#watch your ass orlais

[persephoneggsy]

i spent a lot of time today/yesterday thinking about my Marian Hawke living her best life as Princess of Starkhaven, and so naturally that spiraled into me designing five new outfits for her

elaborations below the cut

so this would of course be post DA2, if not outright post Inquisition. Marian is done traipsing around abandoned mines and dirty back alleys, she’s done being Champion of a city she never cared for in the first place. She fully embraces her role as Princess of Starkhaven and comes to love her new home with a fierceness she hasn’t felt since she was forced to flee Ferelden.

Everyday 1 - What she would wear to her day-to-day duties as Princess. She wears the Vael family tartan to diplomatic meetings.

Everyday 2 - Ferelden Insp - While she loves her new home, she’ll never forget her old one. She commissions several dresses done in a more Ferelden style, with simpler silhouettes and of course, fur.

Casual - This is basically just an elevated version of the ‘home’ outfit in DA2. This is what she wears on rare days off, when she’s able to just be with her beloved husband in the privacy of their chambers, or perhaps taking a walk through the palace gardens.

Party - Obviously, a princess needs to have a great selection of dresses for galas and balls and the like. She tends to favor reds and pinks, with a splash of gold for embellishment. Depending on the level of formality, she’ll also have a sash of Vael tartan to signify her status.

Travel - For the rare occasions where Marian once again takes up her staff to fight. Finely-crafted and woven with hidden enchantments, it is both practical and elegant, so no one truly forgets how high she’s climbed. The clasp on her belt bears the three circling dragons of Starkhaven, and the scarf around her neck is meant to be a tribute to her late sister, Bethany.

One constant in her outfits is the locket of Meghan Vael around her neck, which her husband gave to her upon their engagement. Another is, of course, her wedding ring.

I changed her hair from its usual appearance, since I think it makes her look a little softer and more refined. I considered letting her grow her hair out, but I have a bias towards short hair and so decided to keep it short.

And finally, I like to think Marian is an absolute sensation amongst the court of Starkhaven. So many trends in the fashion of the court start because of her - from Ferelden-styled fur embellishments, to the color pink skyrocketing in demand, to many ladies shearing their hair short.

[breadedsinner]

from the da worldstate meme: 1. Your Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor's opinion on Orlais? 3. Opinion on blood magic? 13. Their thoughts on the Grey Warden order?

Your Warden/Hawke/Inquisitor's opinion on Orlais?

-Is it cheating to say they all think it sucks? Hervor's observations would no doubt be hypocritical, coming from royalty, but in her defense she at least busts ass with the best of them, and never cared for the political side of dwarven nobility... which is why she was exiled so easily.

Judith, as a Ferelden, understandably does not care for Orlais. And Rota watched the Empress get stabbed, so.

*

3) Opinion on blood magic?

Answered!

*

13) Their thoughts on the Grey Warden Order?

-Both Hervor and Rota respect the order, considering they're the only non-dwarven group who cares about Darkspawn. Rota half-jokingly asks Blackwall about asking to join herself when this is done; she can't go back to the Carta, and if she gets a stipend to support her family, it seems like the perfect solution.

-Judith's feelings are mixed. Even knowing it was ultimately Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar, there was a feeling of disappointment in these heroes were meant to come and stop the Blight before it began. They did eventually, but by the time the Blight was ended, it was too late. Combined with learning the Wardens entrapped her father, and it all just feels very hollow to her.

[ghostwise]

Overgrown for the prompts?

She finds him in the orchard, among the flies, mold, and rotting fruit.

The sickly sweet odor of a thousand dead plums is an assault on her senses. Leonor reels back, dizzied. Nobody has tended to the orchards at Quinta de Talpa. For years they have been left to grow wild, an interruption of the ecosystem, sucking up all the water and nutrients in the soil yet feeding no one. A space dedicated to nothing more than decay.

It feels appropriate.

She has been thinking about her and Rinna’s situation. They came here looking for an escape, but lately it feels like a dead end. What once seemed like a promising start has become much like this orchard; untenable and stagnant.

By the time Mahariel reaches her she is miserable, looking at him as if he were the very cause of everything wrong in her life. It’s not too far from the truth.

“I wish you’d never come here,” she says, too angry to try and be clever with him.

Hamal looks at her, impassive and silent. His eyes shake in their usual unsteady tic, too blue to be real, strange and unsettling, but he’s listening. Most of their conversations involve him listening.

“You really fucked things up for me!” Leonor continues. “So many years trying to keep her safe and now we have a diplomatic incident on our hands because of you and your shit husband-”

“’Diplomatic’—what?” Hamal asks. Her tone combined with a reference to Zevran catches his attention, and his expression falls into a half-hearted glare. “I do not understand. What did you say about my husband?”

His Antivan is still not very good. He understands about half of what she says to him, but he knows just enough to be a real pain in the ass when he’s up to the effort of conversing. Frustrated, Leonor reaches into her pockets and produces a letter, written on good parchment, with an ornate seal.

“Who the fuck,” she begins, exasperated, “is writing to you from Orlais?” The paper crumples as she hits it for emphasis, startling him. “The fucking Left Hand of the Divine! Are you serious? How does she know you are here? Why does she even care?”

Hamal’s eyes follow the letter and he seems genuinely taken aback. “I… I do not know-”

“Read it!” She shoves the paper into his hands and takes out a dagger for good measure. “Out loud!”

Hamal glances at the letter, then at her weapon.

“Read!”

“Ya, ya, calma,” he says, unworried. “One moment. Thank you.”

Leonor is no Templar, no guard and no soldier. She watches him read in utter silence, and runs her hand through her curls, giving them a desperate tug. Finally, feeling that she might have been a tad hasty, she puts the knife away.

“Well? What does it say?” she asks.

It says she is overstepping, as usual, Hamal thinks.

Leliana, it seems, has done well for herself since the Blight. Truth be told, he is not too pleased by the letter in his hands. While most would think no news is good news, Leliana has taken it upon herself to spend time and resources tracking them down.

Hamal sighs and closes his eyes, aware of Leonor still watching him. He wishes Zevran was here to discuss this. How troubling.

“She is a friend from Ferelden,” he explains, and tries desperately to think of how to spin this in their favor. He struggles a bit with the next part. “Me ayudó… con… cuando… uhm...”

Waving a hand through the air, he brings it down in a swoop of wings.

“Raar, raar. Demonio. The Archdemon. She helped us end the Blight.”

“The Left Hand of the Divine helped you defeat the Archdemon,” Leonor repeats, and she sinks to the ground in a moody crouch. “Of course. And I suppose she and Zevran are the best of friends.”

“Yes. Friends.” Hamal forms a little twist with his fingers. “Leliana and Zevran. She wants to see us.”

“Then maybe you should go.”

Leonor covers her eyes, mortified. The Divine’s Left Hand! An army of Chantry forces will surely follow. They’ll find a decrepit estate, full of falsified documents, blood magic, assassins, apostates, tax evasion! What will become of Rinnala then, when she is no longer at her side?

Contentious relationship aside, Hamal does sympathize. He knows enough about Leonor to understand that her freedom was hard-won, and that her concerns for Rinnala mirror his own feelings toward Zevran. He steps closer, carefully, and kneels beside her.

“Rinnala does not want us to go,” he says slowly. “She has to decide. Zevran will wait for her to ask him to leave.”

Abruptly, he continues in his native language, something she vaguely recognizes as that curious Coastal Fereldan Elvhen. Different from the way the Antivan Dalish speak.

“I will write Leliana,” he says, holding a palm out and scribbling on it with his finger. “I will tell her we are well and correspond with her accordingly. I will tell her not to come. Que no venga.”

He wags a finger ‘no’.

“Zevran will agree with this plan. No Chantry forces will come to Quinta de Talpa. No Templars will ever chain you again.”

And they’ve squabbled with each other enough in these past months to have built a little bridge all their own. Some understanding, past the language barrier, past the distrust, allows her to grasp his meaning. Leonor puzzles out what he’s saying, unable to believe him, but tempted by the offer.

“Alright… alright,” she says finally. “But we are to read every letter you send. Do not try anything underhanded!”

Hamal nods. “Nothing bad. Promise.”

Leonor scoffs and pulls herself up, grasping him by the shoulder.

“Let’s go. It smells awful. Why are you even out here?”

“There are animals in the orchard,” Hamal says idly. “I was setting traps.”

“Animals?”

“Little ones. They eat the plums. Ah, hm… they go like this.” Unable to describe them, he holds out a hand and makes little motions with his fingers, like a creature scurrying. Then he bunches it up into a fist, as if the creature were curling up.

“Armadillos?” Leonor asks.

Hamal shrugs. A curious moment of peace transpires. The entire conversation has his mind spinning.

“This will work,” he tells her, glancing at her warily, “but not forever. Leliana is not the only one who will come. One day, Rinnala has to let us leave. You promise me.”

“Buddy,” Leonor sighs, “if it were up to me, you would already be gone.”

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2023 19 - Plump

Summary: Kaaras is a big guy. He's not exactly fond of that. But at least he has a nice boyfriend to help him start to like himself a little more.

---

Once again, it was morning and it was time for Kaaras to face the day.

At that moment, he found himself in front of his mirror, frowning as he stared at his reflection. Thanks to reuniting with his clan, he had proper Dalish clothing again. While it was nice to have a tunic and leggings again, part of him wished he still had to wear pants and shoes for one very important reason.

His hand was over his stomach, as it often was when he was getting dressed and had to acknowledge his body existed in the physical realm. Now, Kaaras wasn’t a stupid man – he generally knew what he weighed and how it compared to his height. Unlike his brother and cousin, he wasn’t exactly a lightweight to say the least… but knowing and seeing it were two different things unfortunately.

It wasn’t a good morning to say the least.

“If only pants weren’t so uncomfortable…” He sighed, and his hand fell to his side. Touching his gut wasn’t going to make it disappear – he knew that from years of trying it. All he could do was pull on his cardigan and use the fabric as a makeshift cover for his many insecurities. “Fuck.”

Another sigh, and he grabbed for his favorite sweater and buttoned it up. It didn’t help, but something about an extra layer of fabric soothed his frayed nerves. Maybe it was the love stitched into it from his mother.

Or maybe it was just a placebo effect.

At any rate, Kaaras adjusted his leggings and headed down the stairs. He had a lot of meetings to get to – the Inquisition wasn’t going to run itself. Unfortunately for him, he was technically in charge after all.

Next time, he wasn’t going to take the stupid sword and just tell Cassandra to fuck herself. It would’ve saved him a massive headache.

What a surprise – the meetings had run late, and now his head was vaguely hurting.

Kaaras sighed as he massaged the base of his right horn. After a long day of planning and debate, he was back in his quarters for the night. He had planned to work on a bracelet for Hissra as a thank you for her work, but his eyesight was too tired for that. So, instead he dozed on the couch, too tired to make it to his bed.

Why were all of his problems in Orlais? It had to be the masks – they cut off blood circulation or something.

“Wish I could just blow the bloody capital up… would solve a lot of my problems.”

“While that would be entertaining, I don’t think the leader of a holy army would be looked kindly upon for blowing up the Empress.”

Dorian’s voice broke the quiet of the early evening. Kaaras watched as his favorite mage made his way up the stairs, eventually coming to sit next to him on the couch. A faint smile played across his lips as he leaned in, their shoulders brushing together.

“I didn’t say I’d blow her up, just the capital.”

Dorian chuckled at his words, shaking his head. “She tends to be within the capital, you know.”

“I’ll ask around and check before I set the explosives, I’m a stickler for safety. Ask my former captains.”

Oh, who was he kidding – he didn’t care if Celene died. She was a pain in his ass. The last thing he wanted was to keep her around, but one had to keep up appearances when they were leading a holy army.

But a man could dream, he supposed.

“I suppose that would answer my question about how your day went.” Dorian’s voice was soft as he reached out to squeeze Kaaras’ hand. “Want to talk about it, or would you rather throw yourself off the balcony than think about another meeting?”

If not for the fact his hand was being held, the mere thought would make him want to launch himself into the mountains without a second thought.

“Let’s just say, Cassandra’s on even thinner fucking ice than before.” He sighed, using his free hand to rub at the base of his horn again. “Thanks to her I have the beginnings of one hell of a headache.”

Next to him, Dorian frowned. “Perhaps you should rest then? I wouldn’t want to keep you up if you’re not feeling well.”

But that would mean the mage would leave… and he didn’t want that. Kaaras was more than willing to sit with a headache if that meant he got to sit with his boyfriend. At least, that’s what he thought until the pain pulsed.

Oww.

“I don’t want to move to the bed, though, my dreams have been weird lately.” He would’ve shook his head, but pain. “Maybe I just need to rest my eyes for a bit and forget Cassandra exists.”

“Well, I can fix that.” Dorian shifted his position, moving to the edge of the couch. He then patted his leg. “Maybe this would help.”

…

Kaaras shot him a blank look as he felt his eye twitch from the pain. “I’m fine, Dorian, really. I can rest my eyes sitting up.”

A horned head in someone’s lap wasn’t especially comfortable… add in his extra weight and it would be downright painful. It was better he stay in the position he was, rather than worry about hurting the man.

His response caused Dorian to roll his eyes. “Kaaras, you’re barely sitting up. If it’s your horns you’re worried about, they’re not going to bother me.”

It wasn’t his horns he was worried about, though the tips were fairly sharp honestly. A brief, less than logical thought passed through his mind that he might crush something valuable of the man if he rested even a little weight on him.

After all, he was a lot bigger than Dorian. While he wasn’t sure how much he outweighed him, he knew he was far more solid than the mage. Add enough weight… and well, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“It’s…” He shook his head – oww. “It’s nothing, I’m fine, really.”

His remark caused his boyfriend to frown. “You don’t look fine, Kaaras.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t. The headache was getting worse, to the point that he really needed to lay down. Even standing was difficult as his headache pulsed behind his eyes, threatening to send him to his knees.

Anchor headaches. They were the absolute worst.

Careful hands were moving him – Dorian was gently directing him to lay down in his lap. Kaaras would’ve fought it, but his head hurt too much. He gingerly laid his head down, careful not to stab him with his horns, and sighed as he closed his eyes.

“Sorry.”

He couldn’t see Dorian’s face, but he could hear his voice. “No need to apologize, I’d rather be here to keep an eye on you.”

“No…” His inhibitions were down, so he wound up muttering. “Sorry I’m really heavy… you’re probably uncomfortable.”

Shame pulsed at the same rate of the headache behind his eyes. Right then, Kaaras wished the headache would kill him rather than have to exist in the moment he found himself in. He braced himself for the worse, even as the pain ramped up.

Was Dorian going to laugh at him? Agree with him? Would he pity him? That was the last thing he wanted…

“Kaaras, you’re a qunari. I expect a little extra heft.” Dorian’s voice was soft, and his hand found the base of his ear to scratch at it carefully – it was one of his favorite spots. “And it’s not like you’re breaking my legs.”

Creators forbid…

Still, his face heated up and he sunk in on himself. “There’s a difference between qunari heft and…”

He trailed off. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable is all I’m saying.”

Kaaras’ remark was met with a heavy silence. His stomach squirmed, and he wished he could disappear off the face of Thedas. He couldn’t even imagine what Dorian was thinking in that moment  - probably nothing good.

Worst of all, he had the poor man trapped. The universe hated him.

“I’m not uncomfortable.” He fingers carded through Kaaras’ hair, finding the base of his horn, and rubbing it lightly with his thumb. It sent a pleasant shiver up the qunari’s spine, which helped with the pain behind his eyes. “But you sound it.”

Of course he was… spend your life among the Dalish when he outweighed them by the time he was 12 was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

“Just… part of being me, I guess.” Kaaras winced as the headache pulsed in time with the cut on his palm. “Fuck…”

Could he just stop existing now? Better to just fucking die in his sleep than deal with this. Then again… dead weight was bad enough on its own, but his dead weight would effectively doom Dorian to be stuck there.

Maybe he could be nice and die on the floor.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you are, Kaaras.” Dorian’s voice was soft as he continued to rub the base of his horn. It did help to soften the blow a little to say the least, but it still felt like pity. He hated pity. “Really.”

Kaaras risked a weak laugh – at least that didn’t make his head hurt. “You have to admit I’m not exactly in shape like most of our companions.”

“I would argue the fact you can run through a forest without shoes while wielding two swords means you’re more in shape than you think.” A pause, then, “And who cares about them. I’m certainly not kissing any of them.”

No, he wasn’t…

But he still worried, nonetheless.

“I know this won’t stick because your brain is currently on fire… but you’re wonderful just the way you are.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “And I won’t mind saying it when you feel better. Maker knows you need to hear it more.”

Something about the tone of his voice and the soft pressure on his aching horn was doing great thing for Kaaras’ headache, to the point maybe he could believe it for a second. Or maybe that was his brain just trying to get some rest.

Either way, he would take it.

---

The next time Kaaras was conscious, it was dark outside.

His headache had subsided to a dull throb with the setting of the sun, settling into his forehead with a strange familiarity. It was something he could live with at any rate as he began to remember where he was.

Dorian looking down at him certainly helped.

“Have a nice nap?” At some point he had picked up a book and started to read it. Kaaras recognized the cover – his brother was reading the same one. Good to know their rivalry hadn’t subsided. “You looked rather peaceful in your sleep.”

Kaaras nodded as he sat up, rubbing his forehead. “I guess I needed some rest. Sorry if I kept you too long.”

The moon was high in the sky when he glanced towards the balcony – after midnight, perhaps. Dorian would have a decent walk in the dark back to where he slept, no doubt a difficult one when one was tired.

Should he…

“It allowed me to get some reading done.” Dorian inserted his bookmark between the pages with a soft touch. “But if you’re feeling better, I suppose I should take my leave.”

He stood, no doubt ready to leave. Something about it made panic shoot through Kaaras’ brain and activated his physical response. At the last moment, he reached out and grabbed the man’s hand to prevent him from leaving.

Dorian’s gray eyes met his when he looked back. “Yes?”

Kaaras’ tongue for once worked as he managed to stutter out, “It… it’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

He then quickly added, “Just to sleep, of course. I wouldn’t… it’s just a long way back to the tower and I know humans don’t see as well in the dark and…”

Even he knew he was babbling. But part of him just didn’t want to let the man go. Whether it was for safety reasons or something else he didn’t know how to address, he wanted Dorian to stay the night..

If only he could put that into words.

“Well… if you wouldn’t mind sharing your bed for sleeping.”

Dorian’s voice was soft there, like it had been before. “I don’t exactly wish to stub my toe in the dark, you see.”

Kaaras’ heart skipped a beat as he watched the mage return to the couch so he could get more comfortable for bed. It was a reminder he had to do the same – though he did so with trembling fingers.

Luckily Dorian wasn’t looking when he slipped his binder off before pulling his tunic back on. He was too focused on other things to miss the appearance of certain anatomical features Kaaras wasn’t fond of.

Well, he’d see them eventually… but with cloth it was easier.

Still, his heart skipped a beat as he approached the bed. It was big enough for two, but… the prospect still excited him. In the end, he was the first to get in, followed by the mage who all but dove under the blanket.

After a few moments, they settled in. Somehow, Kaaras wound up pressed up against Dorian’s front, nestled into his arms. No doubt it looked ridiculous with their body differences, but right then he didn’t care.

“Good night, Kaaras. Sleep well.” Dorian’s voice was in his ear as he nuzzled into his shoulder. The mage’s arms were wrapped around his abdomen, right over the stomach he hated so much… but in that moment it was hard to mind much.

It was… nice, he supposed.

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

There were no more words after that as they settled in for the night. No doubt in the morning it would be more than a little awkward… but Kaaras would worry about that when the sun was up. Right then, all was right with the world.

For the first time in ages, he found himself drifting into a peaceful sleep, Dorian’s arms around him and the human’s breath in his ear. All things considered… he could honestly get used to something like this.

Maybe… it wasn’t so bad. Maybe.

[5lazarus]

The Domestics

Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.” Read on Archive of Our Own here.

It’s snowing at Skyhold, which delays Alistair’s plans by a day. Anora cuts him loose, locking herself in the ambassador’s heated room with her furs, and he wishes he could change into less fine clothes and join the children in their snowball fight, or wander into the kitchens and see if he can sweet-talk the cook into giving him something hot and sweet to drink. He’s king, so he could ask for all the chocolate in Seheron, and doubtless the Inquisition would try to give it to him.

He walks the battlements so less people will see him and watches the battle in the courtyard below. The Inquisitor’s children seem to have made common cause with the servants’ kids against the visiting nobility; honestly it’s just a relief to see that it isn’t human against elf. Alistair, a tad self-conscious, touches his right ear. An older elf is watching them, smiling. Alistair wonders if she’s the mother of one of them below.

“Which one’s yours?” Alistair asks.

The woman says, “I’m only watching them for the Inquisitor. I’m their guard.” She’s got short black hair, threaded with silver, but her eyes are lively enough. She’s wearing green robes with a bit of Dalish-looking embroidery at the ends of her sleeves. She’s got an Orlesian accent, too. He didn’t know the Inquisition was working with elves from Orlais, didn’t Anora tell him to keep an eye out for Ambassador Briala’s livery?

“Oh.” He shouldn’t feel awkward, but he blushes anyway. He stares at the woman’s feet, toes poking out of those foot wraps, and wonders how on earth she’s not freezing. Alistair’s got a coat of heavy wool, trimmed in fur.

The woman notices he’s staring and says, matter-of-fact, “My circulatory system is different than yours. We conserve heat more efficiently than your people. Besides, I’m a mage. It’s easy to keep warm.”

That has him a bit miffed. Of course he knows elves are biologically different than humans; they can still breed, though. He’s evidence of that. He doesn’t feel the cold as intensely as the others at court, and he knows why. The servants at the palace can tell, even if he passes, for the most part. Eamon and Tegan talk all the time about how much he looks like his father, how much he looks like Cailan, but he’s seen enough portraits of them both to know how he differs.

Alistair says, again, “Oh. Cool. I’m half, you know.” It’s not that he’s discouraged from talking about it, but it’s never been something to advertise. Those with eyes to see it don’t need to be told, but right Alistair feels like he needs to justify himself, with the way she’s looking at him. Skyhold has had him wrong-footed; Leliana has been distant and he is finding it harder and harder to slip away from the King. Anora tells him that’s part of adulthood. He’s not so sure.

The woman says, “I know.”

Alistair folds his arms. “Really? Because I didn’t. What’s your name, by the way?”

The elf smiles sadly. “Fiona. I used to travel with the Grey Wardens, when I was young.”

Alistair says, “Really? The Grey Wardens don’t really let people leave. Unless, you know, you point out that yet another civil war is going to break out if they don’t let you put your ass back on the throne. What was your excuse?”

Fiona says, “I had a baby. It’s hard to keep a nursery going in the Deep Roads. The darkspawn get jealous.”

“Oh. Can’t be having that, they’re crabby enough as it is. Though I heard of a Warden who brought his cat into the Deep Roads too, scratched out the eyes of a hurlock apparently. You’re lucky, most of us can’t have kids. I can’t. Probably.” He thinks about his own natural daughter with Tabris and blushes at the lie, rubbing at the back of his head. It’s for her own good and the good of the realm he hasn’t brought her to court. It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason, and Morrigan has the spare heir anyway, if Anora can’t figure something out.

Fiona says, “I suppose it’s luck. The Circle took him away from me, and gave him back to his father.” She sounds wistful. “But under the Inquisition, the mages keep their children. It’s a different world now. There’s no going back.”

He thinks to himself, I’m not so sure—the disastrous plans for the Hinterlands, the riots in Denerim, the failure of the embassy in the Brecilian forest. He thought after the Blight, with this new alliance between elves, dwarves, and men, there would be no going back. Anora tells him it’s a struggle for the future and that reform doesn’t come in a day, perhaps not even their lifetime: sometimes they need to settle for establishing the groundwork for the next person to rule, like Maric did for them. But of course, Anora’s never had her cousin kidnapped and brutalized, or her father sold into slavery. That sort of perspective changes things.

Alistair says, “Really?” He scratches his head. “I look at things in Ferelden and wonder how things can stay so stagnant, and then you look at Orlais and how they’re eating themselves alive. And Orzammar, of course, which is basically a living fossil. People don’t like change. They’d prefer for things to stay the same, or even go back to how they were a generation ago.” He is surprised at the bitterness in his voice.

Fiona cocks her head and looks at him curiously. She says, “You’re too young to be talking like that. You must understand it comes in seasons—we flourish in spring and reap our harvest in summer, and then prepare for and suffer through the conservative reaction in winter. Sometimes it’s a harsh winter, and many do not survive. But then there is always the spring. You lived in Ferelden, you should know—from the Night Elves who freed your people from the Orlesian occupation to Clan Alerion securing the boundaries of the Hinterlands now, things have changed. You just need to…riot every so often, to make sure no one gets complacent.” She grins.

It’s nice to talk politics with someone who doesn’t know who he is, who thinks he’s just another wealthy Ferelden currying favor with the Inquisition, not a king staring down the religious cult that just carved itself a city-state at the border of his realm. Below the children are yelling. A couple of them are using magic to freeze the snowballs, and they’re having a fierce debate, interspersed with throwing said ice balls, on whether that’s fair.

Alistair says, “Then I hope you’re right. I hope the mages and the Inquisition’s made enough of a, er, spring, to shake things up. It’s good for these kids to stay with their families, I hated what the Circle did. I didn’t know my mother, growing up. Would’ve avoided a lot of angst if I’d gotten to meet her.” He thinks about Morrigan and her awful mom, and then Goldanna flashes through his mind. Ashamed, he pushes the thought away. “Or maybe it would’ve made it worse! Hard to say, I certainly don’t know!” He smiles at the woman brightly.

Fiona says, “It might have made it worse, since she was an elf. Your life would’ve looked very different, even in Ferelden.”

His heart stops. Surely she doesn’t know who he is. That could be awkward, considering what he’s been saying. Anora will be furious that he’s gone off and talked politics with another random person again. He can’t help it, he gets bored easily, and the courtiers and advisors only tell him what they think he should want to hear.

“How do you know I’m Ferelden?” Alistair asks suspiciously.

“You’re wearing the badge on your fur coat. And, of course, your accent. Unless I am mistaken?”

“No, no,” Alistair says. “But yeah. Sorry. I don’t know much about her. Don’t know if she’s still alive. Just that she was an elf. Always assumed she was a serving woman or something, if my father was anything like C-Caleb.”

Fiona says, “Sometimes it’s better not to think about it, how we came into the world. I never met my parents either.” She leans against the balustrade and shakes her head at the kids fighting in the courtyard below. They’ve devolved into outright brawling, but that weird Warden the Inquisitor keeps around her has waded into the fray, bellowing orders. “It’s good to see them playing again. They never had enough time to play.”

“When were you a Warden?” Alistair asks. “You know, my dad travelled with the Wardens too. But they didn’t make him join up—guess that’s why I’m here, ha-ha.” He wants to ask her if she ever met him, because they might have overlapped. It’s hard to tell with elves sometimes though, they age more slowly, but she looks like she’s in her late forties, a bit careworn. Then he decides he really doesn’t want the conversation to get weird, because he is a king and his father was a king, and it’s rare that someone speaks to him normally now—treats him like the lovable idiot he knows he is, not the history-breaking king.

Fiona says, “Oh, give or take thirty years or so. I try not to count the years, at my age. My people live a long time if left unmolested, but I have a knack for running into trouble.”

Alistair laughs. “Oh, me too! I don’t even mean to do it, I’ve just never learned to keep my mouth shut.” To Teagan and Anora’s chagrin, he thinks ruefully. “I was given to the Templars as a boy, before I managed to get the Wardens to take me, and Maker! The Mother despaired of me. Called me most the accidental heretic she’d ever known. Really the Wardens taking me saved my life, Maker knows what they would’ve done to me if I kept poking at them like I was.”

Fiona pauses, trying to suppress a laugh, and then says, “At least you’ve never started a war.”

Alistair laughs heartily at that. Then he realizes what she’s said. “Wait, what? You started a war?”

Fiona says, “You…you didn’t know?”

Alistair says, “Is there something I should know?”

Fiona steps away, smoothing her expression away. “Many things.” Anxiously she peers down into the courtyard, smoothing her sleeves over her hands. The two factions of Skyhold children have joined forces and are attacking Blackwall with snow, but another one of the Inquisitor’s companions has joined the fray—a cackling elvhen girl, and then Alistair sees that from the balcony of the inn there’s a mustachioed mage swatting snowballs away from his friend.

Alistair says, “You never asked me my name.”

Fiona glances at him and then turns away. “I didn’t need to. You look very much like your father. Though I suppose you must know that.”

Alistair opens his mouth and then closes it. He says, voice hoarse, “Did you ever—“ He stumbles over his words, and clears his throat. “Did you ever find out what happened to your baby? When the Circle took him away.”

Fiona hesitates. The silence between them is filled with the children laughing below, the mage grandiosely chanting what are clearly made-up words, and the old Warden dramatically pretending to be overwhelmed by the volley of snow. The elven girl is swearing revenge, right now. It looks the children are trying to steal the “body” and make a pyre out of snow.

Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

Fiona covers her face with her hands.

Alistair continues, “Then, yeah, being apostates suck. Believe me. I met a girl who lived in a swamp. But I think we could’ve made it work. Like since I pass, and I’m not magic—at least I don’t think so, but I think I’d know by now? I’m like, thirty-five. Or something. I could’ve gone to the villages and traded for food. And I would’ve known more about who I am. Than just Maric’s bastard. Who’s just a story, anyway. That’s how kings like that end up. Just stories.”

His mother is weeping now.

He says, “I have no idea how you started that war you said you did. But I think I know what I’m supposed to know.” He takes a step closer, and she doesn’t move. He says, helplessly now, “I think I have your eyes.”

Fiona leans against the balustrade, back to the courtyard below. She’s not crying now, but she’s not making any sound. Alistair is afraid to go closer. Her hands press into her face like a mask, restraining a scream. He thinks if he touches her, all that tension will explode. He gets overwhelmed like that too. Can you inherit that sort of thing? He has to wonder, does the way one expresses pain get passed down in the blood?

He waits for her to speak. A door behind them creaks open, footsteps scuffle to a stop, then retreat. The door shuts. The mage has come down into the courtyard now and is chanting what appears to be Nevarran over the pile of snow that is Blackwall’s pyre. The elven girl is leading the children in mourning—but then the mage flourishes, and the snow glows purple, then scarlet, then green as he sparks. Blackwall throws the snow off and roars. The children cheer.

Fiona breathes heavily, drawing herself out of wherever she retreated. She swipes at her face with her sleeves. She says, “Forgive me. It was better that you didn’t know. You couldn’t have become—you deserved—Maric needed—what are you going to do, I told the Divine to go fuck herself, you can’t have a mother who told the Divine—“

Alistair says, impressed, “You told the Divine to go fuck herself? I am your son, I knew it had to come from somewhere! This is your fault!” He gestures at himself, and Fiona manages a laugh.

“An exaggeration,” she says. “I merely said the Divine should fuck herself, right before we voted to dissolve the Circles and separate from the Chantry. I’d hoped to tell her that at the Conclave, which is why they sent Orsino rather than myself.” Her mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Perhaps the only time running off my mouth and losing my temper has saved my life.”

Alistair says, “Well, the Divine was kind of an ass. Somebody had to say it.” He laughs. “Oh, this is wonderful. My mother, the rebel mage.” He’s genuinely delighted, this is much cooler than anything he came up with as a boy. “This is so cool. Anora’s going to be so annoyed when I tell her. Not like she can complain, her dad betrayed the realm and got all the Wardens killed, so really on the scale of shitty in-laws, I win.” He pauses: he isn’t sure he conveyed what he wanted to by that. Fiona is just staring at him. “But seriously, I don’t know who you are. Besides, obviously, my mother.”

Fiona says, disbelief in her voice, “I’m the Grand Enchanter."

Alistair says, “Oh Maker, I should’ve recognized the belt, shouldn’t I?”

[aria-i-adagio]

45 or 48 from the touch prompts for Rhys and Dorian?

Thank you! Definitely helping with the day.

48. dancing with each other

“Inquisitor -” Josie halts and lets go of his hand and waist, shoulders rolling with exasperation. “You’re still missing the fourth step.”

“Really, it’s more of a half-step.” Rhys’s shoulders are also tight with annoyance.

“And you mix up left and right. I can’t have you tripping over every duke, duchess, and chevalier in Orlais.” Josie throws herself back into one of the more comfortable chairs in the room and props her feet up on the low table. “We only have a few days before we need to leave for Halamshiral.”

“Does anyone find it a bit gauche that the Orlesians located their pleasure palace in the former Elven capital?” Dorian looks up from his book. It’s a study of recent Orlesian history. He volunteered to make Rhys a crib sheet.

Rhys sits down beside him on the sofa and leans on his shoulder. He vaguely remembers formal dances and such from when he was a child, but it isn’t his fault that they weren’t part of the curriculum in the Circle. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I had two left hands instead of two left feet? Imagine how much more efficient closing rifts would be?”

Josie laughs. Unlike Rutherford, she isn’t overly bothered by Rhys and Dorian’s relationship. Cassie seems to be cautiously charmed. “Still, I need you to be able to get through this ball and the negotiations.”

“They’re playing to my strengths, aren’t they?” Political intrigue, schmoozing with nobility, trying to keep up with where his feet are located at any given time, stiff clothing. Josie had at least promised to modify the neckline a bit on his uniform. He can’t deal with a high, tight collar. “This might actually be the death of me.”

Dorian sets aside the book and hops to his feet, holding out one hand to Rhys. “You may just be over-thinking.” He pulls Rhys to his feet and guides him back to the open space in the center of Josie’s office. “Let’s try again. I’ll lead, you follow, maybe you can get a better sense of the steps.”

He gently rearranges Rhys’s hands then leans his head close to Rhys’s ear and whispers, “Relax, Lark. Just follow me. Okay?”

Rhys turns his head, brushing his cheek briefly against Dorian’s. “I’ll try.”

“All you need to do.”

Dorian starts counting the beats softly, and Rhys does his best to mirror the steps. Right then left, forward - no that should have been backward, and he bumps against Dorian’s chest. “Andraste’s ass.”

“It’s okay.” Dorian kisses the corner of his mouth. “Stand a little closer. Shut your eyes. Try to feel what I’m doing.”

“Alright.” Nothing else has worked. Maybe not watching what he’s doing will help. Worth a try. At any rate, standing closer to Dorian is pleasant. Rhys closes his eyes and attempts to just react to Dorian’s movements. He makes it a bit further through the sequence before side-stepping in the wrong direction and nearly toppling into the floor.

Dorian catches him with a soft laugh. “Better. You’re doing better.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Again.” He messes up Rhys’s hair. “We’re going to get it.”

It takes another half hour before Rhys makes it through the entire movement without tripping. Perhaps not elegantly, but he didn’t step into Dorian or fall into the floor. Josie claps with delight, and Dorian rewards him with a kiss. “Very good, Amatus.” He steps one leg forward, and when Rhys manages to copy the movement with the correct foot, dips him backward and kisses him, deep and long this time.

Josie laughs merrily. “Excellent. Now, if we can just teach you to lead.”

[scurvgirl]

Summer Heat

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

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

~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are insistent today.”

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

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

“Thank you, vhenan.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something funny?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1032]

He's been avoiding contacting Evelyn for information because it’d feel too much like ratting on the other three. That and Evelyn probably doesn’t know about the whole situation. She’s been deeply focused on the restructuring of the Exalted Plains’ branch of the Herald’s Rest now that Orlais has called for a temporary cease fire in the region.

And Evelyn would probably get on his ass for bothering her about something inconsequential. He could play the ‘but we’re friends’ card which would get him out of trouble just as easy, but it feels like a cheat. Then again, Evelyn could also know exactly what’s going on here and if he writes to her she’d write back with ruthless teasing. But she’d still tell him what he wants to know, anyway.

It’d be faster than trying to go through the others at the high table.

Josephine and Leliana are neatly dodging his attempts to get more details. Rutherford, when asked about who was coming down to Morrin, responded with a dry list of troop profiles.

Knowing Rutherford, it could go either way. Either the man is ignorant of the current gossip regarding Bull’s quest and the one woman who seems to be going through it like it was made for her to do in her spare time — which is entirely feasible. Rutherford isn’t the type to willingly gossip. And when he catches any of his soldiers doing it he’s always sure to break it up and remind them of their duties. — or he’s fully aware and reacting like this on purpose. That’s more likely. If he works in close quarters with Leliana and Josephine there’s some gossip that’s bound to make its way through his thick head.

It’s hard to tell on paper. The man’s sense of humor is so dry and rarely used it might as well be a withered husk buried in sand.

Thankfully, before he can make a decision on which pit viper he’s going to try and get information out of next to try his luck with, Grim unceremoniously throws his door open.

“Are you all just savage animals wearing people skin?” Bull asks as Grim points down the hall he came from. “What? I don’t hear anything breaking. It can’t be that bad.”

Grim rolls his eyes like he’s a sixteen year old, cranky teenager who’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders and an immaculate genius that’s being tarnished by breathing the same air as other people. The man should’ve been an actor.

Grim points again, free hand exaggerated as he spells out a name.

Bull it walking past him before he can sign the second ‘l’.

Someone (Stitches) has had the sense to ask the woman to stay put in time for Bull to get there and actually see her with his own eye. Or at least, that’s what it looks like when Bull bursts out of the dim hallway into he large public front of the Herald’s Rest.

He sees her in profile, first, examining the notice boards. An arm leans on the reception desk counter, fingers drumming on it. She doesn’t look irritated, though.

When he comes into the room she turns. There’s faint recognition in her eyes and nothing more. Unsurprising. That’s what he usually gets.

The Iron Bull is a famous name and with an easy to match description attached to it.

He breathes.

This is the person who collected the herbs for his vitaar. And brought in the hide of a fade touched great bear. This is the person who slayed an unannounced high dragon.

Bull approaches the counter. Stitches quickly makes himself scarce.

Dalish immediately takes his place — shoving Aclassi out of the way with a burst of magic that causes the man to go down with a high pitched yelp and a curse — because she’s nosy.

Bull ignores her in favor of studying Ellana Lavellan up close.

Dark eyes. Vallaslin for Dirthamen. Narrow lips, but the bottom is fuller than the top. Wide cheek bones. Straight lashes.

“Ellana Lavellan,” Bull says. It isn’t a question. It’d be one shitty question if so. Who doesn’t know Ellana Lavellan’s name, at this point? If he didn’t know her by now he should be sacked.

“The Iron Bull. Do you have business with me? Your man told me to wait for you,” Ellana says.

“After a fashion.” Bull wordlessly holds his hand out to the side. Dalish, with a certain amount of unearned glee, hurls the ledger at him. Bull quickly opens it. He knows the pages he needs by heart.

“Are you familiar with the running quests of Morrin Keep?” Bull asks. “The repeatable ones that are up all year?”

There’s only three.

There’s only his.

But Ellana frowns, mouth thinning further as she thinks it over. “I can’t say I am. To be honest with you I don’t pay much attention to the dates for the quests pinned to the board. I just pick whatever strikes my fancy at the time.”

Bull nods. He isn’t surprised by that.

“There’s a quest chain specific to the Morrin branch,” he explains. “Collection of felanderis, blood lotus, ghoul’s beard. Collection of one stone’s worth of fade touched hide.” His eye watches her as her eyebrow start to raise, mouth parting in a soft “oh”. “And lastly. Slaying and procuring the tooth of a high dragon.”

Bull turns the ledger to face her, tapping the next empty spot.

“Do you have one?”

Ellana slowly reaches towards her waist, hand sliding into what must be a bag of holding, as he watches her hand, then wrist, then arm up to her elbow, slide in. She pulls out a single tooth. Whole, wicked sharp, as thick as Bull’s wrist and as just as long as his forearm.

She places it on the counter between them, pushing it towards him with her fingertips. She slowly raises her hands to her neck and pulls off her adventurer’s tag, placing that next to it.

Bull holds his hand out and Dalish nearly stabs him handing him the pen.

With steady hands he records Ellana Lavellan’s name, and the new details of her upgraded tag.

“And what happens now?” Ellana asks, dark eyes cutting him down to the bone to examine him and appraise him and his intent. “As I am unfamiliar with this line, I don’t know what the reward is.”

“If you wish to claim it,” Bull answers, “The reward is myself. My time. The only question is if you want it. Do you?”

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Ar Lasa Mala Revas

Chapter 27 of The Love That Grows From Violence (post-Trespasser Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is posted!

100% fluff, smut, and more feelsy fluff. ALSO GIFT ART, which needs its own post because I am beside myself with feels. 😭❤️

~9700 words so long omfg. Only the first part is posted here. Read the whole thing on AO3. 

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

A few days later, when the sky was a curtain of deep midnight blue studded with stars, Tamaris sat on the roof curled into Felassan’s shoulder, watching as the smoke of their shared joint drifted from his mouth in delicate wisps and curls. 

He offered her the joint, and she took it and brought it to her lips. “What do you think we should do when we finally leave this house?” she asked.

He leaned back casually on one hand. “It depends on what’s happening in the world by the time we are ready to leave. Who knows? Maybe the qunari will start moving south by then. Or maybe Tevinter will succeed at pushing the qunari back.” He smiled cheekily. “Maybe someone will assassinate the Emperor of Orlais in a sudden coup d’état.”

Tamaris lifted an eyebrow and blew out a stream of smoke. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to set up for such a coup.”

“Would that I had the resources to set up something so devious,” he said. “But that would probably plunge your world into even more chaos, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Thank you for that very wise spy advice,” she said wryly.

He nodded politely. “You’re very welcome.”

She smirked and took another drag from the joint, then blew out a little cloud of smoke and held out the joint. “Seriously though. Isn’t there anything you want to do? Barring the stuff that we might have to do. Isn’t there anywhere you’d like to travel to?”

He took the joint. “It would be interesting to visit the Arbour Wilds — to see the Temple of Mythal again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There’s no one there anymore.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s perfect for scavenging. There might be clues as to where Mythal’s dragon or her amulet are being kept, or whether her dragon is even alive anymore. It is possible that the Well of Sorrows was not the only sacred treasure they were guarding.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “Oh shit. That’s true. Okay, we should go there.”

“We could,” Felassan said. “Or we could go somewhere else.”

She gave him a chiding look, and he smiled unconcernedly and handed her the joint. “Where do you want to go, avise? Which direction would we strike out in if you were given the choice?”

She sighed and gazed idly at the smouldering tip of the joint. “I… ah, I’ve been thinking for a while that I should go see my clan. Those who aren’t in Wycome still, I mean.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re a short ways from Starkhaven right now,” she said. “It’s not that far from Kirkwall, so I don’t really have an excuse.”

He cocked his head. “You were avoiding them?”

She hesitated. She genuinely hadn’t had time to go see her clan after the explosion at the Conclave, and things had only gotten busier from a political and peacekeeping standpoint after Corypheus was dead. 

But if Tamaris was honest, it was more than just Inquisition business that had stopped her from visiting her clan. And there was a reason she had volunteered to spy on the Conclave in the first place, all those years ago.

She brought the joint to her lips. “I was avoiding them, yeah.”

“Why?”

“I was…” She sighed, then gave Felassan a hard look. “I love my clan, all right? I love them, and I think they’re great. But Dalish clans grow up knowing every bit of each other’s business. We’re very close, and it’s very hard to keep secrets. It’s part of what makes us such a tight community — the entire clan is really just one big family. There are no strangers in a clan, only family.” She ran her hand through her hair. “But it also makes it difficult to… to forget when something bad happens to someone.”

He tilted his head. “You were constantly reminded of Marin.”

“Yes,” she said. “And – look, it’s not that I want to forget him. I – I’ll never forget him. He’s been dead for years and I still think of him almost every day. But it’s one thing to think of him randomly because something reminds me of him, and it’s another thing to think of him because he’s all anyone ever sees when they look at me. When he’s all I ever thought about when I looked at my parents.” She exhaled hard and rubbed her forehead. “The Inquisition was a pain in the ass a lot of the time, but I was able to… I wasn’t ‘poor Marin’s sister’ anymore, and that was… gods, I feel like an asshole saying it, but it was a relief.”

“You had a chance to start over,” Felassan said.

She looked at him. His tone was neutral but his eyes were warm, and her shoulders loosened at his lack of judgment. “Yes,” she said. “I was able to… to be someone who wasn’t forever tied to my failure to protect my family. And as the Inquisitor, I became the opposite. I was the person they saw as the one who protected everyone.” She snorted and lifted the joint to her mouth once more. “Fucking ironic, isn’t it?”

“Did your clan really see you as someone who failed to protect your family?” he asked.

She blew out a mouthful of smoke. “I was someone who failed to protect my family. He got dragged off because I couldn’t talk the Templars into calming down.”

Felassan smiled faintly. “I hardly believe that the Templars were inclined to listen. Especially if Marin had already hurt some of them.”

Tamaris swallowed hard. “He, uh… he killed one of them, actually. And hurt a couple more. But he didn’t mean to.”

Felassan nodded an acknowledgement. “If that’s the case, his fate was sealed, and not by you. That wasn’t your fault.” He took the joint from her fingers.

She frowned at him. “What do you mean, his fate was sealed? You really think there was nothing I could have done?”

“Oh, something could certainly have been done,” Felassan said. “But I doubt your clan was willing or ready to start a war against the Chantry.”

Tamaris stared at him as he brought the joint to his lips. “You’re being pretty cold-hearted about this,” she accused.

He released a mouthful of smoke before replying. “Cold-heartedness is not my intention. My intention is to point out that it was not your fault. Look at the bigger picture, and you’ll realize that short of pitting your clan against the Templar Order, there was little you could have done.” He held out the joint to her.

She glared at him, then looked away and took a breath to calm herself. He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t told herself at one point or another, though she never quite believed her own pep talks in this regard.

She believed Felassan, though. Galling as it was to admit, it meant more to hear him saying this than telling it to herself. 

He was still talking. “There was little you could have done at that time, at least. From what I read in This Shit Is Weird, you certainly had a hand in what happened to the Templar Order after the Conclave.”

She frowned slightly as she took the joint from him. “What do you mean?”

“You publicly supported the mages over the Templars,” he said. “The Templars’ ranks were decimated, save for those who came over to your side.”

“Yeah, but the Templars still exist,” Tamaris said.

“You tore them down to their foundations,” he said. “And the person who ultimately controls them now is your former spymaster. They may have taken Marin from you, but you saw that they were taken to heel. It took time, but you got your justice in the end. The hottest flames take some time to build, avise,” he said knowingly. He pulled from the joint, then exhaled the smoke and shot her a sly smile. “Some might even say you took the Vir’Felassan.”

The way of the slow arrow, she thought. She gazed at him with a combination of exasperation and affection. Trust him to find some way of seeing her haphazard stumbling with the Inquisition as a convoluted but purposeful path toward a bigger goal.  

She pulled from the joint, then let out a sigh of smoke and leaned into his side once more. “Anyway, that’s, um… yeah. That’s part of the reason I haven’t been back to see my clan.”

“What’s the rest of the reason?” he asked.

She lifted an eyebrow sardonically. “Um, that I was fucking the Dread Wolf and didn’t know it?”

He snorted a laugh. “Letting the Dread Wolf take you would have caused a stir, I imagine.”

Tamaris smirked and held out the joint, and his fingers brushed hers as he took it. “Are there none in your clan who joined his ranks?”

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “There were some. Maybe a dozen in total.”

Felassan smiled faintly. “Whatever happened to ‘the clan is family’?”

Tamaris tsked and punched him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be an asshole. We’re a family, not a bunch of single-minded drones like the qunari. If some of them got swayed by the messages that  Solas’s operatives were putting out, I can’t blame them.” She shot him a resentful look. “You know what does piss me off, though? Solas looked down on the Dalish so much, then he goes and recruits us anyway. That’s pretty fucking manipulative.”

“It is, yes,” Felassan said.

She frowned. “That’s all you have to say about it?”

He gave her a knowing look that was tinted with melancholy. “Don’t tell me you never manipulated anyone during your time as the Inquisitor. Don’t tell me such a lie.”

She wilted. “Fine, fine, you have a point.” Truthfully, she didn’t have it in her to be particularly angry anymore about the little things Solas had done. With everything that was brewing across the continent these days, it almost felt like she should save her anger for when it would serve her the most.

There was another brief and slightly morose pause as they passed the joint back and forth. Then, as usual, Felassan broke the silence. “So you want to go visit your clan, then?”

“I should,” she said.

He nodded and blew out some smoke, and there was another pause — one that felt loaded this time. As the silence stretched between them to an increasingly awkward degree, Tamaris’s heart began to thrum with nerves. 

Just fucking ask, she scolded herself. She chewed the inside of her cheek, then took a deep breath. “Felassan, will you come visit my clan with me?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “What else would I be doing?”

Her heart flipped in her chest. She stared incredulously at him until his lips curled in a smile. “Why are you gaping at me?” he asked.

“I…” She trailed off for a second, then gave him a skeptical look. “What, no questions, no complaints? Just yes?”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Was I unclear when I said we would be travelling together when we leave this house? If you’re going to see your clan, then so am I.”

A warm feeling spread through her ribcage and up to her cheeks. “But you don’t like the Dalish,” she said weakly. “You think we’re close-minded and all that shit.”

He shrugged and extinguished the butt of the joint on the roof. “It’s possible that I was wrong. About your clan, at the very least.”

She scoffed. “Possible, huh?”

He gave her a chiding smirk. “I can eat my own words, avise. They’re especially tasty when you slather them with evidence of the ways that I was wrong.”

She grinned goofily at him, then laughed and tucked a stray lock of hair over her ear. “A man who happily admits when he was wrong? What a catch. Maybe I shouldn’t take you back to the clan. All the unattached hunters will try to snap you up.”

“They can’t snap me up,” he said. “You’ve already caught me.”

Her heart leapt. She suddenly remembered the conversation she’d had with Dorian — that conversation where she’d described her feelings for Felassan: he caught me thoroughly. Now, to hear Felassan describing himself in a similar way…

He chuckled. “Tamaris, if you smile any wider, your face may split in two.”

She laughed giddily and shoved him. “Fuck you.”

He hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her close to kiss her temple, and they scuffled playfully for a moment before settling together once more.

Tamaris sighed happily and patted his thigh. “My mother might ask what your intentions are for me.”

“Hm,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Then I should probably come up with an answer that won’t make your face turn a deep and charming shade of red.”

She scoffed. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

“Thank you, Tamaris,” he said pleasantly. “I try.”

She beamed at him, then settled snugly against his side. They were quiet for a moment, and Tamaris indulged herself in a girlish fantasy of Felassan meeting her parents and telling half-sarcastic stories to her clan, then curling up with her in an aravel in the fragrant quiet of the woods: a stolen moment of peace before they went on to do more important things. 

She eventually squeezed his thigh. “Is there anything else you want to do when we leave the house? Like… trying to find Briala, maybe?”

He huffed in amusement. “You really want me to find her, don’t you?”

“I just think it’s sad that she doesn’t know you’re okay. Or that you’re even alive,” Tamaris said. “Whether you think she needs your help or not, I bet she’d want to hear from you.”

“She will,” Felassan assured her. “We’ll get a message to her.”

“How?” Tamaris asked.

“I was thinking of scratching obscure symbols into trees for her to find.” He smirked at Tamaris. “It’s the kind of thing she used to think the Dalish would do.”

She gave him a chiding look. “Felassan.”

He sighed dramatically. “All right, since you insist. I was thinking about coded letters, sent to different places where her most loyal cells used to be. The code would have to be premised on knowledge that she and I share, but not something Fen’Harel would know as well.”

She straightened with interest. “Do you have a code like that already?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But I’ll think of something.”

Tamaris nodded, then hesitated before asking her next question. “Do you miss her?”

“Does a dandelion miss its seeds when they drift away to conquer new fields?”

Tamaris tsked. “You’re dodging.”

He smiled faintly, then leaned back casually on his palms. “Truthfully, I didn’t have time to miss her. I was made Tranquil the same night that I left her. Then I had no capacity to miss anyone or anything. When Cassandra restored me, I was… I felt too much of everything. How can I know if I missed her when I was caught in a cycle of euphoria and misery and rage?” He glanced at Tamaris. “A better question might be whether I thought of her, and the answer is yes; I thought of her often.”

Tamaris nodded. “I bet she misses you.”

Felassan gave her a chiding smile, and she nudged him with her shoulder. “I’m serious. I bet she would love to see you.”

“She doesn’t need to see me,” Felassan said. “I taught her to stand proudly on her own bare little feet.”

“Who cares about needing to see you?” Tamaris retorted. “I’m sure she wants to see you. Besides, you can’t possibly think the only value you had to her was as her teacher.”

Felassan made a mock-sad face. “That almost feels like an insult to my value as a teacher.”

Tamaris turned to face him fully. “You’re not just a tool, Felassan,” she said fiercely. “You’re not just here to be useful to people. There’s no way Briala spent sixteen years learning from you and didn’t give a shit about you.” She lifted her chin belligerently. “I think we should find her.”

Felassan smiled. “Is this going to be your mission, then? To broker a reunion between me and Briala?”

“If that’s what it’ll take for you to see that you’re worth more than your value as a spy or a teacher or a source of fucking information, then yes,” she snapped.

His smile softened, and he gently chucked her chin. “Easy, avise. You’ll set your hair on fire if you burn any brighter than this.”

She glared at him, irritated by how dismissive he was being. “You’re important, okay? And not because you’re a good spy or a useful ancient elf or any of that shit.”

His eyebrows rose. “Only a good spy? You wound me.”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” she snapped. “I don’t care about the spy stuff or the mage stuff or the fact that you know shit about the past. I… those things don’t matter. You’re…”

She faltered, feeling awkward about the depth of her feelings, but Felassan’s smile only grew wider. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t stop yourself before you get to the good bit.”

She curled her lip. “Are you looking for me to list all your best qualities?”

“If you’re so inclined, I wouldn’t say no,” he replied.

She scoffed. He was so annoying. “You want me to jack you off while I’m at it?” she said snidely.

He burst out laughing. “How can I say no to a seductive offer like that?”

The treasured sound of his laughter rang straight to her heart. She tutted and folded her arms, and Felassan chuckled and pulled her against his side. “Are you aware that your pouting just makes you more charming?” he said.

“You’re smart, all right?” she burst out. “You’re so smart and perceptive. You can see both sides of things — well, most of the time at least, and when you don’t, you own up when you’re wrong. You make me laugh and you’re so fucking patient and–”

Felassan laughed and wrapped his arm around her. “Tamaris, you can stop. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do, because you need to hear it,” she snapped. “Your value isn’t what you can do for people. It’s who you are. I don’t give a fuck if you never became a spy again or if you couldn’t cook or if you can’t totally control your magic. I’d still love you anyway.”

He grinned at her, and Tamaris’s heart somersaulted in her chest; his mouth was curled with mirth, but his beautiful violet eyes were glittering. 

He smoothed his hand over her hair. “Affectionate and abrasive at the same time. That is one of the reasons that I love you.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to shut the fuck up. Instead, she cradled his cheek in her palm and kissed him. He pulled her closer as he returned her kiss, and by the time he broke their kiss to pant against her parted lips, she was practically sitting in his lap. 

He brushed his lips to hers. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured.

Read the rest on AO3 because I’m a monster and a horrible tease. 😂

[x688plsloveme]

Parallels

An elven mage closes the breach with the assistance of the other elven mage and the demons finally stop pouring out. Varric would be more ecstatic if he wasn't so exhausted. He catches his breath and looks up at he new "Hero™" of this journey just in time to see her turn around and-

He chuckles to himself. All that's different from her is the dark red vallasline that accents her left eye and the shape of her ears.

Otherwise, she's a spitting image of one Marian Hawke. Same beautiful raven hair, if a bit longer, and captivating bright blue eyes that draw you in immediately. The confidence that oozes off of her every move that comes with years of experience and discipline as a mage that battles with her mind just as much as other people. There are differences too but - Seeing her still gives him a pang of homesickness that he quickly covers up with his standard charm before anyone is the wiser.

Solas goes on to tell her that she's the key to their salvation. Varric didn't need to see what that mark could do to notice that, she's got all the makings of a great hero already - from her demeanor to her fighting prowess - looks like he found himself in another big story for the ages. But for now, he's just glad to get rid of the demons.

"Good to know. Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." He turns his gaze directly on her and is suave as can be when he introduces himself.

"Varric Tethras. Rouge, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong." He throws a wink at Cassandra ad he says that, she gets riled up so easily it'd be a crime not to ruffle her feathers a little.

He almost laughs out loud again when the first thing the hero says to him is, "That's...a nice crossbow you have there." Hawke said the same thing when they first met, her face was entirely lit up in youthful wonder and mirth. They were both young and optimistic then but years would pass and she never stopped looking at him like he was the coolest thing in the room. Hell, she could be fighting a dragon and would stop if he started telling a story. Nothing could beat having her full attention on him as he exaggerated every detail of everything he said up until it was so ridiculous it would make her laugh and laugh until she was leaning against him fully or had fallen off the chair altogether while all he could do was stare and wonder how he could be so lucky-

Maker he missed her.

It's reflex more than anything when he replies fast with, "Ah, isn't she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together."

Cue the question about the name-

"You named your crossbow Bianca?"

There it is.

"Of course. And she'll be great company in the valley." The two smile pleasantly at each other and Varric can already tell he'll get attached too quickly like he always does-especially when she backs him up when Cassandra objects to him going with them. He got so caught up in his own head that he doesn't even realize he didn't catch her name until she tells it to Solas.

She smiles sweetly at the apostate. "My name's Verania. It's a pleasure to meet all of you," he catches Cass looking skeptical. She catches it to and laughs-that at least is different from Hawke and he's glad for it. It wouldn't be good for his heart.

"Yes even you Cassandra. I would be suspicious of me too if I were in your shoes." The woman mentioned rolls her eyes and walks a bit away but they can tell she's pleased with that answer.

The trio get back to talking while they catch their breath and heal up for a bit and they all get along well for the most part, but what isn't picked up by the rest of the party is the immediate interest Verania has in their friendly neighborhood apostate elf. She tries to keep the conversation with him going as long as she can and of course he sneakily slides in the fact that Solas kept her alive while she was knocked out. Can you blame Varric for helping? He loved playing matchmaker.

After a few more moments the trio walk over to the warrior, who was a powerhouse and didn't need to rest so insisted on keeping watch for the five minutes they were talking, and they begin their short yet eventful walk to the forward camp.

_______________

As Varric watches Verania stand in the middle of a dozen demon corpses surrounded by magic and glowing green light as she holds her hand up high without hesitation or fear, blue eyes standing out in the sea of colour, he realizes that Hawke will have to wait for his return. Something about her is so inspiring he can feel fate tugging on him to follow her wherever she'd need him to go. This is going to be bigger than him, bigger than Kirkwall, bigger than even his closest loved ones. The woman that stands before him defying logic and radiating hope for the first time since all this began is going to make or break the world. And he knows he wouldn't dare miss it for all the gold in Orlais.

At least it'll make a good story.

[trvelyans-archive]

remembrance

commission of solas and avira for the wonderful @lavellanlove ! i’ve stanned avira for several years so the fact i got to write for her is RIDICULOUS to me, maia from 2 years ago wouldn’t believe it lol. thank you for commissioning me, lovely ! i hope you enjoy <3 

solavellan, 5000 words, fluff/romance/angst

-

Varric has made a habit of befriending the new recruits.

They always have questions, and he’s always happy to answer.

Tonight, in the mess hall, it’s a short, red-headed elf with big ears and enough freckles to replace all the sand on Antivan beaches and then some. She’s from Orlais, she told him, from the Val Royeaux alienage, and even though he probably has even more questions about her after learning that, he doesn’t get the chance to ask them.

Because, of course, all anyone wants to talk about is the Inquisitor.

Especially nowadays. It’s hard to ignore the tension in the air when it hangs there, so hot and thick like it’s breathing down the back of your neck. Avira and Solas – if Varric can really even call him Solas anymore – are at a stalemate, and everyone’s just waiting for one of them to knock the other off the chessboard. And then, of course, for the entire board to explode into splinters and leave nothing but dust behind.

Tonight, though, everyone’s drunk or tired enough to pretend things are peaceful, and Varric isn’t going to pass up an opportunity to feel the same. Especially when there are plenty of recruits looking for company, and Varric’s looking to give it.

The elf’s chin is practically to the table with how far she’s bending in her chair to avoid Avira’s watchful eye as she strolls through the room. “She’s scary,” the girl comments.

“Is she?” Varric turns around in his chair to look at her. “Didn’t notice.”

“What?” she says. “How can you not notice? She’s… she’s…”

“I don’t know, kid,” he replies, turning back around to smirk at her. “Once you know someone long enough, see them at some low, low points -”

“Like what?” She pushes herself off of her chair, practically throwing herself across the table to get up-close in Varric’s face as she whispers, “Like when the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel abandoned her?”

He chuckles. “Hey, it wasn’t quite like that –“

“Well, what was it like, then?”

Ah. It always comes to this. Normally, Varric’s not one for gossip, but – well, okay, that’s a lie. But normally, he’s not one for gossip that could result in him getting his ass kicked by one of the most powerful women in Thedas, except, this time, it feels like it’d end up being pretty beneficial to the cause. All things considered, these young recruits they’ve wrangled up are probably going to end up doing a lot better for Avira if Varric strikes the fear of the Maker into them first. Even if it’s just a little. Also, it can be pretty entertaining (and sometimes Varric needs desperately to be entertained). When it comes to talking about Avira, people flock to Varric like they’re a bunch of little kids and he’s a grandmother reading them a well-worn copy of The Seer’s Yarn with a plate of elfroot cookies cooling off in an open windowsill.

Varric leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking his boots up onto the table.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replies, grinning. “To be honest, kid, they were weren’t always like this…”

-

Solas didn’t ever really leave his little corner of Haven.

If he wasn’t reading in his cabin (the one he unfortunately shared with several other members of the Inquisition, to his unspoken but very obvious dismay), he was outside, watching. Watching the hustle and bustle of the small town that had been thrown chaotically into the middle of the greatest catastrophe to grace the face of Thedas in recent history (including the Blight); watching the soldiers, young and old, mill about their day, occasionally sporting a new limp or cradling their newly sprained arm against their chests in a sling; watching, more often than not, the new Herald of Andraste – not that she ever liked to be called that - wander around between the buildings, talking to people, talking to herself, too, sometimes.

Maker, did that elf watch her.

Varric couldn’t help but watch him do it, either. No matter how long he did, he couldn’t tell what Solas wanted from her (though that was mainly because he couldn’t tell much of what Solas wanted at all, and that was after he’d spent more than enough sleepless nights with him). Did he want money? Connections? A promise that the Templars wouldn’t go after him if he changed his mind and left?

Something… more?

Not that the elf seemed like he was looking for that kind of thing, especially not right now. Still, Varric couldn’t quite put his finger on what Solas wanted.

And he was dying to know.

But one night, it just so happened that he was hanging out in the grumpy apothecary’s Adan’s cabin when, through the open window, he heard the Herald and Solas talking.

So he waved a hand at Adan to shush him and listened in curiously as he stuffed his salves into his pocket.

“The advisors are pleased with the outcome of our expedition to the Fallow Mire, I take it?”

Avira tugged on her glove, fitting it more smoothly over her hand. “Yes, they are,” she answered.

Solas nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I agree – it was not an easy journey…”

“No, it was not.”

Varric could’ve told them that much. He still had water in his boot.

They were facing away from each other, staring out at the town as the sun set, slanting orange-pink light across the freshly fallen snow. That seemed like it should have been the end of the conversation, but both of them lingered, anyway.

“A crow flew in this morning for Leliana,” Avira continued after a long moment of silence. “Attached to it was a message from a scout. They explored the Fallow Mire further after we departed for Haven, and found an old road that leads to the mountains.”

“Hm. That will prove to be useful, I suspect.”

“It will,” she replied, “though the advisors have left it up to me to decide what the route should be used for.”

“I see.” Solas tilted his head to look at her. “What are your options?”

“Josephine claims that merchants will pay a great deal for the knowledge of the road,” Avira explained, “and, knowing merchants and traders well, I agree. Commander Cullen suggested we use it as an easier travel route for Inquisition soldiers. The Spymaster, however, suggested we hide all records of it away and use it as a route for her agents.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said nothing more, looking back out at the town.

“What do you think?”

Solas turned to her again. “You wish to hear my opinion?” he asked.

She turned to him, too. “Yes,” she replied. “I do. Unless you do not wish to give it –“

“Hm.” Solas clasped his hands behind his back and looked skywards. “I think that the Spymaster’s scouts could make good use of it.”

“Yes, I agree.”

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly enough that Varric almost missed it. “Is that your decision?”

“I was considering it.” She tilted her face towards the town once more. “I have until tomorrow morning to decide.”

“I believe that you will come to a suitable conclusion.”

“I do, too.” Avira nodded in his direction. “Thank you for your input. Have a good night, Solas.”

“You as well.”

Varric heard the next day that they designated the route for Leliana’s scouts.

-

Everyone in the travelling party had paired up with someone else to wind down for the night. A fire was burning, the ale was about as cold as it could be when it had been carried around in a bottle at the bottom of Varric’s pack for the past week, and the food, while not entirely appetizing, was filling, which meant they would all have enough energy to continue on their journey the next morning.

Varric didn’t have any energy left, so he was kind of glad, for the moment, that everyone had decided to ignore him, and he was left sitting by himself in the middle of one long, cold log beside the campfire, listening. (Maybe taking notes of lines he could us in his next book.)

The Iron Bull’s chair was tipped back against a large tree, and Enchanter Vivienne stood in front of him with her hands on her hips as they exchanged some sort of heated discussion. On the other side of camp, closer to the cluster of tents at the mouth of the shallow cave, were Solas and Avira, plucking handfuls of bread from the same loaf and eating it while the other spoke.

“… And so he gave me half of his stock,” Avira said, smiling at the memory. “Half of all of it. The Clan was fed for weeks… Some of the older members didn’t like it, mind you – they thought that it tasted too differently from the food they were used to – but the children…”

“I am sure they enjoyed it.”

“They did,” she replied. “Absolutely, they did. I had to learn how to make a few of the recipes from scratch just so they’d stop pestering me about it – well, I suppose I didn’t make it for them, but… well… you know what I mean.”

“Your clan,” Solas said after he swallowed a mouthful of bread he had been chewing. “Have you heard from them?”

She nodded. “I’ve received a few letters,” she responded. “Not as much as I’d like.”

He was silent for a moment before clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Taken aback, Avira blinked at him. “What for?” she asked, her voice a murmur.

“It must be difficult,” he replied slowly. “To be so far away.”

“It would only be one ship from Denerim to Wycome,” she tried to say, forcing a smile before letting it falter and flicking her eyes away from him. “Yes, it is difficult. Do you find it difficult to be away from your home?”

Solas was staring at the ground while he plucked absentmindedly at his handful of bread. Neither of them were looking at each other anymore, but Varric could tell they were still tuned into each other’s movements. “I have seen far too many things to miss my past,” he responded.

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me all about your ancient ruins and lost civilizations,” she teased.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am sorry,” he told her. “Since you seem to think my stories are boring, I will try to act more like Varric in the future if that would please you.”

(Varric resisted saying anything about that, because he was actually slightly flattered.)

“I was joking, Solas,” Avira replied, rolling her eyes when he wasn’t looking and reaching forward to wrangle another handful of bread from the loaf. “In truth, I think you are anything but. You - I mean, er, your stories – are… endlessly fascinating.”

He glanced over at her again. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Before Avira could pull her hand away, Solas moved forward to grab a handful of bread for himself. Their fingers brushed. They both tensed.

And then Solas smiled, but it didn’t feel very honest. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night,” he said under his breath, grabbing the cloth that the bread had been wrapped in and stowing the rest of the loaf in his bag. “It is getting late, and you will need to be well-rested for our journey tomorrow.”

Avira frowned. “Solas, if I –“

“Please,” he interrupted, holding a hand up and tilting his head towards her. “You did nothing wrong. I have just realized how tired I am after the day’s travels, and would like to get some sleep before morning.”

“Liar,” she teased, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. “You’re just going to take a dance through the Fade and see if you can find anything interesting.”

“Perhaps I am,” he replied. “If I do, I will be sure to tell you about it.”

-

Now, in the mess hall, the short elf with red hair wrinkles her nose at Varric. “That’s it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, no,” he says, “there’s much more to it than that.”

-

On a similar night a few months later, after Haven had been destroyed and the Inquisition had moved into Skyhold, Varric was on guard duty in their makeshift camp when he heard a rustling behind him.

He spun around in his chair, aiming his crossbow into the shadows between the Inquisition tents. As big of a disaster he was sure Hightown – and all of Kirkwall – would be at that time, he’d take that over sitting in the middle of the woods at night with his thumb up his ass any day. He breathed out slowly, standing up from his seat and looking for the source of his noise.

It came from his left. He spun around and, before his vision adjusted, leveled his crossbow at Solas’s chest, who had been emerging from Avira’s now-dark tent with a book in his hand.

“Oh,” Varric said as he pointed his crossbow to the ground. “Shit, sorry.”

“Did I scare you, Varric?” Solas asked with a coy smile.

“No,” he replied. “What are you doing awake right now? It’s my turn to take watch.”

Unfortunately.

“I was…” Solas let out a short huff. “I was speaking with the Inquisitor.”

“What, did an assassin get into her tent or something?”

“No,” Solas replied. “Nothing of the sort. She had posed a question to me earlier I wished to answer before she fell asleep. Anyway,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, “good night, Varric.”

He headed off towards his own tent, clearly wanting to get away from the conversation, but Varric was grinning widely. “Not a chance,” he said, hurrying after the elf. “Seriously, what were you doing in there?”

“I told you,” Solas said, “I –“

“Yeah, yeah, she had a question, you answered it.” Varric pushed his crossbow into the ground and leaned against it. “What’s the deal with the two of you?”

“I do not know what you –“

“Oh, come on,” Varric interrupted. “You can cut the bullshit with me, elf, I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Solas said.

“Sure,” Varric said. “You can keep telling yourself that.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from further discussion of my relationship with Avi- the Inquisitor,” he told Varric. “It is none of your concern.”

“Alright,” Varric replied, throwing a hand up in defense. “If you’re going to get your underclothes in a twist about it…”

“And I will take watch for an hour or so,” he continued, pointedly ignoring Varric’s taunt. “I am not tired, and I would like to finish this chapter of the book I am reading by the fire.”

“I can keep you comp-“

“I will take watch,” Solas repeated. “Good night, Varric.”

Varric stared at him coolly for a moment before chuckling, pulling his crossbow from where he had thrust it into the dirt to lean on and slinging it over his shoulder again. “Alright, I get the message,” he replied. “Just… be careful, okay? These woods can be… well, pretty scary.”

Solas nodded and sat down by the fire, opening his book to what seemed to be a random page and looking down at it while Varric, incredibly tempted to continue bothering about it, disappeared into his tent.

Not five minutes later when he poked his head out to make sure the elf was still there did he see him standing in front of Avira’s tent once more, moving his hands in circular motions and muttering something under his breath while wisps of green light floated in front of him.

It took some thinking, but eventually it hit Varric: Solas was casting wards over her tent. To keep her safe, presumably – after all, if she died, everything they’d accomplished so far would have been for nothing. But maybe there was another reason he was doing it. In any case, Varric was certain that the elf wasn’t doing it for anyone else in their party.

He laughed as he closed the flaps of the tent once more, shaking his head as he flopped down onto his bedroll and snuffed the light in his lantern out.

-

Solas had cut himself on the pages of his book.

To be fair, it was dark out – which is why Varric didn’t even know he was reading in the first place, but that’s besides the point – and he was also sitting relatively far away from the fire compared to the rest of the group. (Well, compared to Varric and Dorian, who had slumped over against the log with his fingers still curled around the handle of a cup.) He was frowning but didn’t protest as Avira smoothed some sort of ointment over the cut with her thumb, holding his wrist in place with her other hand, occasionally stroking the pads of her fingertips over his veins.

He also didn’t protest as she kept on giggling.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “You come out of fights unscathed every day and reading a book is what makes you bleed?”

“Yes, yes,” Solas replied, watching her, “it is very amusing, Inquisitor. Would it not be more efficient to use healing magic, instead?”

“I promise this will work,” Avira answered, looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “I made the salve myself, and I used it on a cut of my own last week.”

He didn’t seem to be convinced, watching her work with the slightest wrinkled nose. Avira picked it up on and swatted gently at his forearm, smiling in annoyance. “I do know what I am doing, Solas,” she said somewhat defensively. “My mother taught me how to make the salve back when I was child. I still have the recipe written down somewhere.”

“Did you learn much from her, working alongside her in the clinic?”

“Yes.” She sat back on her heels, reaching into her pack and pulling out a roll of bandages. “She showed me a few little tricks like this.”

Solas was still watching her, fiddling with the fingers of his folded hand which sat impatiently in his lap. “And your father?”

“He kept me sane,” she said with a gentle laugh. “Taught me how to fight, told me stories.” Her eyes flickered to his face. “Not as good as yours, of course,” she added with a hint of cheek.

Solas probably would’ve rolled his eyes if he didn’t seem so transfixed by her working. And if he wasn’t so exhausted. Maker, they were all exhausted. If Varric wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation, he would have retired to his tent an hour ago. “Did you enjoy living in Amaranthine?” Solas asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, then frowned. “There were… parts of it I liked, some I didn’t. I wish my mother let me explore the city more.”

“She wanted to protect you.”

“I felt so… stifled.” Avira unrolled the bandages and tore a short strip off from the rest. “I know she wanted to protect me, but… Perhaps I could have found something to protect her with. Instead the Darkspawn assaulted the city, and I left without them…”

“I’m sure your parents would not regret their decision,” he said in reassurance, pushing his hand a little closer to her so she could wrap the cloth around his finger. “Saving you… That was most important to them.”

“I know that,” she replied. “I know that, I just… They were my parents.” Her eyebrows gathered together in the middle of her forehead while she concentrated on tying the bandage in a knot. “We were supposed to join the Dalish together… I was not supposed to nearly die on my way to find them and wake up in their camp days later by myself.”

“It was worth it,” he said. “That you lived. Everything…” He cleared his throat. “Everything was worth it because you lived.”

She secured the bandage tightly around his finger, but didn’t move her hands away. “Thank you, Solas.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said with a smile, pulling his hand out of her grasp and flexing his fingers. “You have better things to do than tend to my wounds, and yet you do so anyway.”

“Just out of the goodness of my heart,” she replied.

“Yes, I did not expect you to have done it for any other reason.”

He was still smiling at her. She didn’t seem to notice – she was too busy smiling herself.

Then Avira stood up and stretched her arms above her head, bending down to wipe the dirt from her knees afterwards. “Is it a good book you’re reading, at least?” she asked him, sitting down beside him on the bench and gesturing towards it. “Some Orlesian mystery novel, perhaps?”

“No, no, hardly that exciting,” he responded. They shared a laugh.

“Is it one you’d be willing to share with me?”

He glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps,” he answered. “We have not finished our other one yet.”

“That’s because it isn’t very good, Solas,” she said. “Maybe I should pick the next book for us to read together.”

“Yes,” he replied, “maybe you should.”

“If you’re not reading, then would you like to come on a walk with me?” She stood up again and held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “I saw a clearing earlier today that probably has a wonderful view of the moon…”

Solas looked at her outstretched hand for a moment before putting his book down on the log and standing up, taking her hand in his. “Let’s hope the bears do not attack our camp while we’re gone,” he murmured.

“Varric can take care of them,” she reassured him, intertwining their fingers together and swinging their hands back and forth in the space between them. “He’s a very good shot.”

“He would be were he not asleep, vhenan.”

“He isn’t.”

“Oh.” Solas chuckled under his breath. “I did not notice,” he said.

“That’s alright,” she replied. “I was trying to distract you, anyway.”

Before they disappeared through the trees, he leaned over and whispered something to her, and she threw her head back and really, really laughed. (It was probably loud enough to actually wake up any bears nearby.)

Varric had never heard her laugh like that before.

-

He was still sitting around the fire when they came back. They weren’t holding hands anymore, but Solas was looking down at the bandage wrapped around his finger with another smile.

-

It was their last night in Skyhold before they left for Halamshiral and Adamant, and Varric couldn’t sleep.

He was sitting at a desk in the library, trying to write, but no words came to him – not even bad ones, which he would have preferred over nothing. He had never been so uninspired for so long, and it was about as frustrating as you could imagine for a novelist not be able to work on – or even start – a novel.

He ran a hand through his hair and threw his quill down on the table, watching it skitter across the wood before stopping an inch away from the edge. With a sigh, he leaned against the railing, and was about to close his eyes when he saw movement in the rotunda below him.

Frowning, he pushed himself higher in his chair and looked down.

Solas held Avira in his arms on the loveseat, playing with the ends of her sleeves. The light in the sconces on the walls had been blown out an hour or two before – Avira wasn’t there when it happened – which left the room steeped in heavy shadow, save for the light streaming down from the rooms above them and the lone candle flickering on Solas’s desk. It was enough light to see them. It was enough light that anyone who walked into the room could have recognized who the two of them were and how close they were sitting together. Neither of them seemed to care.

Solas was whispering something in her ear. Varric couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t seem to be helping much. Avira stayed anyway.

Watching them together reminded him a little too strongly of someone else…

He had known this would happen since those first days in Haven, of course. The two of them had a connection that neither of them had with anyone else. Even though it made things a bit more complicated, and none of the advisors seemed particularly thrilled, Varric was thankful for it, actually. He didn’t feel very at home in the Inquisition – his home was still across the sea in Kirkwall, of course – and Solas had been prickly at first, but Avira… She softened him up. Smoothed down his edges. Made him the type of man who proved to be a cuddler.

Not that he wasn’t prickly anymore, but he’d actually started greeting Varric once in a while when he passed through the rotunda during the day. (Although Avira was around whenever that happened, so maybe that was why…) He smiled more. Laughed every once in a while.

He seemed happy. They both did. And Varric was happy for them, too. Things weren’t always as easy as it seemed between them.

Varric watched them for a few seconds, thinking, before reaching over and grabbing his quill once more, dipping it in his pot of ink and pressing the tip to the page.

All this love and romance left him feeling a bit more inspired than when he had trudged up here a few hours ago looking for something to write about. He made a note to dedicate his next book to Solas and Avira – and what would probably end up being their ten kids.

-

Unfortunately, it didn’t last much longer than that.

The night they returned from Adamant, Avira ignored Solas, sitting on the opposite side of the main clearing in the Inquisition camp than he did. He tried to reach out to her a few times after the healers had seen to their respective wounds – ones they had received in the Fade and in the fortress - but after the third time she turned him away, he clenched his jaw and gave her a curt nod.

“As you wish, Inquisitor.” That was all he said before backing away and retreating to his tent, and he didn’t come out again until the morning.

Varric wasn’t surprised, though. After the argument they had about the Wardens – after seeing how angry Avira had been at the suggestion to exile them - it didn’t seem like there was any sort of relationship left to be salvaged.

And what was left dwindled in the following months – from a burning fire to cold ashes. They spoke on rare occasions, but neither of them seemed to enjoy it. They shared meals at the same table on opposite ends, neither of them looking in the other’s direction. And they journeyed together – and sometimes they tended to each other’s wounds – but their interactions were not friendly. Their relationship didn’t seem as easy as it used to be. In fact, it seemed harder than anything.

Harder, still, when he left.

Varric never talked to Avira about it. After defeating Corypheus, he never found the chance. She was busy, and seemed, at least to Varric, like she wanted to move on, and who was he to stop her from doing that? She had more things to deal with than she had before they stopped Corypheus – more Orlesian nobles coming to visit, more Chantry scholars, more refugees and pilgrims and  people vying for her attention – and dwelling on what could have been, dwelling on what she could have done differently, would do nothing to help her.

Varric knew that much, so he let it drop. She probably wouldn’t talk to him about it, anyway. And he’d thought that was the end of it.

And then they went back to Halamshiral for the Exalted Council, and, well…

-

“That’s it?” the red-headed elf asks. She’s a couple more drinks into her night than she was before, and she stares at him with bulging eyes. “He just left?”

“Yep,” Varric replies. “He didn’t even say goodbye, didn’t leave her a note. I thought they were going to be together for a long, long time, but it wasn’t even a year before he up and left. He left all of us, too. I was starting to warm up to him, actually, by the end, even after things between them were finished.” He grimaces. “I wish I hadn’t.”

“No wonder she hates him.”

“That’s not why she’s doing this, kid.” Varric takes a swig of his own drink, looking over his shoulder to where Avira exchanges quiet discussion with Cassandra and Leliana. “She’s doing this because Solas – sorry, the “Dread Wolf” or whatever it is that people call him nowadays – has to be stopped.”

The girl bites her lip. “I find her even scarier now,” she whispers. “If she can live through that, she must be unstoppable.”

“I sure hope so,” Varric says. “If not… well, maybe Solas isn’t going to be the only one that doesn’t make it out of this shit alive.”

[battlesworn]

@madefromfade​  /  max  said  :    "I didn't have any siblings. I was an only child and usually a few years older than the cousins that tended to visit often. I got use to watching the children or being in responsibility. I didn't mind that, sounds boring now looking back." Said in responses to a question raised by Roth. No one else sees focused on the Inquisitor, so he spoke freely. Max mostly focused on pitching the tent for the night's rest on their expedition towards Orlais.

he  hardly  noticed  that  he  was  smiling  ‘till  his  face  ached  with  it   ;   the  longer  max  had  spoke,  the  more  it  grew  to  encompass  his  face  and  brighten  worn  features  in  its  wake.   he  dipped  his  head  in  a  futile  effort  to  hide  it,  nearly  dropping  the  tent  pole  they  maneuvered  in  his  compulsion  to  card  a  nervous  hand  through  his  hair.     ��   boring ?   maybe,  but  it  sounds  pretty  nice  if  you  ask  me.   boring  sounds   -   perfect.   ’     there  was  an  odd  but  welcome  sort  of  warmth  that  began  to  build  within  him   ...   soft  and  comforting,  like  the  slow  crackling  flames  of  a  hearth.     ‘   i  bet  they  loved  you  !   you  seem  like  you’d  be  real  good  with  kids.  ’

he  tied  down  his  end  of  the  pole  and  jammed  in  the  spike,  nudging  it  in  deeper  with  his  foot.     ‘   there  weren’t  really  any  other  kids  ‘round  the  servants’  quarters  when  i  was  growin’  up.   just  me  n’  my  sister   -   but  she  was  older,  so  i  s’pose  i  was  the  snot-nosed  brat,  between  the  two  of  us.   caused  an  assload ‘a  trouble,  if  i  recall.   ’   

the  twinge  in  his  heart  was  all  too  familiar.   it  ached  to  speak  of  her,  but  not  as  it  often  did.   he  felt  safe  with  max   ...   his  long-buried  turmoil  felt  safe,  too.  it  grew  quiet,  no  longer  roiling  in  his  gut,  but  still  and  peaceful.     ‘   she  would  have  liked  you,  y’know.   didn’t  take  any  shit,  but  had  the  biggest  heart   ;  taught  me  to  fight,  too.  she  could’a  kicked  both  our  asses  at  once.   ’     he  looked  tired  for  a  moment,  exhausted  even,  as  that  ancient  sadness  clung  to  him.   but  it  was  gone  just  as  quick,   and  that  smile  reached  his  eyes  once  again.   oh,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  surrender  to  the  anguish  and  spend  his  days  enraged   ( far  too  easy   -   he  would  know ).   but  she  would  kick  his  ass  for  that  too.

that,  and  something  about  max’s  presence  seemed  to  banish  the  ghosts  from  his  bones   ...   a  beat  of  silence   ...   ‘   do  you  miss  bein’  around  your  family ?   some  of  ‘em,  anyhow ?   ’

[fugitivestogether]

3, 44, 46!!

First off, thank you SO much for the prompts - I’m so sorry that it took forever to finish this. It’s pretty long, but I enjoyed working on this. Whether this is canon to their story and how it goes down 100%, I’m not too sure, but the sentiments behind it for sure are! 

I love thinking about Sparks and Anders post DA2 so these prompts were a great way to write about that. 💗💗 Please don’t feel obligated to read this...gush nonsense. (it’s pretty much just gushing, TBH) but I felt like I wanted to post it to feel like I ‘finished’, if that makes sense. Thanks again!!

Hawke’s never been good with words. Not when it comes to goodbyes. But it’s not a real goodbye. Not really.

 Then why does Anders look so forlorn? Why do they feel like their heart is tearing in two straight down the middle at the thought of having to leave their beloved mage?

 It isn’t that Anders is weak - far from it. He’s way more powerful a mage than they’ll ever dream of being, magically and mentally. And they know that Justice is still there, keeping his friend safe. Hawke trusts Isabela and Fenris, both whom Anders will be staying with while they deal with this mess - far, far away from Skyhold and Orlais.

 It’s their own fear; fear that something will happen and this will be the last time they’ll ever see one another. Hawke can’t stand being apart from Anders; they hate it.

 But they hate the idea of Anders and Carver being susceptible to this fake ‘Calling’ even more. And if Corypheus really is behind it…well, they’d just have to kick his bony ass again, wouldn’t they? No one messes with their family and gets away with it.

 “I wish I could come with you,” Anders whispers next to them, breaking their Darkspawn murdering  thoughts.

 Hawke immediately turns toward him, despite not having much light to see. “I wish you could, too. But besides Varric, we don’t know if we can trust the Inquisition,” they offer, letting one hand pat its way in the dark before finding and cupping his cheek. “He says the Inquisitor is alright, but…what’s his face is there - Meredith’s old bootlicker, and I don’t want him anywhere near you.”

 Anders lets his own hand rest over theirs, nuzzling their palm and sighs, the sound resigned but empty.

“I just…I hate thinking about what could happen if you come with me. I can take care of myself…but I’d die if something happened to you.” Hawke takes hold of his other hand, lifting it to their lips and kissing the back. “And Skyhold is so close to where all this bullshit is happening, y’know? I remember what happened with Corypheus…” Hawke closes their eyes and the memories flood back just at the mention of that freak’s name. “I don’t want him to hurt you again.”

 The vivid image of Anders holding his head in agony, voice laced with pain and begging for their help before Corypheus managed to take hold for even that quick moment...it’s just too much. It still brings Hawke nightmares, only they didn’t expect the reality of that horror could happen once again.

 “I won’t let him,” Hawke murmurs, kissing Anders’ knuckles. “He’ll hurt you or Carver over my dead body.”

 Anders slips his hand out of their grip, his arms wrapping around them and pulling them flush against him. “I don’t want it to be over your dead body,” he says, his forehead pressing gently to theirs. There’s a pain in Anders’ voice along with fear, and Hawke doesn’t doubt that it’s like the one that’s bubbling in their own heart at the thought of losing their beloved. Hawke’s hands rest on his back, sliding up to cup his neck. “Then it won’t be.”

 Hawke moves as Anders does; they both must have the same idea, feeling his lips press just barely against their own. They kiss him back, tentatively, a few light pecks back and forth.

 “I don’t want to lose you,” Anders whispers with another kiss, this one lasting longer than the others.

 Hawke responds in kind. “You never will.”

 Their drawn out kiss eventually melds into a series of rapid, messy kisses - desperate, as if this is all just reassurance that they’re still here, together. Their hands wander to any place they can touch, mapping one another’s bodies and committing it to memory.

 They soon feel Anders’ hands on their face, and in that moment, the clouds break. Moonlight streams into their tiny room and illuminates them both.

 “Kiss me,” Anders pants breathlessly, but his demand is clear. From the look in his eyes, Hawke realizes: he doesn’t just want them to kiss him.

 He needs them.

 That’s more than okay. Hawke needs him, too.

 “Always,” Hawke replies, leaning in to kiss him: sweetly. Completely.

  --

  “Everything’s just about finished,” Isabela says while approaching. “You ready to go?”

 Anders shakes his head, his hand grasping at Hawke’s just a bit more tightly. “I’m sorry, Isabela. Please, I need a few moments.”

 “I’d normally say it’s rude to keep a lady waiting…” Isabela trails off.

 Fenris huffs, folding his arms. “You are no ‘lady’.”

 “True. I’m a Captain,” Isabela states while reaching over to flick his ear, which only causes him to scowl even more. She turns back to them and winks. “Ready whenever you are. Let’s try not to prolong the goodbyes, hm?”

 Hawke watches both Isabela and Fenris walk back to her ship before turning to Anders.

 “At least you won’t be bored with them around,” Hawke chuckles, their laugh dying down when they see Anders’ expression. “Hey. Everything’s gonna be alright,” they tell him, taking hold of his other hand, swinging both their arms gently from side to side. “I’m gonna be back to annoying you so fast that you’ll wish that I was still at Skyhold bothering Varric.”

 “Any time spent away from you is too long for me,” Anders says plainly.

 Hawke can’t help the pleased giggle that escapes. “Ooh, look at you being romantic. Well, the feeling is mutual, hon, but my statement still stands.” They lean in closer, standing on their tip toes and smile up at him. “When all this is over…we’re going to free mages everywhere and nothing will ever keep me from you again.”

 Anders’ head leans in, his hands leaving theirs as his arms wrap around them, and Hawke lets their arms rest over his shoulders.

 “Promise?” Anders whispers, brown eyes searching theirs.

 He doesn’t wait for an answer, kissing them like this really will be the last time they’ll ever see each other. Hawke doesn’t want to think about it too much. They have to be positive. They’ll have someone waiting for them to come back, after all. Hawke returns the kiss with as much of themself as they can pour into it, to let him know just how loved he truly is.

 Hawke honestly could have stayed there in his arms for eternity but Isabela’s wolf whistle interrupts.

 “Looks like fun,” she calls out from the side of her ship. “Is sharing an option?”

 Hawke laughs when they break the kiss, shaking their head. “Only if he gives permission, ‘Bela!” Their laughter only growing louder when they hear her groan in frustration.

 “Hawke?” comes Anders’ voice, claiming their attention once again. He leans down and kisses them on their forehead. “Come back to me,” he pleads, murmuring against their skin.

 Nodding, Hawke grins. “And let me guess; that’s an order, not a request?” ”You know me so well, love,” he pulls back and smiles gently in return.

 Parting from one another after one last kiss, Hawke winked. “I’ll be back faster than you can say ‘Templars smell like bronto breath’, you’ll see!”

 The laugh they get out of him is worth the pain of leaving. Hawke steps back, hating how they feel him squeeze their hand one last time. They hold on, even until it’s only their finger tips, and finally, (unfortunately), they let go completely. Hawke watches helplessly, heart wrenching with each step Anders takes toward the boarding plank.

 Once he’s on board and Isabela’s crew starts moving about again, Hawke cups their hands around their mouth, calling out to the Captain. “Take care of him for me, ‘Bela! Fenris!”

 “In more ways than one!” Isabela calls back and Hawke can only imagine the look on Fenris’ face.

 They stand on the dock, unable to help blowing one last kiss to the love of their life, waving goodbye as long as Anders does once the boat leaves harbor and begins to set out toward open water. They continue waving, even long after Isabela’s boat is a black speck on the horizon. Only after then, does Hawke adjust the bag strapped across their chest and sigh, readying for the pain-in-the-ass trip it’ll be to Skyhold.

 Damn…they miss their beanpole.

 --

 Anders leans over the stares back in the direction of land. “...templars smell like bronto breath…” he mumbles into the wind, thumb rubbing the golden band on his left ring finger.

 “Hmm? Did you say something, sweet thing?” Isabela asks, still manning the wheel.

 Bringing his hand up to his lips, he smiles against the ring. “Nothing, Isabela. Nothing,” Anders reassures her.

[himluv]

Peculiar

The Solavellan train keeps on keeping on. This one takes place a few days after Discoveries. I hope you enjoy it!

It had been another long day in the war room. Riallan appreciated her advisors, she could never head the Inquisition without them, but after more than eight hours standing around arguing about the future of Orlais, she could think of a million other places she would rather be.

The rotunda chief among them.

But first, she needed to eat something and take a bath. When they had first reached Skyhold she had refused the large tower room when Josephine had given it to her. She was just one person, what would she do with so much space? At least four aravels could fit in her quarters, and each of those housed an entire family! But now she was grateful for so much private space.

Few visited her here. Most would knock on the door and wait for her to come to them, where they would then inevitably move the conversation somewhere less intrusive. Six months ago she would have been lonely with no one to share her personal space, but it turned out she often needed the reprieve.

Being the Inquisitor was exhausting.

She lingered in the bath, luxuriating in the warmth and the aromas of the soaps. She still used the ones Solas had found for her birthday, but only occasionally. She wanted to make them last. But after the day she had, she allowed herself the indulgence.

Once she felt suitably relaxed, Riallan dressed in her usual casual clothes. Halla hide leggings, a loose linen tunic that had a habit of falling off one shoulder, and the worn loden wool shawl Deshanna had made for her journey to the Conclave. She wrapped her feet to the ankle for propriety’s sake; it felt strange to walk through the keep completely barefoot, and then set off down the stairs.

She reached for the first door, the one that led up into her room, just as someone knocked on it. It was unlike Josephine to call on her in the evening. Had something happened? She opened the door, her heart hammering in her chest, but it wasn’t Josephine who waited for her.

“Solas.” His name fell from her, breathy and relieved.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Lethallan,” he said. His eyes darted over her face, taking in her damp hair and casual dress. He glanced behind her, as if he might find someone there. “I hope I am not intruding.”

She almost laughed. The only person she wanted in her room was him, but she wouldn’t say as much. He had asked for time. Over two months ago, but still, she would honor his request. She opened the door further, gesturing for him to come in. “Not at all. I was actually just coming down to join you in the rotunda.”

He smiled at that, but the expression was fleeting. He marched up the stairs, giving her room a cursory glance before heading straight for the balcony. She followed him, confounded as to what would bring him to her room. And what could have him in such a preoccupied state.

“What were like before the anchor?” He asked. He seemed nervous, anxious. His weight shifted from foot to foot, and though he met her gaze, it was never for long. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

She blinked. Usually she was the one with all the questions. She considered her hand, but for now the anchor was calm, and there was nothing to see but a faint, pulsing green scar in her palm.

“I don’t believe so,” she said. “But do you think I would notice if it did?” That seemed like the sort of thing that would happen so subtly and absolutely that she would be none the wiser. Which was terrifying.

“Ah,” he said. He sounded disappointed. “You’re right, of course.”

She smiled at him, laughter lurking on her lips. He could be so peculiar when his mind moved faster than their conversations. Lucky for him, she found it endearing. “Why do you ask?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen… since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.” He shook his head once. “You are not what I expected.”

This time, she did laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not disappointing, it’s,” he sighed and tried again. She’d never seen him struggle with words quite like this before. What had flustered him so? “Most people are predictable. You have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the words that came next. “If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?”

Riallan thought about it for a moment. She thought about Deshanna, and Hawen, and the Keepers she could remember from the last Arlathvhen, Marethari and Zathrian. Out of all of them, the only one who didn’t harbor some sort of grudge against the world was her maela.

She ran a hand through her hair. “Maybe a little, but honestly Solas, the Dalish aren’t just one thing. They are clans full of individuals who have their own struggles and biases.” She shrugged. “I was lucky to have my Keeper. She’s… different from the others. She helped me be different too.”

“Your grandmother,” he said. “Deshanna.”

Her chest filled with warmth to hear her name on his lips. Not for the first time she wondered what her maela would think if she brought home a clanless man. Would she look at him like Hawen had, with pity and distrust? Or would she trust her dirtha’len and welcome him with open arms?

“You miss her,” he said, when her thoughts had run away with her for too long.

“I do,” she said. There was no point lying about it. “I’m learning that there are some downsides to clan life, but there’s a lot worth missing too.”

“Perhaps that is it,” he said. “Most people act with so little understanding of the world, but not you. You always endeavor to learn more of it.”

She blushed. Coming from him, that was high praise indeed. “What does this mean, Solas?” Why was he here and where was this conversation headed?

This time, when he spoke, he didn’t look away from her. “It means, I have not forgotten the kiss.”

Riallan held his gaze, searching his face for any hint that he still had doubts, but in this moment his eyes were clear. Hopeful. She stepped toward him, and he took a little half-step closer to her. “Good,” she said.

The edge of the sun descended behind the mountains, washing the balcony in pale gold light. When he didn’t say anything she stepped closer again and looked up at him, her hands clasped behind her back. It was a little joke, a mimicry of his usual posture.

And with her jaw raised, her neck exposed, and her eyes watching his face, it was a dare. The question was, would he take it?

For a moment she thought he would. Solas leaned in, just a little, but then he shook his head. Slow and uncertain, as doubt crept into his eyes once more. He turned his body away from her and stepped away.

She grabbed his arm,  the gesture quick but light. It was enough to stop him, but not enough to make him look at her. “Don’t go,” she said. Her voice was soft, but not pleading. Instead it held a promise. She was here, she had waited. She wanted him, if he would only let himself have her.

Why was this so hard? From where she stood it felt easy. Caring for him, with his quiet demeanor, his passion for knowledge, and his carefully controlled passion, that was easy.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he said. He still hadn’t turned to face her. “But losing you would…”

He turned, took a single step, and suddenly he was there. He was in her space, his body warm against hers, his hands finding her waist without hesitation. He pulled her to him, pressed flush against his chest, and kissed her.

She was inundated, overwhelmed, and utterly absorbed by him. His heat, the sharp cedar scent of his clothes, the jawbone necklace he wore a hard press against her belly. But above all the soft, yet demanding pressure of his mouth on hers.

In the Fade, there had only been his mouth, it had been all she could focus on in the way dreams were. Her world had zeroed in on his lips and how they moved with hers. But, here on her balcony, there was so much to hear and smell and taste and feel. Solas was everywhere and everything. His arms around her, a hand on her ass holding her tight against him, while he bent her back slightly to deepen the kiss.

Riallan yielded to him. She let him explore this moment however he pleased; she was just happy it was even happening. She had waited months to know if his kiss was as passionate by day as it was in the Fade. If he would taste the same, sharp and sweet and warm. He did, she realized, and let her tongue slide along his lips.

A little moan escaped him, and she thrilled at the sound and at the fact that he did not stop. He did not walk away. She clung to his shoulders as his thigh pressed between her legs, and still the kissing did not stop. And she didn’t want it to.

Finally, they did break apart, both panting as Solas bent his forehead to hers. His hands found a home at her ribs, his thumbs brushing perilously close to the sides of her breasts. Her eyes widened, lips parted, but he didn’t notice.

He brushed his nose against hers and said, “ar lath ma, vhenan.”

She froze, but he was already letting go of her. She felt as if the he had pulled the air from her lungs with those four words, and instead of pulling her up for air he was walking away. Before she could process, before she could even consider if she could return the words and mean them, Solas was down the stairs and out of sight.

The door creaked shut behind him, and the sound made her flinch. Made her breathe again. He had told her he loved her. Had called her vhenan… his heart.

She leaned against the wall of her room, the cold twilight wind whipping in off the mountains, and sighed. Now, in the fading light, her room looked barren. When she looked at the four-post bed, the one she’d chosen because the fabric overhead helped her pretend she was sleeping in an aravel, it looked massive.

Lonely.

If he had asked, she would have let him stay. She wasn’t sure she could return his love just yet, but she knew she wanted to try. Creators she wanted him, and if he was going to keep kissing her like that…

She covered her face and laughed. Had he just told her he loved her and then… ran away? Solas was a peculiar man indeed. But, she had reason to believe that he was her peculiar man, and that made it all okay. Riallan had a feeling she would forgive just about anything if he kept kissing her like that.

[crystalessenceswrites]

You’re Enchanting--Chapter Five

Pairings: Cullen/Trevelyan & Dorian/Lavellan

Warnings: Brief, angsty discussion on mage-templar relations

Can also be read on AO3

[Masterlist] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six]

Chapter Five- Chilled

“Do you think the Commander is handsome?”

Delphine knew Elazar was not always one to filter his thoughts before they came out of his mouth. Not all his comments or questions made sense in the moment, or even related to the conversation they were having in any way. She was rather used to it and always tried to take it in stride. This one, however, was a bit more out of the blue than usual. Delphine was in the middle of writing a letter to her parents, at Josephine’s behest, while he was lounging on his bed mending some tears in his leather coat, as the candlelight dwindled down. El had seemed rather ticked at the ex-templar after their conversation the day before. He had not come down to the training grounds to help or watch as Delphine continued on assisting Cullen with the new recruits today either.

She shrugged, trying to focus more on remaining cordial in her letter than thinking about the Commander.

“Do you?” Cullen didn’t really strike Delphine as Elazar’s type, physically or personality-wise, on top of his templar history.

“You’re dodging the question.”

She set down her quill, turning to face her fellow mage, “now you are too.”

“Touché.”

Del rolled her eyes.

“Answer the question.”

“I’d say yes. He’s much better looking than any other Ferelden I’ve met.”

The blank stare Elazar gave back was cue enough that her answer didn’t please him. “And you?”

“Oh, I think he’s very handsome.” Elazar grinned, “not my type- too rugged- but still handsome.”

“Rugged isn’t really the word I’d use to describe Cullen. He spends too much time on his hair.” Not in a bad way, Delphine though his hairstyle suited him, and according to Varric this was a vast improvement from what is was like when he was a templar in Kirkwall.

“The lip scar and the stubble say otherwise.”

Well, he had a point there.

Elazar smirked as Delphine struggled to find a retort.

Seeing Elazar grinning ear to ear as he sat crossed-legged on his cot was a sight Delphine hadn’t seen since Ostwick- something she hadn’t realized they were missing until now. It was small moments like this or hair braiding that had vanished into thin air the moment the Conclave went up in smoke. Her heart ached when she though about all the nights they’d done the exact same thing as apprentices, huddled up in the library, pretending to study, or sneaking into each other’s rooms late at night. Del longed for those simpler days when the worst thing to worry about was how grouchy the templars were going to be or if the senior enchanters would scold them for slacking off during training. If they had known then, what was coming for them and their world, maybe they could have savored it all a little more.

 .

“Ah, Delphine, would you mind helping me for a moment?”

Eyebrow quirked, Del approached the Spymaster. Leliana didn’t usually need her for anything. She had no skill set that could be useful to Leliana’s team. “What can I do for you?”

“No need to be so skeptical- it’s just a favor.” The redhead motioned to a basket sitting on her workbench. “Cassandra has informed me that our Commander has made a habit of regularly skipping meals.”

That didn’t surprise Del much, he did seem a bit of a workaholic.

“I’ve discovered he’s done so today with lunch. Would you be so kind as to deliver this to him and ensure that he eats it?”

Del couldn’t help but laugh a little, Leliana was practically asking her to babysit the Commander so he wouldn���t accidentally starve himself.

“I will see what I can do, but I make no promises, Leliana. I am not a miracle worker like Elazar.”

“That may be true, but I have faith you can be persistent enough when you need to be.”

She had a point. So, Delphine wandered down to the training grounds, basket slung over one arm, in search of Cullen.

“Going on a picnic?” Del nearly jumped out of her skin as Joshua snuck up behind her.

“Maker!” She pushed the lieutenant away, glaring. “Don’t do that!”

“What a jumpy mage,” he laughed.

“Well you’re lucky this jumpy mage’s first instinct isn’t to attack when startled.” Maybe next time he tried she’d zap him. Lightly.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what are you doing?”

“Looking for your Commander. Where has he run off to?” She had yet to spot his blond mop among the recruits.

“Why? So you can invite him to a picnic?”

“Lord, why are you focused on that? No, I’m delivering this for Leliana.” It was uncanny how the lieutenant could get on her nerves as quickly as Elazar could. Were they in cahoots?

“You’re an errand mage now?”

She really wanted to zap him. “For your information, I’m an enchanter.”

“So… an errand enchanter?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Lieutenant, where is your Commander?”

“In his tent, working on correspondence, I believe.”

“Lovely. Have a horrible rest of your day, Lieutenant.”

“What? No thank you?”

Delphine flipped him off as she walked away.

 .

There was not proper etiquette on how to “knock” when arriving at a tent, at least none that Delphine was aware of. “Delivery for the Commander,” Del announced as she ducked into the tent, praying to the Maker he wasn’t indisposed at the moment.

Cullen looked up from his papers, looking more than a bit surprised at her entrance. “A delivery?”

“Well, a delivery and some orders.” Noting an extra chair in the corner, Del pulled the seat up to his desk with a smile.

“Should I be concerned, Delphine?”

“I wouldn’t say so. But then, I am also not the one who needs to be reminded to eat.” She placed the basket in front of him. “Leliana has asked me to ensure you eat. We cannot have our Commander suffering from starvation, Cullen.”

Delphine was almost amused by how frustrated he was at all this. Cullen ran a gloved hand over his face, sighing.

“You really all needn’t worry so much.”

“I think we all worry about the right amount.” She countered, “so, I will not be leaving until you eat.”

“Delphine-”

“Don’t argue with me, Cullen. You can afford to take a lunch break. The world will not fall to pieces if you do.”

Finally, the man surrendered, arms up, Cullen leaned back in his chair, “you win. I’ll eat.”

With a grin Delphine went about unpacking the basket; it was nothing fancy; bread, a few slices of cheese, some variety of dried meat, a handful of berries, and a flask.

“You really don’t have to stay.” He said, uncorking the flask and giving it a curious sniff. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Not really.” Del felt bad admitting it, like she wasn’t pulling her weight compared to other Inquisition members. “Elazar left this morning, Harritt doesn’t need me in the forges and you didn’t need me for training today…” These were the days that were unbearably long.

Cullen chuckled, “so, Leliana decided to have you babysit me instead?”

“it would appear so.” Not that it was a new task to her. Del had four stubborn brothers and one occasionally forgetful best friend.

“And you appear rather adept at it.”

It was Delphine’s turn to laugh, “I have four brothers who are all more hard-headed than you.”

“Four brothers? I didn’t realize.” Some of the tension seemed to melt from his shoulders as he started at his lunch. It was good to see the man knew how to relax a little bit. “All younger?”

“No, I’m the second youngest.”

“Really? You sounded like my older sister there for a few moments, I would have figured you for the oldest.”

That wasn’t the first time someone had assumed that. “I believe that’s just a concerned sister trait.”

Cullen chuckled, “you may be right.”

Delphine had a hard time imagining a young Cullen, let alone a young Cullen getting nagged at by an older sister.

“Where are your brothers now?” He seemed to hesitate on the question as if asking about her family was a step too far.

Delphine considered herself a rather open book, in regards to her family anyways. In high society, all parts of your life and family were public knowledge so she hadn’t been able to grow up hiding from it anyways.

“Well, my oldest brother Oweyn is married and lives in Ostwick. He’s going to be the next Bann after all.” Del rolled her eyes simply at the memory of her brother, he had been born with stick up his ass. “Ralf is number two, he’s a templar in Orlais-” Cullen’s eyes grew bright with that little tidbit, she could almost see the questions swirling around in his head- “though I don’t know if he still is after all this. I’m hoping he went back home but I haven’t heard anything yet. Bertrant is third in line, he’s a cleric, last I heard at the Grand Cathedral. I’m sure he’s feeling very important now that there’s no one above him.”

“Sounds oddly familiar,” Cullen smirks.

Maybe that’s why she wasn’t fond of the Chancellor, he reminded her of Bertrant. Del can’t help but giggle at the comparison. “It really does.”

“So, if Bertrant is third that makes you number four.”

Del nods, “yes, they finally got a girl the fourth time around.” And a mage. “Lastly, the baby is my brother Folcard. He’s still in Ostwick with my parents. I believe they were trying to arrange an advantageous marriage for him- not that he cares. He’s barely sixteen.” Not to mention Del’s parents spoiled him beyond belief.

“Sixteen? He’s quite a bit younger than you.”

“Are you calling me old Commander?”

Del meant it all in good fun, she wasn’t actually insulted by the insinuation-she and Folcard were roughly nine years apart-but Cullen apparently couldn’t read her sarcasm because he turned into a blushing, stuttering mess right quick.

“Maker, that’s not what I meant at all! I’m sorry-”

Del nearly doubled over laughing, normally she was the one being teased, not the other way around. “You don’t need to apologize, Cullen. I know you weren’t calling me old. I was just teasing.”

His mouth dropped into a wide “o” as the panic faded.

“Plus, if I’m old what does that make you?” Delphine wasn’t actually sure how old the blond was but she assumed he had at least a few years on her.

The “o” turned into a frown, “am I getting old?”

Maker, she’d sent him into an existential crisis.

“Well I can tell you that you don’t look it, Commander.”

Elazar did have a point; the man was handsome.

Wait, was she flirting with him?

Cullen cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Delphine. She wondered if she should leave him to finish eating in peace, without her sudden teasing.

“You-you said came from the circle in Ostwick, correct? You’ve traveled some distance to reach Haven.”

Relaxing back into her seat, Del nods. “I spent a better part of my life there. It feels… strange to be so far away.” Even if she felt no particular draw to return.

“It does, at times. I’m still getting used to it myself. It’s been… interesting.”

Interesting was a strange way to put it. Delphine had read Varric’s book. She had heard about what happened in Kirkwall. Del thought maybe he’d be happy to have left that all behind.

“I’m sorry. The Circle isn’t the most pleasant topic of conversation right now, or ever. Shall we speak of something else?”

He was not wrong. It did make it difficult when she had so many questions that pertained to their lives in the circles.

“Well… I-I would like to know your opinion on a related topic. If that is alright for me to ask it.”

Del takes the fact that he does not deny her the question as a start, though he does not look all that please when he nods.

“I have lived around templars for the entirety of my life- even before I was sent to the circle- but I still don’t understand why the templars would break away from the Chantry.” She had heard relatives complain before, particularly the older ones who had retired from the Order only to face an onslaught of health issues in later years, but they never voiced such a negative opinion or ever advocated for the separation.

“The Order believes the Chantry no longer supports their efforts. Not to the extent they should.” Cullen’s voice was flat, lips pressed into a thin line.

“But the templars have served the Chantry for ages… I don’t understand how they can just leave.”

“You left your Circle when you no longer agreed with those around you. Correct?”

It was not an accusation, there was no malice behind his eyes but it did still feel like a jab to the gut. “I did…”

“In the time the Order has served the Chantry, they have come to take the Order for granted. Templar’s risk their lives against blood magic, demons, abominations- to feel as if these efforts are dismissed… I may disagree with their actions-that I’m here is proof of that- but I sympathize with their frustrations.”

Dismissed. Forgotten. Taken advantage of. Delphine could understand even if she did not necessarily feel compassion for those out hunting mages now.

“I see. I guess I had not thought of it that way.” It still did not offer an answer as to why they were following the Lord Seeker, but it was a start.

“Our sides do not have a good history of understanding each other.” Cullen leans back, hands clasped together in his lap. “Though I have to say you’re the first mage I’ve met with such sympathy for templars. I can’t imagine many in your place trying to understand them, not now at least.”

Delphine tried to ignore the warmth that spread over her face, instead focusing on wringing her hands together beneath her long sleeves. “I would like to say that it’s some inherent selflessness, that I’m truly sympathetic… but I’m really not. I’m selfish. I feel the way I do because of my family, because of Ralf. In truth, I have just as many grievances with the Order and with the Circles and the treatment of mages as Elazar and the rebels do… but I can’t hate templars because I can not hate my brother or any of my other family members who have served. It’s why I couldn’t find it in myself to rebel with the others but why I couldn’t stay either…” Her indecision made her a coward.

“Delphine.” She nearly melted as her eyes met his. The soft expression gracing his features was not one she had imagined on him before. Maker did it suit him. The harsh worry lines above his brow melted away as his eyes sparkled with some emotion Delphine could not put her finger on. “It is not selfish to think of-to care for your family. To think of your brother is only natural.”

“I…” her gaze fell back to her lap, “thank you, Cullen.”

“I’m not sure if I deserve your thanks…” Del’s gaze flickered back to the Cullen as the creases on his brow returned rather quickly, “I have treated mages with distrust- at times without cause. It was unworthy of me. I work to not do so here… but that does not negate what I have done in the past.”

He felt guilt over an attitude that had most likely been instilled in him by the Order and by the Chantry, something that was not entirely his fault.

“Just because you have a past does not mean I cannot thank you for saying something kind.”

 .

Delphine took it upon herself to continue checking in on Cullen around midday to ensure he was eating properly. It seemed like the least she could do with all that the man had on his plate. He always greeted her with a smile, even on the days he didn’t seem quite himself. Del wondered if it was the stress eating away that made him seem so gaunt and pale or if there was something more going on. She couldn’t bring herself to ask though, seeing how far he went to ignore it.

On the days he had more pep about him, she would sit with Cullen while he ate, talking about everything and anything that was of little importance. It was an unspoken agreement. They did not delve any deeper into the obvious hurts that lingered beneath the surface. No more talk of Circles and the Order, though Cullen did admit he was curious about how Elazar had come to be a circle mage. Delphine relayed his story to Cullen, glossing over some of the hardships El had faced adjusting to life cooped up in the tower and the deep-seated hatred the elf bore towards templars. Delphine was more than happy to talk about their long-standing friendship, how he was the reason she had been on her way to the Conclave.

After their lunches, Del would spend the afternoons assisting with training. Not only were the recruits looking better but Del was feeling much more confident in her abilities, adding flourishes where she could and refining her mana usage when possible. There was something about it that almost felt natural, an instinct on how to manipulate the veil around her this way. She did her best to hide her pride in her new skill set from those around her.

It did however give her plenty to talk about with Vivienne when she finally arrived in Haven. Del quickly found herself spending her mornings with Vivienne and Josephine and her afternoons with Cullen and his troops. It proved to be a bit of shock, jumping back and forth between the Ambassador and the Commander every day but it kept Del occupied enough that she wasn’t constantly worrying about Elazar, off in the Hinterlands doing who knows what.

Josephine had been called away one morning while the three of them had been chatting over tea.

“I did not expect to find mages among the Inquisition,” Vivienne noted as she swirled her teacup in one hand.

“I did not either,” Delphine admitted, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. “Before I knew Elazar was here, I half expected to be turned away when they realized what I am.”

Vivienne quirked one perfectly shaped eyebrow, “you were not at the Conclave then?”

“I was not.” Del thanked the Maker for that in most of her prayers now. “I was on my way when the explosion occurred.”

“I thought the Ostwick leadership was attending the talks as a neutral party, to help facilitate the discussions.”

She was correct, the Ostwick delegation had attended in an attempt to bring both parties to a middle ground. Had Del remained at the tower she would have gone with them. She would have died with them.

“They did. I was…with family when the missive on the Conclave arrived so I did not attend with them.”

The ice mage nods, looking at Del rather thoughtfully. She could only imagine what went on in Vivienne’s head, with all she knew about The Game and the Circles.

“I gather that the Herald was there with the rebel party. Where do you stand on all this?”

That was the question these days, wasn’t it? Delphine was not a rebel. She had Elazar had discussed it a length and although she agreed with some of their thoughts on the templars she did not agree to their violence. Delphine was also not a loyalist. As she had told Cullen, she did have qualms with the system as it currently existed. There was a need for change but Del could not see the current Chantry authority ever moving to do so. She had wondered often these past few weeks if there was a side for people like her.

“I believe this war benefits no one. There is unnecessary and cruel bloodshed on both sides. It must end and some sense of order returned so we can address the more looming threat.” Del believed Josephine would be proud of her tactful answer.

Vivienne sighs, “if only the rebels saw things so clearly. Justinia’s death has shattered the balance of power in Thedas. If it is not restored quickly, countless lives will be lost. Mages, templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate.”

It took more self-control than Del would want to admit to keep from frowning at Vivienne’s sentiments. It was not just the rebels perpetuating the violence. The rebels and the apostates were being hunted for just trying to survive outside the confines of the Chantry.

“That’s why you wanted to be here: to have a hand in deciding that fate?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here, Delphine?”

[lockewrites]

For the DADWC: “Why are you whispering?”

Thanks for the prompt! Sorry it took so long to actually answer! From this prompt for @dadrunkwriting

Trevelyan x Hawke || SFW || 607 wordsAO3 & FF

Corinne and Hawke recap the night at the Winter Palace.

The breeze carried a slight chill, and the bite on her cheeks was relaxing, still red, she was sure, her emotions a tight knot in the pit of her stomach. This hadn’t been the plan when first arriving at the Winter Palace. Stop an assassination, that was what had brought the Inquisition here, and yet Corinne had allowed it. Celene was dead by Florianne’s hand, a hand Corinne could’ve stopped.

The blood of not only the empress but her Inquisition soldiers soiled the ballroom floor. Needless deaths, her devoted troops. She should have planned better, should have better prepared her soldiers for the change in plan. She couldn’t regret Celene’s death, not if she wanted to remain confident in her choice to hand Orlais to Briala. Whispers of Celene’s true nature, the cruelty the woman was capable of, had spread even to Corinne’s home in Ostwick before the Breach, and speaking to Briala confirmed such things. And Corinne felt compelled to trust the spymaster.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel as though she’d plunged the knife into the Empress’s back herself.

“I’d wondered where you ran off to,” Hawke’s voice carried from the window. “I see Morrigan beat me to you.”

“Shhh.” Corinne waved her hand for him to quiet.

“Are we eavesdropping?” he asked, stepping next to her. His tone grew serious. “Is something wrong?”

Corinne shook her head.

“Then why are we whispering?”

“I’m trying to hide from everyone,” she said. “I knew this all would be a pain in the ass, but…”

“You never thought it’d reach such shitty proportions,” he finished for her.

“I can’t help but wonder,” she began, “if I should’ve stopped the assassination.”

Hawke turned so his back rested against the stone railing, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You can’t think like that,” he said. “It’ll drive you mad. Trust me.”

She furrowed her brow. “I suppose you had an entire city in your hands. You would know.”

“And you have all of Thedas in yours.” He reached out and placed his hand under her chin, turning her to look at him. “You’re doing remarkable, Corinne. But you’re going to wind up with a permanent wrinkle if you keep worrying.” He moved his hand to between her brows and rubbed the area with his index finger.

A smile spread on her face, and she took his hand in her own.

“Is that what happened to you?” she asked, looking up at the space between his eyebrows. “Are worry and what-ifs to blame for your wrinkles?”

He tore his hand from hers and rubbed his forehead while pouting. “I don’t have wrinkles!” 

“No?” She pulled his hand away and traced the lines in his face with her finger. “These look like wrinkles to me. Maybe they’re not from worrying. Maybe you’re just old.”

He swatted her hand away, and she chuckled before her face returned to its stoic expression, looking down at the ground. Even Hawke couldn’t keep the worry from gnawing at her for long.

Her eyes remained lowered as Hawke stepped away from the railing. She watched his hand reach hers, caressing her fingers and silently seeking her gaze. Obliging, she glanced up at him and couldn’t help but smile at the puppy-eyed look he gave her.

“Seems you need a distraction,” he said. His warm blue eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and hope. “Care for a dance?”

“None of Varric’s stories include you dancing,” she remarked, stepping toward him and placing her other hand on his shoulder.

He smirked. “I have managed to keep a few secrets from him. Perhaps you’ll learn a few more.”