw that doesn’t quite hide the way his voice shakes. His free hand curls into a loose fist at his side.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, and steps out of the shadows with his hands raised in surrender. “I mean you no harm, Anders.”

Anders’ narrow chest lifts and falls in one quick breath before he speaks, frowning. “Nate? Do you make a habit of stalking men to their bedchambers?” There’s still something of a shiver in Anders’ voice, and his hand is still curled at his side. Downstairs, the booming bark of the commander’s mabari makes him jump. Nathaniel carefully, deliberately takes a step back, keeping his hands raised in the air.

“No. I was...” Nathaniel pauses, realising abruptly that he isn’t entirely sure himself. He clears his throat, and tries to ignore the heat running up the back of his neck. “I was...worried about you.”

Anders snorts, and Nathaniel’s flush reaches his cheeks. “Yeah, right.” His hand - trembling a little - lifts up to his head and pulls roughly through his hair, tangled and a little dirty from the efforts of the day. He looks away from Nathaniel, through the window beside them and over the courtyard below. The dying daylight casts stark shadows over the sharp line of his jaw. “Look, I’m not in the mood. Maybe some other time, alright?”

It takes Nathaniel a moment to understand the direction in which the conversation has swerved, and when he does his cheeks burn. “I’m not propositioning you. I...is it really so strange that I should be concerned for your wellbeing?”

Anders snorts, and shrugs, stepping backwards and away from him. “Look, Nathaniel, I’m not your redemption quest. I’m not your little charity case. Just drop it.”

“No, I know that, you’re my friend.” It’s only once he’s said it that Nathaniel realises he’s never put it into words before. But he feels the weight of it in his tongue and the rightness of it in his chest, even as Anders freezes, halfway to leaving him. Nathaniel lifts his chin. “You’re my friend, Anders. I’m worried about you.”

Anders bites the inside of his cheek, and glances up at Nathaniel, once, quickly, before looking away. He takes another quick, deep breath. Outside, it begins to gently rain. “Alright. Ah.” He glances down the corridors over Nathaniel’s shoulder - as he always does - as if he expects some monster to appear suddenly from the shadows. “Come in.”

Anders jerks his head at the door to his rooms (they had been a guest chamber, once) and steps hurriedly inside. After a moment, Nathaniel follows him.

He pauses in the doorway, whilst Anders looks quickly around the sparsely populated room and tugs a robe off the back of a threadbare chair. Nathaniel gestures to the door “Open, or?”

“Closed.” Anders says, a little too quickly, and throws him another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Nathaniel takes the opportunity to survey the room - there are books everywhere. He recognises some of them, but not all. Many of them are from the libraries, his father’s and sister’s rooms, even some in the dull blue leather of his mother’s preferred bindings. But there are others he recognises as gifts from the commander - they totter in stacks across the floor and every surface.

A large desk has been pushed into the window , and is scattered with both books and all manner of trinket: jewelery, pebbles, feathers, carvings, even a little bell collar. There’s a comb, a razor and a mirror near the bed, which is neatly made. It is both more and less than Nathaniel had expected.

Politely, he clears his throat, and takes the seat Anders offers him. “This is...nice.”

Anders snorts a laugh. “Yeah okay, not all of us grew up knowing what to do with luxury.” He tugs his ear and glances around the room. “I...like to read.”

“You don’t say.”

Anders laughs again, honestly this time, and Nathaniel watches with a quiet kind of satisfaction when it wrinkles the corners of his eyes as he sits on the chair opposite him. The rain gets heavier, and taps gently on the windows. Nathaniel glances outside at the familiar grey, muddy landscape of his home.

When he turns back to Anders, he catches him watching it too, face washed in the watery light of the early evening. Anders catches Nathaniel watching, and glances down at his hands, where they rest lightly in his lap. “There’s no way I can just, make you forget it ever happened, is there?”

Nathaniel resist the urge to say, with blood magic. Anders did not, in his experience, respond well to the suggestion that he would ever consider such a thing. Instead he meets his eyes and says, honestly, “I’m largely concerned that it might happen again.”

Anders clenches his jaw, and looks down at his hands, tawny eyelashes fluttering like a butterly’s wings. “It probably won’t.” He says the words so softly they’re nearly drowned out by the tapping rain.

Nathaniel doesn’t point out the transparency of that lie. “But if it does.” He sits forward, trying to meet Anders’ eyes. After a moment, Anders glances up at him. Nathaniel offers him a smile. “It might help if I understood why. So that I can help to prevent it from happening again.”

There’s something, then, in Anders’ expression, that looks terribly like hope. He blinks, and it’s gone.

Anders sits up and pulls the tie from his hair, pulling his fingers through it as it falls loose around his face. “I tried to escape from the Circle several times, before I was conscripted. The last time, my punishment was to be kept in solitary confinement for a year.” Anders’ hands tug viciously at the tangles in his hair. Nathaniel doesn’t think before he reaches out to take his elbow. Anders freezes, looking up at him, and Nathaniel gets to his feet.

“Let me get a comb.”

He picks it up, quickly, from the mantelpiece, and tries not to look in the mirror. Nathaniel pauses beside Anders’ chair, and speaks before he can think better of it. “May I?”

Anders looks at him for a moment, brown eyes unreadable. Then he nods.

Gently, Nathaniel begins to comb his hair. He’d done this for Delilah, once upon a time, when she was very small. She’d had a nursemaid to do it. But sometimes, when she had trouble sleeping, she’d come into his room and sit on his bed whilst he combed her hair and listened to her tell him about her nightmares.

Carefully, Nathaniel runs his fingers through the slightly greasy texture of Anders’ dirty hair, carding through the tangles before running the comb lightly through it, again and again. Slowly, Anders’ narrow shoulders fall. Once they do, Nathaniel speaks. “So it reminded you of being there. In confinement?”

Anders lets out a long, shaking breath. “I thought...I thought we were trapped. I can’t go back in the dark again. I can’t -” His voice gets high, and Nathaniel pauses, unsure whether to move or pretend not to notice as Anders’ shoulders start to shake. After a moment, he continues to gently comb his hair. He tells himself he isn’t a coward for it. Outside, it continues to rain.

When Anders’ quiet shaking lessens, Nathaniel asks, carefully. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Anders laughs, and it’s an ugly, angry, grieving thing. “No.”

Slowly, Nathaniel finishes combing Anders’ hair, reluctantly tugging the comb through the last strands. He’s half inclined to start again, when Anders’ hand catches his wrist. Nathaniel looks down, and catches the slight silver of a scar just above Anders’ lip. “What you said earlier,” Anders asks, quietly, “did you mean it?”

“I did.”

Anders’ hand tightens a little around his wrist, and he looks down and away from him. “Would you stay?”

Nathaniel hesitates. “I’m not sure now is -”

Anders lets him go, and smiles at him. “Not to ravish me, Howe.” The smile falls and he bites the inside of his cheek as he looks outside at the darkening night. When he speaks, Nathaniel has to strain to hear him. “I’d just...rather not be alone.”

Nathaniel tries to imagine what it would be like, to sit in the cold and dark, alone, for a year. Then he sets down the comb on the desk, and squeezes Anders’ shoulder.

“Of course.”

#dadwc #nanders #nathaniel howe #anders #da:a #anon #my fic

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degenerate-perturbation · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 3/? Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe Additional Tags: Established Relationship 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 who was shackled next to you? What do you have in common, save for the chains that bound you both?

Yvanne didn’t remember what she had gone to Amaranthine for, afterward. Somebody had needed something from the city market. Anders, maybe? He’d been there. Loriel hadn’t come, due to some pressing meeting or another, but that was fine. When they’d first straightened things out between them, and for months after that, they’d been joined at the hip, awash with new-old feelings, but that had been then. They were hardly a brand-new couple unable to stand a moment apart now . It should have been fine.

She hadn’t been expecting to see a familiar face.

Yvanne caught sight of Wynne too late to avoid her, and too early to just walk past her. Worse, Wynne had spotted her, too, at almost the same moment.

“Amell,” the old woman said by way of greeting. “How nice to see you well.”

If Loriel had been here she would have smiled pleasantly and talked to Wynne about nothing whatsoever, maybe offered to do her a favor, and the conversation would have ended with everyone feeling a little bit better about themselves. And probably later Yvanne would have made some kind of snotty comment and Loriel might have rolled her eyes, or maybe snickered in guilty agreement, or just put an arm around her waist as she grumbled.

But Loriel wasn’t there, and Yvanne had to face Wynne alone.

“Right,” Yvanne said. “How nice.”

During the Blight, she had resented Wynne’s presence with their group. She had tolerated it only because Loriel had insisted they needed every hand they could get, and anyway Yvanne knew her own skills as a healer were nothing compared to a senior mage’s. Probably they still weren’t—Yvanne had spent less time pursuing spirit healing in the past year than she had on playing at being a swordswoman. And she wasn’t much good at that, either.

Wynne had made a brief overture at rekindling that relationship, an overture which Yvanne was quick to crush. Having had it made abundantly clear to her that Yvanne would not be tolerating her input on anything she did, Wynne had refocused to Loriel. Loriel was a much better student, it was true. She had smiled and nodded and agreed entirely with everything Wynne advised, and then ignored all of it to do what she wanted instead.

Yvanne had hated her so much, for so long.

In her teenage memory Wynne was worse than the Templars. She’d collaborated. She’d made excuses and agreed with their hateful lies and tacitly allowed it all to happen. Yvanne had seen her treat people who’d been beaten, people who’d been whipped, who’d been raped. Seen her saying nothing, like it was alright, like it was fine. She’d hated her complicity, hated her kind voice, hated her patience, hated how she’d tried to be Yvanne’s mother when Yvanne had never had one and had never wanted one, anyway.

She hated that in a weak and watery sort of way, she almost could have loved her.

She hated that looking at her now, just a little older, just a little more tired—Yvanne didn’t hate her anymore.

Where had the hatred gone? She searched for the raw and bleeding center of venom and rage, and yes, it was still there, perhaps it would never go away, but for now it was dormant. When had it left her, so bereft and without direction? During the Blight, when she’d first sorted things out with Loriel? No. Not then. Not the night after, either, or the one after that. But somehow, little by little, she had changed.

Now when she looked at the old woman, she felt only a vague and piercing sadness and regret that it hadn’t been different.

Before she could stop herself, Yvanne’s lips were moving. “I—uhm. Would you maybe—would you maybe like to get a drink?” she said, hardly believing the words coming out of her mouth. “And you can tell me how you’ve been. And I know you like wine. And the Crown and Lion is nearby.”

Yvanne at least had the satisfaction of catching the old woman off guard. “Well,” Wynne said, “I must say, I wasn’t expecting that. And truth be told, I don’t have much time…” Yvanne’s heart seized with relief and disappointment, “…but perhaps I can make some, for you.”

Her stomach clenched. “Right. Okay.” She glanced round for Anders but he was nowhere to be found. She’d last seen him speaking with an elven woman she didn’t recognize. This, too, brought relief and disappointment. She’d be doing this by herself. “This way, then.”

The Crown and Lion was just loud and crowded enough to disappear in, but still warm and bright to not cloy. They sat. Wynne took wine. Yvanne took something bright blue and caustic that tasted like fire and ice at the same time. It didn’t do much to calm her nerves, but it did seem to do something.

They talked of nearly nothing at all. Wynne asked after Loriel. Yvanne said she was fine. She told her Anders was a Warden now. Wynne asked how he was, in a tone of faint disapproval. Yvanne said he was fine, too. She mentioned about Oghren also being a Warden now. How nice that was, Wynne said, sounding almost but not quite sincere.

And it was utterly vacuous, and very nearly not so horrible, until Wynne seemed to forget completely who she was speaking to.

“Have you considered at all,” Wynne said, “returning to the Circle?”

At first Yvanne didn’t understand her. Surely nobody could say something so insane on purpose. “What? No. Why in the void would I do that?”

“To help rebuild,” Wynne said. “After what happened, things are—well, not ideal. Every pair of talented hands helps.”

“I’ll kill myself before I ever go back to a Circle,” Yvanne said, and drank the rest of whatever was in her mug.

“I see,” Wynne said crisply. “Well, I suppose not everything can change at once.”

“It won’t change at all,” Yvanne said. “Ever.”

“Of course you think so now, dear. No matter. I’ve said my piece.”

A number of responses sprung to Yvanne’s mind, each more awful than the last. She rose slightly to spit out one or the other, the motion coming as easily as breathing, but at just as soon, they died on her lips. She thought about relating the whole incident to Loriel later, and how disappointed she’d be, how she’d pretend that she wasn’t but still sigh and look away from her.

“Fine,” Yvanne bit out instead. “It doesn’t matter.”

Wynne sensed that the truce was coming to its natural conclusion. “But as I said,” she said, “I don’t have very much time. I am on my way to Cumberland, for the convening of the College of the Magi, and my colleague is missing.”

“Well! That sounds like a whole lot of none of my business,” Yvanne said cheerily, wondering if she ought to order a third one of whatever it was she’d just drunk.

“On the contrary,” said Wynne, “It is very much your business. You are still a mage, and the legal affairs of mages concern you. The Libertarians are voting to break away from the Chantry entirely.”

Yvanne snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet they’ll achieve lots that way. Let’s just vote our troubles away! That’ll work!”

“If the vote goes through, we may have a disaster on our hands.” Wynne looked steadily at her. “You truly care not at all?”

“I truly care not at all.”

“Then what do you care about, I wonder?”

Yvanne wasn’t about to answer that. “I hope the vote does go through and I hope there is a huge disaster,” she said. “And I’m not a mage, I’m the Warden-Lieutenant. This was a bad idea, and I’m done talking to you now. Goodbye.”

She stood up, rattling the chair so hard that it fell to the flagstones with a clatter. She started to stomp away, but not fast enough.

“Hmph. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. At this rate it’s a matter of when disaster strikes, not if.” Wynne said, ostensibly to herself—but just loud enough.

Yvanne turned. “ What did you say?”

Wynne shook her head. “It was clear to me even during the Blight. If, as you say, you are the Warden-Lieutenant, then Warden you must be—but to be a Warden is to put duty above anything else. Loriel understands duty, but you do not. You have changed very little since you were a child. I had hoped she would be good for you, but you remain as selfish and impulsive as ever. I fear very much what your relationship with Loriel will bring to her, to you, and to everyone around you. Your actions will reflect on all mages, mark my words.”

Yvanne burned. “You’re a horrible mean old woman and you don’t have anything to teach me, and you’re wrong about—about all of that! To the void with you!”

She came away blistering, humiliated, feeling stupid for having ever had a single tender feeling towards Wynne, or the Warden recruits, or anyone, or anything.

—

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re back, I wanted to—you’re upset. What’s upsetting you?” Loriel stopped up short, tilting her head.

“I’m not upset. Nothing’s upsetting me. Quit worrying.” Yvanne closed the door behind her, tapping her foot. It had been late when she’d come back to the Keep, and she’d gone to her and Loriel’s chambers, expecting to at least be able to sink into a warm bed, but Loriel hadn’t been there. She’d been in the Warden-Commander’s study, her eyes drooping over a scattered bunch of parchments.

Loriel placed her knuckles on her cheek, blinking slowly.

“Alright,” said Yvanne. “I ran into Wynne.”

“Oh. How is she doing?”

“I don’t know. She’s fine. She’s going to some College of the Magi thing in Cumberland, or something.”

Loriel sat up straighter. “They’re convening? Over what?”

“I think the Libertarians are voting to secede from the Chantry. Something like that. Who cares! That’s not the important part.”

“It’s not? Then what’s the important part?” Loriel furrowed her brows. “I would think that an attempt to leave the Chantry would be extremely important.”

Yvanne didn’t seem to have heard her, pacing feverishly. “She said—well, all sorts of things—and she had this expression on her face, like—sure, other people looked at me like that, but Wynne didn’t used to. I hate her! Maker, even when I make an effort, it never matters.”

“But what did she say?”

When disaster strikes, not if—changed very little—selfish, impulsive—

“I don’t really remember,” Yvanne said. She ran out of steam and collapsed at the desk, burying her head in her hands. “It’s not important.”

“Okay,” Loriel agreed. “It’s not important.”

She felt Loriel’s hands on her weary shoulders. “So what is important?”

“What’s important is,” Yvanne said fiercely, “is that I love you.” She lifted her head to kiss her fully. She stood— selfish— she wrapped her arms around her, and she felt so easy and familiar and perfectly correct— what do you care about, I wonder?— Loriel made a hungry noise in the back of her throat, and she fisted her hands in her hair, hoping somehow to kiss her hard enough to scrub the afternoon's events off her skin.

The door opened. They broke off.

Anders waved. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got something sort of important to tell you about.”

—

The three of them sat in the Warden-Commander’s office, on the floor in a loose circle. The door was locked, barred, spelled shut. Loriel had insisted.

“This could be big,” Yvanne said.

“It could be a big trap,” Loriel said. “Like when we went after Jowan’s phylactery. Remember that?”

“But that ended out alright, didn’t it?”

“All I’m saying is it’s an opportunity,” Anders said.

“Loriel,” Yvanne said, “they might have ours there, too. Anders said they moved the whole cache. If it really is still there…”

“I know. I know, Yvanne.” If she could get Yvanne’s phylactery, her own phylactery, that would be it. The last thread severed. Not total safety, never total, but much closer to it.

She bit her lip. “Maybe…maybe there’s another way. I could write to the Circle, as Warden-Commander. Demand the phylacteries for Warden business. I’m not sure if it’s legal, but it might be. I could look in the codes. Even if it’s not, I have influence…”

“And if they refuse?” Yvanne insisted. “It took the king’s authority to even get Anders recruited. Hell, both his and mine recruitments were carried out over loud objections. They’ll never let you have them.”

“If the Crown supports me, too, then—”

“You know he won’t.”

Loriel fell silent. She did know.

“Look,” said Anders, raising his hands, palms up, “forget I said anything. Don’t worry about it. I’m a big scary mage, you know. Just give me official, Commander-y leave, and I’ll go alone. Anything goes tits-up, it’ll be on me. But if we don’t do it now they might not be there tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not,” Loriel said at once. “I couldn’t possibly allow it.”

“What?” Yvanne said, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but also like it was exactly what she expected. “How can you say that? Loriel, if there’s any chance at all—”

“I mean,” Loriel said wearily, “I couldn’t possibly allow him to go alone.” Not so long ago, she would have said that she was doing this for Yvanne, only for Yvanne, and hang the rest of them. And it would have been true. She wished it still was.

She sighed. “No. We go together.”

"I—really? I mean, great!" A smile cracked across his face, bright and sunny and ridiculous. He swept them both up in a grateful hug, then hastily backing off, still smiling. She told him to come back around midnight, and off he went.

"Thank you," Yvanne told her later, so seriously, so earnestly, as though there were anything to be grateful for. As though Yvanne wouldn’t have gone with her friend, even if Loriel had attempted to forbid it. As though she was doing for just for her in the first place.

—

Her mistake was in not bringing anybody else.

She’d thought about it, very carefully. Oghren almost would have worked, even if that did mean subjecting Loriel to the journey to Amaranthine in the company of Yvanne, Anders, and Oghren all trading jests, trying to out-do each other in overt horribleness. That by itself would have been acceptable, but could the old warrior be trusted to keep quiet about this? She didn’t doubt his loyalty, but supposing he got drunk, and he was always drunk, and let something slip, and something got back to the wrong person, and the whole legitimacy of Loriel’s command fell to shambles as everyone together remembered what she was?

Velanna was a mage herself, and as much at risk as any of them. She couldn’t ask her. Nathaniel Howe, for all his posturing, would follow orders, she was sure of it. But he was a human nobleman, or he had been. He knew the Chant. She had no reason to believe he didn’t believe it was all true, all the parts about magic. What would he think of his Commander, if he found out she was willing to defy the Chantry, to shake off that yoke? No, she couldn’t trust him.

She could have trusted Sigrun—what did casteless dwarves care for surface mores about magic?—but Loriel hated to put the Legionnaire in any danger, when she was so void-bent on throwing herself into it all of the time. Of all the new recruits, she liked her best. Grey Warden duties were one thing, but this desperate attempt on the phylacteries was base fear, pure vanity. She couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t ask a good woman to do this for her. Not even for all three of them.

And so foolishly, they had gone alone.

They’d expected guards. When there weren’t any, Loriel should have known to turn everyone around. But she hadn’t.

Because she’d wanted the damn phylacteries. For herself. For Yvanne, too, and for Anders, but also for herself. It frightened her, how much she wanted it. She shouldn’t have wanted it, not this much.

The door wasn’t even locked. It had been so obvious.

The warehouse was dark inside. Yvanne lit a spirit-light, casting the space in a greenish hue, though it did not quite reach the corners. The wisp hovered in place, keeping near Yvanne like a child to its mother.

Loriel was thrown back to the day after her Harrowing. How afraid she’d been, how horrified. Had she been afraid? She must have been…but when she thought back to that journey, she found that she could hardly remember it. Only a few snatches of speech, a few fragmented images. She had been outside herself, a prisoner within herself watching events unfold against her will.

But she was not a prisoner now. And she was beginning to remember…

Loriel gripped her staff and gestured them forward to the next room, where the phylacteries would be.

But the warehouse was empty. Of course it was.

A heavy door slammed shut behind them.

A mundane orange light joined the ghostly green. There were heavy booted footsteps, the clank of plate armor.

“Stop right there.”

Loriel stopped. She turned. She adopted a pleasant smile.

“Ser Rylock,” she said, not missing a beat. “Should you not return to your post at Kinloch? Surely they will be needing your help with the rebuilding.”

Rylock’s hawkish gaze pierced her, but only for a moment. She looked through her, not at her. Loriel was an afterthought. “Warden-Commander,” she said by way of greeting, and nobody could miss the sardonic note in the way she spoke the title. “How unfortunate it is to see you. There is some unpleasant business my men and I must complete.”

Anders said something flippant, something rude. Loriel ignored it. This would be delicate.

“If this has anything to do with one of my men,” she said evenly, “then I am afraid the position of the Crown is against you. These Wardens are entirely under my jurisdiction.”

“As though your jurisdiction could mean anything,” said Rylock, and she said it not unkindly. She said it as though it was a mere fact of life, that Loriel was perhaps too dim to fully grasp. “In this, Chantry law supersedes that of the Crown.”

Loriel opened her mouth to say something else, but Rylock was through with talking.

Two Templars against three mages. No fair contest at all.

The first Smite was enough. It boiled the lyrium in her veins, set it flaming and freezing at once. Loriel had never experienced it before. She lost awareness of everything but her body, all the magic ripped out of it. If Yvanne screamed, she didn’t hear her. She did not remember falling, but her cheek ground against the dirt floor, her shoulders trembling, no air in her lungs.

And that was it. Total incapacitation. Even if Loriel could have moved or thought fast enough through the haze of breathless pain, she had no mana, and neither did Yvanne, neither did Anders—he was as good as dead, and there was no telling what would happen to Yvanne.

She struggled to cast a spell, any spell, but it was like drawing water from a stone. She was cut off from the Fade.

How easy it was for them, how almost thoughtless. Why even wear armor? Just for show? They didn’t need it. Loriel was the greatest entropy mage Kinloch had seen in generations, the Hero of Ferelden, the Warden-Commander, the Arlessa of Amaranthine, and all of that was so much debris in a ditch. Right now she was an uppity robe who’d gotten above herself, being put back in her place. What did it matter, Commander? What did it matter, Arlessa? She was still just a mage.

One of the Templars stepped closer to her, nudging her with the side of his sabaton. She couldn’t see his face, but he’d drawn his sword. The naked blade was within her reach.

She thought fast, and acted faster. She grasped the blade hard. It bit into her skin—pain shot through her, bright and blooming and wonderfully welcome. They’d cut her from the Fade, but not from herself, not from her own native power.

With a thought, the man’s blood was boiling in his veins. He jerked, his blade cutting deeper into Loriel’s hand—unfortunate, how unfortunate for him, now all three of them were in her control, now all three of them were boiling in their blood.

They did not even scream, for they had not the control over their bodies to produce a scream. They were frozen place, helpless.

She lay in the dirt for a moment, all her concentration bent upon maintaining the spell. She forced herself to sit, then stand.

They stood there, twitching. She could feel them struggling against her, but any move they made would only hurt them worse. If their faces were contorted in pain, it was hidden by their helmets. But they were still alive.

It would need a deeper cut, less clumsy this time. Now, with the Smite beginning to wear off, Loriel’s hands were steady. This time the blood flowed smoothly, drip drip dripping on the dirt. This time she would have power enough.

She extended a hand, and crushed it into a fist. Three hearts collapsed at once, then three metal-shod bodies hit the ground. She felt them die when her control relinquished.

The Wardens, the former wards, were alone in the warehouse.

They were safe.

Loriel turned woozily to her companions. Yvanne seemed to be alright, although for some reason she couldn't quite see her face clearly. She hadn't been thinking of at all of her—or Anders—a moment ago when she'd been helpless on the dirt floor. She made a note to feel guilty about it later, when she didn't feel quite so lightheaded.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she meant to say, but somehow it came out as “M’sor…seethe…”

The world seemed to spin chaotically. Somehow she was on the ground again, but this time someone’s arms were around her. They looked awfully blurry, but Loriel would know Yvanne’s touch anywhere.

“Oh, Maker, you’re so pale…can you hear me? Loriel, love? I don’t have any lyrium on me—fuck, that was so much blood…”

“Here, I’ve got some.” The other voice. A moment later, the cool-water feeling of a healing spell. She shuddered. Pure spirit magic always felt strange to her.

Loriel’s heart still beat against her ribs like a caged bird, but things didn’t seem so blurry now. “I’m alright,” she assured. “We…we’ve got to get out of here. Now.” She tried to struggle up, and couldn’t quite make it. Yvanne lifted her, looping an arm around her waist, her fingers digging into her side. The Smite must have still been affecting her. Normally she was easily strong enough to take Loriel’s entire weight.

“Wait. We can’t leave. What are we going to do with the bodies?” Yvanne said. “Anyone would be able to tell it was blood magic.”

“Leave them to rot and whistle innocently anytime we pass by some guards?” Anders suggested.

Loriel said, “I know a spell…”

“Don’t you dare!” Yvanne said. “You’re already—” But before she could finish Loriel was murmuring an incantation. The bodies disintegrated within seconds, leaving bleached skeletons lost in their armor. Then even the bones turned to dust. Rust ate the armor, and that too collapsed into a reddish dust. An unnatural indoor wind blew, and even the dust scattered. No evidence that anyone had ever lived and died in this room remained. Loriel hadn’t become the best student of entropy magic in a hundred years for nothing.

Anders looked like he might be sick. “Alright,” he said. “ Now let’s get out of here.”

They hobbled out into the cool night air.

Loriel didn’t make it far. She had to call a halt halfway out the city, for which Yvanne seemed grateful.

“So that was a wash,” said Anders.

Yvanne didn’t reply. Loriel was pressed against her chest.

“Got rid of Rylock,” Loriel managed. Not quite a complete sentence yet, but getting closer.

“Hah. That’s definitely true.” Anders was looking at her, his expression carefully guarded. He chuckled. “Well, how about that. Little Loriel Surana, a blood mage? Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the half of it,” Yvanne said with artificial lightness. “You should hear about the old hermit we met in the Brecilian forest. Poet-trees weren’t the half of that place. Ask Oghren, he’ll tell you.”

They chuckled, but weakly, and not for long.

“I’ll, uhm, check the perimeter, in case anyone…just in case. Yeah.” Anders gestured vaguely behind him with his thumb. “Rest up, Commander. I’ll be right back.”

She wanted to speak up and tell him not to go alone, that it could be dangerous, but somehow he seemed to move very fast. Or maybe she was being very slow. She let him go and let her eyes slide closed for a little while, listening to the steady beat of Yvanne’s heart.

“Yvanne, listen…”

“Yeah?” She brushed a sweaty piece of hair away from her forehead.

Loriel swallowed. “It…it was irresponsible of me to refuse to teach you blood magic. What happened at the warehouse—it can’t ever happen again. You should be able to defend yourself against a Templar, even if it means....oh, Maker, I feel so stupid. If you still want to learn, I’ll teach you, right away.”

“You aren’t stupid,” Yvanne said. “We’ll talk about this back at the Keep.”

Anders came back not long after that, suggesting they get out of the city. Loriel staggered up, leaning heavily on Yvanne, but managed to keep her footing. Anders gave her a reassuring grin and a thumbs-up.

It was then that Loriel managed to place that strange expression Anders had been wearing as he’d looked at her in the warehouse. It had been fear. Naked fear.

—

Loriel wrote to the Circle with a request. They responded. Loriel wrote to them again, and to Weisshaupt, and to Denerim, with ever more official-looking seals and signatures at the bottom of the parchment. They responded again. Loriel wrote back a third time, suggesting that she would pay a personal visit back to Kinloch—purely for personal reasons, of course, to see how the rebuilding was going, see some old friendly faces. And also to see if perhaps anybody else would like to be recruited into the Grey Wardens there, as she was after all the Warden-Commander, and retained the Rite of Conscription, and surely there would be many willing recruits among Kinloch’s survivors…

They sent her the phylacteries. Loriel agreeably cancelled her planned visit.

They came in a mahogany box, secured to the fabric padding with twine, lest they break. They were delivered by a Templar that Loriel didn’t recognize, who must have been new. She smiled pleasantly as he completed his delivery. He did not smile back, and forgot to salute her before departing.

She took the mahogany box to her office. Yvanne was already waiting. Anders turned up shortly after. Loriel locked the door, and barred it, and spelled it shut. Then she opened the box, and there they were. Three little glass vials, belonging to the mages of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, neatly labelled for the Commander’s convenience. Loriel took hers out, watching her own blood slosh around inside the crystal. Strange to see it still red and living, nearly fifteen years after they had taken it from her.

Then she handed Yvanne hers, and Anders his. She wondered if maybe she should have made a bigger deal of it. Lit some candles. Arranged for some chanting.

But no. It was just three mostly-grown mages, alone in a quiet room, bizarrely afraid to do something they’d dreamed of doing for years.

“On three, then?” Yvanne finally suggested.

“On three,” Loriel agreed.

They counted together. One. Two. Three.

All three phylacteries smashed on the stone floor. There was hardly any blood at all, between the three of them. I’ll have to clean this up, Loriel thought. The glass was easy, but blood would stain the old stones. But then, she was a blood mage now, wasn’t she? It ought to be easy for her.

Maybe she’d just cover the stain with a new rug.

“That’s that, then,” Anders said with relief. “It’s really over.”

“Yep,” said Yvanne, popping the ‘p.’

“Makes me feel rather silly about the whole bit with the warehouse, really.”

“Don’t,” said Loriel. “The important thing is it’s over.”

They kept staring at the bloodstain. Loriel reached out to take Yvanne’s hand. She grasped back fiercely, and her other hand came up to squeeze Anders’ shoulder. They stayed like that for a while.

Then Anders shook Yvanne off. “Well,” he said, “I’m off towards the rest of my life, I suppose. I’ll see you two at dinner.”

And it was just the two of them.

Yvanne drew Loriel close, but it was not as lovers drew each other close. She drew her close as a child draws her friend close in the dark, when one of them has awoken from a nightmare and is not yet quite convinced it was only a dream.

“That’s it, then,” Yvanne said into her hair.

“That’s it,” Loriel murmured against her collarbone.

They stood like that for a long time, until Yvanne whispered, “What are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to live our lives,” said Loriel, and the future opened wide, yawning and expansive, sure to swallow her whole.

The bloodstain never did come out of the flagstones.

#dragon age #dragon age: awakening #amell #surana #femslash #please pay attention to my wizard lesbian fanfiction

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elusetta · 5 years ago

Text

Dedicated to my loving ex-mother @sharky-broshaw and my beloved musketeers.

Read here on ao3.

My Leliana:

Life at Vigil’s Keep has been demanding, and I am loath to deliver to you the news that I cannot yet return home. There are matters here that still require me. If you could, I would beg you to come here, to cut short our separation, but I will understand if you cannot; this place is dreary as the Fade, and the sun never seems to shine. It is hardly the place for you, my love.

But it is not all bad. The rain is one thing; my companions are another. I am happy to report to you that here, I have found companionship I did not think possible outside of those I had known during the Blight. Sigrun, although distrustful of my actions with the Architect, is the most delightful dwarf I have known since Dagna; I think you would get along with her. Velanna- who I am sure you will remember from the letters I sent you during my time in the Wending Wood- has grown on me, and I believe I have grown on her, even if she would never admit it until the day she dies, shem that I am. Anders is quite like Alistair, full of jokes and lively banter. As for Justice, the spirit who possessed a corpse, I do not quite know what I can say of him- of it?- but, regardless, he is part of us. Oghren, of course, you already know.

And then there is Nathaniel Howe. I will admit that I was not prepared to forgive him for the crimes of his family, but he has made it impossible not to. I have grown exceptionally fond of him, despite the dark circumstances that I met him in, and I certainly hope that I will remain friends with him until the Calling takes us both.

The only thing missing from this keep is you, Leliana, and your absence is dearly felt. I cannot expect you to give up whatever it is you’ve been doing these past months, but if you have the chance and the will- if your Grand Cleric business is entirely completed- come be with me. Schmooples can sleep in our room. (And I’m certain that my companions would adore your stories, if you would tell them.) I hope I do not sound too pathetic, but it is still hard to be without you. I fear I rely on you- you and Alistair- too much for my own good. It is undeniable that I have not been at my best, even with all these people who I care for, and it has been… difficult to sleep.

And in case you forget it while I am away: I love you.

With all my heart,

Iseult Cousland.

The last lines of ink dried on the paper, turning from glossy to matte under the insistent warmth of her firelit bedchamber, just as footsteps faded into Iseult’s awareness. She turned, a smile already encroaching at the edges of her lips.

Nathaniel. A presence she’d once been cold around, but as time had worn on, had become a comfort. His blue eyes took in the room with only an archer’s, a ranger’s, alert interest, before landing on her letter. “Am I intruding, Commander?” Her smile grew. She turned in her chair, the movement so much lighter than what she was used to, her body for once bereft of the silverite armor that weighed down every step. “No, I had just finished. And Nathaniel,” she added, meeting his eyes gently, “we’ve been over this. You can just call me Iseult.”

“If you insist.” He walked closer, his height towering over Iseult- already small, and even smaller seated- and glanced at the letter. “Who are you writing to? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Iseult rolled up the letter, sealing it with wax imprinted by the Cousland heraldry. “My wife.” Wife; the word was still pleasantly unwieldy, perhaps not official but full of everything she couldn’t say.

He smiled, a subtle thing that would have seemed insincere to anyone who did not know him. “Will we ever get to meet that woman, I wonder?” Iseult let out a small laugh. “Oh, I do hope so.” Examining him again, something called to her in his stance, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “Did you come to see me? Or is this a patrol?” He’d taken to pacing the keep; whether from habit or as a way to combat his thoughts, she couldn’t tell. This seemed different, but then again, despite her attempts at understanding him… he was not exactly the easiest person to read.

“I meant to ask you something,” he said almost nervously, sitting down on her bed with eyes that darted everywhere.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, Nathaniel. Anything.”

He let out a sharp breath- of relief? Of preparation?- before opening his mouth and letting out a stream of words much too fast for Iseult to understand.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what was that?” “The elf. I can’t tell if she likes me or not. I want her to like me, I think,” he replied, only slightly slower than before. “How do I make her like me?” Iseult’s eyebrow quirked. “Well…” She trailed off for a second, then stifled a giggle. Of course. All the ‘my lady’, the compliments, the way his eyes followed the woman when he thought no one was looking. She’d been right. “In my experience, you’re usually supposed to tell her that you like her.”

He gave her a look that was something like nerve-wracked exasperation. “But what if she doesn’t like me back?”

Iseult pursed her lips. “Then you give her things until she does.”

“That seems immoral,” he protested.

Iseult shrugged. “Velanna’s prickly. Show her you like her, and- wait.” She suddenly stood up, pacing back and forth in front of him, her hands clasped behind her back. “You did mean you like her in the ‘you want to kiss her’ way, right? Not just as friends?”

He nodded, and Iseult echoed the movement. “I see. Maybe you could tell her that. I think most people like to be kissed, even the prickly ones.”

“But I’m a human. Didn’t you hear her talking to Anders the other day? She said she found most humans physically and morally repulsive.”

“That’s true,” Iseult conceded, “but didn’t you hear her apologize to you?”

He made a noise of consideration. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

“Well, we don’t have to be,” Iseult pointed out. “Just go talk to her.”

“Come on, Iseult,” he sighed. “Was I being too forward? When I called her lovely? You have a wife. You should know this.”

Iseult frowned, slowing to a stop. “Nathaniel, Leliana and I met while attempting to stop an archdemon, and we only became closer because I was forced to kill someone who looked exactly like her while in the Fade. We are hardly an example of a normal couple.” Studying his face, she added, “But I do not think you were being too forward. She told you to stop that time, and you did. I would call you the picture of chivalry, but…”

“But what?” “Well, you did try to kill me once.”

He scoffed and looked away, then sighed. “Thank you. I suppose I should try... something.”

“That is, generally, the better option.”

He got up and left the room, and Iseult followed at his heels, letter in hand.

My Leliana,

Most likely I will not send this letter; it has been only a day since I sent my last one, but I feel compelled to write down the events that have transpired since then, and I am unsure of how else to do it. Perhaps, if you do come to the keep, I can give you them then, as a primer on the dynamics I have discovered.

Did you know that Nathaniel Howe likes Velanna, in a kissing way? He came and asked me about what he should do. I’m very flattered, since I am eight years his junior, that he would seek me out for advice, and seeing as I am at least a little bit sure that she likes him back, I have decided that it is my duty to make lovers out of them. Is this what you mean, when you say you serve the Maker?

(I’m joking, my love; I know it isn’t.)

I will update you as developments continue.

Yours,

Iseult Cousland.

With a small snort of withheld amusement, Iseult put down her quill and stood up, quickly maneuvering to hide it behind her when someone kicked through her door. Immediately, a violent urge surged through her. Darkspawn? Or worse, a betrayal from inside the keep? Her hand flew to the sword leaning against her bed, but when her visitor appeared- a brightly-colored, flushed Velanna- she relaxed. The look in those eyes was panic, yes, but Velanna didn’t panic when faced with a fight.

So Iseult could only conclude that Nathaniel had acted, as she had advised him to.

“Walk with me, shem,” Velanna demanded.

Iseult smiled wryly, slipping the letter into the drawer of her desk. “Okay, my lady.”

Velanna froze, her eyes wide and her cheeks quickly coloring, and she grasped Iseult by the sleeve, dragging her through Vigil’s Keep to the bemused stares of many of the soldiers. “How-did-you-know-that!” she hissed under her breath the moment they were alone.

Iseult blinked at her innocently. “Know what?” “You shem are so infuriating,” Velanna growled. “I need to speak with you.”

Iseult smiled, trying not to look too pleased with herself, and nodded.

Velanna sighed, producing a squealing chicken from Maker knew where. “What is the meaning of this?” Iseult choked on a laugh. “What?”

“Nathaniel gave it to me yesterday, then started saying something about how chickens were sort of like me, and then he got distracted and left.” Velanna searched Iseult’s eyes. “What does it mean? Is this some sort of shemlen custom?”

“Oh no,” Iseult mumbled to herself. “Oh, Nathaniel.”

“What does that mean?” Velanna was practically shouting with frustration, and the chicken squawked, flapping away from her and back to the ground. “What does any of this mean?”

It would probably be easier to take the metaphorical bull by the horns, but thinking of Velanna, and thinking of Nathaniel, Iseult quickly determined that this was a matter best left to them. During the Blight, Alistair had been the only one who knew her feelings about Leliana before Leliana did, and Iseult knew she would have killed him if he’d told. “Maybe you should ask him.”

“You- you can’t just-”

Iseult was gone before Velanna could finish her sentence, and judging by the chicken that ran out, terrified, after her, she could only assume it was for the best.

My Leliana,

It has been almost two weeks since Velanna’s surprise meeting with me, and I still worry about what has happened between her and Nathaniel. They have been especially cold toward each other whenever I have brought them out together. I think that Velanna may have considered his attempt at an advance an insult, and Nathaniel has taken that as a rejection. I am going to have to wait for another opportunity to attempt to put them together, and as it is, my attentions are better focused elsewhere, at least for the moment.

Vigil’s Keep is currently having its first sunny day since I arrived. While not as warm as some places I could mention, it is undeniably pleasant, and I am at last able to write outdoors. I wonder if your suggestion about roses around the Keep would work. We do need some morale to spare. Our soldiers are hard at work repairing the Keep, and we have taken heavy losses; a flower or two might be just the thing to cheer them up.

Yet, even as the sun shines and I spend my days in no danger, extracting help from various nobles and guarding the Keep, I find it bittersweet. The sun reminds me of you.

Suddenly, a voice cut into her concentration, and Iseult dropped the quill, sending splatters of ink across the page. She cursed softly and looked up to see Anders, his ever-faithful Ser Pounce-a-lot draped sleepily over his shoulders. “Commander!”

She set the letter aside and smiled up at him. “Hello, Anders.”

“What are you doing sitting against the wall? Shouldn’t you be out doing Warden-Commander things? Come on, let’s go find the nearest darkspawn and beat them to death with your sword.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, as they always did, and Iseult only gave him a half-smile in response. “You’re awfully quiet today. Something got you down? Is it Nathaniel? I keep telling him, his whole brooding thing is going to put people off.”

“Nothing in particular,” Iseult replied. “Not Nathaniel. Well- not entirely Nathaniel, anyway.”

Anders must have taken the wistful sigh that she released after that in a way she most certainly did not mean him to, because he gasped comically loudly, his hand flying to his mouth fast enough to startle Ser Pounce-a-lot, whose blue eyes flew open. “Warden-Commander, are you in love with him? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s handsome. I know I would go for him, if he weren’t so dark and dismal all the time. But didn’t his family kill yours? That’s a little scandalous, don’t you think? A little bit spicy? Just a tad? Ooh, or maybe the forbidden love drives you to him?” He wiped away a fake tear. “Go to him, Commander. Follow your heart.”

Iseult watched his performance with amusement, and when her silence finally caught up to him, he paused, giving her an opportunity to interject. “Anders, I trust that you know I’m married.”

“You’re what?”

“To a woman,” she finished. “And I do not care for men, not in that way.”

He stared at her, then slowly began to nod. “So what is it, then?”

She shook her head, trying not to let too much melancholy show. “Many things, really. Our soldiers flag, our Keep is still damaged. And, on a more personal note-” she pretended not to notice his eyes lighting up at that- “I miss my wife, and despite my efforts, Nathaniel and Velanna seem destined not to be together.”

“Oh, wait. If you’re married, does that mean we might finally have an explanation for the woman no one’s seen before in the courtyard?” Iseult’s heart leaped into her throat. “I’m afraid I have to leave you, Anders.”

“Oh no! I feel so betrayed,” he called after her as she raced to the middle of the Keep. “Never forget me, Commander! I love you!”

Her heart pounded in her ears as she glanced around the dull stone exterior of the Keep. No red hair; she breathed out.

Then a pair of hands covered her eyes, and she shivered in barely-contained joy, the feeling of those fingers so familiar. “Did you miss me, Issie?” Leliana’s beautiful, beautiful voice murmured into her ear, and Iseult could not reply with any method other than whirling around, cupping Leliana’s face in her hands, and kissing her deeply.

The soldiers around her took notice. Some laughed, others cheered. One particularly unruly recruit yelled “Get it, Commander Cousland!” from the back, but was quickly hushed by her peers.

They separated, and Iseult pulled Leliana into a tight embrace. The recruits collectively aww-ed, but she was only aware of the woman in her arms, the texture of her hair, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body. Iseult exhaled deeply, her breath tangling in her wife’s hair. “Oh, my love, I’m so glad you came.”

“How could I not?” Once again, they drew apart. Many of the personalities around them had lost interest by then, a development that left Iseult some measure of relief. “You were so very convincing in your letter. Can Schmooples really sleep in our room?” “Anything to keep you here,” Iseult replied.

Leliana cocked her head with a devious smile. “Now, I believe you had some companions to introduce me to.”

“Oh, I most certainly do.” Iseult smiled back at her, intertwined their hands, and set off for the keep with a new spirit in her step.

Dear Fergus,

Thank you for your letter, dear brother, and I trust that you are doing well. As for me, well, you know that your baby sister has been up to her eyes in work ever since that fateful day that I became a Grey Warden; that has not changed with the end of the Blight, nor with the defeat of the Mother. I am not sure what I hoped for. Heroism, I suppose, is a lifelong profession.

I must confess, though, that I am happier now than I have been since the night Rendon Howe the night all this began. I am surrounded by friends, Leliana is here with me and seems to be enjoying herself immensely, and the Keep is finally beginning to become itself again. Perhaps even stronger than it was.

I hope that Highever is prospering, and I do hope to return to it as soon as I can. Do not worry; soon enough, I am sure that you will wish me once again out of your hair.

Love,

Iseult Cousland.

With a last swell of effort, she heaved the stone into place. Sigrun glanced at her approvingly. “Hey, nice job, Commander.”

Iseult grinned at her. “Iseult, Sigrun. Just Iseult. And thank you.”

“You know, you should do this more often. We might actually get somewhere.” The dwarf’s tone indicated that she was only half-joking.

“You’re a skilled rogue, Sigrun,” Iseult responded, putting her weight behind another stone. “I will admit that I don’t quite understand why you’ve taken such an interest in restoring these walls.”

“Eh. Brings me back to my roots, I guess,” Sigrun answered with a shrug. “Anyway, get that last thing in and I bet we can call it done for the day.”

In response, Iseult shoved with all her might, feeling several protests from her body but still managing to place the stone. She stepped back and shook out her arms, admiring her handiwork. “I’ll be feeling that for three days.”

“Just three?” Sigrun laughed. “Some of these noodle-arms still haven’t recovered from their first day.” She slapped Iseult’s bicep appreciatively. “Good to know not all humans are just weak sacks of blood.”

“And what would you consider yourself, Sigrun?” Iseult tapped her chin in false thought. “I seem to remember that you were the one who fell down a flight of stairs and got approximately a hundred bruises.”

“Hey, no fair! I died and didn’t complain about it,” Sigrun protested.

“You died metaphorically,” Iseult answered, ruffling Sigrun’s hair. Despite their differences in race, Iseult stood only a few inches taller than Sigrun, a fact neither of them let the other forget- Iseult because she was, at last, taller than one of her friends, and Sigrun because Iseult was the smallest human she had ever met.

Sigrun sniffed the air around Iseult and made a face. “You need a bath.” “So do you,” Iseult replied. “This isn’t exactly a leisure activity.”

A soldier bounded up to them, and Iseult quickly straightened back into her Warden-Commander’s posture. “Commander, there’s been a darkspawn sighting to the northeast. You may have to head out and take care of it.”

Iseult nodded. It was bound to happen eventually; what few darkspawn there had been, the patrols had taken care of, but they were ordinary soldiers, and they had their limits. Perhaps this larger party would point her toward wherever they were coming from, too. “I’ll take Velanna, Nathaniel, and Leliana.”

Sigrun caught her eye. “Aww, you’re leaving me behind?”

Iseult smiled apologetically. “We do need someone to defend the keep.” She whistled sharply, catching the attention of Nathaniel, who she waved down. “Get Velanna! We’re going hunting.”

He immediately gave her a look of excruciating pain, but did not argue.

Smiling to herself, Iseult tracked down Leliana, and by the time the party left, the air was fraught with a certain sort of tension she had never quite experienced before.

The lands around Vigil’s Keep bustled with activity. Merchants towed their wares toward the Keep in a variety of methods; hunting parties pursued herds of animals through the wilder parts. Still, there was very little sign of darkspawn. The party plunged into the forests around it, deeper and deeper, fast approaching the mark on the map.

Examining the map again, she turned her horse to face Nathaniel’s. “Nathaniel, you’re a tracker. Do you see any signs of darkspawn around here?” “None,” he answered. There was a tightness in his face, his knuckles white around the reins of his steed. “It’s quiet.”

Iseult went still. The only sounds around her were Leliana’s humming and the whickers of the horses. The trees seemed to hold their breath around her.

This was all wrong.

“Ambush,” she found herself saying. “There has to be an ambush.”

“You’re right,” Velanna responded. “The forest is never this quiet.”

Iseult urged her horse into moving, but before it could, it dropped to its knees under her with a pained noise.

A massive hurlock raged toward her. Iseult reached for her sword, only to find that it was gone. Nathaniel leaped off of his horse, taking aim and firing at the monster, but his arrow glanced off of its thick armor, and he fell back, taking aim again.

Leliana darted toward Iseult’s fallen horse as Iseult herself stood frozen, preparing for the impact of the hurlock, and sure enough, it slammed into her within seconds. If anything less than her silverite armor had stood between them, it would have caved in her chest. Breathless, she looked up at its towering height, her nerves steeling, and with all the power in her body, she kicked it in the groin.

“Hey, that’s one of my tricks!” Leliana beamed, slipping Iseult’s sword into her hand in an instant before rushing for the hurlock.

Still staggering from her attack, it roared. Vines whipped around it, crushing its throat, and it fell to the ground. Iseult nodded appreciatively in Velanna’s general direction.

More hurlocks and genlocks poured from the trees. “Fall back!” she called to Leliana. “Protect the support!”

They retreated to the aid of Nathaniel and Velanna, themselves overrun with darkspawn, and remained in tight formation. Leliana’s flashing knives, Iseult’s flaming sword, Nathaniel’s flying arrows, Velanna’s booming fire. It was a thrill she could never forget.

Claws assaulted her armor. One particularly hardy set carved two messy lines through the breastplate, and Iseult swore under her breath, thinking of the look Wade would surely give her when he saw it. In retaliation, she sent her sword plunging into the offending darkspawn’s chest, and it crumpled to the ground with a hiss.

The tide began to thin. “Come, my brethren,” growled an impossibly low voice. “Kill them all.”

“Creators, I thought we were done with these!” Velanna said in a strangled voice from the back.

In the darkness of the trees, a glimpse of sharp teeth and black eyes far too intelligent for its kind.

Iseult turned to Leliana as the wave of enemies broke for a moment. “Can you handle this alone?” “What? Why?”

Iseult glanced at (presumably) the leader. “Let me cut off the dragon’s head.”

Leliana smiled wildly. “Go get him, Issie.”

Iseult breathed out, and in a rush not unlike the one she’d taken toward the Archdemon a year ago, her feet pounding on the soft dirt of the forest floor, she aimed herself toward the darkspawn-shaped shadow in the foliage. Everything she had, everything she was poured into her veins, lighting her nerves on fire. “Come here, you wretch!” she shouted. It barely turned toward her, but in the seconds it had taken her to speak, she had already run her sword entirely through its body.

It hissed and crumbled, reducing to nothing. The darkspawn surrounding the other three of her party fell back with confused sounds, and from the rear of the party, Nathaniel and Velanna picked them off one by one.

Iseult breathed in and out, and in again. It was over.

And something was wrong with her chest.

She hadn’t been paying enough attention.

The pain made itself known. She scraped at her breastplate, managing to get it off despite her shaking hands. Blood seeped through the fabric of her tunic, rapidly staining it red, and when Iseult lifted it to examine the wound, it was deeper than she could have expected. Stretching from her right collarbone to her left hip curved three slashes, clawed into her by one demon or another. She honestly could not remember which one it could have been.

Either way, as her hands came away from the wound stained with blood, Iseult’s attention was fixed on them. How long had it been since she’d last bled like this? Her legs weakened, and she sat down, feeling more blood drip from them with every movement.

“Issie? Are you-” Leliana’s eyes caught the gouges, caught Iseult’s bloodstained hands, and immediately, the color drained from her face. “Oh, Maker.”

“Not… that bad,” Iseult said, voice straining. “Just need a… poultice.”

Leliana turned around. “Velanna! She needs healing! Please!” The elf walked over slowly enough that Leliana was nearly crying by the time she finally arrived. Iseult sighed, her breath too shallow. “It’s not that bad.”

Nonetheless, Velanna’s hands glowed green with healing magic, and when the light diffused into Iseult’s body, the bleeding stemmed, and the pain went from a lashing knife to a dull ache. “Don’t die on us now, Commander. We still need you to keep those darkspawn at bay,” the elf offered, her words surly but her voice touched by a hint of worry.

“Yes, I love you too, Velanna,” Iseult responded with as much of a voice as she could muster.

Velanna scoffed and walked away.

As soon as Leliana had checked that the wounds were no longer quite so vicious, she leaned down, kissing Iseult almost ferociously for a lingering moment. The warmth of her, the undeniable softness, grounded Iseult, as it always did. “I am not losing you to something like that,” Leliana whispered when they broke apart.

Iseult laughed weakly. “You won’t.”

Leliana helped her to her feet, and with the strength she had left, Iseult made her way to the other two members of their party, the ruined breastplate dangling by its straps from her hand. It was so inconsequential, the simple ability to have someone to literally lean on, but as Leliana continued to cast gentle, worried looks at her, Iseult could not help but let some of the glowing incandescence in her chest form into a smile.

All this luck… she could hardly comprehend it.

A soft rustle in the trees broke her train of thought, and she glanced around the surroundings just as one last hurlock broke through the greenery, heading straight for her. Before she could even open her mouth to sound a warning, a form separated it from her.

The monster’s claws tore open Nathaniel’s arm. Only a second later, it was dead, strangled by a mass of vines thicker than Iseult had ever seen them. Velanna’s teeth were bared, her hand outstretched, the last vestiges of mana still shimmering around her fingertips.

“Nathaniel!” Iseult immediately cried out. “Are you-”

He nodded as if it were just a scratch, even as the blood poured down his arm. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing,” Velanna snapped. Sweat beaded on her face as she dredged up, somehow, enough power for another healing spell, but nonetheless, the flow of his blood thinned.

“Let’s get back to the keep,” Leliana said, helping Iseult onto her horse before mounting her own. As impersonally as she could, Velanna did the same for Nathaniel, and the half-smile he sent her did not go unnoticed by anyone.

Iseult urged her horse into a run and barely felt the pain in her chest.

Dear Alistair,

I was injured today, and it made me think of you. Oh, that doesn’t sound right. I mean that it made me think of the time we had together, during the Blight. Despite everything, I must admit that I miss it sometimes.

Do you remember all of our escapades? Wynne sitting us down and giving us a long talk about the dangers of a man and a woman making love, only to realize that us sleeping together was sleeping and nothing more? The time you made me hide bugs in Zevran’s shoes, and my confession of it mere minutes after the fact? The adventures with the dog?

You make it easy for me to miss you, my dearest friend. I know that I am partially to blame for that, what with putting you on the throne, but not a day goes by that I do not wish you were still here with me, with no other complications.

If you can, come and visit Vigil’s Keep. It will do you some good, I’m sure, to see the rebuilding of the Grey Wardens. Really, though, I am only being selfish: I long to see you again. Besides, I am sure that there is a diplomatic, kingly reason to visit the Keep. Or there will be, if you look hard enough. There are a few people I think you would like to meet.

With love,

Iseult Cousland.

The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing along the walls. Iseult smiled softly to herself, folding and sealing the letter before placing it carefully on the desk.

“Come to bed,” Leliana coaxed.

Iseult slipped out of her everyday clothes and obliged, curling into Leliana’s side, her head resting on her shoulder. “It has been a surprising day.”

Leliana hummed in agreement, running her fingers through Iseult’s hair. “I worry for you, Issie.”

“Why?” Iseult replied, a bubble of laughter in her voice. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Yes, of course you can. I just…” She trailed off. “I find myself thinking about the future. Our future. I know we’ve discussed it before, but- what about children? And what about after that? What happens if you get injured, and Maker forbid it, what if you die?” The laughter in Iseult’s voice evaporated, replaced with soft sincerity. “Leliana… we aren’t facing a Blight. Whatever tries to kill me now is almost definitely going to be less dangerous.”

“But swords are swords,” Leliana interjected. “I was a bard. I have seen the nobles and warriors alike killed by simply turning their eyes away at the wrong moment.”

That night ran through Iseult’s head for the hundred thousandth time. Her mother, strong and unyielding. Her father, brave and wise. Both of them dead by a sword in the back. A chill ran down her bones, and she let out a defeated breath. “I know, my love.”

“Just be careful, yes?” Leliana’s voice was softer now. “I don’t want to have to say goodbye. Not ever again.”

Ah, yes. The archdemon fight, when no one knew if they would make it out alive. Iseult’s body tensed just thinking of it. If the Maker had mercy, nothing like that battle would happen again.

But this was here; it was over. She let out a breath and allowed herself to relax. “I promise you won’t have to.”

A moment passed in silence. It was a moment poised elegantly between peace and sleep, covered with the gauze of approaching fatigue, yet still entirely lucid.

Then, Leliana let out a giggle. “So, that boy and his elf friend?” Iseult grinned into her wife’s shoulder. “You noticed?” “He rather reminds me of you, with all those stares.”

“I was never that obvious,” Iseult objected. Or at least, she’d thought so.

Leliana’s smile widened. “Oh, please. You and your poor, pathetic puppy eyes. I swear you turned pink every time I so much as spoke to you. You were anything but subtle.”

Iseult blushed, and ignored how it completely proved Leliana’s point. “And how did you pick up all of that?” “It was part of being a bard, remember?” Leliana pressed a kiss to the top of Iseult’s head, leaving a spreading warmth. “Besides… I loved you too.”

Iseult began to drift, but still caught the “and still do” that Leliana added.

She slept with the warmth of arms defending her from the shadows of the past, and she dreamed of a future full of stars and old friends.

Alistair,

I am unsure as to why I am writing this letter at all, because the impetus for my writing it was that I heard you were undertaking a journey here. I will see you soon in person, I am sure, so there is truly no reason for this letter to exist. Still, it calms me to write to you. I can imagine your face, what you would say to me, every time I do.

Leliana likens me to a mabari; she says she can practically see a tail wagging in excitement as I watch for you from the battlements. Nonetheless, I am certain that your journey will take you a while. An insufferably long while, actually. So, in the meantime, I must busy myself with work around the keep, of which there is thankfully more than enough of. Two weeks since my last letter, and every day has been a wait.

Until I see you again,

Iseult Cousland.

The sun shined down upon the keep, catching the silver of Iseult’s armor, stained only slightly with darkspawn blood from the hunting earlier, as she once again stood in front of the ever-challenging Velanna. “All I’m saying is that you two should work something out. If you continue to-”

“Dance around each other,” Leliana interrupted her.

Iseult pushed back a grin. “If you continue to have such heated arguments during our outings, then it does pose a risk of interrupting our dynamic, yes?” “Then perhaps you should not put me in the same company as such an infuriating shem!” Velanna practically bellowed, shooting Leliana, who was still wearing a little teasing smile, with a look that could have cut glass. “If he persists with all of his my lady and his… enraging little compliments I swear on the Creators I’ll-”

“Velanna,” Iseult said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder, “will you at least talk with him? If it truly upsets you so much, I am more than certain that he will back down. He is a good man. He may be just trying to show you respect.”

“It doesn’t upset me! That’s what upsets me about it!” Velanna’s ears immediately turned bright red, and she stormed away without another word.

Leliana tilted her head at Iseult. “That went well, I think.”

“She certainly revealed a few things I think she didn’t mean to,” Iseult agreed.

They nodded at each other. “I say another week,” Iseult added.

“A week? You’re mad. I say it takes them three days.” Leliana’s eyes suddenly drew to the gates. “Oh- Issie! Look who it is!”

Iseult squinted at the gate. A glint of gold, a shimmer of blonde. A thrill immediately pushed itself through her. “Alistair!” As quickly as she could, she began to take off her armor, Leliana’s gaze only growing more amused as her movements became haphazard.

“Do you really have to greet him like that every time you’re apart?” Leliana said, one eyebrow raised.

“Commander, I-” Nathaniel froze upon seeing the scene. “Commander?”

“Yeah, what is she doing?” Anders appeared from behind him.

Leliana smiled enigmatically. “You’ll see.”

“Is he wearing armor?” Iseult asked from the depths of her own.

Leliana took a moment to make it out. “He is. And it’s his fancy King of Ferelden armor, too.”

After one last moment of fumbling with straps and metal, Iseult finally extricated herself from the enormous pile of metal. “Oh, this is going to hurt.”

Three gazes followed her as she took off in a whirlwind sprint across the courtyard: two utterly bewildered, and one extremely amused. “Alistair!” Iseult called to the man across the courtyard.

His head snapped around to see her, and he opened his arms, grinning widely. “Sei!”

With one final sprint and a mighty leap, she jumped into his arms, embracing him tightly. Sure enough, the impact of her body on his massive, superfluous armor- or rather the impact of his armor on her- pushed all of her breath away, and she had to wait a moment to regain it. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! I’ve missed you so much!”

“And I you. Why did I let you talk me into becoming king, again?” He returned the embrace with as much vigor, until suddenly his grip loosened. “Ooh, people are staring. Do you think it’s acceptable for a king to-”

“Alistair Theirin,” Iseult said, only partially joking, “I haven’t seen you for far too long. Let them stare.”

“Oh, all right.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose that getting to hug my best friend after an eternity away from her isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

She laughed, then caught the eye of a nobleman who was somehow horrified, disgusted, and confused at the same time. “Although if you don’t put me down soon, those rumors will start up again.”

“Ugh.” Reluctantly, he placed her back on the ground, and they both assumed their authoritative postures once more; hers of a Warden-Commander, his of a king. “Commander Cousland, I believe you owe me a tour of the keep?”

She bit her cheek to stop herself from beaming. “I believe I do, your majesty.”

“So this is important business, hmm?” Anders asked, arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow significantly above the other. “I’m not complaining, but…”

“Do kings do nothing but sit around and drink?” Velanna snapped.

Iseult raised a finger to hush them. “This is important business. Raising morale.”

Nathaniel laughed from behind a mug of ale, then covered it up with a cough.

Oghren just burped loudly. “You kids don’t know how to have fun.”

“Oh, I think I know something that’ll raise morale.” Alistair, much less imposing without his golden armor, shot Iseult a dangerously playful look. “Want to hear the story of how your Warden-Commander once climbed into a tree and wouldn’t come back down because she had seen a snake? In her full set of armor, by the way. The tree could barely hold her.”

Anders looked at Iseult in disbelief, a slow smile spreading over his face as he took in the fact that she’d turned bright red. “Now this I have to hear.” He sat at the table, chin resting on his fist. “Please, go on.”

“It wasn’t even a snake,” Alistair continued. “It was a rope that her dog had chewed up.”

Velanna scoffed and sat down too, pretending not to be interested. Iseult buried her head in her hands.

“Aww, you were so stupid,” Sigrun cooed, slapping Iseult on the back with surprising force.

Leliana chimed in from the other side of the table. “Ooh, or the time that a nobleman asked you two how long you’d been married.”

Alistair guffawed, ruffling Iseult’s hair. “She had no idea what was going on.” He remembered something else, perking up again. “Or the time Wynne tried to give us the baby-making talk.”

“Or the time she fell asleep standing up in her armor, and no one noticed until she tipped over,” Leliana added.

“Or the time she-”

“Haven’t you damaged my reputation enough by now?” Iseult groaned, half-serious.

Alistair shoved a drink in front of her, stronger-looking than anything she’d seen in weeks. “Here, this should make you feel better. Leliana, do you remember the time you put a fake spider in the corner of her tent, and she broke a sword trying to kill it?” Iseult removed her head from her hands, picked up the drink, and downed it all.

“Woohoo, Commander!” Oghren shouted. “Look at that, she can drink.”

“Speaking of drinking, did she ever tell you about the time she drank too much and cried because, and I quote, ‘snakes don’t have legs’?”

Iseult poured herself another drink and downed that one too. The fuzz of a tipsy stupor began to rapidly descend on her.

“What about the time she sent the mabari to get a stick, and instead, he came back with Sten’s blade?” Leliana giggled.

Nathaniel patted Iseult on the shoulder. “I’m so glad I didn’t kill you, Iseult.”

“If you were really my friend, you would distract them by telling everyone here about your feelings for Velanna,” Iseult responded.

She realized too late that she had said that at full volume. The table fell silent.

“I’m beginning to regret not killing you, Iseult,” Nathaniel said, his jaw tightening.

“Your what?” Velanna squeaked, her voice going suddenly high.

Sigrun began to laugh hysterically, sliding from her chair to underneath the table.

Leliana broke into a broad smile, getting up from her seat to drag both Nathaniel and Velanna out the door. “It sounds like you two have some talking to do.”

The door slammed behind them. For a moment, the room was completely silent. Anders peered through the window. “Give them a minute… and they’re kissing. Well, that was fast.”

Iseult sighed. “He’s never going to forgive me. Now who am I going to ask to be my surrogate?”

“Your what?” Anders yelped.

“What’s a surrogate?” Sigrun mumbled from under the table.

Alistair let out another loud laugh. “That reminds me of the Morrigan incident. Leliana, did I tell you how she-”

Half of Iseult wanted to sink into the ground and never be seen again. The other half of her was too happy, surrounded by friends and firelight, to even consider it.

All this luck…

#writing #my writing #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age origins awakening #fanfiction #leliana #nathaniel howe #velanna #king alistair #nathaniel howe x velanna #leliana x female warden #leliana x warden

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haledamage · 5 years ago

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Pairing: Female Cousland/Nathaniel Howe

Story Summary: Cathain Cousland had been in love with Nathaniel Howe for as long as she can remember. It doesn’t take long after they reunite in Amaranthine to realize she still is.

Chapter Summary: Cait and her companions have their first real run-in with the Architect, and the plot against her comes to a head.

They found a pit full of bodies early the next morning. Humans, armored but weaponless. If they had had any doubt that the Dalish camp had been staged, they didn’t now. One of the bodies, just outside the pit, was still moving. Cait rushed over to him.

He was emaciated, looking more like a corpse than Justice, if only barely. Even if she hadn't recognized the bruise-like blemishes of the darkspawn taint, she would have felt the man in her blood. He didn't have long; even on the small chance that the Joining might save him, he wouldn't survive the trip back to the Vigil. His grip on her hand was crushingly strong even though his eyes couldn't focus on her face. In the halting, meandering manner of those lost to the taint, he confirmed the truth of their assumptions. The darkspawn killed both sides and baited the elven woman into her misdirected vengeance.

His hazy eyes snapped to Cait's, suddenly intense and focused. "The dark ones are curious about you too. They watch you as well as her. Can you feel them?"

"Always," Cait said solemnly. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

"Make… make an end… please," he pleaded, eyes not leaving hers.

"Find peace at the Maker's side, brother." She slid her blade between his ribs, quick, clean, and as painless a death as she could make it.

Her vision blurred, angry, frustrated tears brimming to the surface. She stubbornly refused to let them fall. Nathaniel’s hand fell on her shoulder, but she could barely acknowledge him. She just wanted to be done with this place. Find the Architect, or whoever he had sent to kill all these people, to leave this bloody message, and rip them to pieces. She would leave her rage in their ashes and not a moment sooner.

Later, when she feels more like herself, she’ll remember the pain and rage on Nate’s face, too, and the way he still remembered himself enough to look after her. She’ll be grateful for it, grateful for him, and will show him exactly how much she appreciates him, the best and only way she knows how.

But she couldn’t be that woman right now. The taint burned in her blood as darkspawn approached them, and fury solidified in her heart as something colder, harder. Her blade was already moving for the closest one as her body turned to follow it.

They ran into the Dalish woman twice more. Both times, she was unreceptive to conversation and angier than the last. Cait was getting really tired of fighting trees, especially after one of them gouged a thin, sharp branch through her thigh like a needle. Cleaning the bark out of the wound was even more painful than the injury itself and cost them too much time.

They finally cornered her back in the Dalish camp. She roared at Cait, a wordless, primal sound of frustration and futility. She seemed surprised that she wasn’t cowed by it. "You… you will never take me alive," she hissed.

Cait held her hands up away from her weapons, but she didn't stop walking forward. "I’m not going to kill you. I'm not here to arrest you. I just want to talk."

The Dalish woman laughed, harsh and humorless. "Talk, then."

"The humans didn't kill your people,” Cait said, trying to sound calm and not fooling anyone. “The darkspawn did. They killed the human soldiers and planted their weapons at your clan’s campsite.”

For the first time, the elvish woman’s hostile posture faltered. “What? That’s impossible. The darkspawn are mindless monsters.”

“Not anymore,” Cait shook her head slowly, “not all of them.”

“Then are you telling me the darkspawn took my sister?” She dropped her arms to her sides.

Cait dropped her arms too. “Yes. Most likely.”

“Why? Why would they do this?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

They stared at each other from less than a foot apart, a silent challenge passing between them. Neither of them blinked first, but the Dalish woman did eventually concede enough to say “Let me come with you.”

“Okay.”

“My name is Velanna, if you care for such things.” If she was surprised at how quickly Cait acquiesced, she didn’t show it.

“I’m Cathain. These are my friends,” she gestured at the others, standing far back from the standoff between the two women. She’d let them introduce themselves on their own time. “How well do you know this area? Are there any tunnels the darkspawn might be coming from?”

Velanna thought about it for a moment, before pointing deeper into the forest. “There is an abandoned mine some ways to the north. That would be the most likely place they are hiding.”

“Very well, then. Lead the way.”

The moment they stepped into the mines, Cait knew what was waiting for them there. The bad feeling she’d been carrying since they left the Vigil squirmed in her gut again. There was nothing good in this place.

It was her last thought before unconsciousness took her.

-------

The next thing Cait was aware of, she was strapped to a table. She tested the ropes at her wrists, but they held firm. The tallest darkspawn emissary she’d ever seen stood over her. It wore fine, gold and purple robes that were vastly different from the piecemeal and haphazard armor most darkspawn wore. Its eyes were covered by an intricate golden mask, but Cait could feel it watching her nonetheless.

“So you are the commander of the Grey Wardens,” it said in a hissing, sonorous voice.

Cait snarled at it, a barely human sound. “Where are my friends?”

“They are being tended to,” The Architect said. That’s who it had to be; her blood knew it even if they’d never met before.

“Tended to like I am?” She couldn’t move enough to look around the room, but she didn’t hear any familiar voices. Or any other voices at all, beyond her own and the Architect.

“I apologize for what I must do,” it said, and it almost sounded like it meant it. “I do not wish to be your enemy.”

“I don’t know if your kind have a god,” she snapped, straining at the ropes again, “but I hope you’ve made your peace with him.”

“Charming,” the Architect said, its composure slipping slightly. “Now is not the time for this. Rest.”

Cait didn’t know how long she was on that table. Her consciousness came and went in waves of pain and screaming and the smell of blood and the Architect, always the Architect, watching her, studying her, speaking to her in that slow, calm voice.

She woke up on the cold stone floor. Metal bars filled her vision and the air smelled like blood and hay and dust. Her head spun when she moved it to look around.

“She is awake,” Justice said softly, and Cait was so happy to hear his voice that she could have wept if she had the energy.

“Is everyone okay?” Cait’s voice was a broken rasp, lost to screaming.

“We’re not hurt and we’re all here,” Sigrun said from somewhere to her right.

“I think it kept just kept us here as leverage,” Anders scoffed. “In case you proved uncooperative.”

“I wasn’t conscious enough to be uncooperative,” she said, struggling to sit up. No one reached to help her, but she could feel how much they wanted to. Her whole body felt like it was on fire, pain lancing into her joints and behind her eyes and prickling like needles along her skin. “Maker, everything hurts. Does it look as bad as it feels?”

“You look lovely as ever,” Nathaniel said. She turned her head slowly toward him; his smile when their eyes met was heartbreaking. “Hi, Caitie.”

“Nate.” She reached for him, squeezed his hand as hard as she was able. “You’re a bad liar, love.” He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and she pulled him close. It hurt to touch him but it hurt more not to. “Any plans on how we’re getting out of here? I’m open to suggestions.”

“I have a place you can start,” said an unfamiliar voice, and there was a scramble of motion in their little cell as everyone got to their feet. Cait was the last one standing, Nathaniel and Anders flanking her and keeping her from collapsing. There was an elven woman at the bars, dark-skinned and pale-haired and obviously Velanna’s missing sister. She showed signs of the taint, but her eyes were bright and alert.

Velanna reached her first, reaching through the bars for her sister. “Seranni! Oh creators, what have they done to you?”

Seranni took her sister’s hand and pat it in an affectionate and comforting way. “They haven’t done anything, Velanna. I’m fine. It’s not me he wants.” Her eyes met Cait’s as she finally made it to the bars. “I have to get you out of here. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”

“What does it want with me?” Cait asked, clenching her hands on the bars of their cell to hold herself up without help.

“I don’t know,” said Seranni. “I don’t know anything. I just know you need to hurry.” There was a sound father into the tunnels and she looked over her shoulder, an edge of panic in her eyes.

“Come with us, Seranni! Let me take you home!” Velanna tried to keep a hold on her sister, but Seranni slipped a key into her sister’s hand and then stepped away.

She shook her head sadly at her sister. “You have to go, Velanna. Please.” There was another sound, closer than the last, and then voices. Seranni looked once more at her sister, then at Cait, and then she was gone.

“Seranni, wait!” Velanna called. “I can’t just leave you!”

“We don’t have a choice,” Sigrun said gently. She touched Velanna’s arm and coaxed the elf to turn back to her. “If the darkspawn take Cait back out there, she won’t survive it. We have to get her out. Your sister is alive. We’ll find her again, I promise.”

Something passed between them and then Velanna nodded, defeated, and handed Sigrun the key she’d been given. Sigrun unlocked the door and it opened with a loud creak.

Cait staggered as the bars moved away from her and she had to catch herself from falling. Several hands reached to catch her, but she waved them all away. All of them backed off except Nathaniel, who wrapped an arm stubbornly around her. “I can walk, Nate. I won’t be much good in a fight right now. You’ll need both arms free.”

“No,” he growled. “I am not letting you go. It’s been a week, Caitie. A week in this cage listening to you screaming.” He touched his forehead to hers and released a shaky breath. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I am not. Letting. You. Go.”

She let him help her.

They fought several small groups of darkspawn as they made their way through the mine tunnels, letting the mages take the lead since their combat prowess wasn’t lessened without their gear. The rest of them picked weapons off corpses as they went. They found their own armor again eventually, on ghouls that were wandering the halls. If this whole situation hadn’t been personal for Cait already, having to peel her armor off of a ghoul and the smell of taint and decay clinging to the leather would have made it personal.

When they found the Architect again, Nathaniel’s strong arm was the only thing that kept Cait from throwing herself at it, weapons drawn. It was on a balcony, high above their reach with Seranni and a dwarven woman Cait didn’t recognize; the temptation to climb up there and start stabbing was strong, but she wasn’t. Another opportunity would present itself. As the Architect stared down at her, something mournful on its twisted face, she hoped it saw the threat in her eyes.

It turned to leave, dwarf and elf in tow, and sealed the tunnel behind it. She felt them recede deeper into the earth until they blended in to the hum of the rest of the darkspawn and were gone.

Velanna looked like she wanted to go climbing after them too, Sigrun gently restraining her from doing so. “Why is she with that monster? We must get to her!”

“We will,” Cait said quietly, voice still too broken to speak above a whisper. “We’ll find another way, I promise.”

Velanna nodded at the conviction she heard in her voice. “They say the Wardens can sense darkspawn even deep beneath the ground. Is this true?”

“It is. And that one," Cait tore her eyes away from the buried tunnel entrance to look at the Dalish woman, "will not escape me. Even blind, deaf, and dying, I could hunt him down.”

Velanna lifted her head, something exultant and proud in her eyes. “I would join you in your hunt. Let me join the Grey Wardens.”

“It’s a death sentence," Cait said simply. "Maybe soon, maybe later, we all end up in the same place.”

“I am not afraid of death!" She grabbed Cait by the shoulders, eyes and touch burning in equal measure. "I pledge myself to your service. Let me help you hunt the monster who has stolen my sister from me, and I will follow you.”

Cait offered a hand to Velanna, weak but steady. “Welcome to the Grey Wardens, sister.”

Velanna shook her hand triumphantly. “Ma serannas.”

“My first order as your commander is to find us an exit back to sunlight." Cait dropped her hand and leaned heavily on Nathaniel. "I think I’ve lost a lot of blood and I won’t be able to stand much longer.”

“With pleasure. I’ve had enough of this place.”

-------

Getting back above ground was easy enough, since all their impediments to doing so were gone. They stopped in the first clearing they found so Cait could rest and they could all eat something that hadn't been cooked by darkspawn.

Nathaniel hovered by Cait where she leaned against a tree. He needed to go hunt, but he didn't want to leave her.

"Go, Nate," she rasped. "I'll be right here."

He looked like he had several things he wanted to say, but none of them came out. Instead, he turned to Velanna and told her, "Don't let her leave. The moment you take your eyes off her, she'll be on the road trying to march home on her own."

"I love you too," Cait whispered with an exhausted smile.

Nate froze. It took her a long moment to realize why, and almost as soon as she had he was moving, dropping to his knees in front of her. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her fiercely. "Stay. Here."

After he left, Cait turned to Velanna, who was tending the fire and watching her like a hawk. "Tell me the truth, Velanna," she said, "how bad is it?"

"You look tired, starved, and like you've lost a lot of blood, but there aren't any marks on you from whatever they did," Velanna said, as bluntly as Cait had hoped she would. "I think the rest of them would be coping better if there was." She tilted her head in an almost bird-like motion, studying her. "He almost ripped the bars off our cell trying to get to you. So did the other one, the mage. He shot lightning at the dwarf woman when she brought us food."

Cait huffed a laugh. "I'm sorry I missed that."

"I am surprised that these men that care so much for you would leave you in my care." As if to give an example, Velanna weaved her hand through the air and several wooden spikes, roots or branches Cait couldn't tell, shot up from the ground. She collected them to feed to the fire. "Last you remember, we were barely allies."

"Do you mean me harm, Velanna?" Cait asked plainly.

"No." She kept watching her while coaxing the fire to life, curious and still a bit suspicious. "Do you truly not plan to punish me when we return to your fortress?"

"No." Cait said. She almost left it there, but Velanna deserved an explanation. "Almost two years ago, a man came into my family's home and slaughtered them. The only people that survived were myself and my brother, who was at the time missing in the forest far to the south."

Velanna nodded, a single terse bob of her head. "I see. So you sympathize with my motivations, then. That explains why you didn't kill me before." The fire now crackling happily, Velanna joined Cait by the tree. "What did you do to him, this man who killed your family?"

"I hunted him down and killed him in cold blood." A smile tugged at her lips and she added, "And then I seduced his oldest son."

Velanna laughed delightedly. She had a very pretty laugh. "Would that be your bondmate, then?"

"Yes." Cait liked that word a lot. Bondmate. It felt much less formal than the terms she was more familiar with. "We will get your sister back, Velanna, if I have to storm the Black City itself to do so."

"I believe you," Velanna said, and seemed surprised that she had. "Thank you, Commander."

Cait scoffed. "Call me Cait. Or Cathain is fine. I try not to stand much on formality."

"I see." Another bird-like head tilt. "Very well. Cathain, then."

Cait dozed against the tree as the others returned and food was cooked. Someone was always close, sitting by her side or watching over her; every time she opened her eyes it was someone new. When their meal was ready, she found her plate magically refilling itself whenever she took her eyes off it, but no one would take credit for it. She wanted to scold them for it, but she also didn’t know the last time she’d eaten anything, so she settled for sneaking food back onto other people’s plates when they turned their backs.

She felt a little steadier when she stood up, no dizziness and her balance only a little wobbly. She started to make her way, slowly but without help, back towards the trail.

“We don’t need to hurry, you know,” Anders said, walking beside Nathaniel, who was still glued to her side. “We can camp here, go back to Vigil’s Keep when you’re feeling stronger.”

“I want to go home. I want to sleep in my bed. I won’t let the Architect take that from me.” Cait didn’t know what else the Architect had taken from her - or worse, had added to her - but it would not take the Vigil from her. “So I am going to walk until I either get back to the Vigil or I collapse. You can stay here in you want to.”

He didn’t, of course. He kept doing this very unsubtle thing where he would bump into her as they walked, or touch her arm, and every time she felt the warm rush of healing magic, and every time he said he had no idea what she was talking about. It didn’t do any good; nothing that was wrong with her now was something that he could heal, but he kept trying.

Cait didn’t end up collapsing on the way back to the Vigil, but only because the first time she showed signs of struggling, Justice silently scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way. He said nothing to acknowledge what he was doing and she could do nothing to stop him. He was very strong for a corpse.

Loghain, Leliana, and Varel, all armed and armored, as well as Byron and half a dozen soldiers in Amaranthine colors - including, Cait recognized, Jasper and Avina - were in the courtyard when they walked through the gates. They looked like they were waiting for something.

Judging by the cheers and overlapping voices and general commotion on their approach, they weren’t what the keep had been preparing for.

Justice finally put her down with a little coaxing, and she met her people in the center of the courtyard. They all spoke over each other rapidly.

“What’s going on?” Cait asked, straining to be heard over the din. “You look like you’re prepping for war.”

“Where have you been?” Leliana demanded at the same time. “It’s been a week and a half! We were about to start sending out search parties.”

"There's been a situation that you should be made aware of, Commander," Varel said, soft voice carrying even though he didn't raise it.

“Quiet!” Velanna’s voice carried over the noise. Everyone fell silent, even the sound of Wade’s blacksmith hammer pausing. Once she saw that everyone was looking at her, she nodded to Nathaniel.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, then turned to the rest of them. “What is all this about?”

“We received word from a contact in Amaranthine that Bann Esmerelle was seen with a full escort of guards on the road to the Vigil,” Loghain said tersely. “I doubt she’s coming just to chat, and even if she is, I doubt she’d be willing to sit outside the walls while we waited for you to return.”

“We were waylaid by the Architect,” Nate growled. “It spent the last week with Caitie on an operating table.”

“Are you okay, Caitie?” Leliana asked quietly. She touched Cait’s hair and face gently, and Cait was careful to keep her face blank when that careful touch seared across her skin.

“Nothing a bath, a good meal, and a week or two in bed won’t fix,” Cait said in her broken voice, and she hoped it was the truth. “You think Esmerelle will wait for me?”

“Give it a minute and you can ask her yourself,” Loghain muttered. His sharp eyes saw a lot of the things they weren’t saying. “I don’t suppose you’d listen to reason and go inside while we handle this.”

“I’ve never been reasonable a day in my life,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “I don’t know why you think I’d start now.”

“Will you at least let us do the talking? If she senses any weakness in you, she’ll try to seize on it.” He put a hand on her shoulder and everyone in their little huddle froze at her tiny, pained gasp. “She’ll try to challenge you to a duel. She could probably even beat you as you are right now.”

She did her best to keep her back straight and her head high. “Then it’s a good thing I have so many champions lined up to fight for me.”

With a complete lack of subtlety or finesse, Bann Esmerelle’s entourage clanked and stomped into the courtyard. Cait leaned casually against a wall, in plain sight of the gate, and her people spread out through the space. Nathaniel, Loghain, Leliana, and Varel stayed close, flanking her like an honor guard. It was all delightfully dramatic and she had to fight to keep her face blank.

Esmerelle wore a set of armor that didn’t look made for her, too wide in the shoulders and long in the arms. She approached Cait with unconcealed malice in her eyes, stopping only when Loghain, his armor like a second skin and his eyes much more malicious, stepped to block her path. “I seek an audience with the Warden-Commander,” she said coldly.

“Her Grace was not expecting you,” Nathaniel said in a dangerously formal tone. “She is not speaking with visitors today. Go home, and she will send for you when she has time for trivial matters.”

Esmerelle turned her hateful eyes on him. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Nate’s smile was sharp and bright as a blade. Cait tried not to look too smitten; she could watch him do this all day. “I think you’ll find that you do. You don’t have any power in these walls, Esmerelle.”

“Neither do you,” she snarled. “Her Grace left you with nothing and sits on your throne while you kneel at her feet like a loyal little pup and beg for scraps. Your father would be ashamed.”

Nathaniel actually rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t doubt it. He never wanted me to be Arl. I bet he’s rolling over in his shallow, unmarked grave that I will be.” He crossed his arms, almost casually. “He’d be ashamed of you, too, Esmerelle. You do a very poor job of ensuring the loyalty of your soldiers. If you don’t give your assassins enough incentives, they’re very quick to turn on you.”

“It’s ironic, really,” Zevran said lightly, his blade sliding ever so gently against Esmerelle’s unarmored throat as he stepped into view wearing the same armor and helm as the rest of the bann’s soldiers. “Your Rendon Howe hired me to kill the Warden once, too. It worked out as well for him as it is for you.”

“Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine,” Varel intoned, reading from a piece of paper that he hadn’t had in his hand before, “you are accused of conspiracy against the arling of Amaranthine and treason against its ruler. Before these witnesses, we find you guilty of all charges. The punishment--”

“Kill the Commander!” Esmerelle called out to her guards. “Do with the rest as--” she never got to finish her sentence, collapsing to the ground with a dagger in the back of her neck.

“Oops,” Zevran said with a shrug. “My apologies, my dear. I got tired of waiting.”

“The punishment for treason is death,” Varel finished dryly. “Maker grant you mercy, for you’ll find none here.”

Her soldiers hadn’t fared any better. Esmerelle either thought Cait was stupid and unaware of her conspiracy or had vastly underestimated the skill of the Wardens. She would have needed twice the people to even pose a threat; as it was, they hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Someone please clean up this mess,” Cait rasped, as loud as she was able. “And Varel, please prepare the Joining.”

“As you say, Commander.” Varel looked happy to be moving to more familiar ground, and led Velanna inside the keep. Sigrun followed them, and Velanna visibly relaxed once she saw the Legionnaire with them.

“I’ll stand witness at this one, Cait,” Loghain said. “You should go recover before the next crisis arrives.” Cait opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, “Howe, please see our Commander makes it safely to her room.”

“He is not yours to give orders to,” she hissed. “Neither am I.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his voice. “You look like you’re on death’s door. I know you think you can take on the world, but even you have limits. You need to heal. To rest. Please, Caitie.”

The fight went out of her and so did the last of her energy. Loghain never called her Caitie. It had taken four months to get him to stop calling her Warden. He looked at her the same way as he had after her close call with the archdemon, concern and something fragile and kind in his eyes; it told her more than everyone else’s careful, worried distance exactly how rough she must look. She nodded, too tired for words anymore, and Nathaniel wordlessly picked her up and carried her into the Vigil and straight to their room.

He set her down as soon as the door shut, but she didn't let him go far. She grabbed the collar of his armor to pull him down to her height and kissed him with every bit of passion she could muster, which was a rather pitiful amount after the day--the week--she'd had. He returned the kiss very gently, keeping his hands at his sides so their lips were the only point of contact.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips as he pulled away too soon.

He loomed over her, close but not quite touching. "I have wanted to hear you say that for a long time, but you are shit for timing, Caitie."

She laughed, a wheezy and fractured sound. "I know. I should have told you a lifetime ago. I'm sorry it took so long."

"I love you," Nathaniel said, hands like ghosts, almost but not quite there. "Maker's blood, I wish I could touch you. I don’t want to hurt you."

"Then touch me, Nate." She took his hands and brought them to her sides. "I'm not that fragile. I won't shatter."

He pulled her against him and buried his face in her shoulder. It burned, but she didn't care. She clung tighter, buried her fingers in his long hair and breathed in the familiar scent of him.

"The screaming was horrible," he whispered into her hair, voice fractured and pained, "but the silence was worse. Every time, I was afraid that you'd… that I'd never see you again."

A sound escaped Cait's throat that was dangerously close to a sob and she pushed him back until she could see his face. She found his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "I am right here. We're both here and alive, and we're safe and we're together. Okay? Concentrate on that." She was crying and she hated it, but she couldn't make it stop, and then he was too and they collapsed to the floor by their bedroom door and held each other through it.

Eventually, once they'd collected themselves again, he helped her undress. Then he helped her bathe. The bath had long gone cold by the time they got to it, but it helped to numb and soothe her skin. There was a lot of blood on her, but under it they couldn't find any new scars, any incisions or punctures from needles, not even the burns from the ropes they bound her with. Cait didn't know what was worse: that they'd healed them all to hide what they'd done, or that they used something in the torture they inflicted that didn't leave any visible mark.

The only evidence at all that anything had been done to her were a series of tiny red marks, each smaller than a pin prick but covering most of her body. As if something had been drawn from her or forced into her through her pores. Neither option was a pleasant one. At least it explained why it hurt to be touched, and hopefully meant it was something that would heal with time.

Sleep came in fits and starts. The sheets may as well have been made of broken glass for all the comfort Cait found in them. Twice, she awoke screaming, the Architect’s slow, hissing voice in her ear and intense stabbing pain in her ribs. Several times, Nathaniel woke up, just to make sure she was still there; he didn’t intend to wake her, but his hands on her, gentle as they were, always drew her back to wakefulness. He pressed his face to her chest, listening to her heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, needing that proof that she was still alive and real.

Sometime in the predawn hours, both of them exhausted but neither asleep, Cait pressed herself against Nathaniel and kissed him hungrily. She expected him to refuse her, as tired and broken as they both were, but he needed her too and met her halfway, something vulnerable and fascinated in his eyes as he moved beneath her.

It hurt, but in a good way, in a way that told her she was still alive, a deep and satisfying ache that chased all the other pain away for a while. When they were both sated, it was her cries and not her screams that awaited Nate in his dreams, and instead of the Architect, Cait heard Nathaniel’s deep, warm voice in her ear, and they were finally able to sleep.

-------

The next day dawned bright and clear and troubled. Cait finally climbed out of bed just before noon, found some clothes loose enough that they didn’t rub her skin, and joined her Wardens, plus Varel, Zevran, and Leliana, in the war room.

Velanna was there, looking tired but alive, and Cait could feel her in the chorus in her blood along with the others. She still stayed near Sigrun, an ease in her posture when they were close that Velanna didn’t have around anyone else. Cait wished she knew what had happened in the week she was missing that had brought them together.

When no one seemed willing to start, Cait spoke up, voice cracked but no longer broken. “So do we want to start with the good news?”

"One less piece on the board," Anders said cheerfully, eyes serious and worried and watching Cait closely for any sign of pain.

"It is too bad we didn't get a chance to question Esmerelle," Leliana said, circling the room slowly. "I would have liked to know if she really had been working with the Architect.”

“The timing of her arrival was a little too perfect to have been coincidence,” Loghain said gruffly.

“It would explain why she brought so few soldiers with her,” Sigrun piped up. “If she was expecting all of us to still be locked up.”

“I was only in her employ for a few days, it’s true, but she seemed to me just another power hungry noble with more money than sense,” Zevran mused. “If she was taking orders from darkspawn, she never mentioned it to me.”

“Would she have?” Cait asked coyly. “Just how far into her good graces did you get?”

Zev laughed. “Please! Even I have standards, my dear.”

“At least now we know what the Architect is,” Nathaniel growled. “I think I liked it better when we thought it was a Warden.”

“It’s working with Wardens, though,” Oghren said. “There was a dwarf woman in Warden armor working for it. She never said anything. Heard it call her Utha.”

“And it’s got my sister,” Velanna said sourly.

“How does the Architect convince them to work with it?” Leliana stopped her pacing and leaned against the wall next to Loghain. “Is it brainwashing them? Blackmail? Is it simply very persuasive?”

“It didn’t seem especially persuasive to me,” Cait said. A dozen overly sympathetic pairs of eyes turned her way. She ignored them. “It wasn’t torturing me. At least, that wasn’t the intention. It wasn’t trying to get information from me, or blackmail my friends, or break my spirit so I’d take orders. It was… experimenting on me.”

“What kind of experiments?” Loghain asked in the silence that followed her statement.

“I wasn’t awake for most of it, but I think… I think it’s trying to stop the cycle. Break the darkspawn free from the call of the archdemon.” She met his eyes and held them. “It wants to know how I survived the death of the archdemon.”

“Then it has the wrong target. It’s been after the wrong person this whole damn time.”

“No one really knows what happened up there,” Leliana said gently. She covered Loghain’s hand with hers, and he relaxed just slightly. “It would be easy for one to assume it was Caitie who killed it, if all they have to go on is rumor.”

“How did you both survive the archdemon?” Nathaniel asked into the silence.

Cait kept her eyes locked to Loghain’s. They knew they’d have to talk about it sooner or later, but she didn’t want to mention his part in it if she could help it; he had saved her life with that ritual, the least she could do is spare his dignity. “Blood magic. A ritual Morrigan found in her mother’s grimoire. I don’t know much about it, but we swore to her we’d keep it a secret. I feel like I’ve already said too much.”

“You let the Witch of the Wilds cast blood magic on you and you didn’t ask what it was?” Anders laughed.

“I asked a lot of things. I still don’t understand the answers. I don’t understand magic.” Cait shrugged, then cringed as it made pain ripple across her skin. “But I trust Morrigan. She wouldn’t have deliberately caused me harm. And we’re still here, so whatever she did worked.”

“We are also getting off topic,” Loghain said.

Cait’s nightmares last night had at least served to help her figure out what had been done to her in that mine, had played it out over and over in sound and color. Her voice shook as she spoke of it. “The Architect took a lot of blood. Pulled it out through my skin with magic unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” She paused, took a deep breath. “I’m worried it did something to me. Weaponized the taint, maybe, or accelerated it. Something feels off, and not just because I was tortured.”

“Avernus might be able to tell you something,” Leliana said. She stepped away from Loghain and circled the room to Cait and took her hand. “Once we take care of this, you should go see him. It cannot hurt.”

It could and likely would hurt, but Cait didn’t say that. She was pretty sure Avernus and the Architect had a similar approach to scientific experimentation and she was not eager to be on another operating table. But Leliana was also probably right, so she just nodded.

“If the Architect is after what we think it is, it’s going to know soon that it had the wrong target,” Nate said slowly, eyes distant in thought. “If it doesn’t know already.”

“Then it’ll probably come here once it figures it out,” said Sigrun. “We should prepare for a siege.”

“It will not breach the walls of the Vigil,” Justice said plainly. “It will attempt subterfuge or coercion before risking a frontal assault.”

“It will send my sister to parlay,” Velanna said angrily. “Try to use her to draw me out and use me to draw you out. Like in the forest.”

“Maybe,” Oghren said. “But maybe not. If I wanted to drag an enemy out of hiding, I’d find a weak point. Maybe that’s your sister,” he pointed at Velanna, then at Nathaniel, “but maybe it’s yours. There’s a city full of innocent people less than a day from here and a lot less fortified.”

The whole room fell silent at that, considering the implications.

“Well, shit,” said Anders eventually, breaking the pall over the room.

Cait sighed and leaned heavily on the table for a second, thinking. “Okay. Varel, I need whatever soldiers you’ve got ready to go. Double patrols between here and Amaranthine, scouts, whatever you’ve got.”

“As you say.”

“Loghain, I need you to write to your daughter. See if she’s got soldiers to spare. If they attempt to split our focus between the city and the keep, I need enough people to hold both.” She considered a second, then added, “And see if she can get her husband off his ass to be a Warden again, even if just temporarily. Have her tell him I’m calling in a favor, if he’s pigheaded about it.”

He smiled humorlessly. They both knew exactly how pigheaded Alistair could be. “Yes, Commander.”

“I want to know who this Utha is. If she was a Warden, she’ll be in the archives at Weisshaupt. Someone convince the First Warden to part with them.”

“I can do that,” Anders said gleefully. “I’ve got a few questions for the old bastard anyway.”

“I want to know what the Architect is, too. Nathaniel’s already got some contacts looking, but I need information sooner rather than later. Anything you can find. I want to know what I’m up against.”

“I have some ideas of where we can start looking,” Leliana said.

“And I need healing,” she said last, the words hard to force out over the lump in her throat. “Magic isn’t working. I need something else, and fast. If they march on us tomorrow, Ser Pounce-a-Lot will be better with a blade than I will.”

“I have some suggestions,” Zevran said quietly, something in his voice Cait couldn’t quite place.

“So do I,” Velanna added.

“Is it really that bad?” Sigrun asked. “You look like you’re holding up pretty well to me.”

Cait held up her hand, the one that wasn’t still clasped in Leliana’s. It shook alarmingly. “I am being held together by spite and pride and not much else,” she said honestly. “I could fight better at twelve years old than I could right now.” She sighed again and gripped the edge of the table until her hand stopped shaking. “Dismissed. Move quickly. We’re on borrowed time as it is.”

They filtered out until it was only Cait, Leliana, Loghain, and Nathaniel in the room; it was starting to feel familiar, the four of them gathered like this.

“I did not want to alarm the others, in case I was wrong,” Leliana said slowly, shutting the door to give them some privacy, “but I think I might know what the Architect is.”

“She was up all night pouring over books,” Loghain murmured, watching Leliana as she walked across the room to a side table and started flipping through papers.

“Mmm, and how would you know that,” Cait said slyly.

“How indeed,” he said, but his cheeks were red.

“Oh, hush,” Leliana said playfully, then handed Cait a piece of parchment. “Here.”

She skimmed it quickly. “The Chant of Light? Really?”

Leliana smiled and pointed at a passage about halfway down the page. “Yes, really. Start here. Canticle of Silence.”

Cait read aloud from the page. “The High Priest of Beauty, Architect of the Works of Beauty, designed every work and wonder of the Imperium according to the plans of his god. To him, the Conductor went in secret, armed with the whisper of Silence.” She paused and looked up at Leliana, alarmed, but she just nodded toward the paper for her to keep reading. “But the High Priest of Beauty was sorely troubled, for he served only the Great Plans and would in no wise raise a servant of Silence above himself or his god. And yet, the fire in the Conductor's heart ignited within the Architect a terrible flame. And so he turned all the lesser priests and acolytes from the Temple of Beauty to beseech counsel from his god.”

Cait dropped the paper to the table. She was shaking again, barely able to keep on her feet from the force of it. Awed and terrified, she whispered, “He’s one of the first darkspawn. One of the magisters that corrupted the Golden City. Blight and damnation, I… I can’t fight that.”

Loghain barked a laugh, loud and bitter. “I think I’ll retire once we’re done here, before you attract the attention of something even bigger.”

Nathaniel pulled Cait into a hug and she buried her face against his chest, fighting to keep her breathing steady and even. “We’ll figure it out, Caitie. Everything dies if you stab it enough.”

“Thank you, Leliana,” Cait said, voice muffled in Nate’s shirt. “I’m glad we know what we’re really up against, as terrifying as it is. It makes me even more concerned about what it may have done to me, though.”

“We will figure that out, too,” Leliana said, stroking her back comfortingly. “Together. It is what we do.”

“I know.” This room felt too small, more crowded with four of them than it had been with a dozen. Cait slipped out of Nathaniel’s arms and toward the door. “I need some air.”

#nathaniel howe #cousland/nathaniel howe #dragon age #dragon age awakening #dragon age fic #cait cousland #cait/nate #rhi writes #something might be found #so much stuff happening this time around!#big drama!#also I love cait and velanna #there's a lot of fun parallels with their stories and personalities

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the-jade-goblin · 7 years ago

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Then we find people he doesn’t know - a DA ficlet

Based on this post by @blood-magic featuring my own OCs

The ravens had been sent; across Thedas they were black marks in the sky, silent and foreboding.

Somewhere, in Antiva; a Crow picked up the message. The raven cawed at him like an old friend, and he opened the window to let the raven rest at the table after such a long journey. He recognised the Inquisition’s seal as he broke open the letter.

“News?”

He turned to his wife, recently returned from her own travels. She was braiding their daughter’s hair as she sat obediently at the table, feeding the raven a piece of biscuit. He wordlessly passed the letter to her.

Lori looked at the letter long and hard. She glanced up, at the Warden’s armour hanging on the wall, the armour of the Crows Guildmaster hanging beside it. She locked her jaw in position firmly, a gesture Zevran was intimately familiar with; determination. The same face she’d made before she picked up the sword to slay the Archdemon so many years ago.

“Rin, pack your things sweetie. We’re travelling somewhere.” Lori said.

The young girl sprang up, excitement in her eyes. “Okay mama! Where are we going?”

Lori smiled. “You’ll see. Go and get your things now,”

As Rin ran off to her room, Lori quickly scribbled a return message for the raven to take back. The raven received it gratefully, and flew out the window to make the return journey, to Skyhold. Lori stood at the widow beside Zevran, watching the raven fly off.

“Thedas doesn’t seem to be able to go a decade without some world-threatening event happening, does it?” she commented.

Zevran hummed in agreement. “No mi amor, it would seem not. And into the fire we go once again.”

Lori grinned, and turned back to their armour on the wall. “Well then, let’s get going, shall we? I think the world has missed us, don’t you?”

Zevran chuckled. “Ah my dear Warden, I do believe you are right.”

The Keep was strangely silent in the cold hours of the early morning, most of the inhabitants were still abed, but the Warden-Commander was up, relieving Velanna of her post. Sigrun saw the bird before anyone else; her eyes were often trained towards the sky.

A cry rang out at the sight of the messenger bird, and the Warden-Commander turned. She held up her arm, and let the raven land on it. She and Velanna shared a look, before Faralyn removed the letter from the bird.

Her eyes scanned the contents briefly, before she sighed and rolled her eyes.

“And I just got home.” She muttered. “The world just does love keeping me busy doesn’t it?”

“What is it Commander?” Sigrun asked.

“Wake up Nate Sigrun, and get Oghren. We’ve got some travelling to do.” Lyn replied.

“And just where are we going Commander?” Velanna asked, her eyebrow raised.

“Apparently, to save the world.” Lyn took the Warden’s seal and tied it to the bird’s foot before releasing it back into the sky. “It appears we’re needed.”

Marianne had her eyes trained to notice sudden movements by now; one had to when one lived on the run, even after she’d settled down it remained hard for her instinct to calm down.

Little Bethany noticed the bird too, and she pointed up from where she sat on her mother’s hip. Marianne had to put her down to receive the bird, and grew wary at the Inquisition’s seal. If this ended up being anything like the last time, she’d have to ‘accidentally’ lose the message in a river.

“What is it?” Fenris emerged from the house, still carrying a sleeping Malcolm. The red ribbon he’d once worn around his wrist now served to tie his hair back; it had grown longer in the past few years and Mari certainly didn’t mind the benefits of that.

“Skyhold.” Was all she said to turn Fenris’ face into a scowl.

“Tell them no. You’ve given them enough,”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that this time.” Mari replied, going over the letter again. “This is big Fenris. Really big.”

“How big?”

“Put it this way. We’re gonna have to call in the old gang.” Mari said dryly.

Fenris gave a half-hearted groan that made Mari smile.

“We’ll swing by Kirkwall on our way, yeah? I’m sure Varric won’t be missed too much, and it’ll be good to see Merrill again.”

“You know when I said that you led me to strange places Marianne, it wasn’t a challenge to lead me to more.”

Mari laughed, and accepted the paper and quill Fenris brought out to her. She dashed off a couple of notes to old friends, and gave them to the bird.

“Bethany love, we’re going on a holiday.” She said to her little girl, the spitting image of herself.

“Really? Where?” Bethany cried.

“To where I was born. You’re going to see Fereldan. Go and pack something warm, it’s cold in Fereldan.”

“Okay!” Bethany ran inside in excitement, and Fenris shook his head.

“Here we go again.” He sighed.

“Come now Fenris, did you ever see us settling down completely?” Mari smirked. “We’d get bored.”

Fenris chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

The skies were grey and stormy when Skyhold received its guests. The Inquisitor stood at her war table, glancing around at her advisors when the bird flew in and landed on Leliana’s arm. She nodded.

“They’ve gathered Inquisitor.” She said.

Halani nodded. “Show them in.”

“Maker save us.” Cullen muttered.

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kalgalen · 7 years ago

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Blood On My Name (1/?)

GUESS WHO WROTE A FIC

So I started that thing about two years ago, and i've only finished the first chapter (go me!). I do have big plans for that fic though, so please comment if you like it, it'll encourage me not to sit on my ass for two more years until the next chapter lmao

The first chapter contains mentions of abusive relationship.

(it’s also on ao3 but since tumblr isn’t allowing people to put links in posts anymore it’s all here. you can still come and give me a kudo if you want! my username is kalgalen there as well.)

The icy water felt like a slap on their face, stinging their skin unpleasantly but clearing up their mind from the alcoholic fog it had sunk in the previous night. They breathed in deeply, trying to get their upset stomach to settle. Reluctantly, they raised their eyes from the sink, their hands clutching tightly at the white porcelain to avoid simply falling over and cracking open their skull on the edge of the bathtub. Their gaze drifted up until it met their reflection in the mirror. As usual, it was a surprise to discover their own face - features that should have been familiar, but somehow always looked all wrong and out-of-place.

Hawke lifted a hand to their hair, futilely attempting to comb the messy bangs back in some sort of order. The shade was incorrect, but no matter how many times they tried to dye it, it never was the color Hawke felt it was supposed to be.

It was a very uncomfortable experience to see a stranger blinking back at you every morning.

Hawke grabbed the red toothbrush - unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the blue one next to it, purposefully forgotten by its owner as an absence painful reminder - and squeezed a bit of toothpaste on it before starting to brush their teeth. It would most likely fail at ridding their mouth of the taste of bile and cheap wine, but it was better than to bury themselves back under the covers and ignore the entire world until it stopped hurting.

When they were done, they thoroughly rinsed their mouth and splashed some more water on their face. The small efforts at self-care were comforting and much needed, and Hawke almost felt human again by the end of it. Recovering two small pills from a white and blue box - elfroot-based painkillers, strong enough to deal with the throbbing headache Hawke could feel pounding at the edge of their mind - they exited the bathroom.

Painful headaches often meant accidentally setting things on fire, and that wasn't a thing Hawke was willing to deal with this early in the morning - or, as they discovered when they took a look at the kitchen clock, at half two in the afternoon.

To be fair, they had passed out pretty late the previous night. This shouldn't have been a surprise.

Hawke retrieved a glass from a cupboard, noticing how empty it had started to look. They'd have to do the dishes in the near future. Why didn't they get a dishwasher sooner? It would have spared them countless arguments with their siblings about whose turn it was to do the chores - and it would have cleared some time for their mother to live her life instead of taking care of her three grown-up children.

Hawke set the glass on the table with a bit too much vivacity. There was no use crying over spilled milk. It was too late for regrets.

But even as they kept repeating themselves that what had passed had passed, sitting alone at a kitchen table designed for a much larger number of people, sipping their water to nurse their hangover, Hawke was becoming more and more aware of the silence around them. There was faint sounds of traffic coming from outside, echoes of Kirkwall living and moving around them, but in the Amell estate stillness filled every corner, laying dust and shadows down where laughs used to ring. The emptiness weighted hard on their shoulders, making it difficult for them to breathe. Guilt, loneliness, the indescribable fear of not having anybody to hold, to talk to, to acknowledge their existence - everything was being weaved into a knot Hawke could feel tightening against their throat.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don't think about the time you could have spend with Mother, if you hadn't been so selfish. Don't think about Carver enrolling in the army and leaving for Seheron, because risking his life there was preferable to putting up with your presence here. Don't think about Bethany who chose to accept that scholarship for Ostwick's University, when Kirkwall's offered exactly the same program. Don't think about how disappointed Father would be of his first born for failing at keeping the family together, and instead lamenting about their own fate while nursing a hangover.

Don't think.

Their breathing back under control, Hawke finished their drink in one gulp and got up, setting the glass in the stainless steel sink among the other dirty dishes. They’d have to take care of that later.

***

Merrill always found social conventions baffling. So little of it made sense, and "that's how things are" wasn't a good enough reason for her to follow absurd rules. Why should she leave a beaten animal at the hands of its abusive owner? How could an employer decide that more money for them outweighed a better living situation for the people below them? Why was she allowed to walk on this patch of grass, but not on the one just next to it?

Granted, that specific patch of grass had been situated on the other side of a fairly large wall, which usually meant strangers weren't welcome beyond that point.

Still, Merrill didn't do anything wrong. A garden was made to be visited, not locked behind iron gates and open only to a handful of rich important people. She had climbed the wall separating the backyard of the precinct from the rest of the town and walked the paved alleys drawn according to Orlesian patterns. She had touched the rough barks of the oaks, grazed the soft skin of the birch trees, smelled some of the delicate roses blooming on an ancient stone arch. There hadn't been anyone around at the time, and she had decided that she deserved a short nap near the quiet stream running across the garden. She had settled on the grass, breathing in the fresh smell of clean water and healthy flora, the cacophony of the city reduced to a dull and distant background noise.

This wasn't something she had the occasion to experience often back in the alienage, and she had drifted off pretty quickly - only to be woken up by a loud voice demanding to know what she was doing here, and a large hand descending on her to grab her arm.

She had been brought in Viscount's Keep itself and sat on a chair in front of a stern-looking woman. Merrill could feel her silently judging her too-sharp ears and the shape of her eyes, all the small details that betrayed the non-human blood in her veins. She had affected an innocent expression and batted her eyelashes.

That kind of person was always willing to believe she was too dumb to lie, and she wasn't about to overlook any points in her advantage.

Half an hour later, Merrill had given every first name she could think of but her own, invented a dozen family names from her surrounding, and she was pretty sure the lady behind the desk would have locked her up long ago hadn't she been convinced that Merrill was, in fact, incapable of remembering her own name. Merrill loved it when some people's bias against the elf-blooded population worked in her favor.

"Let me see her! You don't have the right to- Hey! Hands off!"

Merrill looked toward the sound of the commotion, catching sight of light blond hair. It confirmed what the yelling already told her: that Velanna was here, and ready to tear her way through half the precinct to get to Merrill. She smiled and raised her hand.

"I'm here, Vel," Merrill waved as her roommate shoved aside a policeman twice her size.

Velanna all but ran to her, catching her hands as if to make sure she was okay - in fact, Merrill could feel tendrils of magic reaching out to her, assessing her condition.

"Creators, you're okay," Velanna signed in relief, before glaring daggers at Merrill's interrogator: "Why is she being detained?"

"Trespassing," the woman answered. She had gotten even surlier at the sight of Velanna's facial tattoos.

“Oh, lethalin," Velanna sighed. "Again?"

The use of the elven word was mostly destined to keep Merrill's name hidden, but it also made the cop shift uncomfortably on her chair.

"Miss, your friend needs to stop doing that. Viscount's Keep gardens are an inestimable heritage. We can't simply open it to people-"

"People like us?" asked Velanna with a smile that showed all her teeth. "Knife-ears? Vermin? Go ahead, you can say it. It's nothing I haven't heard before."

"I wouldn't..." the woman stammered, looking horrified - and, Merrill noticed, slightly shameful. "I didn't mean to-"

"But you did," Velanna interrupted her, venomous. "You shemlen cops only care about your own, don't you?"

The woman's expression became stormy under the insult, and Merrill nervously pulled her coat tighter around her body. This was going too far. She opened her mouth to intervene, when a new voice rose.

"That's enough."

Velanna kept her eyes fixed on the person she seemed to consider as her new archnemesis while Merrill turned to the speaker. It was another policewoman, her red hair tied back and a disapproving expression on her face. For some reason, her straight posture and the fine line of her mouth looked familiar to Merrill, as if she was an echo of a blurry dream.

“I’ll take care of this,” the familiar woman said, and gestured for Merrill to get up.

Merrill did so, eager to get away from the battle of will occurring between Velanna and her interrogator - she literally could feel sparks crackling in the air. She had to take her friend’s hand to drag her away from the desk and toward the red-haired lady waiting in front of a door.

“Enter,” the woman said with a gesture in direction of the inside of the office. “It won’t take long."

Merrill squeezed Velanna's hand in a way she hoped was reassuring and stepped into the room.

It was small, but the window opened in the opposite wall made it look more spacious. The shelves aligned on the walls, neat and structured, implied that the office's occupant was an adept of order and organization, but the desk in the middle of the room suggested otherwise. Covered in uneven piles of paperwork, there was barely any space to write. A small place was cleared at the foot of the desk lamp for a frame the size of a hand and an empty mug. Merrill could discern a name on a copper plate half-buried under circulation forms: A. VALLEN.

The woman - Vallen, Merrill guessed - closed the door behind them and looked at her.

"I'll be quick. I can arrange for this incident to be forgotten-"

"Why would you do that?" Velanna questioned. She wasn't as aggressive as before, but she was still tense, and had placed herself a bit in front of Merrill. The message was clear: don't try anything funny.

Vallen looked slightly annoyed at the interruption. She barely glanced at Velanna before continuing, talking directly at Merrill:

"As far as I'm concerned, you didn't do anything wrong. You're free to go, on one condition."

Velanna mumbled "here it is". Merrill simply nodded.

"What is it?"

Vallen looked incredibly tired for a couple of second. She sighed.

"Just... Don't get into anymore trouble.”

"That's all?" Merrill exclaimed. She could feel Velanna holding her hand a little tighter, her manner of saying: don't trust her.

The woman shrugged.

"Those gardens have been made to be admired. Keeping people away from them is stupid, but it's the law."

Merrill nodded.

“Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

Vallen offered her a tight smile, as if she wanted to seem friendly without having the slightest idea of how to actually get to that result.

“Good.”

She walked to the door and pushed it open, waving for them to get out. When Merrill walked passed her, she added:

"Next time, don't get caught."

The door closed in their face, and Merrill opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said:

"Well, she didn't exactly say I couldn't come back. Right?"

Velanna rolled her eyes.

***

Aveline exhaled in the relative privacy of her office, leaning against the door she just closed. Fishing her cellphone out of her pocket, she scrolled through her contacts until she found the one she was looking for, and pushed the dial button. While she waited for her interlocutor to answer, she approached the window. It gave directly over the stairs leading to Viscount's Keep and offered her a good view of every person coming and going around it.

Over the phone, a man picked up.

"Yeah?"

He sounded distracted. Aveline didn't bother with pleasantries and got directly to the point.

"I think I found one of the persons you are looking for."

On the other end of the line, she could hear the man brighten up.

"Really? Who, and how? Do I have to bail anybody out of jail?"

Aveline made a face. What kind of person knowingly searched for people for whom being in prison was an expected situation? She replied nonetheless:

"A woman. Small. Dark hair, green eyes. About... twenty years old? Might as well be in her early thirties, though."

This was the thing that confused her the most about elf-blooded people: they didn't seem to age.

"Sounds like Merrill," the man mumbled - more to himself than to Aveline, she suspected.

"She trespassed in the Keep's gardens. That's where we found her," she continued.

The man chuckled.

"Yeah, sounds like Merrill alright. She always loved that place."

"You have weird friends," Aveline remarked. The woman and her tattooed companion had exited the police station and were currently standing in the middle of the stairs. The blonde seemed upset and was making large movements with her arms. The brunette - Merrill - appeared to be trying to calm her down.

"Hey, Red. They are your friends too."

"You convinced me to help you - but I don't know those people. I don't consider them my friends." After a second, she added: "And it's Deputy Chief Vallen for you, serah Tethras."

This brought another laugh from him.

"In another life, you got angry at me for not giving you any nicknames."

"This is not-" She huffed in irritation. "Even if I believed in your reincarnation tale, this is not "another life". As far as I'm concerned, this is the only life I have."

"Oh, Aveline. Ever the skeptical. Good, we need people like that too."

Aveline ignored the provocation.

"What do you even want from her?"

"Same as always. I want to reform the old gang." He sounded almost nostalgic. "Actually, it's a good thing you found Merrill first."

On the outside, Merrill had taken her friend's hand between her own. Apologizing, maybe, for a reckless - if usual - behavior.

"And you're just going to... what, walk up to her and announce that your souls have been acquaintances since the Dragon Age and that it means you have to hang out until you die again? Do you really think she's going to believe you?"

But as soon as the words left her mouth, Aveline reconsidered them. If one person in Kirkwall was disposed to swallow that kind of fiction, it was probably that girl.

Obviously, Tethras knew it too. He emitted a short bark of laughter.

"See, that's the difference between you and Daisy. She's a believer. And she's smart. Perceptive. She'll know. Do you still have the pictures of the others?"

Aveline absently glanced over to her coat, knowing the drawings he had given her were stuffed in one of the pockets.

"Yes."

"Good. Keep me updated."

She produced a noncommittal grunt. She didn't appreciate being given orders by civilians. Tethras visibly took it as a solid "yes".

"Good," he repeated. There was a short pause before he said, almost shyly: "Aveline?"

"What?" she breathed out wearily.

"Thank you."

Then he hung up.

***

The sound of keys outside the apartment made Fenris raise his eyes from his book. He tensed up imperceptibly as the door latch unlocked and instantaneously admonished himself for still having this reaction - you are safe now, and he cannot hurt you.

Some things were hard to remember some days.

Fenris slipped an old receipt between the pages of the book and stood up just as Varania pushed the door open, struggling to bring in three groceries bags. Her cheeks were red and her breath was short, obvious result of having dragged heavy bags up four flight of stairs. She frowned as soon as she saw her brother standing in their kitchen.

"Help me with this, will you?" she groaned, straightening up and putting a hand against her painful back.

He immediately joined her and grabbed two of the bags, hauling them on the kitchen counter with a grunt, and started to sort the items in the cupboards.

“How was your day?” he asked, putting away a couple of cans of beans in the storage cabinet below the microwave.

“Good, good. The usual. A guy brought in a dog with a broken leg, another arrived with a snake that somehow managed to tie itself into a knot. There was that kitten - white, fluffy, pure Orlesian Longhair, a real beauty - who started puking everywhere as soon as the examination started. It took two hours for me to clean everything. Oh, and a woman wanted to know if she’d get a fennec by breeding a fox and a cat? Yeah, I know,” she said, noticing Fenris’ disbelieving expression. “Like, how do you intend on catching a fox, lady?”

“That’s the lesser part of the problem,” Fenris mumbled, storing away the last of the foodstuff and scrunching up the plastic bags to put them away with their collection of other plastic bags stuffed in a bigger plastic bag. Varania just shrugged.

“I’m glad I wasn’t the one who had to explain to her exactly how impossible it was. I wouldn’t have been able to be half as patient as Arianni was. Anyway, how was your day?”

Fenris emitted a non-committal grunt, leaning his back against the counter.

“It was fine,” he answered eventually. “Got some reading done.”

“Did you get out of the apartment at least? Get some fresh air?”

He huffed. Varania sighed.

“You know you should get out more. It’ll do you some good.”

“I already go out! I work!” he protested, annoyed and feeling guilty.

“I meant go out for fun, and you know it. Socialize a little. Make some friends.”

Fenris smiled sweetly at his sister.

“I don’t need any friends. I have you.”

Varania tutted, grinning despite herself.

“You won’t get away with it by acting charming. I know all your tricks, they won’t work on me.”

Fenris laughed.

“Maybe I do need some new friends, some who will fall for my tricks.”

There was a loud thump against the wall of the living room, and Fenris couldn’t help but jump, instantly tense. A series of muffled words came from the neighboring apartment, expletives screamed by a feminine voice the siblings knew too well.

“They’re fighting again,” Varania said, somber.

“You mean, Hadriana is angry and Orana is afraid,” Fenris growled, his heart still beating fast and hard from the scare. Really, he should have been used to it by now; it happened at least twice a week, more if Hadriana was feeling particularly cruel. She would yell at her girlfriend - probably for no particular reason, since Orana seemed to be an adorable person, always polite and agreeable when Fenris bumped into her on the landing, whereas Hadriana was cold and distant. No audible response would come from Orana when those outbursts happened, and Fenris could only imagine her trembling in front of her partner, unable to defend herself.

The whole situation hit too close from home, and he dug his nails into the palm of his hands to avoid doing something he’d regret - although driving his fist into Hadriana’s face seemed like an excellent idea at the present time.

“We can’t do anything,” Varania reminded him softly. “As long as she doesn’t hit Orana, we can’t call the police. They won’t believe us.”

“Why do we have to wait for Orana to get hurt? It didn’t work out that well for me, did it?”

Varania looked uncomfortable and shifted on her feet, avoiding his eyes.

“Look, maybe I could talk to Orana next time I see her. I might be able to convince her to do something. Maybe move away, or something.” She tentatively crossed his gaze. “I’m sorry, I can’t do more.”

He shrugged.

“Okay. I have to go get ready for work now. I’ll be coming back home at 3, so don’t wait up on me.”

He left the kitchen without a look behind him, feeling sick in his stomach.

***

Thrift-shops were the richest places on Thedas.

Not because of the monetary value of what was being sold, obviously - but because of the memories attached to them. Isabela had retrieved a massive amount of souvenirs wandering through piles of discarded belongings, echoes of ageless arguments or fleeting moments of happiness dancing at the tips of her fingers as she ran them through dusty old clothes, half-corroded jewelry and stained records of times long passed.

But Isabela wasn't interested in sweet family memento. What she was looking for was far more tangible - and lucrative.

She was riffling through crackled maps. Among those were some ancient enough to have belonged to her great-grandmother - not that she ever met her: Grandma Iria had died at sea long before Isabela herself was even born. Some were barely readable, the ink rubbed away by the brush of countless hands. Most were only pieces of paper, and Isabela pushed them aside, her brows furrowing as she waited for a sign, a familiar tug on her mind that would tell her there was an interesting secret trapped in one of the scrolls.

After fifteen minutes of fruitless research, Isabela sighed in frustration. Some days were not lucky. She straightened back up, leaving the box of maps, and stretched ostensibly. Her eyes ran distractedly on the shelves around her. Any of the objects exposed here could contain an information that might be worth selling: some long-buried scandal, the location of a forgotten treasure - or even better, of an antique dwarven thaig. Anything she could make a profit of, really. Isabela didn't count being picky among her character flaws.

She was going to inspect a bundle of delicate porcelain figurines when a glint on the far wall caught her eyes. Walking carefully around crates of cracked glasses, she approached the item that had attracted her attention.

It was a sword - or rather, a dagger. It was about as long as her thigh, the blade delicately curved and lines carved in the faded material of the guard. It looked rivaini in origin, and Isabela found it inexplicably familiar. Something in her looked upon that weapon and claimed: mine.

Throwing a glance around to check if anybody was in sight, Isabela got on the tip of her toes to unhook the dagger from the wall. It weighed nicely in her hand, her fingers a perfect match for the grooves in the wood. It was bigger than the knives she was used to, but it seemed like it had been made for her.

She gasped when the flash hit her, etching images into her mind with a stunning clarity.

She could see herself, a indigo kerchief keeping her hair out of her face and long black boots climbing high on her legs. She had the blade strapped in her back, along with its twin. She was walking on a beach, recalling a soft seashore wind caressing her skin. She could hear people talking, but their voices sounded distant, as if coming from behind a wall of water. Three people were with her - friends, her brain supplied. One of them was a woman with a heart-shaped face and huge, luminous eyes, clad in a green tunic and some sort of chainmail suit. She was holding a staff in her right hand and conversing with her companion, a man of small stature wearing a dark armor and bowing slightly under the weight of the monstrous sword sheathed in his back. He looked sour, and Isabela felt mocking words escaping her mouth, once again without being able to understand them. The man's lips twisted in annoyance, but the woman started to laugh. It was only then that Isabela noticed their pointed ears and the markings on their faces.

Elves.

Isabela knew a lot of people who had elven ancestors, but that was the first time she met the Real Deal. Those memories were old.

Suddenly, the elves quieted, and Isabela herself fell silent without knowing why. Then she noticed the last member of their group had stopped in front of them, a fist half-raised to signal them to wait. Isabela couldn't see the face of their leader, only the dusty fur pauldrons on their shoulders and the clawed gauntlets protecting their hands. They were talking, and whatever they said seemed to worry the elves who exchanged a glance and readied their weapon. Isabela felt her body shift into a fighting stance. There was a couple of seconds of anxious waiting.

And the undead started to rise from the ground.

The blade produced a loud clang when it hit the ground, startling Isabela. She breathed in deeply, trying to calm the beating of her heart as her eyes searched for terrifying zombies reaching for her. Of course, there was none.

"Hey! What was that?" the owner of the shop roared from beyond the racks, making chipped teacups and other random trinkets rattle on their shelves.

"Nothing, Xenon! Go back to sleep!" Isabela yelled back.

"Didn't sound to me like nothing! What you break, you pay for, ye pirate!"

"I didn't break anything, you old rag! Maker," she mumbled, leaning down to pick the dagger up. It was - thankfully - intact. She grazed the edge of the blade almost tenderly, fascinated, and whispered to herself: "I didn't break it, but I'll pay for it."

This was far more interesting than the location of any lost treasure.

***

The collar was painfully constricting his throat, making the simple action of breathing an act of rebellion. He tasted blood in his mouth, like copper and iron on his tongue. He wanted to scream, to fight, to break free from the chains and to tear the entire place down. They didn't have the right. They couldn't.

Except they very much could. They had all the power he didn't possess, the power to fill him with emptiness - or to lock him up and throw away the key.

The walls were close, too close. It seemed like he could touch two opposite sides of the room just by laying down, and the top of the room looked low enough to bump his head against, if he ever had the courage to stand up.

He was going to die here.

The realization hit him, and it felt as if the ceiling had cracked and dropped on his shoulders. He was going to die here, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Anger and despair filled his lungs like molten lead. The manacles were burning on his wrists, making something stir in him - something terrible, something that should have stayed asleep and that he couldn't let out again at any cost. Something that demanded

justice.

Anders woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding fast in his chest. He sat up in a jump, mouth gaping and eyes wide, glance shooting from one darkened corner to the next, in search for an eventual threat - but he was alone, save for the little ball of fur nuzzling at his side.

"Hey, Purr," he mumbled, his voice hoarse and his tongue feeling like a piece of old parchment.

Purrcival meowed softly, pushing his nose against the man's hand. Anders obliged him and started petting the cat, distractedly rubbing at his own throat with his free hand. He couldn't remember the details of his dream, but the bits and pieces he did remember - the horror, the helplessness, the all-encompassing rage - made him glad he had woken up when he did; those were memories he wasn't eager to relieve.

Shooing the cat off the bed, Anders pushed away the covers and got on his feet. The sun was shining through the gaps in the blinds, inscribing rays of light on the old wood floor beneath the window. Given the spot on which they fell, it had to be about two in the afternoon - the previous night had been rough. Anders picked up his cellphone from the place he had dropped it beside the bed. He tapped the screen twice and squinted at the time it displayed: 02:43. Lirene wouldn't be needing him before five - for her official business, and for the less official one. In the meantime, he could definitely treat himself with some coffee.

Getting dressed rapidly in dark, nondescript clothes, he grabbed the woolen beanie on the kitchen table, stopped to check if Purr's bowls were still filled enough, and paused in front of the mirror by the door.

Anders ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the black strands. The blonde roots were starting to show. Dying his hair was a poor attempt at camouflage, but every precaution was worth taking.

Pulling the hat over his head and shrugging his coat on, he left.

***

Real Dwarves didn't dream.

Real Dwarves did business, stayed among themselves, hoarded old things. Real Dwarves remembered.

Real Dwarves didn't dream, and so Varric had no idea how to call the remnants of images and feelings that clouded his mind in the mornings.

It certainly couldn't be drunken hallucinations. Those were always nice, at least.

The stories in his head told tales of fighting and blood, of struggle and death. It was wreckage and thunder, treasons and old wars he only knew from what he had read in some dusty records kept in the vaults. But it was also a story of a family lost and found, only to be lost again, and composed of the most eclectic group of people Varric could ever dare to imagine, much less write about.

There was the pirate queen, all sharp smiles and sharper daggers. There was the fierce human warrior, cold-face and warm-heart. There were the two elves, similar only by the shape of their ears and the glint of their eyes. There was the spirit mage, with his shattered soul and gentle hands. And bringing them together, the Champion.

Varric’s idea of the Champion’s appearance was ever-changing. Some nights they would be a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden eyes and a booming laugh. Some other they would become a petite woman, milky skin clashing with raven hair, a whirlwind of blades and fire. Sometimes they would only be a blurry figure clothed in leather and iron, leading their mismatched group of strays into battles they always won, against all odds. Under every appearance, they inspired respect and loyalty. Under every appearance, they were his friend.

At first, Varric had discarded the dreams as a weird fantasy - having such strong bonds with a handful of companions seemed like such an incredible experience, and he hadn’t been able to replicate it with any of the other people he’d met during his life. When he had realized, through extensive researches in his family’s library, that the dreams were strangely close to events that had happened centuries ago, he had started to delve into the secret history of Thedas, the one the Chantry had managed to camouflage under the guise of myths and legends: the magic, the wars between races before humanity had conquered most of the known world, the slow decline of the elves until their blood was so watered down by human blood that their race was all but considered extinct. The dwarves had managed to survive by refusing to blend their genetics in the general mix, allowing them to preserve a large chunk of their culture, but even their heritage was fading as time went by.

The records were also talking about a mysterious figure that had saved Kirkwall countless times - a Champion, defeater of Arishok and slayer of demons. They were never described physically, instead defined by the people accompanying them. It had been quite a shock to see his own name scrawled on the brittle pages of the yellowing volume, as it had been to discover the names of the people he’d been seeing in his dreams: Isabela, Aveline, Fenris, Merrill, and Anders. It had somehow felt right, like relearning the names of his own family after far too long spent apart from them.

Since then, he hadn’t stopped looking for them, knowing that eventually, they’d all end up in Kirkwall again. That was, after all, where they belonged.

Aveline had been easy to track down. Varric was a very loveable person, and after making friends with some off-duty policemen at the Hanged Man, he’d quickly discovered that Deputy Vallen, a severe woman with red hair, was one of the persons he’d been looking for.

The others were proving harder to find. He wasn’t sure they even were in Kirkwall; after all, the world was a big place. He had asked around, giving physical descriptions to acquaintances that were most likely to see a lot of people and getting portraits drawn to allow Aveline to help him.

Despite his best efforts, his research was being unsuccessful, and he had been ready to give up, resolved to not meeting those persons he was linked to through life and death, when Aveline had found Merrill.

Seated at his desk, Varric smiled as he sorted through his papers. Merrill, the sweet elven blood mage. A part of his brain wanted to call her Daisy, and so he did. He was a bit disappointed he hadn’t been the one to discover her, but he was glad she had been found. Aveline had reacted with a lot of suspicion to his story of reincarnation and family bonds so tight they could last through the ages; he was sure Merrill wouldn’t be so hard to convince.

He got up from his chair, slipping his notes on the group in their folder and locking them up into a drawer. His family regarded his research on the subject as the result of his overactive imagination, and even though he didn’t think they’d ever try to interfere with his quest, he didn’t want to take the risk of finding his papers ruined and every clue he’d found so far destroyed.

Varric stretched, releasing the tension coming from several hours of being hunched over a desk. He put away his reading glasses and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

Time for some coffee.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #fic tag

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ma-sulevin · 7 years ago

Text

The Life and Times of Sophie Amell: The Calling

Rating: M

Relationship: Female Amell/Nathaniel Howe (this chapter)

Summary: Sophie Amell was just a very young girl when the entire course of her life changed because she can summon flames at her fingertips. Each time she thinks her life is settling into something resembling normalcy, everything changes once again. She’s conscripted into the Grey Wardens, she’s sent to Amaranthine, or she loses someone she loves.

Usually, she loses the ones she loves every time her life changes.

This is the story of unwilling Warden Sophie Amell, told in four parts: The Tower, The Blight, The Wardens, and The Calling.

NOTE: OKAY. There are TWO instances of miscarriage in this chapter. Nothing graphic and nothing explicit, but they are there. I put both of them between asterisks *** instead of dashes --- so you can skip them as appropriate. Don't make yourself sad.

Part Four. The Calling. (Read on AO3)

[chapter three] [masterpost]

With the darkspawn threat finally, finally gone, Amaranthine can begin to rebuild. Funds are tight in the arling, but Woolsey and Varel make it work with Sophie and Nathaniel’s suggestions.

Nathaniel was raised to be the arl, after all. He knows a few things about keeping Amaranthine running smoothly.

Delilah has her son in the spring, a little boy with blonde hair like his father and Nathaniel’s gray eyes. Nathaniel is afraid to hold him almost, sitting very still and staring down at the infant like he might break. Sophie pretends that she doesn’t see when he has to brush tears from his eyes.

The Vigil recovers slowly. The Wardens that helped it through the months after the Blight slowly return to their own lives, deserting the Order when it becomes clear that their expertise is no longer needed. Velanna returns to the forest to find her family again. Left alone, Sigrun disappears back into the Deep Roads, ready to rejoin the Legion and help lead them to the darkspawn.

It becomes quiet, the days blending together even as the seasons start to change. None of their contacts know where Anders has run off to, and gradually his absence hurts less and less. Sometimes Sophie will want to reach out for him, to tell him something funny, only to remember again that he’s gone.

She still has Ser Pounce, who sleeps curled up against Aoife’s side every night. And she still has Nathaniel, who sleeps curled up against her side every night. He moves into her rooms completely, all pretense of professionalism forgotten in the face of his desire to have her in his arms every night.

He finds that he enjoys the domesticity of their evenings, of being able to eat dinner together and relax in front of a fire without having to worry about darkspawn attacking the Vigil from the Deep Roads underneath or a nearby nesting ground. He likes spending the day in Amaranthine with her visiting his sister, playing with his nephew. He likes seeing Sophie cuddle the baby, so much bigger each time they see him, kissing his chubby cheeks and making silly faces until he laughs.

When Delilah pulls him aside one day before they leave, a secret smile on her face, and presses a little box into his hands with the words, “Mama would want you to have this,” he realizes what he should have months ago.

---

“Happy Satinalia.”

Sophie’s eyes blink open slowly, and she turns toward the sleep-roughened voice by instinct. She reaches out for him with one arm, stretching until he grabs her hand and pulls it to his chest. She grins and moves closer until her head is tucked under his chin, and she immediately begins dropping back to sleep.

“Sophie…” his voice is a little sing-song that he only uses when he’s in a particularly good mood, and it makes her smile even as she groans her irritation with being woken. He chuckles a little. “Did you forget again?”

She had, actually, forgotten, but she just shrugs instead of admitting that to him. There’s no reason for her to remember every little holiday, not with Varel in charge of feast preparations. Nathaniel had woken her last year too, her and Anders together, and given them matching protection runes on long silverite chains. She still wears hers, though there’s no telling what Anders has done with his. She snuggles a little closer to push the memory away.

“If you wake up, I’ll give you your present and then get us breakfast to eat in bed.” His fingers tease up and down her back, then slip under her nightgown to tickle against her bare back. She giggles and shifts in his arms, but doesn’t pull away.

Finally she sighs a little. “I’m awake; I’m awake. Quit that.”

He releases her and rolls to grab something off of his bedside table. She props herself up on one elbow and waits for him, pushing her curls away from her face as she does.

He turns back with something clutched in his hand and takes a deep breath before speaking.

“You know I love you, right?” Sophie narrows her eyes at him, suspicious, but nods. Nathaniel continues, face softening as he speaks, each word deliberately chosen. “I never thought I would find someone I love so much, nevermind under these circumstances.” The thumb of his free hand strokes across her cheek as it floods with heat. “Despite everything we’ve been through, I’ve never been happier, and I don’t want this to end.”

He falls silent and looks down toward his still-clasped hand resting between them. Sophie looks too and sits up all the way when she sees the ring resting in his palm. She leans away from him as he sits up too, hands covering her mouth.

Nathaniel’s face is serious as he reaches out for her left hand. He pulls it to his mouth to press a kiss against her knuckles before he slides the ring on her finger. It’s loose on her little hand--the jeweler in Amaranthine will have to take a look at it--but she snaps her attention back to Nathaniel as he starts to speak again.

“You mean more to me than anything else, and I want to make sure you know I want to be here with you forever. Sophie Amell, will you marry me?” He folds her fingers into a fist to keep the ring from sliding off, and she stares down at it with her lips slightly parted.

Silence stretches between them as Sophie stares down at a ring she never thought she’d have, given to her by a man she never thought she’d meet, and she can’t make her mouth work.

“Sophie?” Nathaniel squeezes her hand, and when she finally looks up at him she sees his eyebrows starting to draw together.

“I, oh, we can’t!” The words fall from her lips before she fully considers them, and Nathaniel’s fingers tighten on hers in his shock. She shakes her head, quickly, curls bouncing. “I--we--no!” She clutches at Nathaniel’s fingers when he starts to pull away, holding him still with eyes growing wild. “No one is going to marry us,” she finally forces out. “I’m a mage. I’m not allowed. ”

Nathaniel’s expression shifts from hurt to a moment of extreme anger to irritated resignation before he reaches up to tangle his fingers in her curls. He pulls her face to his and presses his lips first to her forehead and then to her lips, lingering for a long moment before sighing.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally murmurs, resting his forehead against hers. “I would be your husband regardless of what the Chantry says. I’ve never cared about the Chantry.”

Sophie’s laugh is a little watery, but she nods anyway and pulls away to look back down at the ring. “Okay. Okay. Yes.” She looks up at Nathaniel and pauses as he wipes away the tear that’s escaped. “My husband.”

He chuckles, the sound a low rumble from his chest. “My wife,” he says, and he closes the distance between them again for another kiss.

---

Warden-Commander,

Levi told me of your promotion. Some of my more recent experiments have borne some fruit, but I don’t have enough supplies to continue research at this time. Levi has agreed to make the journey to Amaranthine once more for me.

If you’re able, the library at Weisshaupt Fortress has some tomes that would help me immensely. I’ll provide a list with Levi.

Write quickly. We are all running out of time.

---

Lady Sophie Amell, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander of Ferelden,

The formal announcement will be made soon, but I wanted to let you know that I’m getting married. We finalized the contract this afternoon, and I wanted you to hear it from me.

You remember Rendon Howe? You took over the arling from him after we killed him in Denerim. He arranged for the murder of the Couslands, back before we met in Ostagar, but both of their children survived. Fergus Cousland is now Teyrn of Highever, and his younger sister Ophelia is my betrothed.

That still seems strange to say, but it’s the truth. The country needs a queen and an heir or two, and I am here to serve Ferelden.

I hope you’ve found happiness in Amaranthine.

His Royal Highness, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden

---

“I got a letter from the First Warden,” Sophie says, flopping face down onto the bed next to Nathaniel.

He barely glances up from his book. “Did you?” He turns a page and Sophie glares up at him at the sound, but her expression holds no heat. She curls onto her side and nods, then closes her eyes for a long moment before speaking again.

“They want me in Weisshaupt.”

This does catch Nathaniel’s attention, and he closes the book before turning to look at her fully. She keeps her eyes closed, a frown on her face, and he reaches down to brush a curl away from her forehead. “Why? Just you?”

She shrugs and opens one eye to peer up at him. “Didn’t say. Just we need your assistance . Insufferably vague. Wardens do love their secrets.”

Nathaniel hums in acknowledgment, still looking down at her. “When are you going?”

When he asks. Not if. She sighs and sits up, moving closer to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest. He returns the embrace and strokes at her hair that’s been in need of a trim for months.

“ We can leave as soon as we’re ready,” she says, voice sound simultaneously commanding and a little petulant, and the combination makes Nathaniel grin. “I wasn’t exactly planning on leaving you behind. Varel can take care of everything. He has for years.”

Nathaniel hums again but doesn’t speak, going over the trip in his mind, already starting to puzzle out the specifics to form a plan for traveling to the other side of Thedas. What they’ll need to bring, who should stay behind in case of emergency in the arling, and it’s only after several minutes of silence that he realizes Sophie’s fallen asleep in his arms, completely unconcerned.

She’s traveled across Ferelden before, after all. The last time on foot, in the middle of winter with almost no experience defending herself. Traveling to Weisshaupt with him must seem easy in comparison.

***

A few days before they’re scheduled to board a ship from Amaranthine to Cumberland, where they’ll take the Imperial Highway as far as they can into the Anderfels, Nathaniel finds Sophie softly crying in their room, perched on the edge of their bed with her head in her hands.

He freezes at the door for a moment, hand still on the knob as though he’s not sure he should interrupt, but quickly shakes the thought off and moves to kneel in front of her. He puts his hands on her thighs and rubs soothing circles, squeezing at the firm muscle to pull her attention to him.

She wipes her face as soon as she realizes he’s there, cheeks turning pink under the freckles he loves so much, and her jaw works as she searches for something to say to pretend that she hadn’t just been crying all alone. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to speak before giving up to sigh instead.

Nathaniel has to speak first. “What happened?”

Her blush deepens a little and she shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Nathaniel raises his eyebrows slowly so she’ll know he doesn’t believe her, and after a moment she tries again, speaking more slowly this time as though she’d weighing each word before it passes her lips. “I started my cycle today. A few minutes ago.”

“Oh,” is Nathaniel’s reply, and he wrinkles his forehead as he tries to parse what about this event would cause her tears. She’s biting at her lower lip and her eyes keep darting away from his like she’s embarrassed, but they’ve been together for four years. This shouldn’t embarrass her. “Are you… in pain?”

She shakes her head once, quickly, and squirms out of his grasp. He lets her stand, but follows her, grabbing her hand before she can leave. She makes a little whine of annoyance, but lets him hold her in place. “It was supposed to come a few weeks ago, so I thought… it doesn’t matter.”

Now she won’t look at him, so she doesn’t see the pained look that flickers across Nathaniel’s face, the way his lips turn down at the corners and his forehead creases. “I didn’t know you wanted…” after her tears, he can’t bring himself to say the word.

She still doesn’t look at him.

“I didn’t either. Before…” she sighs a little and tugs at his grip, but he tightens his fingers and holds her still. “It doesn’t matter. Grey Wardens can’t… it doesn’t matter.”

When she tries to pull away again, he lets her, and stands with hands fisted at his sides as she disappears down the hallway.

***

Sophie’s never been on a ship before, and the journey down the Waking Sea to Cumberland leaves her lying very still in their cabin, praying for a swift death, while Nathaniel spends his time walking the deck, making friends with the sailors, and generally having a much better time than she is. At night, he joins her, and gently plays with her hair, trying to chase away her seasickness and lingering sadness.

It works as well as it can, and by the time they reach land again, she’s smiling and laughing as easily as she had before.

Their journey through Nevarra and along the border of Tevinter on the Imperial Highway is easier than either of them expected, though it still takes weeks. Nathaniel enjoys this time they have together, just the two of them, without the added pressure of the arling or the Wardens. They never took a honeymoon after their impromptu wedding, and this is likely as close as they’ll ever get.

Sophie writes to the arling occasionally, just checking in and letting Varel know that they’re both still alive and well. She posts the letters and the inns where they stay in the larger cities, generally choosing to camp along the highway if they don’t have anywhere to rent a room.

“It’s like we’re fighting the Blight all over again,” she says, and the soft way she smiles at him makes him think that’s a good thing. When she cuddles close to him in their shared bedroll and lets her hand slip below the waist of his sleeping pants, he knows that’s a good thing.

---

Weisshaupt is… it’s not what Sophie was picturing. It’s large, and it’s cold, and there are hardly any Wardens there. One comes out to greet them with a bright smile and wide eyes, and excitedly shakes Sophie’s hand, and doesn’t stop talking about how long she’s been waiting for this day.

Sophie thinks it’s adorable. Nathaniel is less pleased, but he manages to keep his irritation to himself until the young Warden shows them to their rooms. He promptly leaves his to join Sophie in hers, dragging his bag with him, and they help each other bathe before meeting the senior Wardens.

It feels very domestic. It feels like home, like they’ve always done this, and it’s easy to pretend that they’re still in Amaranthine and not halfway across the world, facing who-knows-what from their commanding officers.

Sophie tightens her fingers around Nathaniel’s as they walk down the hall after their young guide. As long as they don’t separate them, she doesn’t care what the First Warden has to say.

---

A new thaig has been found under the Free Marches. Rumors of a new form of lyrium are circling. Darkspawn are still moving above ground in Nevarra. New recruits are needed, though not so many as there are during a Blight.

It would have been easy enough to put these things in a letter, or send a single messenger to Amaranthine to tell them. Having Sophie leave Ferelden and go all the way to Weisshaupt seems… excessive, almost, but she isn’t going to complain. She has a few days to rest and explore before they have to go to Kirkwall to explore the Deep Roads there before they’ll be allowed to go home.

None of the senior Wardens said anything about the rings on their fingers or the way they sat too close together. The Warden-Chamberlain actually winked at her when she noticed, but Sophie isn’t going to complain about that either. She wasn’t sure whether or not they were breaking the rules of the Order when they began fraternizing or when they pledged themselves to each other three years ago, but she had no intention of asking either. She’s pleased to see that there won’t be a punishment now.

---

Nathaniel sleeps in their rooms, still exhausted from their travels, and Sophie busies herself in the library. It’s the biggest one she’s ever seen by far, and she’s almost overwhelmed before she remembers Avernus’ note that she still has clutched in her pocket.

She finds the books she needs one at a time, meticulously taking notes for Avernus. She doesn’t understand many of the things she reads--healing has never been her specialty, and she knows little of the taint beyond what she learned from the Joining--but she does the best she can.

It isn’t only her future that depends on what she finds here. It’s the future of her relationship with Nathaniel, their lives, Alistair’s life, even possibly the future of Ferelden if he can’t produce an heir.

That’s the thought that makes her lip curl in irritation, but she pushes it away. It’s been years now. She should be happy that he found someone he’s willing to marry.

She should write to him. Tell him she’s happy for him, and that she only wishes the best for him and his new queen. She never responded to his last letter, or to the fat letter she received later that she assumed was a wedding invitation and thus didn’t open.

She pushes away the guilt and resumes her research.

---

Something is going on with the senior Wardens. Things are somehow quieter now than they were when Sophie and Nathaniel first arrived, more tense, and it’s affecting them both. Some of the Warden recruits have disappeared, and Sophie doesn’t know where they’ve gone, and Nathaniel can’t get answers out of everyone either.

It’s… eerie, and it’s uncomfortable, and Sophie and Nathaniel slip away as soon as they can.

Their last writing with Varel has shown he has the arling well under control, but the Wardens have mostly all abandoned their posts. Some have moved to other posts, particularly in the Free Marches and Orlais, but it’s no longer the Warden outpost it used to be. Sophie and Nathaniel need to come home, he says, and they split up according to their orders.

They take another ship from Cumberland, and Nathaniel disembarks in Kirkwall while Sophie stays and returns to Amaranthine.

---

Nathaniel stays in Kirkwall longer than they planned. Sophie receives a letter in Amaranthine before he goes into the Deep Roads, but then she hears nothing else for months. Every day that passes without word from him makes her irritable and anxious, and she spends her days training in the yard, writing letters to Avernus, and visiting Delilah to spend time with her and the babies.

Thomas is running around now, happy as could be with his little toy sword and stuffed griffin. A baby girl followed him, sooner than anyone was expecting, and Eliane toddles along holding onto Sophie’s fingers whenever the mage visits.

The way the children accept her as a whole person, loving her despite--or perhaps because of--her magic makes her cry when she thinks about it alone in the Vigil. When she’s with Delilah and the children, she just laughs and plays and makes little mage lights for the kids to chase, and lets Delilah play with her hair when she can’t stop worrying about Nathaniel.

Sophie doesn’t hear anything from Nathaniel for months , nothing from any of the other Wardens he was supposed to be with either, and most communication has ceased coming from Weisshaupt too. She whispers her concerns to Delilah one evening after too much wine, and then Delilah disappears too.

---

It only takes three weeks before Delilah returns to the Vigil on horseback, Nathaniel in tow. She stands back and watches with a soft little smile as Sophie forgets who she’s supposed to be and runs across the courtyard to jump into Nathaniel’s arms.

They clutch each other as though afraid one of them would disappear again, fingers digging into armor and skin. Sophie cries unashamedly into Nathaniel’s shoulder, not noticing when a few tears drip from his chin into her curls, and Delilah slips away to return to her own family.

“What happened?” Sophie pulls away only enough to look into Nathaniel’s eyes as she speaks, and he reaches up to wipe at her damp face with his thumb.

Nathaniel shakes his head and pulls Sophie against his chest again, tucking her head under his chin. They stand very still, just breathing together, and Sophie begins to cry again when she feels how hard he’s trembling.

***

It happens again after Nathaniel is in the Vigil for a few months. A course missed, another late, and then the bleeding begins once more.

This time she tells Nathaniel and allows him to get a healer, who confirms what she already knew, already felt in her heart. A life lost before it could truly begin, and Sophie waits until she’s alone again to cry.

The taint took everything from her, and now it’s taking more. The only good things to come from her conscription into the Wardens were that she wasn’t in the Circle when Uldred took it over… and Nathaniel.

Nathaniel who sits with her, staying awake even when she can’t sleep until the sun starts to make the room light again. Nathaniel who brings her tea and plays with her hair, not speaking, just being a strong and silent support.

If Sophie believed in the Maker after all this, after everything that’s happened in the seven-odd years since she was conscripted, she would say Nathaniel is Maker-sent.

But she doesn’t, so she just wraps her arms around him and cries into his shirt.

***

“Did you hear?”

Sophie looks blearily over the letter in her hand to see Nathaniel’s wild eyes at her door. Aoife raises her head too, disrupting Ser Pounce who makes a disgruntled brrp noise before curling back around himself and going back to sleep.

“What?” her voice is a little snappish, betraying her lack of sleep and the headache playing behind her eyes.

Nathaniel doesn’t notice. “There was an explosion in Kirkwall. Their Chantry is gone. The Gallows--the Circle there?--it fell. ” He’s talking fast now, moving closer, and Sophie stands slowly to watch him. “The Knight-Commander tried to annul the Circle, she tried to kill everyone, not just the mages.”

“Why would she do that?” Sophie interrupts, cold dread pooling in her stomach at the word annul. “What does one have to do with the other?”

Nathaniel pauses, gray eyes sharpening to assess her, then he circles the desk to put his hands on her arms, holding her still. “It was Anders.”

Anders’ name is like a punch to Sophie’s gut. She exhales sharply and lists forward, and it’s only Nathaniel’s hands on her that keeps her upright. “Anders? What was Anders?”

“Anders blew up the chantry.” Nathaniel whispers the words like they hurt to say, and his jaw tightens at the same time that his fingers begin to dig into her skin. “It was Anders. ”

“He was in Kirkwall?” she squeaks. Aoife stands and releases a low, threatening growl. “He was in Kirkwall the whole fucking time ?” She takes a step back, breaking Nathaniel’s hold on her and running into her desk at the same time. “Nathaniel, you were in Kirkwall for months .”

He swallows hard and hangs his head. “I know,” he breathes, and Sophie sits down hard. Aoife comes to stand between them, pushing Nathaniel a step back on her way.

“Did you know he was there?” Nathaniel doesn’t answer, so Sophie slams her palm down on the desk and Aoife barks quietly, just enough to let Nathaniel know that he should really answer the question. “Did you see him when you were there?”

Nathaniel sets his jaw and lifts his chin, meeting her eyes. “He was with Hawke when they found me in the Deep Roads. We didn’t speak.”

Sophie’s voice breaks. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Nathaniel takes a step closer, but Aoife growls again to pin him in place.

“He didn’t want to speak to me. He… ran away, almost.” Nathaniel shifts from foot to foot as Sophie covers her face with her hands. She takes a shuddering breath, then another, then finally she reaches out and pats Aoife’s head.

The mabari sighs, eyes Nathaniel suspiciously, then stretches before leaving the room.

“And then he blew up the chantry.”

Nathaniel nods, holding one hand out for her. She takes it and lets him pull her to her feet and against his chest so he can wrap her in a tight embrace. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

She ignores it. “Could we have done something?” she asked. “Could we have brought him back?”

Nathaniel kisses the top of her head. “I don’t think we could have done anything,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

---

Varel is the one who notices it. He keeps glancing from Nathaniel to Sophie and back, his face twisting into a more and more confused expression until he finally says, “What are you humming?”

The humming immediately ceases as they stare at him.

Sophie speaks first. “What?”

Varel sighs and rubs at the spot between his brows he always seems to rub when he has to speak to the arlessa. “You’re both humming something,” he says, voice purposefully calm. “You’ve been humming it for days now.”

Sophie and Nathaniel exchange a glance, but only Sophie’s face drains of color.

They’re both hearing the same song.

---

“I wondered when you would come.” Avernus is positively decrepit, hunched over and more wrinkled and more… corpse-like than he was when Sophie saw him last. She offers him a handshake anyway, and Nathaniel follows her lead though he looks a little green when he touches the old Warden’s papery skin.

Avernus turns and shuffles through the empty keep, waving for Sophie and Nathaniel to follow him.

“I believe I have a cure,” he says, and Sophie’s hand reaches out to grab Nathaniel’s. “I need more time to ensure there are no problems with the formula. I assume you will both will help?”

Sophie squeezes Nathaniel’s hand, and he’s already nodding when she turns to look at him. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Avernus smiles, pushing through a decaying door to enter his laboratory. “Good,” he creaks, and Sophie has to suppress a shiver at the sound of his voice. “In that case, I need more Wardens.”

---

This is when being a better Warden-Commander would come in handy. Sophie doesn’t know where any Wardens are anymore. She knows Alistair is in the capitol--but she doesn’t want to involve him until she knows for sure what’s going on.

She writes to him, posts it from one of the smaller towns, but she doesn’t say much.

The song is false, she says. Nate and I are with Avernus. Do not come. She hasn’t said anything else to him in years. They haven’t spoken in person since she conscripted Anders. She hasn’t written him a letter since he married.

But she won’t have him thinking that he’s dying just when he’s finally found the family he’s always wanted.

She moves through Ferelden with only Aoife at her side, skirts the Frostback Mountains to get to Orlais. She goes through Halamshiral on her way to Lydes, searching for one of the Warden outposts, praying that they won’t have abandoned that as well.

What she finds is worse.

All of the Wardens there--all five of them--are hearing the Calling too. Everyone else has gone ahead to meet with the Orlesian Warden-Commander in preparation to kill the Old Gods once and for all. There’s a Tevinter mage, apparently, one whose only wish is to help the Wardens, who has a plan to strengthen the Wardens so they can storm the Deep Roads and kill the remaining Old Gods.

It’s madness.

Sophie leaves Orlais with Aoife leading the way.

---

Safely back in Ferelden, Sophie rents a little room in a tavern and writes letters with Aoife snoring at her feet. She writes to Nathaniel, to Avernus, to Alistair, to Weisshaupt. Everyone needs to know what the Wardens are doing, and she doesn’t want to be found before they’re stopped.

She leaves the letters with the innkeeper’s wife to post, and stops as the woman excitedly tells her all about how Divine Justinia is going to “put them mages in their place” after the Conclave in a few weeks, and how they’ll be punished for what happened in Kirkwall.

“They should be ashamed of theirselves,” she says, and Sophie pretends to nod understandingly before she leaves.

---

“Sophie.”

Sophie nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the voice. She still dreams of it sometimes, but this is the first time she’s heard it in real life. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she freezes before she turns around.

Aoife abandons Sophie without hesitation, bounding over to greet the king. Sophie turns very slowly to watch, smiling slightly as Aoife hesitates to do her little mabari bow before closing the rest of the distance to let Alistair pet her.

He kneels down so he can be at her eye level and buries his hands in her short fur, scratching thoroughly behind ears and down her chest. He kisses the gray hairs that cover her muzzle, and she licks his face right back.

He laughs, and Sophie takes a step closer to him.

“What are you doing here?” her voice sounds harder than she meant it, but she’s tired and she’s surprised and Aoife has abandoned her to stand by herself.

Alistair gives Aoife one final, loving scratch before he stands. He looks… regal. It’s been nine years, and it’s only served to make him more handsome. He’s filled out a little, grown his beard out a little more than he ever had when they were traveling together, and he’s wearing fine clothes that are cut very well to show off his strength that hasn’t diminished.

“I got your letters,” he says, and takes a step closer. He lifts one hand like he might pull her in for a hug, but he drops it before he can. “The Calling, it…” he scrubs his hand over his face. “I can’t live like this, Soph.”

Sophie takes a step closer to him, her heart clenching in her chest. Then she takes another, and another, and then they’re embracing. The song has been chasing her across Ferelden and back, keeping her awake more than she should be, and she can’t stop the tears that fall when she feels Alistair’s arms around her again.

Alistair doesn’t try to stop his tears either. He releases everything he’s been holding in, everything he’s been trying to be too strong to feel.

They stand in each other’s arms for several minutes with Aoife resting her comforting weight against their legs. When they finally calm, Sophie steps away first and wipes at her eyes.

“Why are you here , though?” she asks, finally coming to her senses enough to remember her first reaction. “I told you to stay in the palace.”

Alistair shuffles a little, wiping at his own face before tugging at the reddish beard on his chin. He coughs. “Lia’s pregnant,” he says, and Sophie feels her whole body tense before she really hears his words. “Six months. This is the longest she’s…” he stops, his voice choking off as new tears threaten him. He clears his throat again. “I can’t let our child grow up without a father. If there’s a cure to be found, I have to help.”

Sophie bites her tongue against the tears, lets the sharp pain distract her even as she reaches out to rub Aoife’s head. “Okay. I understand. Have you been here long? Where’s Nate?”

Alistair’s face falls and he holds out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

---

It looks like Nathaniel is asleep. Breaths still make his chest rise and fall, his eyes move behind closed lids, and when Sophie checks his heart it feels strong inside his chest.

But he won’t wake.

“He tested the cure for me,” Alistair says, wringing his hands together the way he used to when he and Sophie traveled together and he was feeling particularly anxious about something. “I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s more stubborn than you are.”

Sophie laughs, a tiny, watery thing, and leans forward to press a kiss to Nathaniel’s forehead. His skin is cool to the touch, but not unnaturally so. She tries to send a healing spell into him, but her magic is too shaky, her spirit magic too weak to do anything more than let her know he’s still alive.

They need a spirit healer, and the thought makes her start to cry in earnest.

They need Anders.

“He’s been unconscious for two, or three days? Avernus thinks he’ll wake up soon. Please don’t cry. He’s going to be okay. Don't cry, Soph.” Alistair scoots a little closer to Sophie, moving hesitantly. He glances between where Aoife is resting by Nathaniel’s feet and where Sophie has her face still pressed against Nathaniel’s forehead, and settles next to her. He rubs a soothing hand over Sophie’s back as her sobs grow.

“Why didn’t he wait for me?” she demands, voice muffled in Nathaniel’s pillow. “He should have waited.”

Alistair squeezes her shoulder. “He knew you would have told him not to.”

“Well he was damn right,” she says, and then miraculously she lifts up her head and laughs. Alistair smiles a little crookedly, waiting for her to explain, and Aoife just sighs and flops onto her side.

Sophie doesn’t even look at Alistair. “You should go back to Denerim,” she says, and he immediately pulls his hand away from her back. “The queen needs you. Ferelden needs you. Something’s going on with the Wardens, and someone needs to be around to handle it.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll stay here, help Avernus. When the cure is ready, I’ll bring it to you personally.” She turns to Alistair then and reaches out one hand. He takes it without hesitation, eyes going soft around the edges, and she smiles at him. “I won’t let you suffer for one moment longer than necessary,” she promises, “but you can’t hide here.”

Alistair sighs a laugh. “You never would let me hide from the throne,” he says, and Sophie laughs with him this time.

They sit in silence, fingers still entwined, and wait for the sun to rise.

---

Alistair is already back in Denerim when Nathaniel finally wakes. He does so slowly, stretching and yawning like he’d taken a nap rather than been unconscious for a week, and smiles when he sees Sophie’s stricken expression.

“You asshole,” she says, and Nathaniel bursts into laughter. She flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his hair. “You fucker. ”

He’s still laughing, but he wraps his arms around her and squeezes her tight against his chest. “I love you,” he says, voice dry.

Sophie sniffs. “I love you too. Do not do that again.”

He smooths a hand over her curls. “I promise.”

Her fingers tighten on him and she presses herself even closer. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

Nathaniel’s next breath catches in his throat. “And I won’t. I’ll always be here.”

Sophie sniffs. “Good.”

---

Nathaniel’s feedback helps Avernus make changes to the cure. Just a few tweaks, designed to pull the taint out a little faster without becoming too painful or moving quickly enough to cause harm to the Warden.

It takes a few more weeks--Avernus is methodical to a fault, and time doesn’t seem to mean the same thing to him as it does to Sophie and Nathaniel--but when the cure is finally ready, Sophie takes it.

She sits with Nathaniel on their bed, fingers entwined, with Aoife and Avernus watching closely, and she downs the potion in one long swallow.

She gags. It's thick, oily, and it feels like it’s still in her mouth as she swallows again and again. Nathaniel squeezes her hand and murmurs nonsense words to keep her calm, and she shudders with her whole body.

Her hands shake, her teeth chatter, pain spears her gut and then travels through her veins to every part of her body. She curls in on herself, an inhuman wail rising from her mouth that has Aoife howling in response.

Nathaniel casts a wide-eyed, helpless look at Avernus, who doesn’t react.

“You did the same,” he says. “It will pass.”

But it doesn’t feel like it will.

---

In the end, Sophie is unconscious longer than Nathaniel was. Nathaniel is angry--at Avernus for being wrong, at himself for letting her take the untested potion, at Sophie for conscripting him, at Duncan for conscripting her-- and he paces relentlessly.

Though the cure was improved, the taint was greater in Sophie than in Nathaniel. She fought in the Blight; she delivered the killing blow to the archdemon. She would have felt her true Calling in a few short years, and it was only luck that drove them to Avernus in time.

But it doesn’t feel like luck when Sophie lays in bed and Nathaniel can do nothing to help.

When she finally wakes, it’s Aoife who notices first. The mabari, asleep on the floor by her mistress’ side, lifts her head to sniff the air before letting out a joyful bark and leaping onto the bed. She does her best to avoid Sophie’s body, now weak from fighting off the taint, but she can’t help but cover Sophie’s face in slobbery kisses.

Sophie sputters before she realizes what’s happening, and she wraps her arms around Aoife’s neck to pull the warhound down on top of her. Aoife collapses with a huff, happy to cuddle Sophie without having to worry about Nathaniel or Ser Pounce. It’s like it was when they first became friends, and Sophie and Aoife both feel a surge of joy at the realization.

Then Nathaniel is there, on the bed with them too, and Aoife gives the man room to greet Sophie too. His kisses are dryer but no less enthusiastic, kissing Sophie despite Aoife’s drool still on her face.

Aoife decides to give them some privacy and wanders off to find Avernus to make sure the taint is truly gone.

---

They take the directions for making the potion along with two doses with them when they leave Soldier’s Peak. Nathaniel finally relaxes when they get outside the gates, but as they descend the mountain and get an unobstructed view of the sky…

Aoife barks at the green scar in the sky. It seems to shimmer when they stare at it, moving as though alive. Sophie shivers and the hairs on Aoife’s back stand up.

“What is it?” Nathaniel breathes.

Sophie shakes her head. “I don’t even want to guess. Let’s get to Denerim. Alistair will know.”

---

Alistair does know, but he’s furious about it. Sophie and Nathaniel stand in his throne room, hoods still hiding their identities, as he tells them everything they missed while convalescing in Soldier’s Peak.

The Divine Conclave, the explosion, the Breach, the rebel mages taking up residence in and then selling Redcliffe to Tevinter, the Inquisition sealing the Breach with the mages’ help, the attack on Haven, their new home in Skyhold.

“And now,” Alistair huffs, running his fingers through his hair and making the ginger locks stand on end, “the Inquisition is asking for my support when they march on Adamant Fortress. The Wardens are raising a demon army and that puts them in the service of Corypheus too!”

“I knew there was something wrong with the Warden’s plan,” Sophie says, and she pushes her hood back so she can run her fingers through her hair too, nails scratching at her scalp. “We brought the cure, Alistair, and directions to make more. We can help.”

Alistair shakes his head. “I don’t want either of you anywhere near Adamant,” he snaps, and Sophie raises her eyebrows. “We need good Wardens left to help rebuild the Order after this all goes to the Void.”

“We’re not Wardens anymore,” Sophie starts, but the sharp wail of an infant stops her cold.

Everyone turns to look in the direction the cry is coming from. It seems to be growing louder until one of the rear doors of the throne room creaks open and a woman steps through, bouncing a baby against one shoulder.

“Someone wants to see her papa--” the woman starts, and then freezes when she sees Alistair isn’t alone.

His face breaks into a smile that only deepens the new lines around his eyes. “Li,” he says, holding out one hand to her. She squares her shoulders and crosses the room, letting Alistair pull her against his side. The baby is still crying, but stops when Alistair reaches out to stroke her cheek. “This is Sophie Amell and her husband, Nathaniel Howe. Sophie, Nate, this is my wife. Ophelia Cousland.”

Sophie and Nathaniel both bow, and Ophelia blushes bright red. Despite her obvious embarrassment, her voice is calm when she says, “It’s an honor to meet you both. I apologize for interrupting, I didn’t realize--”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Sophie says immediately, holding up a hand to stop any more apologies. It isn’t how she should speak to her queen, but Ophelia’s smile only grows. “This is the new princess?"

Alistair beams and takes the baby from Ophelia, turning very carefully so that Sophie and Nathaniel can see. “Princess Elodie Rowena Theirin,” he says, and his face is so full of unbridled joy that Sophie has to bite her tongue to keep the tears from coming to her eyes. “El, meet your godmother.”

“Oh!” Sophie releases a surprised squeak, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Really? Me?”

Ophelia and Alistair exchange a smile before the queen turns to Sophie. “Of course,” she says. “Would you like to hold her?”

Sophie nods and holds out her arms before the question is finished, and Alistair passes Elodie over with the same carefulness he showed before. Sophie cradles the little baby in her arms, grinning at her chubby cheeks and thin dark hair. Elodie opens her eyes to study her godmother, gives an unimpressed yawn, and shoves one fist into her mouth before falling back to sleep.

“Oh, Nate,” Sophie murmurs, and Nathaniel rubs a hand over her back before kissing the top of her head. Sophie blinks away her tears before looking back up at the king and queen. “She’s perfect.”

Alistair beams. “She really is.”

---

Sophie and Nathaniel stay for as long as it takes Alistair to be cured of the taint. He stays unconscious for five and a half days, and Ophelia only leaves his side to care for Elodie. The queen reads to him, plays with his hair, prays for quick healing, and soon her prayers are answered.

Alistair weeps openly when he wakes and doesn’t hear the Calling. He embraces his wife, kisses their baby, and then thanks Sophie and Nathaniel with everything he has.

He still sends them away from Denerim, away from the Inquisition and Adamant, back to Soldier’s Peak.

When Sophie opens her mouth to argue, Nathaniel just wraps his hand around her elbow and pulls until she lets him lead her away.

She’s been in hiding before.

She can do it again.

---

A letter comes a few months later, in Alistair’s own handwriting.

S & N--

The Wardens have left Orlais and Ferelden. Hawke--yes, the Champion of Kirkwall, Maker knows why--lead them from Adamant to Weisshaupt Fortress. I haven’t heard anything else from them since.

I don’t know how much news you’re getting in Soldier’s Peak (I assume none?) but the Inquisition is nearly ready to defeat Corypheus. At least we can hope.

I know you’re not Wardens anymore, but Amaranthine is still yours. You’re the arlessa, and you can stay there until you decide you don’t want it. We can deal with the Wardens when they come back.

Lia is doing great. Little El is smiling and laughing now, and I wish you could see her. I didn’t know I could be so happy.

Write me from Amaranthine.

Sophie begins packing at once.

---

Varel looks equal amounts relieved and annoyed when Sophie, Nathaniel, and Aoife walk into the Vigil together. Regardless of his actual feelings, he leaves his office to greet them in the courtyard. Sophie greets him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but Nathaniel simply shakes his hand.

They send a messenger to Delilah in Amaranthine to tell her that they’re safe, and they’re healthy and they’re back, and Delilah shows up by herself the next day to yell at them both for disappearing.

---

When the Breach reopens, Nathaniel walks right into Sophie’s office, grabs her hand, and tugs until she follows him out of the building. Every single person in Vigil’s Peak is standing in the courtyard staring up at the sky to the west, staring as the green eddy whirls in the sky over where Haven used to be.

Aoife arrives moments later, Ser Pounce winding his way between her paws as she sits at Sophie’s side. Nathaniel wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her body against his, and kisses her forehead. She allows herself to lean into him, even here in front of everyone, and she sighs.

“We should bring Delilah and Al and the kids here,” she says, but Nathaniel shakes his head.

“She won’t come.” Sophie nods. She didn’t come ten years ago, and she didn’t when the Breach opened, and she won’t now.

It’s true. Once more, all they can do is sit and wait and trust that the Inquisitor can handle this as she’s handled everything else.

---

Nathaniel is jogging through the courtyard when he sees Sophie out of the corner of his eye. She’s in the stable, speaking with the groundskeeper, so he calls out as he slows down.

“Sophie, is something--did you cut your hair?” Nathaniel skids to a stop as he sees Sophie’s tight curls, previously around her shoulders, now cut tight against her scalp.

When she turns to look at him, his breath whooshes out of his lungs. The woman before him is most certainly not his wife, though they could practically be twins. This woman is older, closer to Nate’s own age, with hazel eyes instead of blue and a large burn scar across the left side of her face that extends down her neck and disappears under the collar of her jacket.

He snaps to his duty as the arlessa’s second, controlling his expression and making sure his voice is steady when he asks, “May I help you?”

The woman’s eyes flash as she studies him. “We’re looking for Sophie Amell.”

Nathaniel nods. “The arlessa typically requires an appointment, but--”

She shakes her head and cuts him off. “We’re not from the arling. She’s our sister.” The woman jerks her head at a man standing in the shadows deeper in the stable, and he walks forward until Nathaniel can see him. He’s tall and broad, with hair in short red waves instead of blond curls, but his eyes are the exact same piercing blue as Sophie’s. The Tranquil brand is on his forehead, and Nathaniel’s blood turns cold. “Can you take us to her?”

Nathaniel nods, still controlling his expression. “Of course. If you’ll both follow me?”

The woman nods and gestures for the man to follow them, and Nathaniel leads them through the Vigil up to Sophie’s office. He pushes through the door and walks in without waiting, and she frowns up at him before she sees the people behind him.

She stands slowly, resting her hands on the desk, as Nathaniel steps to her side to give their visitors room to stand in front of her.

The woman speaks first. “Sophie?”

Sophie swallows hard. “Yes?”

The woman takes a step closer. “I’m Elisa. This is Charlie. You’re our baby sister.”

Sophie’s eyes are wide when she looks up at Nathaniel. “My--I don’t remember having a sister.”

Elisa shakes her head. “You wouldn’t. You weren’t even born yet when I was taken to the Kirkwall Circle. You were still a baby when they took Charlie.”

“Kirkwall?” Sophie squeaks. “You were in Kirkwall?” Without intending to, her eyes flicker over Elisa’s scars.

“Yes. I escaped when the Circle fell.” She touches her face and grins a little lopsided smile at Sophie. “I remembered Charlie and Liam, and I tried to find them. The Chantry does not want mages to find their siblings, and it certainly doesn’t want them knowing about their siblings who are heroes or run arlings.”

Sophie’s knees go weak and she sinks into her chair, and Nathaniel reaches for her without a hesitation. “I… I remember Liam,” she breathes. “He… is he here too?”

Elisa’s eyes meet Nathaniel’s and he know, he knows without hearing the words that Liam is gone before they could reunite.

“His Circle was annulled,” Elisa finally says, very quietly, and Sophie just nods.

“Oh.” She looks at Charlie, and her voice is even smaller. “What happened to you, Charlie?”

Charlie blinks at her, processing her question. When he speaks, his voice is the hollow, eerie voice common to all tranquil. “I requested to be made tranquil rather than face my Harrowing,” he says. “It is better this way.”

Elise clenches her jaw and she shakes her head, but she doesn’t correct him. He cannot be argued with, not anymore.

When the silence becomes too thick, Nathaniel takes a deep breath. “You’re both welcome to stay here,” he says. “You’re family.”

“Are we?” Elisa asks, voice sharp but not enough to be considered rude.

Sophie nods as Nathaniel stands. “I’m Nathaniel Howe,” he says. “Sophie’s husband.”

“The Chantry doesn’t allow mages to marry,” Charlie comments, though he doesn’t sound upset. Of course.

“We didn’t ask the Chantry,” Nathaniel says, arching one dark brow.

The silence extends for a heartbeat.

Elise grins. “Nice to meet you, Nathaniel,” she says, and she reaches out toward him with her good hand.

He shakes it and smiles back.

---

Nathaniel goes to bed long before Sophie, leaving her up talking to her sister. They exchange stories from what they remember of their parents, of their brothers, of their Circles growing up. It takes them late into the night before they finally agree to meet for breakfast, and then Sophie slides under the sheets next to her husband.

She cuddles right up against him, rousing him from sleep so that he can roll onto his side to wrap his arms around her.

“Did you have fun with your sister?” he asks, voice muffled both by sleep and by her hair. She nods and presses closer, nuzzling against his neck. He grunts a little and his fingers tighten against her skin when she begins to speak.

“Yes,” she says, and then she pauses to brush a kiss across his collarbone. “Thank you for bringing her to me.” She kisses him again, this time on his throat, and she smiles when she feels him shiver.

Nathaniel clears his throat, more awake now, and he tilts his chin up. “I just brought them in from the courtyard,” he says, but his voice catches when he feels her teeth against his skin.

“You’ve been my family for a long time now,” here another pause, another kiss. “I thought it might just always be us, and your sister’s family, but now I have siblings too.” Her hand slides up his bare side to tangle in Nathaniel’s hair, tilting his head back more so she can spread more kisses along his neck. “Our family is finally growing, Nate. I couldn’t be happier.”

Distracted as he is by the way she’s still kissing and leaving little nibbling bites across his skin, he doesn’t realize she’s said anything more than a thank you until her hand leaves his hair to take his hand. She moves it, not to her breast as she does so often, but to her stomach.

“Sophie?” Her name, a question that he can’t speak, passes his lips, and she laughs. It’s a light, airy sound, more joyful than any other he’s heard from her in a long time.

She moves her hand to cup his jaw, fingers rasping through the stubble on his cheeks, but his hand stays where she placed it. “It’s been three months. I think it’s really happening, Nate.”

He closes the distance between them to press his lips to hers, cutting off her joyful laughter. He rolls them, pinning her beneath him with his hips against hers. When he breaks away from her, he props up on one elbow so he can run his fingers through her hair. “Were you going to tell me?”

She shifts beneath him, getting more comfortable, and hooks one leg around his. “Of course. I just wanted to wait until I could be sure. Are you happy?”

He has to laugh at that question. “I’ve never been happier, Sophie. Thank you.”

When he kisses her this time, he prays that he can feel the love he’s felt for her since their first weeks in Amaranthine together, the love that’s only grown as they’ve fought side by side for survival and their country and for each other.

He loves her. And he’s never been happier.

#sophie amell #nathaniel howe #self indulgence au #my writing #2017 writing #sorry for the long delay folks #it's all finished!

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allisondraste · 5 years ago

Text

Temperance (39/42)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary: Liss wakes up from a nightmare, and Nathaniel is nowhere to be found.

Notes: This chapter is a bit heavier with the canon-typical violence than most, so please take care of yourselves if that’s a trigger for you.

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Vigil’s Keep, 9:31 Dragon

Liss’ eyes fluttered open, heart already rattling her rib cage before her vision adjusted to the dim light of the room. Clanks and clashes of swords and shields rang out nearby. It was familiar, as if she’d read it in a book, saw it in her dreams, yet it was blurry, masked by a drowsy fog. Where was she? Why was she so afraid?

A dog growled and barked just feet away, and Liss sat up abruptly. Bear. It was unlike the quiet, gentle hound to make any sound in the middle of the night. So, distressed barks and growls spaced intermittently between bouts of pawing and scratching at the door was a little more than alarming. Sliding out of bed, stone floor cold against her bare feet, Liss approached the door and knelt down to examine Bear more closely. He panted and whined, looking desperately between Liss and the door.

“Lady Elissa,” cried a frantic voice from the other side, followed by three sharp raps against the wood.

Liss looked at Bear whose ears flattened down against his head. She took a deep breath and quietly grabbed a spare fire iron that leaned against the wall next to the door, very aware she was in nothing more than her nightclothes and completely unprotected. She straightened her posture and opened the door hesitantly.

“Soldier,” Liss said, holding her chin up and responding with her best attempt at authority, “You best have a good reason for waking me.”

“My lady,” the man said, relieved, sweat and blood dripping from his forehead, eyes wide, breath shallow, “Thank the Maker you’re alive. You have to—“

He was interrupted by the sword suddenly puncturing his chest. Liss gasped and watched the man, one of Highever’s own soldiers, fall to the floor, dead. She brought her eyes to the assailant who now prepared to attack her, shield and cuirass bearing the Howe family crest. Bear pushed in front of her, growling and baring his teeth. Anger swelled in Liss’ chest and she lunged at the attacker, swinging the iron as forcefully as she could. She knocked his sword out of his hand while he was staggered, picked it up, and used it to pierce upward into a convenient gap in his armor.

She had never killed a person before. She never even thought she would have to. She was a skilled warrior, trained in combat; however, she was trained in peaceful days. Her swordsmanship was reserved for dueling rinks and tournaments. Not this. Not taking someone’s life. She shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the memory of the noise he made as he died, pretended that his blood was not spattered across her face, that it was not seeping into the hem of her gown. She did not have time. There was more shouting and fighting just down the hall, and she was in charge of the castle.

With nothing more than a blink and a breath, she found herself kneeling on the floor in the room where Fergus’ family resided. She cradled Oren in her arms, rocking his tiny little body as if he were only sleeping, ignoring the cold touch of his skin and the stiffness in his limbs. Mama stood in the corner, with her back turned, sobbing and overcome with grief. Liss trembled as she lay her nephew back down on the bloodstained rug, glancing only briefly to the body of her sister-in-law that lay close by. She could feel herself breaking inside, resolve to survive, to protect the castle dissolving beneath the weight of what she had already lost. Maker, take her instead. Please. Take her instead.

Another blink and she stood at the entrance to the family’s hidden passageway out of the castle, watching her mother hold her father while she hummed and attempted to apply pressure to a deep wound across his abdomen. Liss’ blood turned to ice and she was frozen, numb, unable to cry and scream like the little girl inside of her wanted to. Papa was dying. Her protector and idol lay bleeding on the floor and she was powerless to save him. Her world was falling apart before her eyes and there was nothing she could do to pull it back together. It took all of her strength to keep her knees from buckling beneath her.

“Elissa, don’t just stand there,” her mother snapped, voice like a splash of cold water to the face, “Bar the door.”

Liss looked around the room. “But what about Bear,” she asked. She did not remember being separated from her dog, and now she worried for his safety.

An urgent “Sweetheart” was the only thing her mother said, brows slanting sympathetically.

“R-right. Of course,” she murmured as she rushed to secure the room, ignoring the pit in her stomach and the ache in her chest as she did so. As soon as the door was sealed, she returned to kneel beside her parents.

“Papa,” she said, words turning into tears, “I’m so sorry.”

“For what, my dear girl,” he rasped, bringing a shaking hand to her face.

“This is all my fault. I should have been more alert, moved fas—“

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, voice hoarse, breathing labored. “You did all you could.”

He coughed forcefully, and a trickle of blood rolled down his chin. Mama wiped it away with a makeshift handkerchief she tore from the bottom of her nightgown. She spoke to him calmly, voice so low that Liss could not hear what she said, but she looked frazzled and defeated, jaw set and hands trembling. She smiled when Papa looked up at her, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“You must escape, Elissa,” Mama said abruptly.

“I won’t leave you behind,” Liss protested, “I can’t.”

Her mother reached forward and grabbed her wristed, squeezing tightly. “You do not have a choice.”

“But—” “One of us has to leave, find Fergus,” she explained, “You and your brother must go to the King, announce to the entire country what Rendon Howe has done. Do you hear me?” “Yes Mama,” Liss answered, dejectedly.

Before she could even say a final goodbye to her parents she found herself standing alone, engulfed by complete darkness. She squinted her eyes and searched for someone, anyone, but no matter how far she ran in any direction, no matter how loudly she shouted, there was nothing but a completely empty void and she was the lone inhabitant. Lost, terrified, and heartbroken, she fell to her knees and pounded her fists against the ground as her own thoughts echoed around her.

You let your family die.

It is all your fault.

You should have died instead.

“No. No. No!” She gasped and shouted as she woke up, shocked to find herself clean and warm in a bed. Still, her whole body shook convulsively until a gentle pressure fell upon her shoulder. She looked up and blinked a few times until the figure standing above her came into focus and became recognizable.

“Shh. Easy, love. You’re all right.” It was the mage — the irreverent, overly forward one who called himself Anders. He offered her a reassuring smile and continued. “The nightmares are nasty, aren’t they?”

Liss nodded slowly, still not entirely awake, waiting for her body to realize it was safe to relax. She was accustomed to nightmares, but nothing like the one from which she had just awoken. They had always been brief flashes from the night her family died, as if it were happening to someone else and she watched from a distance. She had never had a nightmare that was so real, so vivid that it was almost exactly like living the horror all over again.

“Other people say they have nightmares about darkspawn, dragons and the like,” Anders explained, “I never have. They’re always about the bloody Circle. What I wouldn’t give for a darkspawn to eat me in my dreams instead.” He laughed, but it was empty and sad.

“Mine wasn’t about darkspawn either,” she answered, mouth turning to cotton as she spoke.

“Here,” said a different voice and Liss turned to see Velanna extending a cup of water to her as if she had read her mind.

“Thank you,” Liss said, taking the cup and steadying it with both of her hands. She brought the rim to her lips and took a long drink. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Around an hour,” Anders answered, “Which was a bit concerning considering that most people who survive wake up immediately.”

Liss took another drink and then sat the cup down. “Did something go wrong?”

“You had an unusual reaction to the ritual,” Velanna interjected, “You had symptoms of blight sickness, which Wardens do not typically experience.”

“Am I going to be okay?”

“You woke up, did you not?” The elf smiled gently despite the directness of her words.

“I suppose I did,” Liss muttered, and recalled the memory of the other recruits strangling, dying just before her name was called. She remembered the wave of dread and panic that crashed into her and held her under. It was all muddled after that, vision going black, falling to the ground, Nate’s frantic voice as he caught her.

Liss’ eyes widened. Everything was fuzzy after that, and Nathaniel’s absence worried her. Their last conversation had not ended well at all, and shame burned under her cheeks as she remembered his confession. She had dismissed his feelings entirely, feelings that she’d begged him to talk about for years, feelings that she’d prayed for even after she stopped writing to him. She did not regret her anger—she had every right to be angry with him— but walking away from someone she loved and leaving him to think she didn’t, as if it were some sort of justified response to his poor timing, had been uncalled for. He had looked so hurt and heartbroken, jaw set as he stepped aside and let her head to her potential demise. She realized now that he had only been trying to protect her from something horrific, and she’d stubbornly accused him of not trusting her abilities. Maker, what if she had finally ruined things between them for good?

“Something the matter?” Anders tilted his head and waved his hand in front of her face.

“Where’s Nathaniel,” she asked, ignoring Anders’ question about her well-being.

“Probably off sulking in a dark corner somewhere,” Anders joked, clearly not sensing the gravity of Liss’ question. “You know how he is. I mean, at least I think you do. You two seem to have quite the history.”

Velanna rolled her eyes at Anders and sighed before looking at Liss sympathetically. “Nathaniel was… rather worried when you did not wake immediately. I have never seen him so upset before.”

“Did he seem angry?” Liss’ voice wavered as she spoke, betraying her most vulnerable emotions to people she barely knew.

“No. Not at all.” The other woman frowned, clearly confused. “Just worried.”

“He was more shaken than anything,” Anders added, “As soon as he trusted that you were stable, he left, said he needed to clear his head.”

“I need to talk to him,” Liss said, grunting and sitting up, struggling against the pounding and throbbing in her head.

“No. You need to rest,” Anders scolded carefully, motioning for her to lie back down, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“I’m fine.” Liss grumbled as she staggered to her feet, a bit dizzy and nauseous, but no worse for the wear otherwise. She made her way to the door, turned the knob and heading out into the hallway, stopping only to thank Anders and Velanna for taking care of her.

The halls of Vigil’s Keep were not as familiar and committed to memory as Liss had hoped they would be. She was not even certain where the bloody stairwell was. She intended to head out to the courtyard. When Nate said anything about clearing his head, it almost always meant archery. She recognized that it had been a long time since she had actually heard him say that, but she assumed he had not changed in that regard, so not knowing the location of the stairs was a significant barrier. Unfazed, she continued down the long narrow corridor, taking at least a glance at each door, stopping in her tracks as she saw one that was not entirely closed. Remembering just three years prior when Delilah had given her a tour, Liss was confident that it had been Nate’s.

She knew that it could belong to anyone now, but her curiosity was piqued and she stepped over to stand in front of it, rapping her knuckles against the wooden surface. There was no answer, and although she knew it was rude, she nudged the door open further and walked inside, looking about the room. There were no immediate and obvious signs that Nathaniel resided there, well, with the exception of the Howe family portraits stacked in the corner of the room, including the one of his father and hers that he asked Garavel to save. She could not imagine anyone else finding value in those old things.

Entering further, she noticed several items littering a dresser near the bed. The items were strewn about in a way that suggested that a pack had been emptied hurriedly in search of something specific. Approaching the dresser, she noticed a small coin purse that was mostly empty, several lockpicks, and a whetstone. There were also some tools Liss definitely remembered Nathaniel using to craft arrows, and a small, bronze figurine carved into the shape of a bronto. She picked it up excitedly, causing it to make a faint jingling noise, and she noticed the tiny crank where it’s tail should have been. It was a clever little music box, she thought as she sat it aside, eyes drawn to an empty envelope and crumpled up piece of parchment that lay next to it.

Taking the ball of parchment in her hands, Liss began to carefully straighten it out, making sure she did not tear it accidentally. Immediately, she recognized the handwriting as Nate’s and the date at the top indicated that it was from just days before, from Denerim. She moved her eyes down the page and her heart fluttered. The letter was addressed to her, and she no longer felt guilty for reading it. Walking over to the bed, she sat down on the edge, and began to read.

Dear Liss,

I think we can both agree that this letter is long overdue. I am not certain where to begin, other than to say that I am sorry for never writing to you . I was young, stupid, and hurting so much that I could hardly stand it. Losing you was like losing a limb, some large part of myself that I could learn to live without, but only if I pretended I never had it in the first place. I am not saying it was a good choice, but it was the only way I knew how to cope. It was selfish and inconsiderate, and I hope that you can forgive me.

I have many regrets, the biggest being that I never told you how I felt about you. There is no time like the present, I suppose. Even if it is too late, I need you to know, or it will drive me crazy for the rest of my life.

The truth is, Liss, I love you. I have loved you since the day you crawled out from under my bed on my first night in Highever, and I wasn’t even old enough to know what love was. I just knew that being near you made me feel better, and that there was nowhere else in Thedas I wanted to be. It frustrated me to no end that you could not see all that I saw in you, that you thought you were so average. You could not be average if you tried.

I want you to know that regardless of where we go from here, no matter what happens between us, I won’t think any differently. You were my best friend, and all of the memories from my childhood I care to keep are with you and your family. I do not know what I would have done without you.

I missed you, Liss, more than words could accurately convey. I know you are tired of apologies, but I don’t care. I am sorry that I never told you any of this before. I am sorry that I was so terrified of my father that I let him come between us. I am sorry if I ever once made you think I didn’t care about you. I am sorry that I waited until the night before I left to dance with you, to kiss you. More than anything else, I am sorry that I wasted nine years of my life pretending that I could be happy without you.

It is good to finally see you again.

Sincerely Love,

Nathaniel

Tears fell from her eyes, crashing onto the paper as she read, dropping more and more quickly as she reached the end. It was everything she wanted to hear from Nate, jotted down succinctly in one letter, a letter he’s clearly written just after their reunion and carried around for days, waiting to find the right time to give it to her, or to just say it out loud. Everything had been so chaotic, he probably hadn’t even had the chance. Each time it seemed they would have a moment alone together, one of them was pulled away for a duty of some sort. Then, she asked to join the Wardens, and one misunderstanding and wrong conclusion after another led them to hang on the delicate thread where their relationship currently dangled.

It was all ridiculous, so completely unnecessary. They both wanted the same thing. They both needed to have the same conversation. Liss couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, even as tears continued to fall.

Liss was drawn from her amusement by an abrupt shuffle of footsteps in the hall nearby, too light and quick to be any of the guards. Before she could move to stand, to return the letter to where it had been, the door creaked open further and Nathaniel stood in the doorway, brows furrowed and head tilted in confusion. Clearly, he had not expected to find her sitting on his bed when he left his door open. He should have known better.

“Liss,” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. She could hear the ragged edge to his voice, the emotion that dared to burst loose. She wanted to see it, hear it, even if it hurt. It was time that he let her see past that wall of propriety and stoicism he always attempted to maintain when he was most upset.

“Hey Nate,” she said, attempting to keep her own composure. She stood up from the edge of his bed, letter still in her hand. Holding it up to show him, and smiling through the tears. “I finally got your letter.”

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age awakening #nathaniel howe #nathaniel howe x cousland #temperance #update #my writing #i am sorry in advance

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