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veorlian · 5 years ago

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honey tongue

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

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

read it on ao3 here

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

Well. More riots than usual, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was not,” Marian tossed back.

“Was too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Potato, potahto,” Marian said dismissively.

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

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

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

“Whichever one wins,” Isabela said cheerfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey—” Carver began.

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

Plus, you’re not as good-looking.

Did Varric think she was good-looking?

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

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

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

And so.

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

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

“You’re my favourite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Problem, serah Tethras?” she asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

He missed it, when it wasn’t there.

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

It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have as well,” she said at last.

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

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

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

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

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

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Samson/Roman Hawke smut & feels: Home

A tale of how Samson ends up at Roman Hawke’s Hightown mansion for the first time. Mildly angsty feels, as much “fluff” as these two ever get, and smut. Recommended listening: the eponymous song by Depeche Mode.

For beloved soulmate @schoute! ~9800 words; read on AO3 instead.

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

The thug took an aggressive step closer to Samson. “Come on, you sack of shite,” he sneered. “What’s wrong, too much of a ponce to throw a punch?”

The thug’s two buddies jeered and snickered. Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. “Listen, fellas, I’m a waste of your time. Ain’t got a single coin to my name. I’m just trying to make a living on my corner here.”

The thug stepped even closer. “I didn’t say you could talk back.” He glanced at his beefy buddies. “Did you ‘ear me say he could talk back?”

“I didn’t,” one crony said.

“I didn’t neither,” the other said.

A real brain trust we have here, Samson thought sourly. He wrestled his expression into a pitiful hangdog sort of look. “I wasn’t bothering no one. I swear I won’t bother you if you just let me on my merry way.”

“Shut your fuckin’ hole,” the main thug snarled. “Unless you’re looking to die today?”

Samson didn’t reply. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the thug curled his lip. “What, now you decide to go all quiet?”

Samson still didn’t reply, and the thug scowled. “The fuck’s wrong with you, eh?”

Samson gritted his teeth, then bowed his head slightly in a would-be-polite gesture. “You said to shut my hole. Just trying to accommodate.”

He should have known better than to speak. The main thug pulled a dirty switchblade from his pocket. “We got a smart one ‘ere, boys. What say we teach him a lesson?”

Samson sighed. “Come on, there’s no need–”

The thug suddenly swiped at his face with the blade. Samson instinctively lifted his left arm to deflect the blow, and a red-hot stripe of pain lashed across his forearm.

You don’t have gauntlets anymore, idiot, he told himself angrily. He ignored the pain in his arm and held up his hands in surrender while backing away — backing his way toward an alley that twisted into a narrow passage that these burly thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him down. “Please,” he begged. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight here.”

The thug ignored him. “Grab him,” he said to his cronies.

The cronies stepped toward him. He backed away and prepared himself to run–

“Back the fuck off. Now.”

The harsh command came from Samson’s left, and he wilted. A second later, Roman Hawke was standing in front of him with her arms folded.

She narrowed her eyes at the three huge thugs. “I said back it up. Right now.”

Samson sighed, then edged closer to her. “Bird–”

The main thug laughed nastily. “What’s this, then? The beggar’s got himself a whore?”

Roman swelled to her full height. “What the fuck did you just call me?” she barked.

Here we go, Samson thought tiredly. The main thug guffawed, then turned to his buddies. “Listen to this… hey, what’s wrong with you?”

The thug’s two friends were holding back and looking apprehensive. “That’s Hawke,” one of them said.

The main thug frowned. “Eh?”

“It’s Hawke,” his other friend hissed. “You know, Hawke. The one who blew up the deep roads and took down a bunch of golems with Varric Tethras a couple months back.” He gave Roman a scared look. “I hear she’s an abomination.”

“I heard she’s a demon,” the other one said tremulously. He looked like he was ready to piss himself, and Samson had to work hard not to laugh.

The main thug scoffed, then turned back to Roman and Samson. “This scrawny–”

Roman suddenly brought her elbow up and around in a sharp swing, and her elbow collided with the thug’s face with a solid thunk. The thug yelped and stumbled to the ground, and Roman grabbed a fistful of his hair. “I said back the fuck off, or I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled. “Is that clear enough for you?”

The thug whimpered and clutched his cheek, and Samson watched with a weary sort of amusement as the other two men bolted. Roman roughly shook the thug’s head. “Answer me. Is that fucking clear?”

“It’s clear, it’s clear!” the thug bleated. “Andraste’s tit, you’re hurting me!”

“Good,” Roman said vindictively. She released his hair, then kicked him in the hip for good measure. “Now fuck off before I change my mind about letting your sorry ass live.”

The thug stumbled to his feet and ran away. Samson folded his arms and gave Roman a sarcastic little smile. “My knight in shining armour,” he drawled.

She ignored him and eyed his left forearm. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

He followed her gaze. Sure enough, his arm was a mess; there was a four-inch-long jagged cut running from below his wrist toward his elbow, and it was steadily weeping blood that was soaking into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

He sighed. He only had two other clean shirts to his name aside from this one. “Maker’s bloody balls,” he muttered, and he pushed his sleeve up higher on his arm.

Roman untied the red scarf from around her wrist and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took the scarf and gingerly started wiping the blood on his arm. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Bird,” he said quietly.

“Clearly you do,” she retorted. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight back when he pulled a knife on you?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of playing dead?” Samson said, only half-jokingly. “If you don’t fight back, they lose interest.”

Roman scowled at him. “Pulling a knife on you isn’t losing interest, you fucking dumbass.”

He shrugged. “Ah, I guess you’re right. Must be losing my touch.” He gave her a wry smirk, then studied his semi-clean arm.

Blood was still oozing from the wound. Samson sighed and pressed Roman’s scarf to the cut, then glanced at her.

She was still frowning at him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You need to get that treated,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”

“It’s too deep and long to stop,” she retorted.

A dirty comment rose to his mind, but he didn’t dare to say it, especially as Roman was still talking. “You keep moving your arm, that wound’ll keep opening back up again. You need stitches.”

He clicked his tongue. “Bird–”

She cut him off. “You want it to get infected and for your arm to get gangrene and fall off? Fine. Be my guest.”

He frowned at her, then exhaled loudly and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Fine. Fine, I’ll get it bloody well stitched up, all right?”

She shrugged, and they started walking – both in different directions.

Samson paused, and Roman shot him a quizzical look. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Anders’ clinic,” he said blankly. He frowned at her. “Where were you going?”

“To my house,” she said, to his surprise. “I was going to…” She paused and hunched her shoulders. “I can stitch a wound,” she muttered.

He raised his eyebrows. Wait, did that mean… was Roman was inviting him to her house? That was the last thing he’d expected. But why was she offering to stitch him up if she could just pawn him off on Anders?

He ought to say no. He ought to just go to Anders’ clinic in Darktown like he usually would. He often told Roman he wasn’t proud enough to say no to charity, but for some reason as the years had gone on, he’d started to wish he didn’t need to rely on Roman’s pity to survive.

An invitation to her house, though… What must her house be like? Samson knew she’d never wanted to live in the Amell’s Hightown mansion; she hated Hightown. How had the rough-and-ready Roman Hawke decorated the big fancy house she didn’t even want?

“You know what, forget it,” Roman said suddenly.

Samson looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears, and her cheeks were turning pink. She glared at him. “Forget I said anything. Go to Anders, see if I care. I was just–”

“No,” he blurted. “I — er. If you, um. If you want to stitch me up, I’d be much obliged.”

“I don’t want to,” she snapped. “I was just offering. Do what you want, I don’t care.”

He scowled at her. She was so surly and so fucking confusing. He really would be better off going to Anders’ clinic on his own. It would be much less of a headache.

Curiosity about her house finally got the better of him, however. “Bird, I’d be thankful if you stitched me up, all right?”

She gave him a hard stare, then finally relaxed her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of Hightown. “Come on, then.”

They made their way through Lowtown in a rather dour silence. As they were walking through the Hightown market, Roman finally spoke. “Seriously though, why didn’t you just fight back?”

He gave her a chiding look. “You saw my odds, right? Three against one ain’t something to sneeze at.”

“You still should have fought back,” she insisted. “I know you’re trained in combat. You could have done some real damage if you wanted to.”

“I didn’t want to,” he said doggedly. “I told you, I was hoping he’d lose interest. Berks like that want to make themselves feel big by beatin’ up someone smaller. The more beaten you look, the faster they lose interest.” He shrugged and peeked at the wound again, then pursed his lips; it was still bleeding.

He pressed her scarf to the wound once more. “Sometimes being invisible is better than being strong. Not that you’d know anything about being invisible,” he muttered.

She shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean with that crack?”

“You’re a bloody wildcat who doesn’t know how to stay out of a fight, that’s what,” he said bluntly.

“Well, you suck at being invisible if you’re getting stabbed,” she retorted.

“Are you going to break my balls all the way to your fancy house?” he complained. “If that’s the case, I’d rather my arm get the rot, thanks very much.”

Roman glared at him, then said nothing more for the rest of the walk. It was awkward enough that Samson half considered turning around and not coming the rest of the way with her, but his wound was still bleeding freely, so he suffered the unpleasant silence until they reached her house.

She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then started pulling off her boots. “Lock it behind you,” she said gruffly.

Samson closed and locked the door. A moment later, Roman’s mabari came barrelling through the foyer toward them.

Monty barked happily, and Roman smiled faintly as she rubbed his jowls. “There’s the good boy,” she crooned. She rubbed the mabari’s ears while he wagged his tail, and Samson studied Roman’s rare smile from the corner of his eye.

Monty licked Roman’s cheek before looking up at Samson, and Samson stood there awkwardly as the mabari approached him. He’d met Monty several times before, but it never paid to take a mabari’s acceptance for granted.

He cautiously held out his hand. “Dog,” he greeted.

Monty sniffed his fingers, then licked his hand and trotted away, and Samson released his breath.

“Come on,” Roman said, and she padded silently into the house.

Samson looked around with unabashed interest as he followed her. The Amell mansion looked… nothing like Roman, in fact. The walls were done in a delicate pink-and-gold wallpaper, and the furniture was clearly expensive but pretty standard for a noble’s house. Most of the floors were carpeted, and Samson awkwardly studied the trail of dirt that his filthy shoes had left behind. There were a few paintings on the walls, but they were boring pastoral scenes. There was a writing desk in the corner that was covered in a mess of letters that Samson suspected was Roman’s workspace, but aside from that, he wouldn’t have guessed that Roman lived here.

“Not what I’d have expected from a dog lord,” he remarked.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “My mother’s family are Kirkwall nobles, not Fereldans.”

“Ah, right.” He studied the elaborate chandelier that hung over the main room, then looked her in the eye. “This place doesn’t look like you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What the fuck were you expecting? Half-melted candles and bowls of blood in every corner?”

He smirked at her sarcastic tone. “Yeah, that’s right. Maybe some ritual circles painted on the floor. But I guess that would make a mess of your nice carpet ‘ere.”

She snorted, and Samson raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had he actually managed to make her laugh? Unfortunately, he couldn’t check; she’d turned away and was disappearing into the kitchen.

He followed her. She was arranging some items on the kitchen island, a towel and a needle and thread, and Samson leaned casually against the island as she filled a porcelain bowl with hot water.

Monty sat beside him and leaned against his leg. Samson warily looked at the mabari for a second before gingerly patting his furry head. “I thought there’d be servants,” he said to Roman. “Big house like this? Must be a lot for your mum to manage on her own.”

Roman scoffed. “She doesn’t–” She broke off suddenly, and Samson raised his eyebrows.

When she spoke again, her tone was gruff. “We do have a couple of servants. But they’re probably at the market. They sell enchanted items on the side.”

Enchanted items? He raised his eyebrows. “You’re talking about the dwarves, right? Bodahn and the simple one? They work for you?”

Roman shot him a hard look. “Sandal’s not simple. He’s just… he doesn’t talk much.”

Samson held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

She didn’t reply. She placed the bowl of hot soapy water on the counter, then gestured for him to come closer. “Give me the scarf.”

He sidled up beside her and handed her the scarf, and she immediately tossed it in the fire in the kitchen hearth.

Samson raised his eyebrows. “You burn those?”

She looked up from the bowl of soapy water, which she was dipping a washcloth into. “Huh?”

He jerked his chin at the fire. “The scarves. You burn them? I thought you just washed ‘em after mopping yourself up.”

She shook her head and wrung out the washcloth. “Too risky. Leaving any blood lying around is like asking some fucked-up asshole to use it against you.” She roughly took his arm and started wiping it clean.

He flinched, and Roman paused. “Hold still,” she muttered, and she wiped the wound more gently.

He watched her face for a moment before speaking. “You’re telling me that you, the blood mage, are worried about other people using blood magic against you?”

She shot him a venomous look. “Mages aren’t the only ones who use blood for shitty reasons. Don’t think I don’t know all about Templars and the way they use those fucking phylacteries.”

Samson raised an eyebrow. “It was mages who came up with the phylacteries.”

“You think they came up with that by choice?” Roman snapped. “There’s no fucking way they came up with that idea of their own free will. It’s the Templars and the Chantry who use the phylacteries. Those fucking things are just as much of a leash for the mages as lyrium is for the fucking Templars.” She went back to wiping his arm.

He sighed and leaned against the island. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off.

She paused in her ministrations. “What, no clever fucking comeback?”

He shot her a weary look. “I’m tired, Bird. I’m not in the mood for a comeback.”

She pursed her plump lips, then went back to cleaning his arm. When his arm was free of blood, she dropped the washcloth in the bowl of water and looked at him. “You agree with me, don’t you? You think phylacteries are fucked up, too.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t change anything.” He studied the smarting wound on his arm. Maker’s balls, it was still bleeding slightly. It was a good thing Roman had insisted that he get it stitched up.

She didn’t reply. Samson finally looked up and met her gaze, and his heart did a funny little twist behind his ribs. The way she was eyeing him was… she looked less pissed than usual. Her pitch-dark eyes were as bottomless and deep as always, but she was looking at him in that way she did on occasion — looking at him like she was seeing someone whose opinions were worthy of respect. Like he was someone whose presence in the world could be worth some good.

She was looking at him like he was someone he wasn’t.

His heart felt like it was migrating up toward his throat. He swallowed hard and gestured at his arm. “Well?” he said roughly. “You going to stitch me up then or what?”

When her usual scowl returned, it was almost a relief. “I’m going to freeze your arm a little,” she said. “Just the surface of the skin to numb it.” Without waiting for an answer, she placed her palm over his open wound. The skin instantly started to cool, and Samson waited tensely as his arm grew colder and colder.

Finally, when the smarting pain of his wound had nearly turned into a smarting pain of cold instead, she lifted her hand. Without speaking, she silently threaded the needle she’d brought, then started sewing up the cut.

He clenched his jaw as she worked. Despite his chilled arm, he could still feel a tiny pinch of pain every time the needle pierced his skin, but he didn’t want to point it out in case Roman got angry and told him to leave.

Then he wondered why he even wanted to stay. She always made him so bloody tired with her constant scowl and the way she was always picking arguments with him. And she was such a hypocrite, trying to insist that his life was worth something when she was always cutting her own arms and throwing herself into nearly-fatal situations as though she didn’t care what happened to her.

He pursed his lips and looked away from her. When the stitching was done, she took a roll of linen strips and bandaged his arm, then stood back and folded her arms. “Done,” she said.

He inspected his bandaged arm, then tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at her once more. “Thanks, Bird.”

She nodded. She didn’t say anything more, and as the silence stretched on, Samson started to feel awkward.

He took a step back. “Well, er. I’ll–”

“Have you eaten?” she said.

He paused. “You mean today, or…?”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “When was the last time you ate?”

He hesitated and tried to remember. “Yesterday. Yeah, that’s right, I think I ate yesterday. I…” He trailed off. She’d walked over to the kitchen hearth and was stirring the contents of the cast-iron pot that was hanging over the fire.

She grunted, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a dish, and Samson watched in bemusement as she returned to the pot and ladled some of its contents into the dish. She returned to the kitchen island and plonked the dish of stew in front of him, then rifled around in a drawer and thrust a spoon at him.

“Eat it,” she said. “If the meat’s tough, too bad. I think it’s supposed to cook for a few more hours.”

He stared at her for a second. There was a lump in his throat again. He must be getting sick.

He gingerly took the spoon. “What’s with the hospitality?”

“What are you talking about?” she said sulkily.

He jerked his chin at the spool of thread and the bowl of bloody water. “This amateur healer business, the food… you’re being real hospitable today, Bird.”

She glowered at him. “Look, if you don’t want the stew, you can just get the fuck out of my house. No one’s stopping you.”

For some perverse reason, her hostility made him feel more at ease than her kindness. He dipped his spoon into the stew. “And turn down a free hot meal? Not a chance.” He blew on the stew and took a bite. The meat was rather stringy; it clearly needed to simmer for a few hours more, as she’d said. But it was still the best thing he’d eaten in weeks.

He took another big bite of stew and burned his tongue, then forced himself to slow down. Roman leaned back against the island and folded her arms, and Samson eyed her from the corner of his eye while he ate.

She glanced at him, and her eyebrows creased into a scowl. “What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

He chewed slowly to stall for time. He couldn’t tell her he was admiring the way her stubborn jawline blended into the delicate line of her neck.

He finally swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Can I take a bath while I’m here?” he said.

She curled her lip at him, just as he’d known she would. “What the fuck does this look like to you, a boarding house?”

He lifted his loaded spoon. “I’m askin’ for your benefit, Bird. You’re the one always complaining about how I smell.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he slowly chewed another bite of stew as he waited for her response. Finally she unfolded her arms and sighed loudly. “For fuck’s sake. Fine. You can use the bath in my room. Come upstairs when you’re done.” She pushed away from the counter and patted Monty’s head before leaving the kitchen, and Samson watched in mild surprise as she walked away. He honestly hadn’t been sure if she would agree or if she’d just tell him to get the fuck out.

He quickly finished his stew, then scratched Monty’s ears and made his way toward the stairs. He headed up to the one open door on the second floor and peered cautiously into the bedroom.

He instantly recognized it as Roman’s room. The decor was a stark contrast with the rest of the house: it was lush and dark and eclectic, bursting with furniture and fabrics that looked like she’d picked them up piecemeal over the years instead of trying to foster a cohesive theme. The wallpaper was dark red with an intricate grey pattern of curlicues. The bed was dark mahogany hung with heavy rust-red velvet curtains. The curtain was drawn across the window, leaving the room dimly by with the warm glow of candles and an oil lantern despite it being the middle of the afternoon. An ornately framed full-length mirror was propped carelessly in one corner, and in another corner was a fancy version of the sort of folding screen that Samson had seen at the Blooming Rose for the prostitutes to change their clothes. Roman’s folding screen was draped with a multitude of scarves: scarves that he rarely saw her wear, aside from the crimson ones she tied around her wrist.

He slid his hand into his pocket and self-consciously rubbed his thumb over the crimson scarf he kept in his pocket — the same one Roman had used to mop herself up after that one time they’d had sex in the alley. She’d shoved the dirty scarf into his hand, and Samson still wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. He’d even used some precious soap to wash it out, and now it was tucked deep in the pocket of his trousers where he always carried it.

He stepped into her bedroom and followed the sound of running water to the en-suite washroom. Roman was sitting on a wooden stool while the bathtub filled up, and Samson could see the faint red glow of runes around the bottom of the tub.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an enchanted bathtub?”

She shrugged. “It came with the house.”

He leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are the upper crust now, eh? Golden chandeliers, enchanted bathtub… must be nice.”

She frowned at him. “The bathwater doesn’t have to be hot, you know. I can chill the water if you’d rather freeze your balls off.” She held up one hand, and a little ball of ice appeared over her open palm.

Samson shot her a chiding look. “And you wonder why people are afraid of apostates.”

She scoffed and threw the ball of ice into the tub, where it promptly melted. “I know why people are afraid of apostates. Because they’re fucking sheep to the Chantry.”

He huffed. “Should’ve seen that one coming, I s’pose.” He shucked his vest and started kicking off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head.

“Oh, for fuck’s — you’re not even going to wait until I leave the room?” Roman demanded.

He winced as his sleeve brushed over his freshly-bandaged arm, then glanced at her unconcernedly. “Why bother? I’m not modest.” He smirked. “Are you shy, Bird? You going to blush like a country milkmaid or something when my cock comes out?”

“No,” she said loudly.

He shrugged. “All right then.” He unlaced his trousers and shamelessly pushed them down. In truth, he’d long grown used to taking baths in front of other people — first the communal baths in the Templar barracks, then in the one half-decent public bathhouse in Lowtown when he could spare the coin to bathe.

Roman scoffed and folded her arms. “If this is your way of trying to get me to fuck you again, it’s not working.”

He shot her a scathing look. “Relax. I’m not trying to trick my way into your twisted knickers.” Not that he would say no if she were ever to offer, but he knew better than to get his hopes up about anything anymore.

He stepped into the tub and immediately sighed in relief. “Damn, that’s nice,” he groaned.

“Don’t get that bandage wet,” Roman scolded.

“I know, I know,” he said. He really hoped she wasn’t going to nag him the whole time he was bathing.

He kept his left forearm above the water and submerged himself, and for a few long seconds, he enjoyed the way the hot water pricked his scalp and the skin of his face. He slowly broke the surface of the water and rubbed his face with his right hand, then opened his eyes.

Roman was still sitting on her stool next to the basin with her arms folded. Samson lifted one eyebrow at her. “Are you going to watch me to make sure I don’t piss in your bathtub or something?” He reached for the soap and started washing his arms.

Her face twisted with disgust. “Why would you even suggest that? Is that something that you would usually do?”

“No, Bird,” he said flatly. “But I’ve seen some things at the bathhouse, let me tell you.”

Her pouty lips twisted even more. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Probably for the best,” he said. He washed his chest and his back as best he could with one arm, then started washing his hair.

She tsked. “Don’t use the soap for that.”

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“There’s shampoo,” she said slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. “Use the fucking shampoo.”

He sighed, then put the bar of soap down and picked up the glass bottle of shampoo. He poured a measure of it into his palm, and the scent of it pulled at something deep in his belly.

It smelled sweet and smooth, almost like the filling in those amandine croissants that the Orlesians made: like warm vanilla and almonds.

It smelled like Roman’s hair.

Maker’s balls, his cock was starting to get hard. He was suddenly grateful that Roman couldn’t see his body over the high edges of the tub. He inhaled the shampoo fragrance once more, then started washing his hair.

A few seconds later, Roman tutted again. “You’re not doing it right. You’re not washing the roots.”

He lowered his hand and shot her annoyed look. “I’m a bloody grown man. I know how to wash my own hair.”

“Apparently you don’t. You’re only washing the surface of your hair,” she said. “You need to wash your fucking scalp.”

“I’ve only got one hand,” he complained.

“So?” she said snidely.

He glared at her. “If you’re such a bloody expert, why don’t you come and do it for me, eh?”

She glared back at him, then stood up. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine, I will.” To his immense surprise, she dragged her stool over to the tub behind his head and sat down bad-temperedly, then held out her hand. “Give me the fucking shampoo and dunk your head.”

He dumbly did as he was told. When he emerged from the water once more, Roman slid both of her hands into his wet hair.

He tensed slightly, expecting her to roughly scrub his hair. What he didn’t expect was gentleness.

She pressed the tips of her fingers into his scalp and started to rub in a slow and careful massage. She stroked her fingers through his hair and started lathering it carefully, and Samson sat stock-still in the tub, paralyzed by how fucking gentle she was being.

“Tilt your head back,” she said quietly.

He silently obeyed her. She smoothed the water and shampoo away from his forehead, and then her fingers were moving in a careful circular motion from his temples toward his nape. To his horror, he suddenly felt like crying.

There was a pressure in his chest, like a weight that seemed to be throbbing up toward his throat. As Roman continued to gently massage his scalp and run her fingers through his hair, the ache in his chest only seemed to worsen.

Samson closed his stinging eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. Had he ever been touched this way before – in a way that insipid romance novel writers might almost call tender, if it was anyone else doing the touching other than the rough and cranky Roman Hawke?

He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d be pulling my hair by now, Bird,” he said. His voice was husky to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

She huffed. “Unlike you, I know how to wash hair. I told you, you were doing it wrong.”

He grunted in response. If the gentle work of her fingers was right, then he’d definitely been doing it wrong.

“How d’you know how to wash other people’s hair?” he asked. “You used to help your mum with washing Carver and Bethany?”

“No,” she said shortly.

He waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her.

She was scowling. When she met his eye, her scowl deepened. “Don’t look at me,” she said defensively.

He turned around with a sigh. “I was just making conversation,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off.”

She said nothing in return, but she kept combing her fingers through his hair and running her nails gently over his scalp, and Samson eventually just relaxed into the soothing touch of her hands. His hair must be clean by now, and he should probably ask why she was still massaging his head. But it just felt… Maker, it felt too damned good, and he knew that the moment he asked what she was doing, she would pull her hands away.

He closed his eyes once more. Her hands continued to stroke and smoothe their way across his scalp and down to the back of his neck, and it was hardly a stretch for him to imagine her hands stroking other parts of his body just as intimately.

A flare of longing came to life low in his gut. A few heartbeats later, his cock was unfurling and straightening in the bathwater.

He shifted restlessly, annoyed at himself for getting horny and at her for making him feel this way. Then she pushed on the crown of his head. “Rinse,” she said.

He sank into the bathwater and used his right hand to rub the shampoo out of his hair. When he rose to the surface once more, Roman was on her feet and moving toward the door.

“You can have some of Carver’s old clothes,” she said. “He doesn’t need them anymore as a fucking Templar.” She left without looking at him or waiting for a response.

He sighed, then sat there in the cooling bathwater for a moment and brooded over his traitorous cock and the traitorous heavy feeling in his chest. He eventually dragged himself out of the bath and pulled the drain, then started drying his hair with the towel she’d left on the edge of the basin.

His idle gaze fell on his clothes that he’d abandoned on the floor, and he paused. He considered putting on his own clothes rather than taking even more charity from Roman, but now that he was clean and his hair smelled like vanilla and almonds, he could really see what Roman was talking about when she complained about his smell.

He sighed, then wandered back into her bedroom as he rubbed his hair. A second later, she opened the bedroom door and came back in with an armful of clothes.

“This stuff might be too big, but maybe–” She stopped short, and her eyes fell straight to his groin. She stared at his upright cock for a second before raising her eyes back to his face, and he hunched his shoulders.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster,” he said defensively. “It’s your fault, anyway.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “How is your hard-on my fault?”

He couldn’t tell her it was the way she’d been stroking his hair. He felt perverted enough already just from the way she was eyeing him. “Just… I’m a man, all right?” he muttered. “Can’t always control my own knob.” He tied the towel around his waist.

She dropped the pile of clothes on the bed. “Pick what you want from there,” she said.

He glanced at Carver’s hand-me-downs. “Thanks,” he muttered. He reached for the closest piece of clothing, intent on putting clothes on as quickly as possible. But before he could pick anything from the pile of clothes, Roman stepped closer to him.

He shied away from her. “What are you doing?” he said suspiciously.

“I thought you weren’t modest,” she said.

He double-taked at her. “Eh?”

She reached for the towel around his waist, and he was so stunned that he didn’t stop her when she pulled it off.

She shoved his hip. “Sit down.”

He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed. When Roman dropped to her knees in front of him, his whole brain seemed to freeze with disbelief. This wasn’t real, was it? Maybe he’d drowned himself in the bathtub and this was some kind of out-of-body thing.

His throbbing cock felt real enough, though. And when Roman suddenly grabbed his shaft, he gasped with pleasure.

Well, that was certainly real.

She pumped her fist along his length, and he clenched his fingers in the blankets. “Bird–”

She suddenly took his cock in her mouth, and it felt so fucking good that his vision actually went black for a second. His mouth fell open in a silent moan – silent because he’d forgotten how to breathe. Roman was suckling him, those plush red lips of hers moving up and down his cock, and he couldn’t – his body couldn’t – it was like his body could only handle so many tasks, lungs moving and heart beating and his arms keeping him upright, and when the velvet heat of Roman’s mouth on his cock was added to the mix, something had to give, and apparently it was his ability to breathe.

Samson stared stupidly at her as her lips moved up and down the length of his shaft. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blowjob – certainly not for several years. And now here he was, an ex-Templar beggar addicted to lyrium with no home and barely a coin to his name, sitting on a bed in Hightown while a pretty woman at least ten years younger than him was sucking his cock.

He must be dreaming. Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the bathtub. It was the only possible explanation.

Roman fondled his balls and angled her head over his lap to take his cock deeper in her throat, and Samson finally dragged in a lungful of air. He released it in a pleasured groan and gave in to the silken smoothness of her throat, savouring the way she squeezed him when she swallowed with the head of his cock all the way at the back of her tongue. A couple of minutes later, when his growing climax was trembling in his limbs to the point that he couldn’t take it anymore, he reached down and slid his fingers into her hair.

She growled around a mouthful of his cock, and he exploded in her mouth with a helpless cry. She swallowed his come without pausing the smooth up-and-down of her lips along his shaft, and when his trembling had stilled and he could finally open his eyes again, he curled his fingers in her hair and pulled.

She released his cock with a gasp and pushed his hand away from her hair, then stood up and folded her arms, and Samson studied her belligerent posture with a reckless sort of laziness. It almost felt as though she had swallowed not only his release, but also some of the jaded disbelief that had been stopping him from asking her again to fuck him.

No, not asking. He’d only had her once, but already he had a visceral sense of what she really wanted, it wasn’t to be asked.

He boldly met her gaze. “Take your clothes off, Bird.”

A tiny sardonic smile touched the corners of her lips. She scoffed at him and turned away.

He stood up and grabbed her arm. “Take them off now,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

She was glaring at him, but importantly, she hadn’t pulled her arm out of his grip. He pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose.

“Roman,” he growled, “take your bloody clothes off right now.”

She bared her teeth and leaned in closer. “Make me,” she hissed.

Gotcha, he thought vindictively. Without warning, he kissed her hard.

She gasped and parted her lips, and Samson blissfully delved his tongue into her mouth. Half a second later, Roman bit his tongue.

He gasped in pain and recoiled from her. He couldn’t taste blood in his mouth, but fuck, that had hurt.

He glared at her. She was smirking again and watching him in an obnoxiously arrogant way, and Samson finally snapped.

He grabbed her arm again and pulled her close, then started roughly pulling her shirt out of her trousers. “Take this shirt off or I’ll rip it. I swear I will,” he threatened.

She scoffed and tried to shove his hands away. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

He fisted his hands in the deep v-neck collar of her shirt and started to pull, and she grabbed his wrists. “Fine!” she blurted. “Fine, for fuck’s sake, don’t rip my shirt.” She pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor, leaving her torso bare except for a surprisingly lacy little bra covering her nearly-flat chest.

She gave him a withering look. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He chuckled, then pulled aside the cup of her bra and ducked his head low to nip her tidy little breast. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, and Samson dragged his tongue over her nipple before taking it in his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple and savoured the sharp sound of her moan and the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulder until she shoved him away.

She glared at him, and he watched in satisfaction as her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “You’re going to leave toothmarks on my tit, you dick,” she accused.

“I sure hope so,” he said snarkily. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her down on the bed. “Trousers off, or I’ll rip those off too.”

She scoffed and propped herself up on her elbows. “These are leather. You couldn’t rip them off if you were a fucking qunari.”

He crawled onto the bed so he was straddling her hips, effectively trapping her beneath his body. Then he reached down and curled his fingers carefully around her throat.

She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her. “Take the trousers off, Bird. I know you want to.”

She arched her spine. “I do not,” she panted.

He gently squeezed her throat until her eyelids fluttered. “Yes you do,” he taunted. “You want to take them off, because you know what’ll happen when you do.”

She glared at him, but her restlessly twisting hips betrayed her. “What?” she said belligerently. “What’ll happen?”

He tipped her chin back. “I’ll bury my face in your pussy and lick you until you’re begging me to fuck you,” he growled.

She let out a harsh little laugh. “I’m not going to beg you for anything. I don’t beg.”

He huffed, then pressed gently on her throat to force her down onto her back. By the time she was flat on her back, she was practically gasping for breath, and her bottomless black eyes were feverish and unfocused.

He leaned in close to her. “Take the trousers off now,” he snarled.

“Fuck you,” she whimpered, but she finally reached down and started unlacing her trousers.

He shifted his position over her body so she could untie her laces. Once the laces were undone, he released her throat and shifted to a kneeling position between her legs.

He curled his fingers into her unlaced trousers and dragged them down. He ran his palms up along the smoothness of her thighs, then shoved her legs apart and bit the inside of her thigh.

“Ow!” she yelped. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You fucking asshole–”

He ran his tongue smoothly along the length of her sex, and she broke off with a moan and twisted her hips eagerly toward his face.

Samson lifted his mouth and smirked at her. “I knew you wanted this, you bloody wildcat.”

She bucked her hips toward his face. “Shut the fuck up and lick me,” she gasped.

He chuckled and lowered his face between her legs once more. He kissed her sloppily, taking all her musky wetness onto his lips until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, then swirled his tongue around her clit.

She fisted her hands in the blankets and thrust her hips toward his mouth, breathing hard all the while, and Samson eventually looked up again. “Look at you, trying to fuck my face,” he taunted. “I knew you wanted this, even when you was acting like you didn’t.”

She gasped and arched her spine, then glared down at him. “Stop fucking talking!”

He scoffed, then teasingly smoothed his fingers over her swollen folds. “So bloody rude all the time. I’m going to make you change your tune.”

She bucked her hips and let out a snarling little laugh. “Never.”

He grinned at her, then gripped her hips to hold her still. He lowered his head once more, but instead of licking her, he nipped the skin of her inner thigh with his teeth.

She yelped and tried to buck her hips, but Samson firmly held her down and sucked the skin of her inner thigh between his teeth.

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck fuck — Maker’s fucking balls, ah!” She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, but she didn’t pull him away, so Samson kept sucking at the tender patch of skin. A few seconds later, he released her and inspected her inner thigh.

Her skin was marred with a small purpling bruise in the shape of his teeth. He smirked, then looked up at her. “I left toothmarks,” he said. “Now what are you going to do?”

She sneered at him, and he noted the wildness of her eyes with a surge of heated satisfaction. She pulled his hair and tried to buck her hips again. “Lick me, you asshole,” she commanded.

He brushed his lips teasingly over her clit, but instead of licking her as she’d asked, he turned his head and bit the skin of her other thigh. She let out a sharp little gasp, and when he started sucking and nipping her skin, she moaned.

“F-fuck…” Roman scratched his scalp and parted her legs even wider, and his cock started to stir once more at her obvious eagerness. He sucked on her skin, and when he eventually lifted his mouth, the sight before him was enough to straighten his cock completely.

Roman was slick and soaking wet for him, and on her inner thighs were two matching hickeys in the shape of his mouth, like two perfects brands framing her sex.

He snickered, and Roman strained toward him with a moan. “Come on, Samson, don’t be such a fucking tease,” she whined.

He lifted an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like begging.”

“It wasn’t,” she snapped. “I’m telling you what to do, you asshole. Put your mouth on me!”

He tsked. “All right, all right. Calm down, Bird.” He dragged his tongue roughly along the length of her folds to make her flinch, then gently traced his tongue around her clit.

She shivered and widened her legs even more and arched her spine, and Samson focused on the dual pleasures of his throbbing cock and her swollen little clit against his mouth. He brushed the little bud with his lips and teased it with his tongue, and when Roman suddenly shuddered and cried out, he slid one finger inside of her.

She jolted and clenched her fingers in his hair. “Samson, fuck me!”

He lifted his mouth and pulled her hand away from his hair, then curled his finger inside of her. “Not until you beg me nicely, Bird,” he taunted.

She moaned and bucked her hips, then reached down and dragged her nails along his unwounded right arm, and he gasped as the pain rippled across his skin. Incensed by her scratch, he pulled his finger free from her body and stood up.

He crawled onto the bed to join her, and she gasped excitedly as she shuffled back on the bed to accommodate him. “Come on, come on,” she panted, and she reached for his cock.

He knocked her hand away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her close before roughly looping her legs over his arms. A second later, he was looming over her, her body trapped and helpless beneath him with her knees hooked over his elbows.

He rubbed his cock between her legs, and she jolted and dug her nails into his chest. “Samson, fuck me!” she cried.

“No,” he snapped. He slid his cock through the slickness of her folds and forced himself not to moan at how good she felt, then gave her a stern look.

“Say ‘please’,” he said.

She laughed in his face. “Never,” she snarled.

He sneered at her, then slid his cock more slowly through her wetness — bloody Maker’s balls, she was so fucking wet that she made him want to beg. He pumped his hips slowly through her silky wetness, then pressed the very tip of his cock inside of her.

He groaned at the blissful heat of her pussy embraced the tip of cock. Roman gasped and tried to buck her hips, but she could barely move with her legs hooked over his arms. “Yes,” she yelped. “Yes yes, come on, come on...”

He clenched his jaw and forced himself not to move. “Not until you beg,” he gritted.

She mewled and wiggled her hips and clawed his chest, and he gasped as the pain pulsed through his cock as a flare of pleasure. “Come on, Bird, sing me a pretty song,” he coaxed.

“No!” she yelled.

With a huge effort of will, he pulled his cock out of her, and she sobbed. “Fine, fine, please!” she wailed. “Fuck me, please!”

Finally, he thought, and he slammed into her.

A visceral cry burst from her lips, and Samson shuddered at the sound of her pleasure and the silken heat of her pussy. He pumped into her and gasped – Maker’s balls, she was so tight, tighter and wetter than he remembered, and he had been thinking about this a lot but it was still even better than he remembered…

He pumped into her again and again, and then he was fucking her in a desperate blur, so aroused and so pleasured by her inimitable heat that he couldn’t control his pace. Her breathing was a sharp staccato gasp in his ear and her nails were digging into his biceps now instead of his chest, and fuck, fuck, it felt so fucking good.

She scratched his arms. “You got me to beg, you asshole,” she gasped. “Are you happy now?”

Her voice was snarky but breathless with pleasure, and Samson couldn’t help but smile. “I am, yeah,” he said smugly. He lowered himself to his elbows, curling her pelvis even more, then thrust into her again.

She cried out sharply and dug her nails into his arms, and Samson fucked her for a second longer before kissing her. He pumped into her and blissfully licked her tongue and savoured the plumpness of her lips–

She bit his lower lip. He gasped and tried to pull away, but her teeth kept his lower lip for a second before releasing him.

He glared down at her, and she raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Now what?” she taunted.

He sneered at her, then slammed into her hard, and she let out a wild cry. Samson fucked her in a fast and punishing blur, and the harder he fucked her, the more her face twisted with pleasure and the faster his own pleasure was building and roiling in the depths of his gut–

His climax suddenly burst, and his breath left him in a guttural groan. “Bloody fucking balls,” he blurted.

Roman sobbed and scratched his arm. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

He shuddered with bliss and kept fucking her, pounding into her as his climax pulsed through his limbs and his cock, and a few thrusts later, she cried out as well and slammed her head back into the pillows. Samson kept fucking her for as long as he could, and when he was finally too spent to continue, he slumped over her and studied her face as he tried to catch his breath.

Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Strands of her raven-black hair were stuck to the sweat on her neck, and despite the heavy rise and fall of her ribs, she looked more at peace than he’d ever seen her.

His heart did that stupid squeezing-twisting thing again. He gazed silently at her, dazed with pleasure and fatigue and the surreality of seeing Roman Hawke looking so relaxed.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Samson tensed, ready for her to snap at him and push him away.

Instead of pushing him away, she stared at him in silence, and his pulse started to rise. Her gaze was steady and serious, and her face was calm but neutral, and he had no idea what she was thinking.

He met her eyes unflinchingly despite his pounding heart. Then she pursed her lips and pushed his shoulder. “Get off,” she said.

A pang of disappointment tugged at his belly, but he rolled off of her. She slid off of the bed and start unclipping her bra, and Samson watched dully as the evidence of his climax trickled down the inside of her thigh.

She dropped her bra on the floor. “I’m taking a bath,” she said, and she padded away.

He watched her in bemusement as she went into the en-suite washroom. He listened to the sound of the bath being filled and tried to decide what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? She hadn’t told him to stay, and he wasn’t in the mood to have her snapping at him to get the fuck out.

If he wasn’t in the mood to be snapped at, he really should just leave; she was always picking at him, and it was so fucking wearying.

He slowly rose from the bed and put on some of Carver’s old clothes. Then he went into the washroom.

Roman was in the bath, and she looked up at him with a frown as he came in. “What do you want?” she said.

“Relax, Bird. I’m just getting my shoes,” he grumbled. He put on his shoes, then stood back and gestured at the rest of his clothes. “I guess you can throw those out.”

“I’ll wash them and get them back to you,” she said. “They’re not a total lost cause.”

She wasn’t looking at him. She picked up the soap and started lathering a washcloth, and Samson watched her awkwardly for a second.

Then he remembered the crimson scarf in the pocket of his dirty trousers – the trousers that Roman said she would wash.

His heart stopped. Maker’s balls, he thought. Could he get the scarf out of the pocket of his trousers without her seeing it and accusing him of being a pervert?

He gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; either he got the scarf back now and risked her seeing it, or she’d find it later while washing his trousers.

He bent over and started picking up his dirty clothes, and Roman glanced at him. “Leave them,” she said. “I said I’ll deal with them.”

“I’ll fold them,” he said, and he rifled surreptitiously in the pocket of his trousers.

“Why bother?” she asked. “They’re just going to go in the laundry anyway.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Stop nagging me for one second, will you? Just let me fold the bloody clothes.”

Her face creased into a scowl, and she looked away from him. “Fine. Fold your dirty fucking clothes. See if I care.” She started washing herself aggressively.

He’d pissed her off. A pang of regret plucked at his chest, but it was too late to fix it now.

His fingers finally found the scarf in his pocket. He relaxed, then swiftly tucked her crimson scarf into the pocket of his new trousers before folding his dirty clothes and setting them on the wooden stool. He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling increasingly at a loss. He knew he should leave, but if he was perfectly honest, he didn’t want to.

But Roman hadn’t invited him to stay, and he’d already taken so much charity from her today, and the last thing he wanted was for Roman Hawke to pity him…

He awkwardly scratched his stubbled neck. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Whatever,” she said without looking up. She pulled her wet hair over one shoulder and started washing her back.

He watched her for a second longer. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped over to the bathtub.

He placed his hand on her bare shoulder and turned her toward him, and she glared at him. “Hey, what–”

He bent over the bathtub and kissed her firmly on the lips, then pulled away before she could bite him. “Thanks for the fuck,” he said bluntly. “I’d do it again.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she scowled. “Fuck you,” she muttered.

“Anytime, Bird,” he said seriously. “I mean it.”

She harrumphed and splashed some water at him. “Go away.”

The water hit him in the eye, and he flinched. He straightened and wiped his face, then scowled at her. “Thanks for that,” he said flatly.

She shrugged and went back to washing her back. Samson studied the bony line of her spine for a second longer, then left the bathroom without another word.

She’s such a bloody bitch, he thought resentfully as he made his way down the stairs. Splashing him in the face and clawing his arms while he was fucking her and looking at him like he was some kind of animal before sucking his cock… She was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t know why he bothered with her.

Monty was curled by the fire in the main room. As Samson made his way toward the door, the mabari stood up and followed him.

Samson paused by the door and looked down at the mabari. “Guard the door, eh?” he murmured. “I can’t lock it after I leave.”

Monty sat down attentively and let out a little woof. Samson reached for the doorknob, but just before he opened the door to let himself out, a memory crossed his mind: Roman’s peaceful face right after he finished fucking her.

Bloody Bird, he thought wistfully. He looked at Monty once more. “See you soon, maybe,” he said. Then he opened the door to the Amell mansion and left.

#samson #raleigh samson #samson da2 #samson/hawke #samson x hawke #romanson #pikapeppa writes

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goth-surana · 4 years ago

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Hope and Hopelessness Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of 5

Main pairing: Anders/Male Hawke

Main tags: Angst with a happy ending, tranquil!Anders, cure for tranquility

Summary: After some time on the run with Hawke, Anders is caught and made tranquil. Hawke cannot bring himself to kill him, instead chasing a distant hope that there may be a cure.

Read on AO3 or below the cut

They made it to Amaranthine, and Hawke followed the instructions Varric left for contacting the Hero of Ferelden. It was a drop location where he could leave a note. He hoped what he wrote made it clear that Anders was in need of help without mentioning him by name. Hawke had Anders recount a memory shared only between the two of them, hopefully that would convince her

And so Hawke waited in the woods at the location he left in the note, slightly outside the city boundaries. Hopefully the Warden Commander got the message, and hopefully she would come.

Hawke had never met Warden Commander Surana, but he had heard the legends of the angry little elf who saved the whole nation.

Hawke waited, and waited. Anders stood silently. Although he showed little expression, Hawke could tell he was doubtful this would work. One thing Hawke never wanted to have enough experience to find out was that the tranquil were not entirely blank. They made logical deductions, they had opinions. Right now Anders’ opinion was clearly that Hawke was an idiot, but Hawke could live with that.

“Anders?” A woman’s voice cut through the silence, and Hawke turned to see a cloaked figure with a staff strapped to her back walking through the trees.

“Warden-“ Hawke began, but didn’t get the chance to finish before the woman let out an audible gasp and swung her staff around, pointing it at Hawke.

“Nate!” She screamed, “it’s a trap!”

An arrow flew directly into Hawke’s shoulder, and he yelled as he fell back into a tree. Vines erupted from the ground and twisted around Hawke’s legs, dragging him to his knees.

The elf loomed over him, her thunderous expression visible under her hood.

“How many more of you are there?” She asked.

“I’m not here to hurt you-“

“You-“ she began, then stopped as her voice cracked.

“Holy Maker!” A man with dark hair exclaimed as he stepped out from behind the trees.

“You,” Warden Commander Surana continued, “used my friend as bait to get me here! Start talking right now!”

Tears were welling up in her furious eyes.

“I did no such thing! I need your help!”

Surana looked at him incredulously, then raised her staff again. Hawke braced himself, but was spared by the man’s voice that Hawke now realized he had heard before.

“Wait, Commander! That’s the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“What?” The woman asked, her voice low.

“I met him in Kirkwall. He is Anders’ lover.”

“Yes,” Anders himself added, “please do not kill him.”

Surana’s eyes snapped over to Anders. Her brow pinched together for a moment, but she shook herself out of it and looked back towards Hawke. The way she spoke was all too familiar to Hawke now, because she was trying not to cry.

“Then why is he tranquil?” The woman managed to say, low and dangerous.

Hawke knew the answer to this one. It was easy, really.

“Because I failed.”

No one said anything for a few moments. Leaves rustled around them in the breeze, the fading sun broke through the tree canopy. The vines binding Hawke released, and Surana stepped forward.

Without a word, she yanked the arrow out of Hawke’s shoulder and followed it up with a wave of healing magic. It prickled and stung, nowhere near as smooth as Anders’ work.

“You move too fast,” Anders told her. “You are still impatient.”

Surana laughed, and then sobbed. She sank to her knees and pressed her head into her hands.

“You’re such a nag…” she muttered. “Even now, you’re still… oh Maker…”

“Anders…” came the man’s voice. If Hawke remembered correctly, his name was Nathaniel. “What happened to you?” He too looked stricken, his eyes wide and his face pale.

“I was made tranquil,” Anders said simply.

“I can bloody see that!” Nathaniel snapped, then took a deep breath. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I mean… who did this?”

“Templars,” Anders told him. “I do not believe they were officially sanctioned by the Chantry, but they were aware of the previous orders to bring me to justice for what I did. They felt this was a better solution than killing me, as they believed I could tell them about the mage rebellion.”

Hawke hated hearing one of the worst days of his life recounted with such dispassion, such disregard for the enormity of what happened. And to hear this from the victim himself…

“What-“ Surana asked before her voice broke again. “What did you need help with?”

“I’m looking for a cure for tranquility.”

Surana gave him an incredulous look. “What makes you think I’ll have it?”

Hawke’s heart sank. This was another dead end.

After letting out a long breath, Hawke answered. “Because I’m desperate, and Varric said you Wardens knew secrets no one else did.”

“Who’s Varric?” Surana asked.

“Member of the inquisition. Knows Leliana.”

“Oh. So she told him how to contact me?”

“Yeah.” Hawke’s throat felt dry, his heart felt dead. He had known this was a long shot. He had known that. But it still fucking hurt, like it hurt every time. Like it hurt every time he had to look to his lover and see a dead shell of a man. Like it hurt every single day.

A tear slid down Hawke’s cheek, but Surana didn’t say anything about it. She was crying silently too.

“There’s a Warden warehouse in Amaranthine that we’re hiding out in,” said Surana. “You two are welcome to stay as long as you need. I’m… I’m sorry I can’t help any more than that.”

And she did look sorry. Surana looked bloody miserable, on top of looking like the wind had been knocked out of her. Hawke had looked like that, in the beginning. When he had still been processing that his love was taken away.

“You were his friend, right?” Hawke asked.

Surana nodded. “I had been… fuck. I had been so happy to hear from Nate that he was alive. I had… I’d wanted to see him again.”

Surana scrunched her face up in frustration. “I’m sorry I’m being like this. I have no right to be, not next to his lover. I can’t even imagine-“

Surana couldn’t finish her sentence, and just curled her knees to her chest and hid her face in her arms.

“It’s alright,” Hawke told her. “I know you two were close. He didn’t speak often of his time with the Wardens, but he spoke fondly of you.”

Hawke remembered enjoying the times Anders did open up and tell stories. It was often in the Hanged Man, because Varric had a knack for getting stories out of people. Everyone would listen with rapt attention as Anders spoke of his time working under the Hero of Ferelden, of how she was just like the legends said but at the same time so different. How she was angry and passionate and how she saved him from the Templars’ sword.

“Thank you, by the way.” Hawke told Surana. He had remembered wanting to tell her that, if they ever met.

“For?” Surana looked up from her arms, confused.

“For saving him. He told me it’s thanks to you he’s alive. If you hadn’t stepped in, he would have been dead before I could even meet him.”

Hawke remembered having that realization long ago in Kirkwall. He had been in bed, Anders curled safely against his chest and sleeping soundly. So many things had almost taken Anders from Hawke before Hawke would have even known what he’d lost. Hawke had held on tighter then, and thanked the Maker for his fortune. He barely believed in the Maker anymore, but… but if there was someone out there to thank, then they deserved it.

Hawke didn’t deserve any fucking thanks, though. He had barely gotten Anders out of Kirkwall alive, and then failed him in every way possible. He failed to protect him from tranquility, and now every day he failed to free him from it.

“He saved me a lot too,” Surana replied, smiling sadly as teartracks caught the fading light. “He saved Amaranthine, you know. I was going to abandon it, I thought it was a lost cause. But… but he argued. He argued and he reminded me that we had to try, no matter how hopeless. I had become a bit jaded, by then… so thank the Maker for him. All of Amaranthine owes him their lives.”

“A lot of people owe him their lives,” Hawke said. “More than he killed. Everybody forgets that, they forget how many he healed.”

It was unfair that Anders would be remembered as a murderer and not a healer. If Hawke had any influence at all anymore, he would be remembered as a hero.

“Let’s head to the warehouse you mentioned,” came Anders’ voice. “It’s getting dark.”

Nathaniel nodded grimly. He wasn’t crying, but the man looked harrowed.

The group silently walked back to the city, and Surana led them to an old building full of crates and weapons. In one corner there were two bedrolls, presumably belonging to the Wardens.

“Why are you in hiding, anyway?” Hawke asked. “The inquisition was desperate to find you.”

“Same reason you’re hiding,” Surana answered, “because it’s the fucking Inquisition. I don’t trust that Chantry bullshit.”

“But… isn’t your…”

“…Lover with the Inquisition?” Surana finished. “Yeah. It’s complicated. It’s where her life took her, and she wants to reform the Chantry. If there’s anything left to reform at this point, what with the Divine dying and all.”

Surana was about to say something else, then stopped. She looked down at the floor and let out a sigh. From the light of her staff Hawke saw a faded red stain on the floorboards.”

“Fucking figures we’d end up here.”

Hawke waited for her to elaborate. Nathaniel offered to clear some space for Hawke and Anders.

“This place used to be owned by the Chantry,” said Surana. “Back when I first recruited Anders, the Templars set up an ambush here. Tricked us into thinking Anders’ phylactery was here… so I came to help him destroy it.”

Surana spoke calmly, but there was clearly emotion boiling beneath the surface.

“When the Templars attacked, we killed them. After that was done, I freaked out. I… I talked a big game back then, but like every mage I’m just afraid. I had never struck back at the Templars, I felt like the world was ending and the Chantry was going to somehow find out and somehow take me back.”

Surana looked over at where Anders stood, gave him a sad smile. “But my recruits were there to save me, this time. Nate and Valenna got rid of the bodies, and Anders sat with me until I could finally calm down. It was the first time…” Surana’s voice grew thick, she grimaced as more tears came.

“It was the first time someone really got it. He understood what it was like growing up at Kinloch Hold, he understood the fear. So he just talked to me until I felt like I could breathe. He told me it would be okay…”

Surana looked at Anders, then away again. “He was there for me, but I wasn’t there for him. The Wardens called me away, and I thought I left Amaranthine better than I found it. But then the new Warden Commander came and ruined everything. He’s gone now, but… but he did his damage first. He let the bloody Templars in.”

Surana looked angry, but the kind of tired anger where all you could really feel was resignation. Hawke was familiar, too familiar with that.

“I know you think you failed,” Surana told Hawke, “but I failed him first.”

Hawke was about to reply, when Anders spoke up.

“You didn’t fail me, Commander Surana. It wasn’t your fault. Even my former self never blamed you for what happened.”

The woman looked stricken, stared at Anders for a moment. Nathaniel’s stance also changed, he looked more tense.

“You called me Surana…”

“It’s what I’m supposed to call you.”

Surana laughed, wet and miserable. “But you never fucking did… you always called me Regan, even in front of the nobles…”

“That was quite foolish of me,” Anders remarked.

“No, it was you of you. You couldn’t respect niceties and customs… and I respected that about you. Sorry, I respect that about you. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t talk like you're not here.”

“Your friend is gone, Commander Surana,” was Anders’ calm reply. “It is reasonable to feel grief.”

Surana inhaled sharply, then took two strides forward and hugged Anders. He stood there passively while she cried.

“I’m so sorry…” was all Hawke heard of her muffled voice.

Something warm bloomed in Hawke’s chest for the rest of the night, as he and the two Wardens continued to talk. He had never thought about it before, but these were the first people he could talk to about Anders. They were the first people Hawke could grieve with. And they did grieve. Surana grieved openly, and Nathaniel silently.

It touched Hawke’s dead heart to see other people who knew how much good Anders brought to this terrible world.

They swapped stories of Anders the whole night, laughing and crying in equal measure. It didn’t feel pleasurable per se… but it was a release.

#handers #m!handers #anders/male hawke #anders/hawke

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tonks32 · 5 years ago

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Aiden Trevelyan X Cassandra Prompt “Hold On to Me”

There was no point in struggling or screaming. Logically, Casandra knew that, but it didn’t stop her from fighting against the metal shackles or crying out till her throat became raw. She’d be damned if she were going to be idle while these deranged blood mages bled her dry for some Maker forsaken ritual. They would not kill her in the same way they had her brother.

“Silence!” One of the masked mages commanded. “I told you before no one can hear you. No one will find you.”

Wrist bleeding from the metal biting into her skin, Cassandra starred at the man through the dim light. They had her bound on a stone alter in nothing more than a swash of cloth surrounded by flaming black candles. Their glow was the only light source since they blacked out the windows. “Fuck you!”

Wrapping a hand around her throat, he slammed her head back hard enough to leave the warrior dazed. “Such a mouth for a Chantry woman. This all would’ve been so much easier if you agreed to help us.”

Cassandra fought to clear her vision. If she passed out then she was good as dead. She had to hold out until her companions found her. Surely, they would have started looking for her when she didn’t return from bathing down by the stream. She’d let her guard down and now was playing the price. “I will never willingly help a blood mage.” Though she couldn’t quite see her mark, she spat in the man’s face. “Especially ones that murdered my brother.”

The man let out a long sigh and motioned for another in the room to flank the altar. He swept his finger over the streak of blood leaking from her raw wrist. “He could not see his true purpose. He failed to see the tremendous power within his blood.”

“Look at her struggling.” A third man stood at the foot of the alter. “Look at how she’s wasting that power.”

“We must hurry before she throws away more.” The first man rubbed his blood coated finer over the bridge of his nose making his eyes glow red. “Tell the others to come inside and we will begin.”

Cassandra became paralyzed by fear the moment the cold steel of a blade touched her throat. Just like the night her brother was killed, she could do nothing to stop the actions about to happen. They were about to drain her blood to appease some sick dragon ritual She was going to die bound and helpless. Her greatest fear.

Chanting filled the dark room, filling her veins with ice.

Would her brother be waiting for her on the other side? Would incomplete actions in life follow her into the Fade? Would the Maker remind her how foolish she’d been in playing it safe when the risk was worth the reward?

The knife gleamed in the candlelight as it was raised and poised to strike. She closed her eyes on a prayer to the Maker to bring her a swift death.

If only she had more time.

There was a grunt and Cassandra felt the warm thickness of blood spatter across her face. No pain, she silently mused waiting for the heaviness of death to take her. Thank Andraste for that.

Something whistled through the air before there was another grunt and something heavy fell against the alter, scattering the candles and casting the room into total darkness.

“Cassandra?”

Odd, she thought. To hear his voice on the other side of the veil. Or was this the Maker’s way of providing comfort? To ease the transition of death by hearing the one voice she wanted the most in her last moments.

“Someone find the damn keys!”

“I can’t see a fucking thing!”

“Open your eyes. C’mon, Seeker.”

Feeling the familiar touch on her cheek, Cassandra’s eyes shot open to find Aiden’s glowing blue orbs staring down at her. Cassandra’s heart leaped. He found her! Tears burned the back of her throat leaving her incapable of speaking.

“Stand back, Boss,” Bull Commanded. After throwing a lifeless blood mage to the ground, the Qunari raised his massive sword above his head and came down hard against the link holding her chains together. “We need to move. More are coming.”

“Up you go, Seeker.” Aiden snaked an arm around her bare shoulders and lifted.

“You will not take her from us!” The leader roared charging forward through the darkness.

Only Aiden could see the blade going for Cassandra’s heart. Cursing, he dove across the alter, dragging the Seeker along so the blade dragged across his back and not into her chest.

“Get her out of here!” Dorian shouted.

“Hold on to me,” Aiden whispered against her ear. “Don’t let go.”

Cassandra latched her shackled arms around his neck and held on for dear life.

Not known for his strength, Aiden called on all his adrenaline as he pushed to his feet and waded through the small battle raging around the pitch-black room. “Hold on.”

Sun blinded her when they stumbled outside. She had no bearing to where they were or where Aiden was taking her. All she knew was that with him she was safe. And that’s all that mattered. Aiden had come for her. It seemed the Maker was listening to her please after all.

Once he was sure they were safe and no one was flowing them, Aiden fell to his knees, holding Cassandra against him. “Are you okay?”

Cassandra couldn’t seem to find her voice. The man who was beyond terrified of the dark breached its depth to save her. The man, who detested being touched or making any physical contact of any kind, was clutching her for dear life. Overwhelmed with emotions, she buried her face into his scarred throat.

“Are you hurt?” Drawing away, Aiden began to search, needing the reassurance before he went mad with worry. All he could think about was the knife against her throat and the utter terror he felt at the thought he’d been too late.

His hands seemed to be touching her everywhere at once. His warmth and reassurance were the only things keeping her from falling apart. “I’m okay.”

Aiden skimmed his fingers along her throat. “There is blood.”

“Not mine.” Tears began to burn again and this time she let them fall knowing with Aiden she was safe to do so. “Hold me a little bit longer.”

He pulled her tightly against him. “I got you.” Aiden felt her fingers twist in his hair almost as if she was anchoring herself. There was no flash of discomfort or any sickening sensation that hit whenever someone touched him. There was only the overwhelming relief that she was safe and unarmed. “Maker, Cassandra.”

“What took you so long?”

A strangled laugh worked up his emotionally clogged throat. He wasn’t used to feeling so much. To his astonishment, Aiden felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. The face she believed that he would come to save her left him breathless. “Had to make the save as dramatic as possible for when the dwarf writes about the grand tale.”

“You cut it a bit close there, Trevelyan.”

“I’m sorry.” Taking her face in his hands, Aiden pressed his brow against hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m okay,” She reassured hands drifting over his shoulders. Her brows scrunched together when she felt something damp against her fingers. “Andraste’s light, Aiden! You’re bleeding!”

Aiden twisted trying to catch a glimpse of the wound. “It’s nothing.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Everyone okay out here?” Dorian asked pushing through the thick brush they hid behind.

“Blood isn’t hers.” Aden shifted, taking her shackled hands carefully in his. “Did you find the key?”

The mage tugged it from his belt. “Bull and Varric are ensuring no one else is lingering. We need to move out if everyone is able.”

Seeing the great care Aiden was taking in assuring he didn’t cause any more discomfort as he unshackled her nearly made Cassandra weep. He thought of himself as a broken man with nothing by rough edges, yet here he was showing her all the gentleness and comfort in the world. “I can walk.”

“Good.” Dorian handed her a healing potion. “For your wrist until I can heal them properly.”

Once the mage walked off, Aiden shrugged out of his hunting coat and bundled Cassandra in it. “Take the potion,” He softly commanded.

She pushed the vial into his hand. “You need it more than me.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Well, you can’t see your back.”

Aiden shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“That does nothing to make me feel better. Especially since you sustained a wound meant for me.”

“I couldn’t… Couldn’t…” Aiden brushed his hand along her blood stained cheek. How could he begin to explain that losing her was a pain that he couldn’t bear when he was still struggling to understand the sheer importance of her in his life.

Seeing emotions flooding his gaze, she clamped a hand over his scarred wrist pleased he hardly flinched. “Aiden.”

“We need to move out,” Varric called out. “In case they have any friends nearby.”

“Drink.”

“We’ll split it.” Cassandra downed half the vial and shoved it back into his hand before he could protest. “Don’t argue, Trevelyan. You’ll never win.”

Chuckling, he swallowed the rest of the potion. “I have no doubt.”

#dragon age #cassandra pentaghast #cassandra x inquisitor #writing #mine #drabbles

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 5 years ago

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What’s the Hero of Fereldan like you doing in a place like this?

Pairing: Varric Tethras x Naia Brosca, Past Alistair Theirin x Naia Brosca

Fandom: Dragon Age

Summary: Naia Brosca does not expect to meet the Viscount of Kirkwall in a dingy little tavern like the Hanged Man. She doesn't expect to have her sorrows soothed or have a free therapy session from him either. But, her life had always been anything but ordinary.

Rating: T

Notes: If you follow my main blog @hufflepuffing-all-day-long then you’ll probably know that I think Varric/Brosca would be a pretty sweet pair especially considering all the pain they go through.

Archiveofourown

“What’s the Hero of Fereldan like you, doing in a place like this?” It’s terrible, but he’s the first person to notice who she is in this dingy pub in Kirkwall and she knows exactly who he is too. Usually it would bother her, after all she was here to drown her sorrows, not be fawned over...not that that happened very often anymore. Most people seemed to ignore her, disliking the idea of either a dwarf being the one who stopped the Blight or the idea of a castless dwarf stopping the Blight or better yet, the idea of Wardens completely. Besides, after the whole inquisition, tears in the sky mess she wasn’t the hero in demand anymore...The Wardens hadn’t done so well out of that mess either. Naia Brosca officially considered herself retired from hero duties especially after finally finding a way to cure blight sickness and stop the wardens untimely demise due to the calling, and after returning to find the whole of her forces decimated. She was officially retired from fixing other people's messes whether those people be long dead magisters or warden commander Clarel.

Aeducan, her Mabari, named after Paragon Aeducan for his stand against the Darkspawn, bounced about as Varric sat down beside her on a rickety wooden chair. The Mabari was as tall as the both of them when seated and didn’t settle until Naia gave him a strong look. He settled himself down at her feet, large paws resting beneath his head. She smiled down at him before turning to her new drinking companion.

“I could say the same to you, Viscount of Kirkwall.” She softens it with a slight smile, she hasn’t smiled fully in years. Truth be told, becoming a Grey Warden had started as a dream come true, a way to get out of Dust Town, an escape from death, and simply ended as a nightmare. That’s what happens when you fall in love with someone above your station, take on more responsibility than any one person can handle, and become the go to person to fix everything. But, she at least had her faithful furry companion out of the whole mess and somehow her life.

“Touché, but aren’t you supposed to be Commander of the Grey right now? Are you even allowed to be here?” He’s right of course, the last most people had heard she was the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey, sitting up in Amaranthine trying to recruit, rebuild, and fix whatever messes she was left to inherit. She’d told very few people about her movements over the last 2 years and most people had very little interest in what the Wardens were doing outside of a Blight.

She leans back in her seat, legs crossed on a small stool, a hand reaching back to run through the dark hair that had grown unwieldy in her long hunt for a cure, a fix. To Varric she looked to be the picture of an exhausted hero, tankard in one hand, dark sullen circles beneath brown sad eyes, but always ready with daggers at her side. She’d grown used to watching her back for a quick knife in the dark or fireball. Although Aeducan was a very good guard dog.

“Well, while I was off trying to figure out how to save us all from the blight and the calling, someone got the brilliant” she says this with a twisted, sarcastic smile, nose scrunching in distaste, “idea to use blood magic to ‘save’ the Wardens and supposedly the world, and I came back to decimated forces and a whole load of nugshit to fix...blood magic…” She takes a deep drink from her tankard and raises her hand to gesture for another, gold already on the table, “They wanted me to rebuild, as if it was my responsibility to fix their mess again, to take up that mantle again. I said go fuck yourself and put someone else in charge...hopefully with better sense.” Naia Brosca had been royally pissed when she’d heard what had happened, when she’d returned to find out that Warden Commander Clarel had fucked it all up because she had no critical fucking thinking skills. It hadn’t been her plan to return to a decimated force, both physically and in reputation. Who would trust the Wardens now? They had gone from the heroes who saved the world, to the idiots who almost destroyed it. It was a headache of mess to fix and she’d had enough headache inducing messes for a lifetime.

“Yeah, I kind of had a front row seat to that bullshittery at Adamant. Sorry.” Her eyes darted over to him, evaluating. There’s a genuine furrow to his brow and a look in his eyes that she knows well, a horrible reminiscence of a scene you never wanted to see.

“I joined the Grey Wardens because I won a Proving when I shouldn’t have even been fighting, because Duncan saved me. I became the Hero of Ferelden and Commander of the Grey because Alistair and I didn’t have a choice. I had a choice this time, I'm retired from commanding, from fixing other people’s messes. I’m too old for that.” She had never had the chance to do so many things; travel for pleasure, fall in love (again), marry, have kids, raise them better than her mother ever had, go exploring again, write a book or something. There were so many things that had slipped her notice in the 10 years she’d spent fixing other people’s messes. She was tired of her life catering around fixing other people’s fuck ups, it was about time they fixed their own problems. She wanted to have some of her life back.

“You don’t look a day over 25 to me, topsider”, Varric says it with a teasing smirk, one corner lifting up just so. It’s a look he’s perfected, she’s certain of that because for all her years she still feels the skin of her cheeks heating and her eyes darting away from his.

“Flatterer,” Naia rolls her eyes, she hasn’t been 25 for a while now, but he knows that she’s sure, “I doubt anyone would believe that I was only 24 during the Blight. A Dust Town 24, though.” Truthfully, being raised in Dust Town had given her years on her peers in other parts of Orzammar. She’d had to fight, scrounge, steal, all to feed herself, her sister and her drunken mother. She’d killed for the Carta, killed for her sister, all before she was 20. Maybe, if she’d been an Aeducan or had an actual caste she’d never have been able to do what she did. “10 years on and I feel like I’m 100. I’m old spiritually, Master Tethras, very, very old. 34 doesn’t feel like it used to.”

“24? Seriously? You became Warden Commander, Hero of Ferelden, slayer of archdemons at 24? Fuck.” They fall into a contemplative silence. Truthfully, most people expected her to be older. It had made it hard to get respect especially when she became Warden Commander, at 24 half the recruits were older than her and getting them to listen had taken a lot of threats and reminders that she’d slayed an archdemon and could damn well kill them if they tested her.

Varric can’t quite wrap his head around the fact she was so young, that she’d done what seemed impossible to him. At 24 he’d have run away from that sort of responsibility, he’d have high tailed it to the farthest place he could find. At 24 he wouldn’t have been a hero, but he’s learnt that some people are just made that way. Something in them calls for them to do the right thing.

Naia can’t quite get over the exhaustion and sadness that had her seeking out the Hanged Man on her journey to investigate some Warden ruins. It’d all been that damned letters fault, opening old wounds, reminding her of things she’d chosen to forget, reminding her of how old she was and how little she’d really done for hself. It was still crumpled in her pack, royal seal, scruffy handwriting and all.

Varric watches her, takes her in. The braids, typically Orzammar in style, pull her brown hair back from her face while leaving the rest loose, the brand on her cheek marks her as casteless, the down turn of her mouth, the slump of her shoulders remind him of how much she’s done in 34 years. It’s more than just retiring that’s brought her here, more than just a desire to get shitfaced after years of being in charge. There’s a story there that he doesn’t quite know yet. But, he wants to. He loves a good story...and he can’t help but be curious about the one Hero he’d not befriended.

“What’s eating you up, Fereldan?” She chooses not to comment on the name, hoping he’ll pick something more creative in due course. He was a writer after all, though Swords and Shields hadn’t been his best work, so perhaps even prolific writers had their off days. Instead, she decides that she might as well open up to someone and who better to do it with than a fellow dwarf who she’d probably never see again, even if he was Viscount. What were the chances of her staying in Kirkwall? Of befriending Varric Tethras?

She takes a good long look at him, hard, calculating, before softening her gaze back to the tankard in front of her. The ale is bad, but she’s not really drinking for the taste tonight. “People think I was this hero, with a band of friends and that’s it. No big romance story there, no heartbreak, no betrayal...no nugshit politics getting in the way of things.” She takes a deep drink, this is a story no one had told because it would be shameful, not for her, but for him. “No one wants to tell the truth, that I had a lover in a man who I made a king...and then he didn’t need me anymore. Love is...I didn’t know what love was before I became a Grey Warden, but...it hurts, it hurts more than any battle wound, any fall I’ve taken, any joining ritual. It tears you apart...” Naia turns her head away from him to stare at a group not far away playing Wicked Grace, mostly to hide the tears that have started to collect in her eyes. She never talked about it. Not with Zevran or Leliana, Wynn, Sten, Oghren, Morrigan or Shale. None of them. She had too much to do at the time, didn’t allow herself to stop and ponder on it, but that meant she never truly got to heal.

“Wait...you and Alistair Theirin? King of Ferelden? Shit...well, why aren’t you Queen, Topsider?” He can’t understand why she wouldn’t be. Surely, they’d welcome the Hero of Ferelden with open arms? Surely, if they’d been in love he’d have insisted as king..surely...but then Varric remembers that his stories are always a sugar coated version of reality. That his own experience with love has shown that things don’t work out the way you want them or need them to. Love doesn’t prevail, love doesn’t conquer all and the baker down the street with the simple, normal sort of love always does better than the Hero.

“He couldn’t have a dwarf for a Queen, for a wife. I was told I could be a mistress, I could be there, in the background, loving him while he parades another on his arm and I refused to be hidden in the shadows like some seedy little secret. Like something dirty and unworthy. I had enough of the dark in Dust Town. I was the Hero of Ferelden and no matter how much I loved him I would not sacrifice my worth like that…” She remembers Dust Town like it was yesterday. Living off of scrapes, hidden away from everyone else because the Casteless were unworthy, a disgrace. She refused to be that girl again, hidden away for someone else's comfort and convenience.

“I thought that maybe he’d fight for me. Fight to be with me. I would have. I would have done everything in my power to stay with him if I had that sort of position...but he didn’t. Duty, duty, duty. It’s my fault really,” She gives him a long sad look, brows turned down, “I was the one who made him king, I was the one who put him on the throne because I thought he’d be a good king...I was the one who made him think like that, made him put romantic notions aside. Maybe I should have been selfish…”

“So...why are you here?”

“Because I received a letter...royal seal, messy handwriting, pressed rose petals between the pages…” She pulls the crumpled note from her back, the rose petals fall on the table between them, the drying process removing some of their potent red colouring. He suspects there’s more to them than just being a romantic gesture, and can see it by the way she gently strokes one of them with a far off look that there’s some history there. “He’s gotten betrothed to some noble human woman who he barely even knows...I hate that she gets to marry him, that she gets to just because she’s human and noble, because she’s tall and her blood’s right. I was never enough even after the Blight. I slayed an archdemon, I saved Ferelden, I...I was never enough even after all that. What does a dwarf have to do, Varric Tethras?”

It pulls at his heart strings for a multitude of reasons; 1) he’s a romantic and always has been. He likes a happy ending, he likes the lovers to find happiness and be together, he doesn’t like heartbreak, 2) it’s one thing to be hurt because someone doesn’t love you anymore or never did, another thing entirely to know you’d be together if the world wasn’t so damn prejudice or if they just fought a little harder, tried a little more, and 3) because it reminds him of his own sorry love story with Bianca. After all, she was married to another man, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near her and he wasn’t good enough in the first place for her. After the red lyrium affair he’d decided to let that ship sail, let her go and he’d told her so despite her popping up randomly as if she thought she could change his mind. It was the first time she’d ever known him to say no to her, to turn her away. But, damn if it hadn’t been freeing for him. For the first time in a long time he didn’t feel the weight of her on his shoulders. He could see that weight on Naia Brosca now, the wondering, the hoping, the love. The longing for someone who had moved on with their life in a way you had yet to.

“It’s his loss, Ferelden,” A large, warm hand settles on her shoulder and she leans into it without thinking. How long has it been since someone gave her a comforting hand on the shoulder, a celebratory clap on the back, a hug? A sign of companionship, closeness? She thinks it must have been...must have been nearly 10 years. The last person to hold her was Anders and he’d pissed off and then blown up the chantry in Kirkwall and then pissed off again. She hadn’t seen her old companions in years, they wrote, but it was a shitty imitation of what their group had been before...and Alistair, she hadn’t allowed herself to see him in person except where her presence as Commander of the Grey was needed and every time had been heart wrenchingly distant.

“Who wouldn’t want to be married to the Hero of Ferelden, c’mon? You’re beautiful, you’re deadly, you have an inspiring origin story.” He counts them off on his fingers with a smile, she can feel a smile tugging at her lips, a storyteller he certainly was.

He was...different. Alistair had been sweet, goofy, childish, a kid like her. He’d been a romantic but in that boyish sort of way that had endeared her to him because she hadn’t ever known anyone so open, so unchanged by the hardships of the world. Varric was rough, but charismatic. Older, more worldly than Alistair had been, but then she was older and more worldly too now. He was charming, compassionate, and had confidence, but she could see it was a smokescreen behind which to hide. She didn’t know what he’d gone through, other than the bits his stories told, but she knew he was just as tired as her. Probably even more so with the responsibilities of Viscount hanging over his head like a sword waiting to drop.

It helped that he was handsome. Perhaps in Orzammar he wouldn’t have been ‘dwarf’ enough, no beard just some scruff across his cheeks, no tattoos to show his clan or caste. But, she thought he was more than handsome enough although his chest hair was a little distracting especially 3 ales in. She was sure he did it on purpose, dressed in a way that added to his charm, in a way that would make people think of how masculine and dwarven he was...at least to anyone but an Orzammar dwarf. Leske would have made some joke about it, probably asked if he was hunting for a noble to marry, but Naia didn’t mind. He was nice to look at and she hadn’t had someone nice to look at in a long while. It helped that he was complimentary as well, how long had it been since someone called her beautiful? Too long.

“No one’s told you that in a while, huh? How long has it been? Since someone gave you an honest compliment that didn’t revolve around how you kill darkspawn?” It’s the furrow of her brow and the averted eyes that give it away, no one’s told her she’s beautiful in a long while and she is. She’s beautiful but clearly able to kill you and honestly, that just makes her prettier to Varric.

“A...A while...Alistair used to...but then…” It’s hard to explain, that she hasn’t pursued anything with anyone in so long because she still holds out hope that maybe Alistair will decide to fight for them, for their relationship that no longer even exists. She lets herself get drawn back into the sea and dashed against the rocks every time he writes a private letter and every time she’s reminded that he isn’t hers and he never will be. This time is the worst, the realisation that he’s not coming back, he’s moving forward without her. That he’s marrying some noble human woman who can give him noble human babies and sit pretty beside him at functions. She wasn’t in his plans and she hadn’t been since he took the throne.

“I know what it’s like, Ferelden, holding out hope that they’ll come back, that they’ll forsake the other and that you’ll finally get the story you always wanted. But, he’s not coming back, he’s going to marry that girl and you can’t hold on forever, you can’t waste your life waiting for a man that didn’t care enough to fight in the first place. I nearly did. I nearly wasted my life waiting for a woman who got married...it took her making mistakes for me to realise that I...that I was wasting my life waiting for a woman who only wanted me when she needed something fixing.” It’s the most he’s ever shared with someone he barely knows, but he’s growing...maybe, and maybe he’s realising that narrators can have stories to, they just have to choose who to share them with. Varric is also smart enough to know that she needs to hear it, she needs someone to finally tell her that it’s a lost cause and that she deserves another chance at love…and maybe it’s a little selfish, maybe part of him is hoping that she’ll consider him a candidate.

It hits her like a hurlock to the chest or that broodmother that one time. She thought she’d realised that, that she’d understood that her and Alistair weren’t really going to happen but...truth be told she’s been holding on desperately, fingers clutching at a ledge, hoping he’d come along and help her back up. Hoping that he’d fight for her and the love they once shared. It hurt, it hurt to finally understand that it was a lost cause, that she'd spent 10 years of her life waiting for something which was never going to happen, agonising over someone who wasn’t doing the same. 10 years of seeing him in an official capacity, the physical distance and distance in the way he addressed her as if they’d never travelled together, never kissed, never been in love. She feels like she might be sick or she might burst into tears, both are options, alternatively she feels like storming to Denerim and taking her anger and sadness out on Alistair...although that option might get her arrested which is less than ideal.

Varric chooses to sit back and wait, watching realisation, sadness, and angry flit across her features one by one until she settles back in her chair resigned to the truth. Naia grabs her tankard again and downs the rest of the shitty ale before looking at the ceiling with a big sigh. “Fuck! Do you think it’d look bad if I punched the King of Ferelden in the face?”

“Mm, the Hero of Ferelden breaks the King of Ferelden’s pretty face? Might cause a slight diplomatic incident but I could always ask Ruffles if she’d help smooth it over.” Naia twists to look at him again and he’s not surprised to see her eyes swimming with tears, though he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t piss him off that a woman who could end the Blight is brought to tears by someone who wouldn’t even be king without her help. It reminds him of Hawke, the tears she shed for Blondie all because she loved him too much and fell too far. At least Hawke had been loved back, Blondie might have been an asshole, understatement by a mile, that blew up the chantry but he loved Hawke, she cried over his revolutionary actions not his love for her.

Naia Brosca cried because she’d wasted a decade on a love that was never going to come to fruition and of all the places to cry it was the Hanged Man. A shitty little hole in the wall. Not worthy of a hero’s tears.

“Hey…” His large hand cups her cheek and it’s softer than he expects from her. Part of him expects...He doesn’t even know, maybe chiselled cheek bones, scars and rough skin, but she’s everything but, soft and sweet and it’s hard to think that a face like that belongs to a woman so formidable. It reminds him that appearances can be deceiving.

His thumb wipes away the tears and it’s the sweetest feeling to her, that someone cares about her wellbeing, about her. Not her title, not who she is. It has her closing her eyes and turning into his hand and she knows the ale is helping, it’s making her more open than she’d usually be, but she thinks Varric probably just has that way about him. Caring enough that he can drag things out of you and get you attached. “Maybe he deserved you once. Maybe he was kind. Maybe he loved you right, but he doesn’t anymore...and it hurts, I know it hurts, but you deserve so much better, Topsider.”

He knows she’s a little past tipsy when she gives him that look, the one that says she’s going to kiss him and he anticipates it turning his cheek so her lips meet the scruff on his jaw. He wants to kiss her, but he knows better. She’s not in a place to make that decision and he won’t be a thing she regrets just because he decided to be a little selfish. So he lets her kiss his cheek and when she pulls back with an offended look he gives her his most charming smile.

“You’re drunk, Topsider. I’d love to kiss you right now, but you’d regret it and I don’t plan on being a decision you regret, sweetheart.” He says it with that smile, teeth showing hoping she understands that he wants this, or something like this, he’s not entirely sure, but he knows better than to take it right now. He has no doubt that Naia Brosca is a woman he could easily fall into bed with or in love with, but she deserves more than a drunken kiss when she’s clearly still getting over what could have been the love of her life.

So instead, he helps her up from her seat, her Mabari following behind the two of them as he helps her to her room despite her bad directions. She is uneven on her feet and it’s clear more than ever that she probably doesn’t drink often and that the last ale had put her over her limit. He’s the perfect gentleman, see’s her to her room, gives her Mabari a treat he always carries in his pocket thanks to Hawk’s own, and makes sure she’s safely inside before leaving for his own home.

In the morning Naia wakes to Aeducan slung over her like the massive lap dog he is, her head pounding and the embarrassing image of trying to kiss the most handsome dwarf she’s ever met, but being politely turned down. She pushes her face into the ratty pillow and screams, but in truth embarrassment and giddy anticipation are feelings which she’s relieved to have after years of longing and heartache.

#ship fic #varric tethras x brosca #brosca x varric tethras #varric tethras #naia brosca #brosca #the warden #dragon age

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degenerate-perturbation · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 16/29 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Hawke let go of her, embarrassed, and stepped aside to let her in. “I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess. I haven’t been taking visitors.”

Yvanne looked around the enormous, beautiful home, with hardly a single decorative pillow out of place. “Yeah, real pigsty,” she said, and immediately cringed. Why would she say that? Did she want her single remaining family member to hate her? Assuming he really was family.

While she boggled at it all, she dripped rainwater steadily onto the carpet. Hawke noticed before she did. “Oh, no, you’re soaked—of course you are, it’s pouring. I’m sorry I kept you waiting—Orana, could you get Yvanne a towel?”

Right away the elf girl disappeared, reappearing moments later with the fluffiest towel Yvanne had ever seen. It felt strange against her skin. What was it made of?

“It’s fine,” she said, haltingly. “It’s not even cold out.”

“Yes, but still. Do you like tea? Let’s have some tea. Orana, could you put on some tea?” Orana left for the kitchen to put on the tea. Yvanne didn’t particularly like tea, but she wasn’t about to mention that. With Orana gone it was just her and Hawke in the foyer, her patting her hair dry, him nervously twisting his hands.

“Er, you should probably have a change of clothes, too,” he said distractedly. “You look about my m-mother’s size—afraid I don’t have anything else. Orana, could you show Yvanne—? Blast, she can’t hear me, she’s in the kitchen making tea. I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Yvanne said before Hawke could apologize to her again. “I’ll dry fast by the fire.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Hawke, visibly relieved. “Yes, I should build it up. Tea by the fire...and we can talk…”

A fire was burning in the fireplace, low but alive. Hawke puttered around in its vicinity, nudging it with a poker, and it leapt implausibly higher, though he’d barely touched it. Yvanne came over to stand by it, feeling the cold leech out of her bones, but not feeling quite comfortable enough to sit. The silence between them stretched more and more intolerably awkward, until Orana finally brought out a tea tray.

“Please,” Hawke said as she set it down, “do sit.”

Yvanne sat, even though she was still damp, and probably ruining the upholstery. Neither of them touched the tea.

“So, ah,” Hawke cleared his throat, but seemed to have misplaced the rest of his sentence. He scratched his beard. It looked a few weeks old at most, coming in patchy and uneven. He looked like a man who shaved under normal circumstances. “I’m sorry, not that you’re not welcome, but—why are you here?”

And she’d so hoped he wouldn’t have asked that right away. She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

He blinked at her.

“Look, I get that this is weird,” she said, all in one breath. “I don’t even know what I want from you. If anything. Certainly you don’t owe me anything. But I haven’t laid eyes on any of my family since I was nine years old. And I heard the name Lord Amell spoken in Highever. And I wanted to know about my family, and you were the only one I could find, and...here I am.”

He looked at her with sudden and impossible compassion. “I see,” he said. “And ah, you said you were Revka’s daughter?”

“I don’t really remember her. I hardly remember Kirkwall at all, even though I was born here. It’s certainly, uh…”

“You get used to it,” Hawke said, trying for an encouraging smile. “It’s not so bad once you acclimate to the smell.”

“How long does that take?”

“I don’t know. I’ll let you know when it happens to me.” He gave a weak laugh, but it came out almost creaky, as though laughter hurt him.

He picked up a tea mug and held it in his lap, not drinking it. “If you’re Revka’s daughter, then...pardon me, but I thought all of Revka Amell’s children were found to be mages and taken to Circles.”

All? thought Yvanne. She knew about her eldest sister who she’d never known...but all? All five of them? When she had first been taken to Kinloch, Yvanne had spent long hours fuming at the thought of her father and sisters getting along perfectly fine without her. Better without her, even. How she had hated them, for daring to be happy without her, for daring to continue to live their lives together when she was suffering alone.

But that hadn’t been what had happened.

Hawke was still waiting for her answer. She had to force the truth out of herself water from a stone. "I grew up in Kinloch Hold.”

“Kinloch,” Hawke repeated. “So you’re from Ferelden.” He gave her a watery smile. “I was born in Ferelden, you know. My family lived in Lothering until the Blight. We came here as refugees along with everyone else. That was a time, hah. I had to work as a smuggler. That first year my brother and mother and I lived all in one room in my uncle’s house, can you imagine? We were so desperate to get out of there, but now I miss it more than anything. Odd, isn’t it?” He laughed uncomfortably.

She stiffened. The Blight brought back uncomfortable memories for her of a different sort. But Hawke was lost in his own memory and didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been to Lothering,” she said absently instead.

A clock was ticking somewhere.

“Look, if,” Hawke cleared his throat, “if you need a place to stay, my home is open to you.”

He cut her off before she could object. “I won’t ask you how you left Kinloch or how you got here, I can fill in those blanks myself. Tell me as much or as little as you want, I won’t press, or judge. I know how it is out there for a mage.” She must have looked doubtful because he continued. “I promise you’ll be safe here. My partner is active in the Mage Underground, he helps apostates all the time. Look—I’m a mage myself.” To demonstrate he conjured a bright sphere of spirit energy and held it in his open hand before letting it dissipate.

This did catch her off guard. “I heard a rumor that you were an apostate,” she admitted. “But I heard a lot of rumors about you.”

He laughed a little more easily this time. “Varric does like to encourage them. Probably for the best that there are so many that nobody believes the true ones.”

“Right. Well, you definitely weren’t at Kinloch, so what Circle were you in?”

He blinked. “Oh. Oh, I was never in a Circle. My father trained me, and my sister."

That stunned her. She imagined what it might have been like, to be trained in magic by her mage father. Would she still have hated her magic then? Perhaps not. Perhaps her whole life could have been different. Perhaps she would have been the one living in this estate, not this man who didn’t even use the name Amell.

“But I really mean it,” Hawke went on. He stood and approached, hovering, threatening to embrace her. “We’re family, so you have a home here. For as long as you need. There’s plenty of room here, of course—too much, if you ask me. You can sleep in my mother’s old room, I never go in there anyway. Orana does all the cooking, so no need to worry about that. Do you mind dogs? Flower is around here somewhere. My partner doesn’t care for him, claims he’s a cat person, but I know better. You’ll love him—my partner, not my dog, hah—he’s a mage, too. He runs a clinic in Darktown, that’s why he’s not here right now. He’s working late again. Really, he’s wonderful, I’m sure you’d get along…”

Yvanne was getting entirely sick of Hawke mentioning his partner. She hated the way he said it—‘my partner,’ in that syrupy way that made it obvious that the relationship was new. Every time he did it his eyes went soft and gooey. She’d been like that once, with Loriel. Her mood, already ambivalent, took a decided turn for the sour.

“Sorry,” Yvanne cut him off, “could you explain to me exactly how we’re related?”

Hawke brightened. “Yes! There’s a family tree around here somewhere. I’ll show you. Come, come!” He went to one of the gleaming, polished chests and rummaged in it, withdrawing a handful of heavy parchment scrolls. He picked out one particularly wide one and laid it out carefully on a nearby desk, weighing down the corners with four beautifully polished stones. Eagerly he waved her over.

The family tree was beautifully illustrated with tiny portraits of each Amell, richly dressed and ornamented. Beside each portrait was a block of close-written text in such an elaborate hand that she could not make it out, along with lines and lines of annotations along the edges. The tree stretched so far up that surely the majority of the people in the document were now long dead

Hawke plucked a little golden hand-shaped pointer from somewhere and used it to indicate the parchment, avoiding touching it with his hands. “Here you are—and your sisters of course—daughters of Revka and Kiran Amell. I never realized that he must have been Rivaini...I don’t know much about him, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could tell me and I could add to this document, ah? That might be a pleasant pastime.” He produced a cracked smile and moved on.

Yvanne had never thought of her father as being Rivaini. He looked like her and her sisters, and not much like other Fereldans, but she had always taken that as a sign of their nobility, like Queen Asha Campana of Antiva. It had never occurred to her that her father was from anywhere, that he hadn’t simply sprung fully formed from the aether as her father.

“Revka was the daughter of Fausten Amell, and sister to the unlucky Damion—accused of smuggling, and bankrupting his poor father in the process of futile attempts to prove him innocent. Fausten was the son of Lord Thaddeus Amell, our great-grandfather. So I suppose that makes us third cousins! Thaddeus had another son, Lord Aristide, my mother’s father…”

Hawke carried on in this fashion well past Yvanne’s capacity to listen to him. Instead she stared at the little oval portraits of her estranged noble clan. How strange it was to think of these ink-and-paper people as her family, as people who might have loved her, had her life gone a different way.

“...but they’re gone, now, too.” Hawke fell silent, pained.

Yvanne was still looking at the portrait of her mother. Had she really looked like that, pale-haired and long-chinned? The woman whose scraps remained in Yvanne’s memory smelled of rosewater and clean linen—but her face was a cipher. She did not recognize the woman in the portrait. Strange how Hawke had known right away who she was, when Yvanne herself didn’t.

“Do you know where my mother is?” she said, not knowing that she intended to say the words until they left her lips.

Hawke gave her a pitying look, and she felt a hot flash of hatred for him, just for that. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t. Nobody does. There were rumors, I’m to understand, that she went to be her husband’s family. I suppose that would be in Rivain—Dairsmuid, probably. But that’s just rumor. All I know is that she took the loss of her eldest quite hard—but you know that, of course,” he added quickly.

Yvanne imagined her already-mostly-imaginary mother weeping in the streets, begging on her knees for salvation, all out of love for her eldest child. Revka had never cried for Yvanne like that. Revka had left Yvanne on purpose.

“You really don’t know anything, then?” she said despondently. “What about my sisters?”

Hawke shook his head. “I’m sorry. Only that none of them would be the Gallows, being Amells. They try to keep families separated, you see…but you know that.”

She did know it. And now she had lost a hope that she hadn’t known she even had. Some part of her had been imagining that Lord Amell—Hawke—would somehow be her gateway to the rest of her family. That perhaps her mother would be here, against all odds, waiting for her. That this could be her home.

But it wasn’t. All there was was this man, surrounded by riches, living a life she would have killed for, totally unaware of everything he had taken from her.

So she simply stood there with her fists clenched, holding back ridiculous, childish tears.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Hawke said, worrying his fingers. “You have to understand, I’m an exile here myself. I only know anything at all about the Amells from my mother. And she was always closer with Carver, before he...well.” He sighed. “I wish more than anything that I could ask her about our family now.”

Yvanne had nothing to say to that.

“Maybe we can find something later,” Hawke said, with an almost manic optimism. He grabbed her hand. “We have some leads. I have contacts I could write to. The Amells aren’t what they were, but I still have some pull. And money always loosens lips. My partner has contacts as well, he might know something. We can ask him when he gets back from the clinic! I know it seems very hard right now—I remember how hard it was for me.��

How hard it had been for him! How hard for him, here in his golden palace, swathed in silk, waited upon by cringing elven servants, him who had never so much as seen the inside of a Circle!

“But we’ll figure it out!” He smiled at her. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Here, let me show you to mother’s room—it’ll be your room now. You look about the same size as she w-was, you could certainly fit into her things. And anything that doesn’t fit Orana will alter. Better they get used by somebody, rather than eaten away by moths. What a depressing thought. Let’s not think it. Come, come!”

“Wait—” He tugged her up the grand staircase to the second floor of the estate. The red carpet was decadently soft on the soles of her thin shoes.

“It’s a bit dusty in here, I’m afraid—I haven’t gone in there for weeks, and it felt wrong to ask Orana to clean an unused room, but that’s all different now. Are you hungry? You must be—I’ll have Orana send something up. Of course feel free to arrange the furniture however you like, I’ll help you.”

Yvanne looked around the darkened room as Hawke flew from corner to corner, lighting the gas lamps to reveal more and more of it. It was finer than any quarters she had ever known, even as the mistress of Vigil’s Keep, which had after all been a military posting, and not a nobleman’s estate. “Hold on—”

“—and tomorrow I’ll show you around Kirkwall properly. It can be a little overwhelming, even for an experienced Kirkwaller. My friend Merrill still gets lost all the time. It’d be charming if it didn’t make me so worried. To be honest, it would be good for me to get out of the estate. M-my mother died recently, and I lost my brother and sister not long before that, and it’s been, well—well, it’s been difficult. You know, if it weren’t for my partner, I don’t know what would have happened to me these past couple weeks, haha!” The manic edge was back in his voice.

Then he clasped her by the shoulders and beamed again. “So I want you to know, I’m really glad you’re here. Really. I have some wonderful friends, a wonderful partner, but nothing can replace family. We’re each all the other has left”

This sent her over the edge. All he had left, indeed! Him with his silk robe and servant and wonderful friends and his oh so wonderful partner. She struggled out of the embrace, skittering to the corner by the door like a feral dog. “Actually, ” she said, breathing a little heavily, “I don’t plan to stay.”

He drooped like a puppet with its strings cut. “Don’t plan to stay? What do you mean? Of course you have to stay—”

“I don’t have to do a damned thing,” she said, feeling for the doorknob behind her, finding it, and escaping.

“Wait—” He nearly tripped over the finely woven Orlesian rug as he chased after her. “I don’t understand. Have I offended you somehow? Please tell me!”

“You haven’t offended me,” she lied. “I’ve simply achieved my aim in coming here. I’ve found out everything you had to tell me about my family. We have no further business together.”

“That’s not true! We haven’t exhausted our leads! I know you don’t know me—but you could!” he pled.

She was struck by how pathetic he was. This was the legendary Lord Amell, who consorted with apostates and pirates and smugglers. Near as she could tell all the stories she had heard were true, and what did all that add up to? A sad unshaven man in a stained robe, begging a woman he didn’t even know to come live in his house.

“And I could help you find the others! I’ve been known to achieve remarkable things, you think those rumors about me are totally baseless? Please, you don’t have to stay here if you’re uncomfortable , but at least let me have Varric put you up at the Hanged Man.”

“Stay in Kirkwall?” Yvanne made a disgusted face.

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”

“I could hardly get used to Templars roving every street like weevils—”

“You don’t have to worry about that!” he insisted. “I’m a very powerful man in this city. The guard, the Viscount, even the Knight-Commander, they all look away if I ask them to. Nothing would happen to you while you lived here. I could protect you. You’d be safer here than practically anywhere else in Thedas.”

“And have nothing but your personal power between me and the Gallows? With that wretched place barely a stone’s throw away?” She clenched her fists. She could hardly believe the nerve of this man. “You have no idea the kind of terror of that place I grew up with. Kinloch was bad enough, but as long as the Gallows existed, they always had something worse to threaten us with.”

“I do, though—my father—my partner—”

“Your father!” she said, furious. “Your partner! Their lives, not yours. You have no idea what it was like. You have no idea what I have been through! We have nothing in common. Nothing at all.”

“But we’re family,” he bleated. How pathetic, she thought, to want things. How disgusting. “We’re all the family either of us has left.”

“We aren’t family,” she said coldly. “We happen to share an ancestor, four generations back. A thimbleful of blood. What could that possibly mean for the two of us now?"

“I still want you to stay,” he said, helpless.

“You don’t know me,” she said furiously. She didn’t understand why her throat was so tight, or why her vision was blurring. “You couldn’t possibly want that from me. You have no right to want that from me.”

Of course he didn’t know her. Who knew her? Loriel had—no, not even Loriel. Loriel had been with her all her life, through childhood and adolescence and adulthood, and at the end of it neither of them had known the other at all.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Then she forced it open, cutting her last tie.

It had started to rain harder while she’d been talking to Hawke, and it was fully the dead of night now. She was now right where she’d started before she’d come here—penniless, alone, with only a vague idea where to go next.

Well, not exactly penniless. She’d had to foresight to swipe one of Hawke’s candlesticks, and she was pretty sure the gilding on it had to be worth something

#dragon age #femslash #amell #surana #dragon age 2 #please read my wizard lesbian fanfiction

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kita-lavellan · 5 years ago

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Apple Tree

Our Discord Server, Beyond The Veil, had a little writing challenge. Could we make @noire-pandora cry by writing Angst about Apples? @0zymandius and I took up the Challenge. Tags: Solavellan, Major Character Deaths, Solavellan Hell, Pure Angst, Unhappy Ending, T rating. Spoilers for Trespasser

AO3 Link

Apple Tree

Her laughter was soft as it drifted across the sun-warmed fields, on a refreshing spring breeze. A rare day of peace for the Inquisitor, where all her jobs were dependent on someone else completing theirs, and so Solas had requested her free afternoon and she had happily agreed.

When he had led her out of Skyhold, to the centre of a small copse of trees that were somehow surviving the harsh mountain climate, Kita was surprised, but when he cleared the ground of snow with a whispered spell, and a single large apple tree burst into soft pink spring blossom beneath his touch, she was enchanted.

Sitting beneath that ancient apple tree they spent the afternoon talking between mouthfuls of sandwiches from Skyhold's kitchens, and a collection of frilly Orlesian cakes Kita had ordered the last time she had been in Val Royeaux. Debating magical techniques with softly falling blossom drifting in the air around them, Solas eventually ended up with his back against the tree, legs stretched out before him, and Kita shifted to lay with her head in his lap, staring up at him with crystalline eyes.

His story paused as he watched her in surprise, but the Inquisitor just grinned and waved a hand for him to continue, pleading with him to "not stop there," and with a tender softening around his thunderstorm grey eyes, her apostate fade expert continued speaking.

Voice soft, and cadence soothing, it was only the slowly approaching shadows and chill of the night that forced the pair to abandon their miniature sanctuary, but the tree remained in blossom, and the small copse of trees remained precious to Kita.

Months passed, the war against Corypheus proceeded, and the blossoms turned to small fruit, grew and ripened. A glut of apple-based foods stocked Skyhold's kitchen throughout the autumn, and then Solas took her to Crestwood and her world shattered. Kita didn't cry that night or the next. The first time the tears came, was when she went back out to that small and precious copse of trees, to see the leaves and blossoms gone, stolen by the winter and leaving the tree bare and barren. It felt like one of those sharp branches had pierced her heart, and she collapsed against its gnarled roots and sobbed.

It hurt all over again when Solas left without so much as a goodbye, but oddly Kita understood that. Whatever his reasons for ending their fledgeling relationship, it wasn't for lack of love. That much she knew. It didn't stop the pain, in some ways it made it worse, but the knowledge often sent her out to that copse of trees, to settle against the roots of the apple tree, and draw comfort from the memories of their shared afternoon.

One year passed with no word on the elf who held her heart, and then a second that included building tensions between the Inquisition and the countries Skyhold sat on the borders of. Still, no word of Solas reached them, but the harvest from the apple tree had become a Skyhold tradition, a feast of apple-themed foods being presented from the first harvest each year.

It was a bittersweet pleasure to see her friends and her sister, laughing and enjoying the banquet, while she remembered how the ancient tree had come to bear fruit once more.

Then, she had found him again. In Orlais, or through an Eluvian, and her every perception of the world she knew shifted. The Creators were real, only they weren't gods, just mages. Fen'harel was real, only he wasn't the villain of her childhood stories, but a rebel running and uprising against slave masters.

Above all, he was Solas, her love and her heart, and Kita wanted to throw herself into his arms, but he held himself apart from her, despite the mirror of her own love swimming in his eyes and her pleading.

"Let me help you, Solas."

"I cannot do that to you, vhenan."

"But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone!"

"I walk the Dinan'shiral. There is only death on this journey, I would not have you see what I become..."

A final kiss between them seared itself upon Kita's very being, and then Solas had walked away, her shattered heart still in his hands, but this time her soul was screaming in pain too, that he believed their love not enough to counter whatever he might do... Kita could not imagine a force stronger than what she felt for the elf disappearing through the Eluvian before her.

Time passed again, but it moved swiftly this time because Kita had a target. She would prove to Solas that they worked better together, that they solved problems better together, and that there was a better way to accomplish whatever it was he was trying to do.

Her first task had been disbanding the Inquisition because he had been right. It had grown too large to manage every aspect herself, and that opened it up to corruption. That left just herself, her friends and Nel at Skyhold, and a small retinue of staff supplied by Varric from Kirkwall.

They made plans, but just as before no one could find Solas. Not even Leliana with the full force of the Chantry behind her, and a spy network that would have made every country in Thedas nervous if they had been aware of it. Summer turned to Autumn, and the apple tree produced it's harvest once again.

Her friends had promised to help, if she could find Solas, but had mostly returned to their own lives by now, and yet they still came back to Skyhold every year for the Apple Banquet. The banquet was reduced to a large meal between friends this year, but that meant more apples could go into storage and Kita was looking forward to spending the evening with the likes of Dorian, who was often miles away in Tevinter, and the Iron Bull who took jobs all across Thedas with his chargers.

It was only because she was finishing up her notes about the latest lead on Solas that she was late to dinner that night. It was a tiny scrap of parchment appearing on her desk in a flash of magical veilfire that had her blood running cold. It was the words written in a heart-wrenchingly familiar script that had her running from her office to the main hall, but Kita had been too late.

"Don't eat the apples."

><><><><><><><><><><

It was cold. Kita could feel the biting mountain wind cutting through her leathers, but she didn't care. Tears were drying on her face as fast as they were falling, but she didn't much care about that either as she stood in the snow and stared up at the withered apple tree.

Poison.

Skyhold was impenetrable, so the culprit had infected the apple tree itself. The fruit were deadly, she discovered, finding her every friend collapsed around the great hall, blood pouring from their eyes, and foam filling their throats as their lungs liquified. Her sister had died in her arms, as Kita emptied her stores of mana in a desperate attempt to save the blonde, sobbing over Nel's cold still body for hours before she'd dragged herself to her feet and fled.

She'd not come to the apple tree looking for answers, but for comfort. To find it withered and dead, the remaining fruit still hanging from the branches, twisted and rotten had made her ill, and the small patch of frozen bile splashed against the snow evidenced her heartbroken grief.

She felt him fade step into the physical world behind her but didn't move. Arms still curled around her stomach and eyes fixed on the shrivelled tree as her mind struggled to comprehend the events of the last hour.

"Vhenan-"

She felt the warmth of his hands reaching for her, the relief in his voice, both of which forced a flinch from her frame, that stilled his motions and voice.

"Did... did you..." she struggled, voice hoarse from screaming her grief to the heavens, but Solas understood the half-formed question and answered anyway.

"No, no vhenan. I would not do this, I would not sanction this," the pain in his voice was clear now that his relief at seeing her alive was beginning to fade, and Kita could feel herself shaking, but whether from shock of the cold she truly couldn't tell.

"Then... who... why...?"

There was a beat of silence, and she could almost hear his reluctance to answer over the whistle of the wind as it moved her long hair around her face, sticking strands to her damp cheeks but after a moment, he spoke again.

"One of my agents. Of their own accord. I'm so sorry vhenan, they'll be punished for this, I swear-"

"Why bother?" Kita spat, voice quiet but slowly filling with anger.

"What?"

"I said why bother?" she repeated, finally turning slowly to face him. He looked exactly the same as he had before, the same armor he'd been wearing when he walked away from her and her hands curled into fists, still pressed against her ribs as she struggled to hold herself together.

"It won't bring them back! It won't give me another hour of Dorian's jokes, or one of Sera's pranks, or Varric's next book, or Nel..." a sob broke her voice, and her features crumbled. Head and shoulders bowing beneath the weight of the pain and she began to fall, to collapse to the ground and give in but Solas' arms kept her up, supported her as she surrendered and sobbed loudly.

"It won't give me back my sister!" she gasped between agony filled cries.

Hands clung, clawlike, against the fur on his armor, and Solas' gentle fingers stroking through her hair felt like shards of glass against her heart. Ravaged and raw and so broken she didn't know which way to turn, Kita crumbled and trusted him, one more time, to help her. Eventually, she realised that the dampness against her hair was evidence of Solas' own tears, and she remembered they had been his friends too. It made her cry even harder, for his loss and hers but eventually the tears slowed, and the sobs eased, her body unable to physically portray the full depth of the agony she was feeling.

He kept his arms around her though, and his fingers continued to move soothingly through her hair in silent support, and apology, and shared sadness.

A wave of exhaustion passed over her then, but she knew if she slept she would never lay eyes on Solas again. He would leave while she was lost in the fade and without her friends, her family, or Leliana's connections, Kita had less chance of finding him than ever before.

"Take me with you," she whispered against the fur at his shoulder, closing her eyes tight when she felt him pause and tense.

"Vhenan..."

"Please..." Kita begged, voice quiet and weak, something she had rarely been in her life, but right now she felt utterly powerless and totally adrift, "please Solas, take me with you."

"I told you. I can't."

Her breath caught in her throat at the repeated rejection, and Kita jerked back from his hold to meet his eyes. His own face was stained with the silent tears he had shed in their shared grief, but he let her take a step back, his own shoulders lowering slightly.

It had been three years now, but she could still read him like it was yesterday they'd been laying beneath the apple tree behind her, and she could see the regret and sadness in his stance, and the slowly building conviction in his expression. If she had any hope at all she knew she had to convince him now, before he set his mind against her.

"Don't you understand?" Kita snapped, eyes narrowing and breath beginning to escape her in harsh angry gasped, "Don't you get it? Solas you're the only thing I have left in all of Thedas!"

The elf before her had been about to speak, she could tell from the way his lips had parted, and his eyebrows had lowered but her words stole his, and he blinked at her in silent shock so she pressed the momentary advantage.

"Your agent killed everyone. My clan is gone, my friends are gone, Nel... Nel is... my sister is... gone... I have no one, Solas, and nothing left. There is no one alive in all Thedas who knows my name , except you!"

Slowly, he pressed his lips together again and frowned. Hands shifted to the small of his back, and she could almost watch him considering the options.

"If you leave now, if you... if you reject us again... this time I have nothing left. I have nothing to go back to... Solas... Solas please, I am begging you, don't leave me alone..." Kita finished on a whisper, her voice losing power and conviction the longer she spoke and he said nothing.

She was shaking again she realised as she watching him, but this time from fear. Fear he would turn and leave, and a small whimper escaped her when he shook his head.

"You don't understand, Kita... I can't -"

"Can't what? Why not?"

"It's better for you if-"

"Is this better!?" she yelled, hands sparking with lightning in her fury as her magic escaped her control, and Solas flinched, pain flickering across his features as he denied her once again.

"I am truly sorry, vhenan..." he whispered, and Kita let her eyes slide closed as the ice-cold of the mountains finally touched her soul.

His lips against hers were soft, and warm, and the velvet slide of his hand along her jaw was soothing in its tenderness, but not even his touch roused her heart this time, because the kiss was filled with 'goodbye' and 'farewell' and 'so long my love'.

"Ar lath ma vhenan," he whispered against her lips, but it was only when she felt him fade step away that Kita moved, shattering into pieces against the snow like a statue of ice hit with an axe.

The keening cry of her agony echoed back from the mountains, reverberating through her mind for eons as her whole world collapsed, and she curled up in the snow and prayed to Fen'harel for oblivion.

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kylan-writes · 6 years ago

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Banal’halam

Banal'halam: Meaning the concept of souls and memories travelling onwards throughout history within the minds and hearts of loved ones, thus meaning that everything – in a small way – is immortal. Buildings will remain, clues will remain of lost cultres, dead loved ones live onward in our memories. Nothing truly ends

Non-sexual, intimate Nan/Bull fluffiness for your consideration

Also on AO3 | Support me on Ko-fi

Nan couldn’t help the disquiet that took hold of her as they returned from the Frostback Basin. She sent for a bath to be set up for her in her quarters as she took a brief walk on the battlements. The sun was hidden behind the mountains, leaving only hues of violet in its wake. She stared at the view for a moment before turning back towards the castle grounds, looking at the Inquisition of their time fondly.

Of all the things they’d learned in their search for Ameridan… to find that history had stripped him of who he had been in favor of a lie that made them comfortable had been the most upsetting.

Nan kept her arms folded over her chest and sighed, taking the long way back to her quarters. The bath was ready and sitting by the fire. Of all the things to come from living among the shems, she’d never complain about the servants willingly catering to her whims.

She stripped herself bare and grabbed the oils and soaps that Josie had passed along; all gifts from a noble in Orlais. Nan had always preferred the practical gifts. She stepped into the tub by her lit and steady fire and sank into the water, taking care of the grime clinging to her skin and hair.

Nan startled at the sound of Iron Bull’s knock on the door. Three in quick succession followed by two slower. She forced herself to relax back in the water, her knees bent so that her shoulders sank into the lukewarm water, and she listened to her partner come up the steps.

“Everything alright?” he asked, taking a seat on her couch.

“Just thinking too much,” she responded, her eyes on the ceiling.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Nan sighed and rubbed at her neck, wincing when she caught a knot pressed against her spine. Bull noticed and came to sit behind her, taking the lilac scented oil from her small pile of goods. She didn’t have to look to know, it was his favorite to use on her. Nan pulled all her hair over one shoulder and began to finger through the tangles while he worked out the knots in her upper body. “You’re too good to me,” she moaned.

“Nah, this is what I’m here for,” he said, giving a kiss to the space behind her pointed ear. She felt like she could melt under his touch. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”

She winced as he caught a tight knot, strong fingers bearing down before it started to come loose. She breathed deeply and began, “Do you think this Inquisition will end up like the last?”

He frowned. “As Seekers?”

“No, to history. They…” She trailed off a bit, gathering her words and moaning slightly as Bull distracted her by gently kneading along the length of her spine. She cleared her throat and began again. “Ameridan was an elf. A Dalish elf with an elven lover, both mages. And history just… rewrote them. Made into Chantry devout humans because it didn’t fit what they wanted to remember. Because how dare we be seen as people to the world, or better yet, as heroes?”

Bull was quiet as Nan spoke. They’d talked about her identity struggles with her clan. She hadn’t been born to it, but when Lavellan’s hunters found a blooded child hidden away in the forest, they took her in. She was as elvhen as the rest of them, but she still wasn’t one of them. Nan had fought to prove herself since she was a child, fought for relevance and worth. Even if it was more for herself than anyone else.

“I’ve spent my life protecting and preserving the history of my people.” She drew in a shaky breath and hugged her knees to her chest, bowing her head.

“Are you afraid of being rewritten?” Bull asked as he tried to unfold her.

“You aren’t?” she mumbled against herself, squeaking as he poked his finger into her side. Nan turned back to look at him with mock betrayal.

He smirked and let out a laugh. “I need you relaxed,” he coaxed, running his hands down her arms. Nan relented and still folded forwards, but this time eased so he could continue his work. “I’ve always assumed history would get all of this wrong. I mean, shit, they’ve already got your name wrong.”

Nan grimaced, remembering that her clan name had been twisted into her surname and recorded as such for the masses. “Ugh, humans. They don’t understand naming conventions that don’t fit their standards.”

He laughed lightly at this, smiling as she let out another moan as he dug into her shoulders. “That’s already one point against historians. Doesn’t help that all the shit we’ve been through sounds so unbelievable.”

“You sound like Varric,” she sighed. “Maybe he’ll- ouch…” Nan seethed as Bull pressed into a tightly wound spot near her mid back before it turned into a moan. “Maybe he’ll get the story right when he writes about this. It will be embellished, sure, but the big details will stay as they’re supposed to.”

“You really think so?” Bull smiled as she eased out of her melancholy.

“I can hope, and at least be able to proofread before he sends it to a publisher.” She went quiet for a few seconds, the melancholia returning. “I miss him.”

Bull gave her arms a squeeze and pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. “I know, Kadan.”

Varric and Vivienne had already left for Kirkwall and Val Royeaux, respectively. Rainier was about to leave for the Wardens. And Dorian, her best friend, was preparing to head back to Tevinter to begin his campaign with Maevaris. Cassandra was thankfully still around, as was Sera. But their group was getting smaller. The Inquisition had been around for a year and a half, but already it was changing. Who could know what was to come?

“Alright, that’s as much as I can do for now,” Bull said, sitting back.

Nan rolled out her neck and arms, humming her approval. “You work miracles with those hands of yours, I swear it.” She smiled back at him. “Do I get a turn?”

He smirked and laughed a little at the thought of Nan’s comparatively small hands kneading into his back. “I’ve had most of these knots since Seheron, I doubt they’ll be coming out anytime soon.”

“You of all people know I’m stronger than I look,” Nan chided playfully.

He looked her over fondly. She was always so eager to jump at the chance to care for him, even when he assured her otherwise. “If you really want to try…”

“I do.”

He smiled and nodded. “Then, alright.”

Nan grinned at him. “Could you hand me my towel?”

Bull got up and grabbed the towel waiting for her on her couch, passing it over as she stood up.

“I’ve only got some floral oils right now, but some are really nice,” she said as she patted out her long hair and carefully dried herself off, making sure to get as little water on the carpet as she could. “Take your pick, Josie’s care packages are never ending. Though I doubt Kenric’s colleagues at the University will take to having nearly all of their existing information on Ameridan nullified.”

“We did stop another dragon from rampaging across the county,” Bull pointed out as he pulled off the leather harness still strapped to his shoulder. He watched her put on a clean set of smallclothes and wrap up in her favorite pink satin robe, smacking her ass as she passed by so that she let out a yelp. “I think that’s worth more gifts.”

“You ass,” she squeaked, laughing at him anyways before bending down to kiss him on the head. “But you’re right! I should have Josie make a request for new treats. Maybe a box of those spiced nuts you liked at the Winter Palace.”

Bull hummed in approval as he passed over a bottle of body oil that smelled of patchouli and something that he couldn’t quite make out that wasn’t as floral as the rest. “I think they were Rivaini. They like their weird spices up there.”

“I’ve never been,” Nan said as she dropped a couple pillows on the ground for him. “Lie face down for me, vhenan?”

“Only for you,” he teased, indulging her by lying with his arms folded around the pillows.

Nan smiled as she straddled his waist, sitting on him with her knees on the ground as she uncapped the bottle. “Sathan, lana em vasrea nar nu’ard, emma lath,” she purred, rolling up her sleeves and starting with his shoulders.

Bull let out a grunt as Nan bared down on him with the heel of her palms, almost caught off guard by the combination of her raw strength and how she used her own weight to slowly but effectively knead out the kinks and aches that had plagued him for years. “I only caught about a quarter of that,” he said, his face mostly buried in the pillows. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing more.”

She let out an easy laugh as she rolled her thumbs up along the sides of his neck, getting him to groan as she dug into the base of his skull. “Ar isala ma ama, ara nas’falon, amahn dur da’laves.”

He groaned as she sat on his lower back, pressing her elbow into a knot between his right shoulder blade and spine. “You’re making me curious, now.”

“I thought you liked the mystery,” she teased as she put her weight into her elbow, driving the point of it harder and rolling it on the knot until it began to ease. “Made it sexier?”

Bull let himself moan as he felt the tension release and she moved to the other side. “Well, sure.” He gasped slightly as she found a spot that he’d been largely pretending wasn’t causing him any pain before his voice turned into a rumble deep in his chest. “But that- ah!” Nan bared down harder and he gripped at the pillows before forcing himself to relax. “Mmh, that doesn’t mean you’re not back there saying something like, ‘your dick smells like a cabbage!’”

Nan burst into a fit of laughter at this, throwing her head back as she fought to hold herself together. Bull laughed heartily himself, the two so at ease in each other’s presence. “Do you really think I would falsify my sweet nothings like that?” she managed to get out, wiping the laughter tears from her face with her sleeve before picking up the bottle of oil again and squeezing a hefty amount into her palms.

“Depends on how sweet these nothings of yours are,” Bull said.

She smiled at him and shifted so she was sitting on his hips, pressing her hands down into his lower back so that the heels of her palms ground into the tense muscle beneath his scarred skin. “I said,” Nan began, slowly rolling her hands through the muscles along either side of the length of his spine. Bull moaned under her touch. “Please, let me release your pain, my love.”

Bull closed his eyes as he soaked in the warmth of her touch and her words. Warmth he let himself indulge in as her effectiveness continued to surprise him. Their roles had always been such that he put her needs first, took control of her body as a way to keep the title of Inquisitor from suffocating her. He’d never needed anything more, but this was nice. Perhaps he’d indulge more often, given how eager she was to please.

“What about the other part?” he mumbled as she dug her elbows into his mid back.

Nan was quiet, and she was glad his wide horns prevented him from fully turning back to see the flush creeping on her cheeks. “Hm?”

“The ‘issala’ bit,” he elaborated, shifting slightly, “but it’s not qunlat, and I don’t know what yours means.”

She smiled as she bared down a bit harder, grinning to herself when she heard him moan loudly as the knot she was beating finally relaxed. “‘Isala,’” she corrected, the pronunciation more fluid than qunlat. “Means, a personal wish or desire.”

“That’s completely different from my translation for it,” Bull chuckled.

Nan laughed back and pulled away once she’d finished on the opposite side, trying to stay even but starting to get tired. She yawned and laid flat on her stomach, still straddling him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “I did what I could. I hope you don’t mind the bruises.”

“A few bruises in exchange for your hands all over me? Seems fair enough,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles.

She smiled against his skin and kissed him again, nipping at his shoulder playfully before nuzzling against him. “Think history will remember us? The Inquisitor and her Tal’Vashoth partner?”

He hummed thoughtfully, lazily. “Probably won’t get the terminology right, but that’d be pretty great.”

Nan sighed, breathing him in and feeling at peace. She let herself close her eyes and start to drift, letting herself savor the closeness. “It would.”

#dragon age inquisition #nan lavellan #iron bull #iron bull/lavellan #iron bull x lavellan #Iron Bull/Inquisitor #iron bull x inquisitor #fluff #just pure fluff

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kirkwall-group-therapy · 5 years ago

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City of Blood

By Varric Tethras

Mature content warning, Act 1: cursing, adult topics, violence

Act 1

Chapter One: Hawke

Kirkwall has always had a rough past, far beyond what most people know. But Kirkwall had never seen a shitstorm quite the one that arrived with Hawke. As always, cursed with stunning good looks and an uncanny talent for knocking heads and getting shit done, Hawke found herself the center of attention nearly everywhere she went - without even trying. She didn’t even want the attention. She was just trying to take care of her family.

But to properly tell this tale, we need to back up a little. See Hawke wasn’t born in Kirkwall. No, she was raised in Fereldan. Charlene Maxella Hawke. Aka Charlie. Though everyone just called her Hawke. Born to Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell, with younger twin siblings Carver & Bethany. Like everything these days, magic had plagued them their whole lives. Both Malcolm & Bethany were apostate mages - that is mages living “illegally” outside the control and supervision of the Chantry’s mage circles and their holy knights, the templars. They had to leave their home in Amaranthine when Bethany discovered her magic at the age of 9. That’s when they moved to Lothering, a small farming community in the south, on the edge of legendary, barbaric Korcari Wilds. There they spent the rest of their lives trying to hide Bethany and Malcolm from the templars.

When they were older, Carver and Hawke both joined King Cailan’s army and fought in the battle of Ostagar, where the Hero of Fereldan’s story began. After Loghain pulled his men out of the fight, betraying the King and leaving him to die, the blight began spreading north- endangering Lothering. With Malcolm already dead, it was up to Hawke to protect their mother and her younger sister, so they fled Lothering and headed north. Their destination was none other than Kirkwall, where Leandra had been born and raised. Her brother, Hawke’s uncle Gamlen, still lived there and it was the only place they had left to go.

Darkspawn dogged their heels, and they almost didn’t make it out alive. Fate joined them together with another solider from King Cailan’s army, Aveline, and her husband Wesley, a templar. Though providence, and a Witch of the Wilds, had saved them from the never-ending darkspawn - Carver didn’t survive. He died protecting the family. Fate also demanded the life of Aveline’s husband before they at last made it to safely to Kirkwall. But Kirkwall was already drowning in Fereldan refugees. The price to get in was steep, and like all the other refugees, the Hawkes had nothing but the clothes on their backs and their humble weapons. They had expected that they would immediately be given entry due to Hawke’s Uncle Gamlen and the family estate, but they arrived only to find that he had gambled away the family fortunate and lived in squalor. He managed to find them a backer, a investor - someone willing to pay for their way into the city, but it required becoming indentured servants for a year, working for an elven smuggler woman named Athenril.

It was right around the end of their contract with Athenril when I met them. Really that’s when we all met Hawke and became a family. A twisted, messed up sort of a family, but a family none the less. That’s also about the time the Qunari arrived. The enormous horned humanoids made everyone nervous. They were ship wrecked, and supposedly waiting on a ship to come pick them up.

Hawke & Bethany were trying to join my brother Bartrand’s expedition to the deep roads. Bartrand wouldn’t know the sharp end of a sword if it stabbed him the ass. He couldn’t see that we needed people like Hawke - experienced swords who had actually faced and killed darkspawn before. And Hawke wasn’t like the others; she had already made a name for herself while working for Athenril. Her reputation spoke for itself - she was a woman who got shit done. I knew we needed Hawke & Bethany, but the only way I would be able to convince my brother to hire them on, would be if Hawke became a partner in the venture. It was an expensive investment, but worth it. Or at least that’s how we all felt at the time. Honestly, most of Kirkwall’s problem can be traced back to that damned expedition. Or at least Kirkwall’s problems were exacerbated by it. But, we’ll get to that …

“Do you miss home?” Bethany asked as they lay in their beds of the small room. The air was stagnate due to the inadequate ventilation in the construction of the Lowtown hovels. The ground was nothing but hardened dirt. The walls were rough as gravel, and just as uncooperative. The dark, ghastly brown material refused all attempts to be painted. Bethany had tried several times in hopes to lighten the place up, to make it feel just a little less dismal.

“I miss …” Hawke paused, trying to understand what it was that she missed, what was it that she longed for? “I miss … Fereldan, I think.” Lady, Hawke’s Mabari war dog, lay on the floor beside her. Her ears perked up at the talk of Fereldan. Maker knows how Lady missed trees and dirt and grass and bugs. She hated the stone walls and the stone roads, and the lack of nature and creatures.

“Not home?” Bethany asked.

“In some ways, yes. It’s just that … I had been away from home for so long already. And I still remember our first home, near Amaranthine. In some ways I miss it more than our home in Lothering. Things were just so … different in Lothering. What I miss is … being a child. I miss hearing father’s laughter. I miss listening to your magic lessons. I miss … I miss his lessons on herbs, and hearing about the circle. I miss playing soldier with Peyton and Carver, and running through the forest with Lady. I miss the simpler times, the lack of responsibility, the sense of being happy and safe, and together. I miss the sense of nature of Fereldan, and … and the simplicity of life in Fereldan,” Hawke said.

“I miss home terribly,” Bethany said. “I miss walls made of wood. And I never thought the ceiling was all that tall, until we came here. I miss the grand fireplace, and the Sylvan wood mantle that father and I found. I miss the family shrine and the old totem pole. I miss the fresh air that would waft through the whole house on a warm spring day, when mother would have all the windows open. And the way the sunlight would pour in and the whole house just glowed. It always gave the house an otherworldly feel, like it was part of the Golden City. So peaceful, so beautiful, so surreal. Mother used to smile more too.”

“Fresh air,” Hawke agreed. “I really miss that.”

“Charlie, I’m scared here,” Bethany whispered after a brief moment of silence.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise,” Hawke said. “I won’t let the templars take you.”

“There’s just so many of them, and we have no where to hide. We don’t have friends or allies like we did back in Lothering, and no woods to flee to. We’re poor, we have no status, and what’s worse, we’re Fereldan refugees. Maybe if we still had the Amell estate … that could be enough to hide behind,” Bethany said.

“You really think the templars here would turn a blind eye if we were nobility?” Hawke asked.

“Maybe not, but they wouldn’t look too closely either, don’t you think?” Bethany asked. “They’d be more gentle, at the very least.”

“It’s going to take mother a long time to petition the Viscount,” Hawke said.

“I heard mother say that there’s also the possibility that we could buy it back. But, it would take a fortune,” Bethany said.

“Better start saving then, eh?” Hawke joked.

“Is there nothing we can do, no way to earn money faster? Taking jobs like this, we’ll never get out of Lowtown,” Bethany replied.

“Hmm,” Hawke said. She had seen a poster about an expedition to the Deep Roads. It promised “more wealth than you can imagine” - but as it equally promised Darkspawn, Hawke had dismissed the idea.

“I heard mother crying again the other night,” Bethany said.

“Me too,” Hawke said.

“I would do anything - well, almost anything - to get her out of this place. Even our own place in Lowtown would be better than this place,” Bethany said. Hawke sighed.

Maybe I should just sign up for the expedition. What’s a few more Darkspawn at this point? Hawke thought. But it recalled scenes from Ostagar, and Carver’s death. Hawke quickly banished the images and rolled onto her side. But we can’t stay here either. This place is crushing them.

“How do you feel about the Deep Roads?” Hawke eventually asked.

“The Deep Roads? What do you mean?” Bethany asked.

“I saw a poster looking for able men to join an expedition to the Deep Roads. It’s a treasure hunting expedition, and they say that the chances are very good at finding a great deal of treasure. Enough that we might be able to buy back the estate, or, at least it would save us several years of saving up for it,” Hawke explained.

“But that would mean more Darkspawn,” Bethany said. Those grotesque creatures that crawled out of the ground, deep beneath surface, seeming to spring to life from nothing but the abyss itself. Mindless ravagers. Corrupted with the blight; their blood a poison to man, beast, and soil. Supposedly darkspawn were the result of men trying to enter heaven, to enter the Golden City. But instead they corrupted it and were cast out - becoming the first darkspawn. That’s what the chantry always taught. Bethany didn’t know whether she believed any of that part or not, but she could confirm the part about their blood corrupting and decaying everything it touched. Lothering had been completely destroyed by it.

“Indeed. I didn’t even consider it at first, for that reason. But you’re right. We can’t stay here, and it sounds like our best shot,” Hawke said.

“But there’s no guarantee that we’ll find any treasure?” Bethany asked.

“No, no guarantee. We could return just as broke as we were before,” Hawke said.

“Well. I supposed we don’t have anything to lose by giving it a shot,” Bethany said.

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked, a little surprised how readily Bethany had accepted the idea.

“I can’t stand to listen to mother cry any longer than necessary,” Bethany said.

“Alright. We can go to talk to the expedition leader tomorrow,” Hawke said.

“Who is the leader, do you know?” Bethany asked.

“A dwarf named Bartrand Tethras,” Hawke said.

The next morning the two girls walked to the Merchant Guild’s section of Hightown and met with the dwarf, Bartrand. A stingy and greedy little man who couldn’t see what a golden opportunity these two were. He turned them down flat, something that Hawke had never even considered. No one had ever refused to hire her for a job.

Bethany was nearly in tears when they existed Bartrand’s office. Distracted, a pickpocket bumped into Hawke and made off with her coin purse. A loud snap followed by whistle punctured the air as a majestic arrow soared after her target, pinning the pickpocket to the stone wall behind him. A dashing, handsome fellow, impeccably dressed, with pearly white teeth and glittering, strawberry blonde hair, stepped forward and retrieved from the coin purse from the poor kid, and tossed it back to Hawke with a grin and a wink.

“How do you do?” The dwarf said with a smoldering smile, the kind that makes all the women swoon. “Name’s Varric Tethras.” He twirled the arrow he retrieved from the wall, and slid it back into its quiver. “I apologize for Bartrand. He wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw.”

“But you would?” Hawke asked.

It being the middle of the day, and in Hightown, Hawke had left her great sword at home along with her heavy armor. But the skillful Varric could still spot the daggers hidden in both of her boots, and a wide bladed knife hidden under the back folds of her shirt. She was different than what he was expecting. For one, he thought she would be taller. Bulkier. She was no petite elf, mind you, but she wasn’t a stocky, dull witted human woman either. He had pictured a woman with a thick neck, perhaps a furry unibrow. As for wits, well, Varric knew that she had to be more intelligent that the average man was, because her reputation for getting jobs done meant that she was able to succeed where simple brute force had not. Still, Varric hadn’t been prepared to meet a woman of average build, slightly shorter than average height, with waist long impossibly straight chestnut brown hair, and striking aqua blue eyes. Bethany too was a stunning beauty. Her eyes nearly matched Hawke’s, but her hair was jet black and wavy, cut at shoulder length. Bethany stood a few inches taller than Hawke, but her face was softer, younger, more innocent, and she had more distinct womanly curves than Hawke. The pair of them were a dazzling sight to behold, true gems of the city if there ever were any to be had. And for a moment Varric considered that these might not be the Hawke sisters that he had heard so much about - if it weren’t for Hawke’s posture, and hardened composure. And one look into her eyes and you could see great violence and great death reflected in them.

“I would,” he replied smoothly. “What my brother doesn’t realize is that we need someone like you. He would never admit it either, he’s too proud. I, however, am quite practical.”

“So you’re part of the expedition?” Hawke asked, clearly missing the part where both Bartrand and Varric shared the same last name.

“That’s right,” Varric said. “The Deep Roads wouldn’t normally be my kind of thing, but I can’t allow the head of our family to go down there alone. So as you might imagine, I have more than a passing interest in this expedition’s success.”

“What makes you so certain we can help?” Hawke asked. “You know nothing about us.”

“Oh, on the contrary - you’ve made quite the name for yourself this last year. The name Hawke is on many lips these days. Not bad for a Fereldan fresh off the boat,” Varric said.

“You must have heard of my sister, as well then?” Hawke asked cautiously, trying to determine how much he knew.

“Only a little. She’s certainly welcome to come, but I’ll leave that up to you,” Varric said.

“Frankly, I’d rather not stand in the spotlight as it is,” Bethany said.

“Madam, your secrets are safe with me,” Varric replied. So he was aware of Bethany’s magical abilities. Nothing escaped this handsome dwarf’s notice, it seemed.

“What are you offering?” Bethany asked.

“We don’t need another hireling,” Varric said. “What we really need is a partner. The truth is, Bartrand has been tearing his beard out trying to fund this expedition on his own, but he can’t do it. Invest in the expedition. Fifty sovereigns, and he can’t refuse. Not with me to vouch for you.”

“Your brother doesn’t seem like the sort who’s willing to split profits,” Hawke said.

“My brother is many things, but he’s not stupid,” Varric said. A statement that would later be put to the test. “Far better to share the profits than be trapped in a thaig with a thousand darkspawn between you and the exit. Trust me, he’ll come around.”

“It sounds interesting, but if I had any gold, I wouldn’t need this job,” Hawke said. “And fifty sovereigns is no small amount.”

“You need to think big,” Varric said. “There’s only a brief window after a blight when the Deep Roads won’t be crawling with darkspawn. The treasure you find down there could set you and your family up for life!”

“I think we have to try,” Bethany said. “My only question is if there is enough time for us to save up that much, before the expedition leaves without us.”

“We’ll work together. I have eyes and ears all over the city. I can find some of the most lucrative jobs for you, and I would even be willing to tag along and help provide backup and any insight that might be useful. I can also simply stand there and look pretty for those times when you need something to lift your spirits a little,” Varric winked. “So by working together, you’ll have all the capital you need in no time.”

“What if there’s nothing down there except darkspawn and rubble? How can you be sure we’ll make a profit?” Hawke asked.

“Bartrand isn’t grasping at strings. He’s done his homework. He’s operating on reliable information. Some of the Deep Roads are so old, even dwarves have forgotten them. We just need to get down there, then Bartrand will lead the way. You and I will be there to handle problems,” Varric explained.

“You’re asking me to take a lot on faith,” Hawke said.

“Look, you’re right. There is no guarantee. But I know the templars have been asking questions. How terrible would it be to get out of the city for a while? If this works out, you’ll be rich enough that the order won’t be able to touch you.”

Hawke wasn’t sure that there was such a thing in Kirkwall. In Fereldan, yes. But it would make Bethany safer, and ensure she we would receive the best treatment, if she ever was taken by the templars - at the very least. Templars aside, it would mean being able to give Bethany a nice life, a good life. One she and mother deserved.

Hawke sighed. “Well, it’s not like I had anything better planned,” she grinned.

“Perfect,” Varric said, sincerely relieved. They needed her on this expedition just as much as she needed on it. “Kirkwall is crawling with work. You set aside some coin from every job, and you’ll have the money in no time. And, when you have a moment, we should speak more privately, not out in the open like this. I have a room at the Hanged Man in Lowtown. Stop by at your earliest convenience.” Varric bid the two ladies adieu, and went back to the Hanged Man to begin preparations for the ladies, including reaching out to some of his contacts to see what kind of lucrative jobs were available at the moment.

____________________________________________________________ The characters of this fanfic are from the Dragon Age game series, though this fanfic focuses specifically on the 2nd game. I have played the games numerous times, but have not read the comics and have not completed all of the DLC’s, so I have only used information found when playing the games. As this is a fanfic, I have at times changed information regarding characters, timeline of events, their comments, or their reactions.

I wrote the fanfic for me, but I hope others can enjoy it too. Thank you so much EA/BIOWARE for these amazing games and amazing characters!

I’m new to tumblr so bear with my while I figure out post formatting. I played all the DA games years ago and recently replayed them, and while I always loved them, I starting obsessing over them after my recent play through, ha.

#dragon age #da2 #varric tethras #kirkwall #champion of kirkwall #f!hawke #bethany #fanfic #2020

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cutieink · 6 years ago

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Get Along for Her Sake

A Fenhawke Fan Fic by CutieInk

Lots of angst, sass and fluff <3

Read here on AO3

Maxine Hawke was a patient person on most occasions. She might as well been bred to be due to her upbringing. A farm girl apostate with two younger siblings to help take care of was no fleeting task growing up and often she’d shake with anxiety, biting the soft flesh of her cheeks as she held back the need to break her façade of well behaved eldest daughter of the Hawke-Amell line.

But when it became too much, she allowed herself to run from it all into the woods near her families cottage and sit while silently weeping. She’d listening to the utter silence of her surroundings and reveled in it. No orders, no bickering, no judgment, no fear, just the calming sounds of birds singing, the rustle of leaves as critters went about their simple lives and the occasional downpour of rain pattering on the forests canopy that she so loved.

As her surroundings calmed her she’d fantasize of a selfish life just made for her. Something romantic like the novels her mother had given her; Of a knight in shining armor whisking her away or maybe even her being the one doing the whisking of some fair Serrah. She’d hum a tune softly as she engulfed herself in a world of her very own; she found enough peace in these moments alone to keep moving forward. To keep being that perfect girl everyone expected of her.

These moments usually ended with her gaining her composure once more and making her way back home but if she dallied long enough her siblings would find her and inform that she need to come home immediately, or worse even her mother yelling for her but she needed this time to herself, even more so after her father passed. By then she was an adult and held more responsibilities then ever even with her fully grown siblings to aid her. It became harder and harder to find any time for herself and it would only get worse when the Blight approached Lothering…

Kirkwall, mid 3:32 Dragon

Maxine strikes down the last blood mage with a skin charring burst of magic and with that they fall to the ground finally dead. Maxine breathlessly pierces her staff into the ground with her last bit of strength and drops to the ground, crossing her legs together as she tries to regain a healthy heart beat.

“You good Hawke?” Varric asks his friend while patting her back lightly not to rouse her too much. She waves her hand behind her trying to pat him back but fails too and drops her hand in defeat.

“Yeah…yeah I’m fine just…need a moment. Sorry guys.” She feels another presence kneel next to her. Looking up she sees a vile of lyrium being dangled in front of her face.

“I think you’ll need this.” Anders said with a chuckle. Weakly she takes it and gulps it down fast, so not to gag on the thick glowing substance. Almost as quickly she feels relieved and breathes a long exhale of relief and looks up at the runaway warden and gives an appreciative nod in thanks.

“You know you wouldn’t be so broken down after battle if you actually let us do some of the work there Hawke.” Varric chuckled.

“I second that, you weren’t even letting me heal, you know that thing that’s my job when I’m around?” Anders says pointing at himself while quirking his eyebrows at her. Looking at Varric he then points to her. “She kept beating me to the punch.”

“Oh I’m sorry if you boys are too slow to do it yourself.” She scoffs with a gentle grin across her face which fades as a shadow looms over her and Anders. They slowly look up to see Fenris with his hands firmly on his hips as he glares down at Maxine before letting out a long sigh and reaching out his gauntlets awaiting her to take his offer of help up from the blood coated ground. Her face turns crimson making Anders eyes roll as she takes the offer almost timidly.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this Hawke but…”He pauses as he pulls her up with haste causing her to be deathly close to his strikingly stoic face. “Listen to the mage and the dwarf for once.” He finishes and turns on his heel to go grab his sword, leaving her flushed with embarrassment as Varric laughs at Anders almost dumbfounded face.

“Ha! Maker, Hawke you made them agree on something…and me! I believe I’ve just witnessed a miracle!”

“Yes well I’m sure you just jinxed it.” She quietly affirms to the hairy dwarf as she bites her lip in anxious anticipation. Anders rises from his squatting position, not even hearing his friends banter and turns his full attention to the broody elf that was in the middle of pulling his great sword off of the ground.

“Funny how even as you agree with me for the first time since we’ve known each other for, what a year and a half now? You still insist on calling me Mage. Which mind you I’m not even the only mage in your company at the present moment.” Anders says with an annoyed chuckle gesturing towards Maxine, leading her gaze back to Varric. “You could at least try to be a little creative.”

“Aw, shit.” Sighs Varric as he looks down in shame as Maxine hits his shoulder with the palm of her hand.

“See? You did this. You ruined the moment.”

“What can I say? I’m better at writing good moments than making them.” Varric shrugs with an apologetic grin to the women who only stood about 6 inches taller than he. Their attention is pulled away from each other as they hear an annoyed growl leave Fenris’s lips.

Fenris is now glaring back at Anders, leaving his sword to fall onto the sun bleached dirt once again. “Well you insist on proclaiming your title as a Mage so often I don’t see why it’s a problem. Besides I’ve called you far worse.” So tempted to tell him exactly what he wishes to call him. Abomination.

“Oh! So I should be grateful then! Well then yes thank you all mighty Elven Warrior for not referring to me as Abomination no longer! Truly, I am so honored.” Anders dramatically exclaims as he bows to Fenris.

Here we go. Maxine thought as her heart begins to beat faster as if she had been drained of her lyrium once again. It was a mistake to bring them both, you idiot why did you bring them both! She scolds herself as she watches her friends spit words laced with poison like vipers.

“Do not test my patience, leave this be Mage and we can move on. I’m sure we all have better things to do.” Fenris grits his teeth as he gets in Anders face attempting to intimidate him but the human stands his ground.

“Yes let’s move on Anders. Please…” Maxine begs as she digs her long nails into her arms, just wanting this to be over. It was bad enough she was forced to slaughter her own kind today, them being blood mages did not change that fact for her. Now she is forced to see her friends who loathed each other argue was just sending her into panic mode. Something she’d had been trying so hard to keep away from her friends.

Anders darts his dagger like glare to her making her breath hitch. His auburn eyes statically turn blue with mana as he loses himself to Justice. “You take this elf’s side over your own kind you wench?!” Justice blurts out before losing control to Anders. Before he can react, Fenris pins him to ground in a blink of an eye, his markings vivid with the glow of lyrium illuminating under his skin.

“Fenris! Stop, get off of him!” Maxine yells in shock while Varric holds her back not wanting her to get into the scuffle he assumes will end soon.

“T-That wasn’t me. I’m sorry Haw-Ugh, Makers balls get off of me you beast! I’m in control now!” Anders says as he tries and fails to twist his wrists out of the elfs skin piercing grasp.

“Yes, for now! But what of next time, hmm? When will it get through your thick skull that you are in way over your head!? That you are no better than the mages we killed today!” A jolt of electricity runs through Fenris, burning his brandings from the inside. He cries out in pain as Anders gets the upper hand and practically throws Fenris off of him and holds him down by his spiky feathered shoulders. Maxine watches in wide eyed horror almost losing her footing as Varric lets go of her seeing that this has crossed a line.

Anders viciously shouts down at Fenris. “I am nothing like them! I help people; I’m trying to make this Blighted world a better fucking place for my people, for everyone! And what have you done with your freedom?! Sulk in your Masters disheveled Mansion and gawk over our Mage leader like she’s some forbidden fruit for you to devour you fucking pervert!”

“FUCK YOU!” Fenris screams his lungs out in Anders face as a tear threatens to descend his duct from the pain of his markings and the mages harsh words.

“NO! FUCK YO-Whoa!” Anders is cut off as he feels himself being swept off of Fenris easily with an invisible force. As both Anders and Fenris gain their composure they look up at the culprit looming over them.

“Holy shit Hawke.” Varric shuttered a few feet away from her, intimidated just by her stance and not even the terrifying view that the arrogant men lying on the floor had the displeasure of seeing. Her honey colored eyes flooded with a flaming rage begging to be let loose.

“Is it truly too much to ask for you both to get the fuck along!?” Maxine screeches as she eyes them both in earnest. Their stunned silence as they look at each other and then quickly back to her only seems to make her fall farther from her sanity. Unbelievable bastards she thinks before chuckling. “I mean Isabela and Aveline might get into it now and then but I know they care for one another even if they’d never bloody admit it. Maker’s sake even Carver was never this bad with me and…and…”

The thought of her sisters sweet angelic face, bloodied and bruised as her mother cries over her broken body and her blight illed brother being carried off to the wardens interrupts her train of thought. Tears threaten to blur her vision as she pressed her pale chapped lips together to prevent them from seeing her lips trembling in grief.

I failed to keep my brother and sister safe, and now I can’t even protect my friends from each other.

“You know what forget it…nothing I’ll say will change either of you stubborn pricks. Sod it I’m sure you’re both mad at me now right? Let me guess, because I threw you off a man who was just trying to protect us because you can’t control your own blighting body?!” Hawke gestures to Anders. “Well I’m sure if you were in his position you have done the same for us so don’t you dare blame him for that! And for that matter, don’t you EVER use magic on him or any of our friends like that again or I swear I will make you regret the day you left the Wardens! Is that understood?!”

“Y-yes, Hawke.” He holds his scraped up hand while averting his gaze from her in apologetic defeat. Of course she felt lousy for pushing him and with magic no less, but seeing him cause Fenris pain was too much to bear. But her anger over the whole situation made her refuse to apologize to anyone.

With that she turned her attention to Fenris who scowled at her. She was unsure if it was from the pain or he was truly annoyed with her as well, but her anger was getting the better of her. “Oh and I’m certain you’ve found some reason to blame me for all this. For making you come along even when you always insist on coming along! Or better yet, I bet you think this is some kind of sign I’m losing control of my magic, yes? That any second I’ll prove you right that even a mage like me will succumb to possession?”

She exclaims as she conjures fire in her shaky hands, displaying it before extinguishing it just as fast with a snap of her wrists, causing his eyes to widen in response before regaining his stoic composure. “Well sorry to disappoint but I will spend the rest of my sorrowful life proving to people like you that I don’t need to be leashed like a fucking Mabari! That I use my magic for no personal gain but to help the people I care for, even if they hate me for what I am!” Her voice embarrassingly breaks as she yells down at Fenris as she felt tears burning her eyes.

Fenris’s harsh gaze begins to soften as he reads between the lines of her vicious words. Hate she said. Does she truly think I hate her because she’s a mage? He could not really blame her for believing that of him. For the past year and a half he had been avid about ranting his feelings on mages. How magic is a power that taints everything it possesses.

Yet he was no fool…well not always. He knew magic could be of use. Maker he’d probably be dead by now if it wasn’t for Hawke and even Anders and Merrill’s aid during some of their bloodiest of battles. Although he had avoided admitting this, he even had begun to see that maybe some were worthy of such bewitchment. Hawke’s prowess and virtue was endearing enough to begrudgingly make him think such nonsense. Without realizing it, he had put her on a pedestal above all others. Mage or not.

The only other person who had not figured this out was Maxine herself, proving quite obvious as she looked in anguish down at him. Before he could reply, she breaks their eye contact and begins to storm off.

“Hawke, wait! Where are you going?” Varric questions as he tries to catch up with her. Not stopping for even a second, she yells back at him.

“I’m leaving before I say something I’ll truly regret later! Just…go home and if you don’t mind make sure Tweedle Dick and Tweedle Dumbass don’t kill each other while you’re heading back to town! I’m…taking a walk before I go back.”

“Uh, y-yeah you got it! Just don’t stay out too late! Rather not have your darling mother scold us for losing track of ya!” Varric yells back, watching her leave his sights before letting out a long sigh. He turns back to the men seeing Anders is healing his hand while Fenris seems lost in thought.“Soo…If I were you two I’d kiss and make up before seeing our fearless leader again. I oddly think that was her holding back on you both.” He says with a chuckle while rubbing the back of his neck.

“You may be right about that… Maker, I’ve never seen her that upset before.” Anders sadly replies as he stands up, rubbing his bruised side. He looks down hesitantly at Fenris who is still looking in the direction that Maxine stormed off too. And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so lost for words. He thinks as he ponders his next move.

Fenris’s gaze is blurred by a glass bottle filled with a red liquid, being dangled in front of him. He tips his head up to see the mage looking back with his brow furrowed.

“I doubt you’d let me heal you after…well, you know.”

“You’d be correct with your assumption.” Fenris replies coldly, biting his tongue trying not to say anything that might renew their altercation. Yet he smoothly pushes away the peace offering and starts to rise from the ground. “But I do not require your pity. And let us not pretend we are sorry for what we said or did shall we?” He said dusting off tights and begins to walk away when he’s stopped by Anders hand on his shoulder, making him groan in pain. His markings still dull with more discomfort than usual.

“You’re right, I’m not sorry for what I said because it was true and I know you’re no delicate flower who can’t handle a little bloody prick of magic…but I am sorry about what we did to Hawke and I know you are too. So I’m willing to forget today and try a little harder to keep the peace with you but only if you are as well.” Anders states as he glares down at Fenris who did the same.

Fenris slowly looks down with a sighs and slight nod in agreement. “Very well…but do not expect me to not protect our comrades from your demon in the future.”

“Spirit!”

“Whatever you wish to call it does not change a thing! I will not hesitate to take you down like I did today! Just consider yourself lucky I will not rip your heart out unless it is necessary.” Fenris retorts, yanking Anders grip off of him. Their eyes burn into each other’s till they feel themselves being pushed away firmly making them grunt in unison.

“Alright, enough with the pissing contest already! Ya want me tattle to Hawke that you whiny sods kept fighting after she left?” Varric warns as he points his gloved finger and raises his eyebrows at the elf and human. Anders and Fenris look back at each other squinting one last time in disgust at one another and then take a respectful step away from one another. “That’s what I thought. Now, shake on it.”

Anders rolls his eyes while Fenris groans at the dwarf’s request but they comply. This was for Hawke’s sake and nothing more to them. Anders raises his hand casually awaiting Fenris’s reluctant hand. As they shake on it, they give a tight squeeze as they glare intently at each other before yanking their grips away quickly.

“Good boys.” Varric says patting them like misbehaved pups to which Fenris whacks his hand away while Anders glares down at his short friend. Varric only laughs in response and starts to make his way down the mountain. “Now come on you two I promised Hawke to escort you back to your respective lairs.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming you hairy bastard.” Anders mumbles as he makes his way to Varric’s side.

Varric looks back to see that Fenris is staring off into the direction Hawke went. “Hey Broody! You coming or what?” The elf snaps his attention to Varric but then looks down in thought as he bites his lip.

“I…think I’ll wait up for Hawke. I wish to see she gets home safe.” Fenris says as his attention goes back to the other path leading to Maxine. Anders tries to say something but Varric tugs his sleeve and gives him a look that tells him not to say anything stupid which leaves Anders mumbling a “fine” and keeps walking.

“Sounds good to me, just try not to sour her mood more than the two of you already have eh? Rather not have to plan your funeral because you can’t hold your tongue, if you don’t mind.” Varric requests of his broody friend.

He can’t help but let out a chuckle at Varric’s way of showing concern for his and Hawke’s well being in his own humorous way. “I’ll manage just fine, Dwarf.” With that Fenris picks up his sword, puts it on his back and begins to make his way towards Hawke’s direction.

“Alright, alright, see you tomorrow if you aren’t dead Broody!” Varric replies with a smirk and finally he turns to descend the hill once more while Anders sternly looking back at Fenris before slowly making his way down as well.

“Are you sure we should trust him with checking on Hawke.”

“Blondie I didn’t see you offering.”

“Well…neither did you.” Anders looked away flustered while crossing his arms as they continue walking.

“Hey I’m an innocent bystander in this mess if you didn’t notice. Besides, this works out well. We live in Lowtown, them in Hightown. Meaning I don’t have to walk a few extra miles today.”

“So sure you don’t need that extra exercise.” Anders says with a sly grin as he begins to calm down.

“Ha-ha very funny. Just for that I ain’t buying drinks at the Hanged man tonight. You’re gonna pay in some way for the crap you pulled today.”

“So I’m paying for your drinks? I hate to say it but wouldn’t it make more sense to do something for the two of them?”

“Eh consider it practice. You can pretend I’m the elf so we can see if you can go without saying something stupid when talking to him from now on.”

“You expect him to do the same for me?” Anders scoffs.

“Maybe not. But you said it yourself. You both need to try harder to get along. At the very least for Hawke. If that means only one of you being the bigger man, then so be it.” Varric said as he rested his hands on the back of his head, lightly playing with the back of his ponytail.

Anders really couldn’t argue with that. He knew he went too far today. They all did in their own ways. Well, accept Varric but he was always the one who tried to appease everyone around him, Hawke being a close second. He admired that but it wasn’t second nature for him like it was for them. They didn’t go through the torment he went through. He had no patients any more to bite his tongue through his oppression… If only he realized Fenris felt similarly.

Fenris easily began to track the small foot prints Hawke had left behind. He sees they become less indented in the dirt the farther he walks, showing less animosity in her stride. Although glad to see the difference in her step, he worries he’ll lose her track at this rate with how the wind seems to be picking up as the sun has begun to lower.

As he rounds another corner he sees a small figure sitting on an old log covered with moss with their head hung low and their arms wrapped around themselves protectively. Hawke he almost says allowed but holds his tongue and only watches her for a few moments, assessing her state before making his move. She is shaking as she slowly rocks back and forth on the log.

He cannot see her face as her dark chocolate hair obscures it, but the sound of her weeping paints a picture that wounds him. It’s not that he had never seen her cry before, but when she did she was silent and would only shed a few tears before gaining her composure back with time and was back to her diplomatic yet bold self. This…was different. He had never heard her sound so somber before. Not even when she came home after what transpired in the Deep Roads with her brother.

It hurt to see her in such a state but also was rather uncomfortable for him. He was not knowledgeable in the matters of comforting someone; let alone someone who he caused pain too. Maybe this was a mistake. He thinks. This is my doing. What could I possibly-

“F-Fenris?”

His thoughts are interrupted by Hawke’s hoarse voice making him blush in embarrassment. He looks up reluctantly to see her quickly rubbing her face and nose, trying to look a bit less pathetic. Her eyes and lips are puffy and red as she looks over her shoulder at him. He can’t hide how his face contorts in surprise and woe at her appearance, making her avert his gaze as her face becomes even rosier.

“Is…is it just you?”

“Yes…”

“Oh…are they mad? “

He gives her a puzzled look while stepping closer. “At you? No. Frightened maybe but I’m sure after a few ales they’ll be over it.”

Still wiping her face with her sleeve she lets out a weak chuckle. “I did go overboard on all of you didn’t I?”

“Perhaps. But I’m one to talk hmm?” he says while lightly kicking a small rock closer to her. It rolls near her and she stops it with her scuffed black boot.

“…What are you doing here Fenris?”

“I-I wanted to see you home safe…besides I’ve grown accustom to walking home with you.” He says quietly as he slowly walks closer to her.

She snickers while shaking her head still not looking at him, still trying to gain her composure. “What need me to hold your hand through Hightown? You’re a big boy you can handle yourself just fine without me.”

“If anyone needs hand holding right now it’d be you, Hawke.” He scoffs at her and taking his sword, piecing it in the ground before taking a seat next to her, not bothering to ask permission.

“Pfft, right like you’d actually-“she lets out a small gasp as she feels cold metal claws wrap gently around her shaky hand. Doe eyed she finally looks at him. His eyebrows furrowed and eyes hooded but intense as always. An intensity others would be fearful of but not her, not ever. “Well…that’s a first. Is this you trying to be the sincere one for once?”

“I could stop if you’re just going to point it out.”

“No, no this is good! It’s…just a rarity with you.” She didn’t mean to sound so matter-of-fact about his lack of affection. She understood his nature due to his grim past, even if she didn’t know the extent of the torment he went through.

“…I know.” He bluntly says while looking away seemingly ashamed of himself. Showing affection was not something he was at all use too and compared to Hawke he was as empathetic as a starved Dragon.

Everyone in their group of misfits had their own way of showing affection towards each other. Whether that was a pat on the back, a tight embrace, a punch on the arm, or even a kiss on the cheek. But they all knew to be cautious with Fenris, even Hawke showed restraint with her physical affection with him comparative to her other friends. He should have been relieved by that and yet he seemed as of lately to desire to be closer to her, to share the same affection she would give to her friends or perhaps more than that.

He feels like pulling away but feels her grip tighten before he can act on his impulse to flee. “I appreciate when you do though.” She said softly, gripping his hand and putting it on her thigh with a weak smile that eases Fenris’s nerves.

“Are you alright?” he asks knowing she isn’t.

“Been better…you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He bluntly answers.

They sit there in utter silence for a few seconds, neither sure of how to go about discussing any of what transpired that day without causing some form of disagreement. They may have been good at fighting, but that didn’t mean they enjoyed it.

“So…did you only come here to see me home safe?” she asks nervously while grazing her thumb on Fenris’s gauntlet. He sighs deeply while rubbing the back of his neck.

“I-I wanted to apologize for causing you… unneeded stress for you with the mages and I’s quarrel.”

Hawke raises her eyebrow and glares at him while releasing her grip on his hand to fold her arms. It confuses him at first but then easily realizes his error. His hand feels oddly bare without her touch which befuddles him. He almost finds himself reaching out for her but instead digs his claws into his palm and settles his hand to his side with a sigh.

“…Anders and I’s quarrel. There, satisfied?”

“Is that so hard for you to do? Because if you remember something as simple as that, today wouldn’t have happened the way it did.” Hawke scoffs.

“Are you truly blaming me right now for this?” his voice now slightly raised showing his growing annoyance.

“I blame both of you actually. You two act like jealous mabari around each other. It’s cute till one starts maiming the other.”

“I was trying to-” he pauses and pinches the bridged of his nose, trying not to raise his voice any higher. “…I was only trying to keep you and Varric safe. Maker knows what that demon would have done if I didn’t.” Truth be told he wasn’t even thinking about Varric when he pinned Anders to the ground. All he heard was Anders distorted voice calling her a wench, making his blood boil and suddenly he was on top of him.

“Yes and I do appreciate the sentiment but I think we were just fine. You may be our main warrior of our group since I lost Carver to the Wardens and Aveline is too busy these days being Guard Captain to help out but that doesn’t mean I need you to fight all my battles.”

“Look who’s talking!” Fenris finally breaks while quickly standing up to glare down at the small mage.

“And what is that suppose to mean?” she scoffs in question.

“You were a reckless fool today! You drained your mana because you wouldn’t allow Annndersss” he draws out the other mages name to keep to her wishes but in the most annoying way possible, making Hawke’s eyes roll in response. “To heal us in battle and you wouldn’t even let the rest of us take most of the abominations down ourselves! I may be ignorant to exactly how your magic works but I know for a fact you could have easily harmed yourself with how careless you were!”

“Well maybe I wanted things done quickly, ok! Yes they needed to be put down because they were a threat but if it had to be anyone it would be me who takes them down! Not by a man who couldn’t care less about their plight or a mage who sees all blood mages as monsters when many could argue that is exactly what he is even if I don’t believe he is despite his hypocrisy! …I know at least that is how I’d want it to be if I was one of them-”

“No! You are nothing like them!” He grasps her shoulder before he is pushed off almost immediately.

“But I am a Mage! Something you like to forget it seems! Anders may have been cruel with his words but it is true you don’t treat me like other mages. Why? What’s the point?! And don’t say I should be grateful because it is no compliment to be an exception from what you despise! Either you hate me for what I am or you don’t! I am so sick of one minute we are having nothing but fun with each other and the next you are tearing my people down and expecting me to not take it personally! So pick how you feel already!” She yells back now standing as tall as she can as she scowls craning her neck up to meet his gaze.

Her eyes are red with tears and he can’t bear to look at her straight. He looks away and crosses him arms gently together, not sure how to word why he treated her so differently than others. How could he when he wasn’t truly sure himself?

“It’s not that simple. You…you are just different. I’ve never met any mage like you…or anyone who is like you for that matter.”

“I’m not that different from anyone el-”

“You are, Maxine.” Fenris butts in making Hawke look up in surprise at hearing him say her given name.

“…Alright then, how am I different?”

“When we first met, I wanted to hate you. Yes you are what I fear in this world but…since day one you’ve been nothing but kind to me, even when I never deserved it. Not even at my worst have you been spiteful.”

“Not counting today I imagine.” She let out a weak scoff while nervously running her hand through her matted hair.

“It was…justified. You’ve obviously been holding your tongue for a long time. Maybe even more so than Anders and I have towards each other.”

“You may be right about that…you were saying?”

He nods in thought before speaking once more. “It… confused me, even angered me at times how you treated me. But with time I saw you were just that way with everyone. You were treating me as an equal. Something I’ve never been before.” He cautiously takes her small hand in his. “It has been a long time since I’ve ever met anyone as gracious as you, mage or not. So I assume my reasoning is you deserve to be treated with the same respect you give me, if not more.”

“Well…that’s all fine and good but whether you like it or not I’m still a mage and I will always believe that most mages want to help others if they only had the chance too. I’d like to think my family was living proof of that. My father and sister would have never hurt you or anyone unless they saw them as a threat to who they cared for…just as I do.” She sighs and lightly scrapes her fingernails across his gauntlet.

“If they were anything like you I’m sure you’re right.” His words shock her, making her meet his gaze in question.

“…And if more mages were like me?”

“Then I’d have little to fear.” He says, looking at her with such sincerity.

Damn him. She thinks as her eyes begin to water in delight at his words.

“You make it hard to stay mad at you.” She breathily says with a smile, trying to hold back her tears.

“Good to know.” His smirk leaves Hawke rolling her eyes but with a scoff.

“Hey, don’t push your luck. I won’t allow you to get away with everything you know?” She says lightly slapping his shoulder which makes him let out a grunt in discomfort. Hawke’s eyes widen and she lets out a gasp. “Oh! I’m so sorry are you still in pain?”

“I’m fine. Just still aches a bit.”

“Why didn’t Anders heal you after-“

“I declined his offer.” He answers before she can finish. She gives a look that says she shouldn’t have been surprised by that and then she lets out a long sigh while rubbing her temples.

“Sit down.” Hawke orders quietly while pointing to the log.

“Hawke really I’m fi-“

“I said, sit.” She repeats with her hands now on her hips and an eyebrow raised. He glares in opposition at her for a moment before finally giving in with a sigh and plopping himself down on the old log. Hawke’s face relaxes and with that she kneels down and sits in front of him and begins to rummage through her pouch. “And you wonder why I didn’t allow Anders to do his job today. You won’t even take his help when he offers it.”

Fenris looks in surprise at her confession. “You were-“

“Yes I was keeping you healed so he didn’t have to do it. I know how uncomfortable you are with magic and you seem to only tolerate mine if need be.”

“Hawke I do not need to be coddled. I may not like having to be helped by him if possible but I’m no fool. It’s his duty to keep us alive when he is with us, not you.”

“I know that. But I knew the minute we ran into those blood mages things would turn sour.” She pauses and swears under her breath as her hands still in the bag. “I…I knew one of you would start something after we finished them off and I just…I didn’t want to hear any of it but I knew it was inevitable. So I tried to soften the blow I guess. Just thought if I killed most of them and quickly as well as keep you two from interacting as much as possible, maybe you guys wouldn’t be at each other’s throats.”

“Our bickering upsets you that much?” A remnant of remorse laced in his voice.

“I can deal with bickering Fenris, I had two younger siblings who were as different as the sun and moon. You two don’t bicker.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I can tolerate a lot but I have my limits like anyone else, Fenris. When I saw you on top of him…and then he hurt you I-I couldn’t take it anymore.” She whimpers out before clearing her throat, making Fenris tense up. He hates hearing her voice crack in anguish.

“I see...” he quietly says not sure if he should try to comfort her again like he did when he held her hand. He was only sure he wished to feel her warm touch again and to see her smile again. This desire was cut short as he heard Hawke’s hands rustling through her back stop with annoyed sigh leaving her lips.

“Dammit…I’m out of potions I must have used them all.” She looks up to see him cocking an eyebrow at her. “Don’t even think about saying what I think you’re going to say, I already know I pushed myself today.”

“I said nothing.” He says defensively yet with a hint of playfulness, showing he meant not to start anything.

“Yes but you had that smug look on your face.” She circles her finger in the air in front of his face. “I’m not tolerating anyone’s sass today if you haven’t noticed.” She finished, leaving him with an ever pompous grin.

“Very well.”

“Good. Now we can do one of two things; either we get back to my place and I give you some potions there or I heal you the old fashion way.” She says while wiggling her fingers in front of her. “You’re choice.”

He can’t help but smile warmly at that. My choice he thinks. There was no way she could grasp just how much it means to him that even when she’s at her limits with him she always gives him a choice. He could not remember a time before meeting her that he was given choices. A choice to reject, a choice to walk away and yet, he desires to show her the faith he has put in her to not harm him.

“Max…” Taking her wrists, he hesitantly places her hands on his aching shoulders. “I trust you.”

She can’t help but stare wide eyed into his mossy green eyes as her cheek become flushed. Her hands, shaky but firm on his arms as she takes in his words of encouragement. I trust you. She had feared she would never gain that from him. She could not hold back a joyful grin. “Well I’m glad… and I trust you too.”

“I-I’m glad as well.” He blushes in return. They stare at each other for a moment till the mood became unbearably awkward.

“I will need my wrists back though if I want to do this properly. Not that I mind you holding me close.” She says with a bewitching smirk spread across her face.

Realizing he was still holding onto her wrists, his face reddens even more and quickly lets go while averting his gaze. “M-my apologies…go ahead.”

She giggles and nods in response before letting go of him so she can hover her fingers, now illuminated in a bluish light, around his arms and shoulders. His body tenses at the first hint of mana, furrowing his brow in the process. She almost stops when she notices his discomfort but he tries gives her a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine Hawke, just get it done quickly. Please.”

“Right, I’m sorry. Try to take some deep breathes, ok?” He nods and breathes in and out at a slow and steady pace. With every breath the pain becomes less and less. He swears it almost begins to feel…calming. Magic has been nothing but pain to him, or at the least a hard pill to swallow but her touch, physical or magical is always so gentle and so thoughtful.

Her hands move smoothly past his shoulders and ghost over his collarbone, making his breath hitch as her fingertips accidentally graze the side of his neck. She pulls back immediately and ends the spell. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“No, no you’re fine! Y-you startled me is all.” Startling…yet not unpleasant. He realizes in thought.

“Oh, good…how’s the pain?” she asked relieved.

Fenris rolls his shoulders and his neck, testing his pain level. Although the pain of the scuffle has now dissipated thanks to Hawke, he feels a dull ache in his markings returning slowly, but this was sadly his reality. Maybe this can never be helped. He thought as he let out a low grumble. “Back to my usual self it seems. Thank you, Hawke.”

“Just doing my job.” She says with a bashful smile which slowly fades. “And…I’m sorry for yelling at you today.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me Hawke. It’s not like I’ve never lost my temper.” He says surprised at her sudden guilt.

“Even so, I could have reacted better. I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately and I haven’t had time to just deal with it you know? And I know I need to make peace that you two just will never be friends. It’s wrong for me to try to change either of you.” She says while wistfully bowing her head and rubs the side of her arm as she still sits in front of him.

“You’re right, we’ll probably always loath each other…but we did come to an agreement that we need to try harder to put our differences aside…for you at least.” Fenris admits sheepishly, making Hawke look up in surprise.

“You did?”

“Yes and I should mention it was his idea. Don’t want him blathering about how he got no credit over this.” He sees her squint at him in annoyance at that. “…that being said I agreed with him because if we had too on one thing, it’d be not wishing to hurt you Hawke.” Fenris says with a sigh, making Hawke begin to grin. It was nice to hear that they were at least willing to try to be better comrades. This could be a good sign.

But if she had learned anything from her family who all had differing views, was that peace only lasted as long as both parties learned to respect each other’s opinions and/or kept their mouths shut over touchy subjects.

Although these principles seemed reasonable for a family that loved each other, it sadly seemed impossible for two men who cared not for each other and believed so strongly the other is an idiot and that their plight was far worse than the others. She wanted to believe their promise was true, she truly did. But they were only words spoken in a moment of guilt.

“I do appreciate that Fenris. Really I do, but I believe in action not words. So forgive me if I hold my breath.” She softly states as she stands.

“You say you trust me yet you doubt my honor to a promise?” He asks earnestly looking up at her.

“It’s not that I don’t believe your word or Anders for that matter. I just don’t wish to get my hopes up. I fear when I do it usually backfires and then I get upset and I don’t wish to have another moment of weakness like I did today just because I got too comfortable with the idea that things will be better if I just hoped. I’m sure you can understand that yes? Not wanting to be disappointed.”

Of course he could. He could never hope for more than he already had, which was very little to begin with. He lived in his old masters abandoned mansion, alone and with very little possessions and even fewer people he could trust in this blighted city. Yet it was more than he ever had. Maybe that is why he stayed, because he truly couldn’t see himself leaving and finding anything better.

He may have not been happy precisely, but he at times felt at home. When he sparred with Aveline in the barracks, had meals with Hawke and at times with her mother and her mabari, when he humored Isabela’s flirting and silly games like guessing what undergarments he was wearing, playing Wicked Grace with everyone, listening to Hawke’s stories of her family, teasing Varric of his harry chest while Varric made fun of his “broodiness”, walking home from a long day with Hawke …Maker, she always seemed to come to mind when recalling why he never desired to leave.

He had to admit, he would miss much of her; her strange persistence to make him feel wanted, how passionately protective she was of her friends, family and even complete strangers. They never would have met if it wasn’t for that.

He’d even miss how her lovely face seemed to light up when he’d enter the room, and of course her rowdy laugh that left a whole room silent in confusion because what in the name of Andraste could be so funny?

He couldn’t help but try to get her to laugh like that and feel an odd sense of pride when he could. Even stupidly feel jealous when someone else got it out of her before he could. In turn she’d try to get him to laugh just as loud. He never did, but it was hard for anyone to top her infectious laugh, yet that never stopped her from trying to get a good giggle fit out of him that made him as red as a rose.

He’d miss how he felt around her…he even dared to think she felt the same near him. But like her, he feared disappointment.

“Yes…I do.” He weakly says as he stands and looks down at her. “and I won’t lie and say my feelings on mages will change and that Anders and I we’ll never argue again if we can help it…but I will promise that I will try to think of your feelings before I speak and I will not harm Anders unless utterly necessary.”

“Define utterly necessary.” She says with arms now crossed.

“He’s physically harming you…or anyone of importance obviously.” He corrects himself last minute, which leaves her smirking at him.

“…Alright, fair enough. I doubt it will ever come to that though.”

“Whatever you say.” He mumbles, rolling his eyes teasingly.

“Fenris.”

“Just my opinion. It’s not like I wish to be right all the time.” he shrugs smugly.

“Ughhh, Maker you’re impossible sometimes.” Hawke says as she leans her head back with a chuckled groan. Fenris smirks down at her. “At least tell me Merrill is one of the people of importance.”

“Hmmm…” he hums in thought as he scratches his chin, but stopping with a devilish grin as he sees Hawke’s growingly miffed face. “Eh, I suppose.” He shrugs.

“…Lean down for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lean. Down.” She repeats as she glares at him. Although he glares back in suspicion he stupidly does as he’s told. Once he’s at her eye level she smirks and quickly ruffles his hair, messing it up as well as she can get it before he quickly jerks his head back. “That’s for Merrill!”

“Kaffas woman it was only a jest!” he swears which makes Hawke let out that rowdy laugh that he so enjoys. He can’t help but look at her and begin to grin. “Hmph, satisfied with your dirty work?” he asks as he points at his disheveled snowy white hair.

She looks up as she begins to calm down and then scoffs with a bashful grin. “Hardly! You still look bloody majestic! It’s quite unfair, if my hair gets messed with or is even a little oily it looks dreadful!”

His ears twitch and turn crimson at her compliment. It was never a foreign thing for her to flirt and tell him how attractive she believed him to be, but it always made him flustered. He didn’t believe it himself, but he could not lie, he always enjoyed her flattery.

He shakes off his twitch and carefully strokes his bangs back into place. “Yes well, I don’t think your hair looks dreadful…at least on most occasions.” He swiftly grabs her wrist as her hand darted up trying to mess with his hair once more in retribution for that backhanded compliment. “Truly though…your hair is rather pleasing to the eye.”

She stops playfully struggling from his grip to meet his soft gaze. “Oh? I always found it rather a boring color. It’s not as lovely as yours.” She mumbles as she twists a bit of her locks around her fingers. “Would have at least liked it to have become black like my father’s…”

Fenris hooks the lock of hair between his gauntlet claws, taking the strands from her and feels it slowly run across his scarred fingertips, sending a chill down Hawke’s back at his boldness. “I think it’s a rather lovely shade of brunette.”

“Thank you…it does match your armor.” She nervously grins and she lightly prods at his leather tunic making him gulp in response.

“Uh, yes it appears so...”

It’s painfully quiet as they timidly gawk at one another. Hawke’s hand rests just above Fenris’s armored chest. She can feel how fast his heart races under her touch but before she can ask if he’s alright, Fenris’s gaze quickly shifts towards the sun that has almost fully set now. It’s disappointing when he looks away but she looks in his direction and sees just how late it has become. They could now hear the crickets beginning to chirp and cool breeze swirled their way, huddling Fenris closer to Hawke for warmth, much to her delight. He still wasn’t fully use to the cold of the Free Marches which makes her wonder if he’d even last a day in Fereldon.

“W-we should hurry back to High Town. It’s scarcely considered safe here during the day, it can only get worse with night fall.”

“True enough…you also seem cold.” She teasingly smirks up at him. He realizes just how close he is too her, as his chest grazing hers and his hand now resting on her shoulder.

He takes his hand away and takes a step back, rubbing his palms across his arms for warmth. “It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with ice in veins like you.”

“Is that a quip on me being a mage or Fereldon born?”

“Hmm, I suppose both works in this case.” He responds, leaving her rolling her eyes but biting her lip to hid her smile.

“I suppose so. Alright lets head out…Maker mother must be furious.” Hawke whines like a pup as she picks up her pouch and staff.

“If it helps I can accompany you and explain why you were out so late.” He offers as he also gets his weapon and puts it in its sheath.

“Oh so you can tell my mother I had a mental break down in front of everyone? Yeah, no thank you. Besides I don’t want her upset with you. She likes you and I doubt you wish to break my poor mother’s heart now do you?” she asks, batting her eyes up at him. Lady Leandra could be a bit much at times but he did enjoy being on her good side, even if meant putting up with how she’d pinch his cheeks on occasion, her cooking and kind words were worth it.

“Fair point, still if I can help in any way I’d be happy to for you Hawke. It’s the least I can do to make up for today.”

“You sure you’re not just checking to see if there are any sweets waiting at home for me that you can steal?” Hawke smirks up at him.

“Can both be my intent?” Fenris asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Pfft, sure why not.” She snorts. “Come on sass master, hopefully my mother will go easy on us and I can treat you to whatever in the kitchen and maybe a glass of wine.” She says as she tugs at the top of his breastplate, steering him towards the trail back to Kirkwall.

He bashfully smiles as he stumbles for a second before finding his footing again and stands close to Hawke’s side as they begin to take their long stroll back to the Amell Mansion. “I’ll try not to overstay my welcome.”

Don’t think that’s possible. She thought with a warm smile. “Please I’m sure mother will beg you to take the guest room for the night for your safety.”

“She does know I’ve lived in Hightown longer than even you, right?” he asks in an amused tone.

“And that you can tear a person’s heart out, yet she still insists on coddling you worse than I do.” Hawke says with a shrug.

“Ah, so that’s where you get it from.” He wickedly says knowing this will irk her.

“Oh how dare you.” She gasps, making him giggle at her wide eye and mouth expression.

“Nothing wrong with that, Leandra is a fine woman.”

“I know but I am trying to be my own person you know.” She huffs.

“You are…and I rather enjoy the person I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.” He says as he looks straight forward, not daring to look down at her.

“…You mean that?” peering up at him coyly. It’s too dark to see but he is blushing as he feels her eyes on him.

“Well, you do annoy me the least out of our comrades.” He jests, trying to lighten the heaviness of what he just admitted.

“Oh you know how to make a girl feel special Fenris.” She says sarcastically but does let out a chuckle to show she doesn’t mind him changing the mood back to humorous.

“So I’ve been told.” He shrugs with a smirk that melts quickly. “…but in all seriousness, yes Hawke. I mean it.”

“Ah, good. I uh, have more than enjoyed your companionship…even when you can be a jerk.” She says bumping into him lightly with her elbow.

“I should take offense to that last bit.”

“I could have said far worse.” She states with a wink.

“Lucky me then.” He grins down at her and she smiles brightly back before looking forward. As she looks on he can’t help but glance at her now and then to see if she’s still well. Every time he did, she seemed fine but he wonders if her expression is just a mask to hide her true expression. “Max?”

“Y-yes Fenris?” she looks up with flushed cheeks as she hears her name leave his lips.

“I… am sorry for upsetting you.” He says gloomily.

“I know Fenris…and I’m sorry too.”

“You-“

“I won’t accept yours if you don’t accept mine.” She interrupts as she stops in front of him and holds her index finger up to his face. Fenris may have been stubborn, but Hawke could be as well.

“…As you wish. You are forgiven.” He sighs while rolling his eyes.

“As are you.” She says while booping his nose, making his ears flatten and face scrunch in both annoyance and amusement. He squints his eyes down at her, making her laugh again before she turns away and begins walking again. She does not catch the smile that grows on his face while he rubs the spot on his nose she had touched when she turns.

By the time they got back to the Amell Mansion, the moon had been illuminating the raven colored sky for quite some time now. As they entered the estate, Hawke’s Mabari, Axel, barked up a storm at their return alerting Lady Leandra her eldest had finally made her way home. She scolded her child while hugging her tightly as Axel bounced around the three of them, begging for his own attention which Fenris heavily sighed and patted the big oaf on the head while he waited for Leandra to be done talking. Once she made her point, she turned happily to Fenris and thanked him for keeping her darling daughter safe, as he always did.

Like Hawke said she would, she insisted Fenris stay, get cleaned up, eat and spend the night if he wanted. He declined staying for too long but could not say no to the chilled apple pie that awaited Hawke’s arrival. Leandra’s only rule was they take the wet washcloths she had ready for them and clean up before they tracked any blood into the rest of the manor.

After they hastily wiped themselves down, Leandra settled them in the kitchen with a big serving of pie, which they thanked her for and with that she kissed her daughter on the head and pinched Fenris's cheek before leaving them be so she could finally get some sleep, no longer having to worry if her last surviving daughter was safe. She was grateful for the friends Maxine had made in Kirkwall, mostly Fenris who her daughter talked about the most.

When Leandra left, Fenris and Hawke sat in the kitchen, eating the cold but delicious pie with a bottle of wine Hawke snuck out of the cellar and enjoyed each other’s company till Hawke’s eyelids began to grow heavy. Seeing that as his cue to leave, he thanked her for hospitality and said he’d make up for the now empty bottle of wine which she graciously declines with a yawn. They say goodnight at the door of the Estate, and Hawke watches him leave till he’s out of sight. When he looks back she gives him a coy wave that he returns with a awkward smile and can’t help but blush when he turns away.

When Hawke awoke the next morning, she came downstairs to her mother saying Fenris came by and dropped off a bottle of Aggregio Pavali.

“Such a sweet lad isn’t he?” he mother said happily as she handed the bottle to her.

“Yeah…” more like stubborn lad…but he is sweet all the same. “He is.” She finishes as she looks at the bottle and smiles.

#fenhawke #fenris #maxine hawke #fenris x maxine hawke #fenris/f!hawke #cutieink #dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age fanfiction #anders #varric tethras #leandra hawke #angst and fluff #sass #pinning #pre relationship

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awesomenightfall · 6 years ago

Text

[the wicked & the divine]

part of the "dragon age protags are terrible adults" modern!AU [Cassandra/Varric (eventual), humor, modern!AU, no tw, mild language, super unfinished] -- Seekers/Templars are pretty much police in this world and someone has it out for Cassandra (surprise, surprise). Varric gets a very unwelcome visit from Leliana (who wants to cash in a favor, natch) and an injured Cassandra.

---

In retrospect, the whole premise was so cliche that, as a writer who had built an entire career on delivering the unexpected, Varric almost laughed himself sick at the irony.

Cliche #1: It was, of course, a dark and stormy night. The place was Kirkwall-- The Hanged Man, to be more exact. The pub was one of Varric’s more profitable business ventures. For a crime ridden, dirty, rundown town, there had been a surprisingly lack of places for local degenerates to get wasted before Varric stepped in.

He was a very hands off owner that preferred to let management run the show. Still, Varric liked to frequent the bar to see his friends, play cards, but mostly to make sure Hawke wasn’t pissing away all of the profit by doling out free drinks to men and women she wanted to sleep with.

He trusted Hawke with his life, but with his wallet? Not so much.

The bar had closed for the night and Varric was reconciling the books. It was terribly monotonous but it was a nice break from his usually hectic life filled with a ridiculous amount of dramatic extraverts that demanded pretty much all of his attention. He also tended to get his best ideas at The Hanged Man late at night when he was decompressing from the day.

Then again, he had written his tawdry, bodice ripper Swords & Shields at this very barstool, so he had to concede that maybe not all of his ideas were very good.

Cliche # 2: The quiet was interrupted by a sharp, somewhat mysterious knock at the door. There were only two types of people who came by this late at night -- robbers or booty calls. Robbers didn’t usually knock and Varric had indulged in all of zero booty in Maker knows how long, so he was intrigued. And maybe a little afraid.

Please don’t be demons or bill collectors or ex-girlfriends, for the love of all that is good and holy, please don’t be a possessed ex-girlfriend looking to cash in on a debt...

It felt very dramatic, very film noir-esque, and Varric could almost hear the saxophone music queuing up in the background as his internal monologue began.

“‘Okay Tethras,’” Varric narrated, “‘I said to myself, ‘“You’re a tough guy. You’ve been shot at, possessed, faced down the Carta, forced to go to Bertrand’s social gatherings.” Now let’s see you do something really tough—like answering the door.’”

With a deep sigh and ignoring that niggling little thing called self preservation that was screeching at him not to do it, Varric walked over to the door. His hand hovered over the knob. “Any chance you’re selling cookies for charity and not here to mug me and/or rope me into some hairbrained scheme?”

“Varric,” a familiar, accented voice replied. “It’s Leliana. Open up.”

Crap. “So no cookies, I’m guessing,” Varric said as he unlocked the door against his better judgment. “Nightingale, if you wanted to have a private tête-à-tête, did you really need to wait until the asscrack of --?”

In Leliana’s arms was one Cassandra Pentaghast, currently white as a ghost, hunched over, and bleeding out from her skull.

Plot twist.

“What the hell happened?” Varric ushered them inside, wincing at the amount of blood dripping on the dingy bar floor. He had very little lover for the Seeker (and the feeling was undeniably mutual, for so many reasons, but mostly because he prided himself on being a fabulous liar and her job was to literally seek out the truth), but that didn’t mean he wanted her to die inside of his bar.

Then again, it might do something to add to the intrigue of The Hanged Man…

No, Varric decided, he didn’t need any more death on his hands. He might have had a little bit of a hate-on (“It’s like a hard on,” Isabela had said wisely, “but for someone you want to hate-bang right through the floor”) for Cassandra since the time she took him in for a grueling six hour interrogation concerning Hawke’s whereabouts, but he wasn’t a monster.

Besides, Cassandra would just haunt him from beyond the grave and did he really want to risk having to spend eternity listening to her make that little disgusted noise she always made when he spoke?

“Ugh,” Cassandra grunted when her eyes focused on Varric. “It’s you.”

And there it was. Cassandra was nothing if not dependable and predictable.

Leliana hefted Cassandra up on the chair; no easy task, considering how tall (unnecessarily so, in Varric’s completely unbiased opinion-- what does a woman need with that much leg?) and well muscled the Seeker was. Cassandra groaned, hazily blinking blood out of her eyes. She looked… well, she looked like complete and utter shit, Varric thought, and that was being charitable.

“Assassins,” Leliana confirmed. “We’re looking into it.”

“And no doubt you’ll find them.”

“By hook or by crook,” Leliana said simply and Varric shuddered. Leliana was sweet and pretty and it was easy to forget that she was a powerful spymaster with a whole network of followers at her disposal. But when she got that look, well… Varric didn’t envy the person who had been stupid enough to go after one of Leliana’s people.

Varric grabbed his first aid kit -- always fully stocked, thanks to Hawke’s penchant for getting into fights -- and set it down on a wooden table. “So. What’d the Seeker do to get the attention of assassins?”

“I imagine it’s some kind of personal grudge.” Leliana pulled on some latex gloves and got to work on the gash on Cassandra’s forehead.

“Wow,” Varric said, voice chalk full of exaggerated surprise, “imagine that. Someone doesn’t like the Seeker? Nightingale, call the presses. The world needs to know.”

Cassandra glared at him and hissed as Leliana pressed on the wound above her eyebrow. “Such a comedian, dwarf,” she drawled, voice slightly slurred from what Varric imagined was excruciating pain. He winced in sympathy and grabbed some ice from behind the bar, wrapping it in a towel and leaving it as a peace offering. Cassandra looked surprised and suspicious, not making a move for it just yet.

“Surprised you let them get a hit in,” Varric said, leaning back in his chair dangerously. “I thought you slept with your sword under your pillow.”

He might have imagined it, but for a moment it looked like Cassandra actually blushed. Must have been a trick of the light. “I-- I was indisposed.”

“Indisposed,” Varric echoed.

“Shut up. It was nothing.”

His thoughts raced. Indisposed? The Seeker? What did that even mean? Varric imagined -- not that he thought about her that often, because that would be weird -- that she spent 24/7 in her stiff, buttoned up uniform, sword at her side, vigilant and composed as she chased down criminals and ne'er-do-wells.

She was horribly embarrassed about it, whatever it was, and that only further fueled Varric’s curiosity.

“Well now I have to know. ‘Indisposed.’ How indisposed are we talking about here? Where does it rank on a scale from 1 to Hawke, Zevran, and a team of double jointed Antivan contortionists?”

Varric was rewarded with Cassandra’s patented disgusted noise and it was music to his ears. And that’s one win for the dwarf.

Leliana tried to hide a grin and failed miserably. “She was in the shower,” she loudly whispered.

Varric nearly tipped back in his chair but caught himself before he fell. “They attacked you in the shower?”

He had so many questions like:

Did she fight naked?

Did she bring the sword into the shower?

Wait, if she was in the shower then that meant that she wasn’t wearing --

For fuck’s sake, don’t. Don’t even go there.

“Ugh,” Cassandra groaned. “Be quiet, Leliana. And don’t you even think about telling anyone about this.” She shoved a finger into Varric’s chest, each word punctuated with a strong poke. “Not. One. Word.”

“Perish the thought, Seeker,” Varric said, moving out of reach before she gouged his heart out. “Would I ever tell anyone about you fighting assassins au naturel?”

“Yes,” Cassanda and Leliana said in unison.

He waved his hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Cassandra snorted again. “So, you were in the shower and assassins attacked. What happened next? Did you defend yourself with a loofah? Rubber ducky? Leave no detail out. Hard in Hightown has been missing bathroom shenanigans and honestly, this is just the inspiration I need.”

“Varric.”

“What? I said I wouldn’t tell anyone, I never said I wouldn’t write about it.”

“Varric!”

Andraste’s blessed ass, was it fun to mess with her.

Leliana cleared her throat politely. “Varric, you may be wondering why we’re here.”

“I, too, would like to know why we are here, Leliana.” Cassandra’s voice was as cold as the ice starting to melt on the table.

And here it comes, Varric thought. Should he just resign himself to whatever favor Leliana was going to cash in? Beg for mercy? Skip town for a bit so he could finally get some writing done? “You want me to find the attackers?”

“Well, since Cassandra’s apartment is currently being searched and it’s not quite safe for her to return, I thought, since you have a few extra rooms upstairs, you could let her stay here.”

“What.” Cassandra’s fury was palpable and it sent a shiver down Varric’s spine. He wondered who would win in a fight between Cassandra and Leliana. He wondered if the staff would be able to get all the blood out of the carpet. Mostly, he wondered why he always got caught up in all of this shit.

Leliana looked at Cassandra evenly. “There is a hole in your roof, Cassandra. How are you supposed to stay there?”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself--”

“You have a concussion and possibly a broken arm, along with a few ribs,” Leliana said. “Not to mention there is a group of people who want you dead. Until we isolate the threat, you shouldn’t be there, Cassandra. You know that.”

“Ugh. Do not baby me, Leliana, I am a grown woman who--”

The bickering continued in the background as Varric thought deeply on the newest crisis foisted upon him.

Varric wasn’t angry, per se, but he wasn’t jazzed at the thought of having Cassandra as a temporary roommate, either. This bar was his oasis, his anchor in the sea of chaos known as his life. Now he was supposed to let Cassandra “I’m going to tie you up and not in the fun way” Pentaghast stay there?

But then again, if her life really was in danger… and while they weren’t best friends, they were still acquaintances that had worked together… and she wasn’t completely awful when she wasn’t preaching or yelling or shoving him into walls...

… shit, he hated having a conscience.

“It’s fine,” Varric conceded. “Stay. You’ll be safe here.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to retort, but Varric got there first. “Hope you’re not a light sleeper.” He tapped his broken nose. “Deviated septum. Possible sleep apnea. So much snoring.”

“Ugh.”

Two wins for the dwarf.

#dragon age #varric tethras #Cassandra Pentaghast #k writes trash

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carterashofficial · 7 years ago

Note

“Y'know, your roof may not be the safest place for us to stargaze.” for Alda & cullen?

So this has been sitting in my ask box for a while and now I finally got the writing mojo back to put words into sentences

thank you for the ask. it got long

The icy breeze sliced through Skyhold. No hint of spring, no, just more snow and sleet and, if they were exceptionally unlucky, another blizzard. Everything was frozen. Too frozen, in Alda’s opinion. And everyone else’s as well, she figured.

She paused by the tavern to adjust her scarf after a gust found its way to her neck.

“Ground’s too frozen to even think of plantin’ shite.”

She went still. The pair of soldiers were leaving the tavern, oblivious to the cloaked girl barely ten feet away.

“Aye, I know. Miss me some carrots. Might write me mam and tell her that. Get a right laugh out of her. Me, likin’ me veg.”

“No, I was thinkin’ of potatoes… nice and fried thin… Or tomatoes. Bloody hell, I’d give anythin’ for a tomato. Imagine tha’ Greg.” The soldier spat, then cursed. “Too fuckin’ cold for anythin’. C’mon. Get back in before our bits get frostbite.”

Alda’s sigh was stolen away on another burst of wind.

Haven had the gardens of the residents. The Chantry garden. There were plenty of winter vegetables, and other ones put in storage or dried. Now-

Something else to worry about along with everything else. It’d be a blessing from the Maker if no one starved before shipments of food arrived. Josephine had ordered them, Leliana’s spies and Cullen’s soldiers escorting them to make sure they got here…

She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her.

There was too much to worry about. And that wasn’t even looking to the future with Corypheus or Samson or what the red lyrium meant or what would happen to her after the Inquisition- and then the other Mages too-

Her cousin would be laughing at her right now and telling her to relax to focus on the immediate problem. And he’d be right.

No use fretting over something that wasn’t going to happen for weeks. Or perhaps years. Or Maker-knew-when.

Alda leaned back, hood falling off, to stare up at the sky. And noticed the light on in the Commander’s tower.

Of course he wasn’t asleep. There was a running bet in the ranks, according to Varric, that Cullen slept sitting upright with his eyes open and candles on, sword in hand, so he was always ready for an attack. Or so any enemy spy would never know when he was sleeping.

She picked her way up the icy staircase towards the tower. The snow was compacted and slippery. Using her ice magic wouldn’t help, nor would her lightning.

Alda smiled inwardly. If she could cast fire magic, now would be a perfect time.

It wouldn’t hurt to try, now, would it?

She whispered a little spell into her palm and focused, feeling the heat gather into a tighter ball, waiting-

And the flame flickered. Barely enough to light a small candle, but it was there, not that it would do much of anything.

Alda sighed and shook the spell away. Fire magic had always been a challenge. If there was an upside, there was never any threat of her burning down the Circle. She continued up the stairs, following that train of thought.

No, she never burned down the Circle, barely a collection of candles. She’d been one of the few mages with a tinder box.

And-

She balked at the door to his office. Why had she come up here?

Cullen didn’t need someone to tell him to go to bed. He was a grown man, the Commander of the army. Perhaps he was asleep, and had forgotten to blow out the candles. Or he was taking a bath, or working, or-

“Maker’s breath,” she whispered to herself.

But she was still outside his door.

The next frigid blast of wind decided for her.

Alda knocked, waited a beat, and then slipped inside. “Cullen?” She cursed herself. She shouldn’t be bothering him.

The floorboards creaked overhead. “Harding? Leave the report- Oh. Inquisitor.” Cullen’s face appeared at the top of the ladder to the upper half of the tower. “Do you need something?”

“I- no, I just saw your lights were lit.”

“Ah. Yes.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” Cullen shifted, and she got a view of the rest of him. He was still wearing his armor, but even more furs. His ears were red.

“What sort-” Cold air brushed past her. “Do you have a window open?”

Cullen made a face and gestured to the ladder. “Not exactly. It’s easier to show than describe.”

Alda frowned, curious, and started up the ladder. At the top, he offered her his hand to haul her up. And then she could see the problem. It explained why he had to many layers on. “Oh, Maker.”

He shrugged. “It could be worse.”

Alda stared at the gaping hole in his ceiling, watching fat white snowflakes drift down. Dead ivy clung to the wall and remaining timber planks, empty tendrils swaying in the breeze. “What, a bunch of bats could be up here?”

“Or deepstalkers.”

She gave him a dark look. He knew she was terrified of deepstalkers. But it was only fair play after mentioning bats.

He halfheartedly tried to hide a smirk. “No, I don’t have a window open. But it feels like I do.”

“Let me take a look.” Alda moved closer, peering at the hole. It would be possible to magic up a barrier… But she’d need to get a look from atop the roof, too. For all she knew, the wood planks were rotted away on the top and the barrier would do nothing if the rest of the ceiling caved in. “Could you boost me up?”

Cullen’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in surprise. “Onto the roof?”

“Where else?”

He walked around his bed and grabbed a spindly ladder. “I’ve got something even better. You first, Lady Trevelyan.”

Alda made sure her hood was going to stay on before she started up the ladder. the exterior was slippery, far more than the stairs. And deceptively so. Under a thick layer of snow was ice, slicker than spilled oil. “Watch out, it’s slippery.”

Cullen nodded and hauled himself up. Once at the top of the ladder, he swept out an arm and used it to swipe the snow off the roof. “Andraste’s ass, it’s cold.”

She nodded silently, knowing that her face was going to be bright red from the wind and cold as soon as they were back inside. Alda light up a tiny bauble of light in her hand and scrutinized the wood under the ice. “Does that look fine to you?”

He climbed another rung of the ladder and leaned in. “Yes.”

“Oh, good.” Alda rocked back on her heels. “I can magic up a barrier for the time being until you requisition someone to fix this hole.”

“That would be perfect, Inquisitor.”

“Or,” she added, looking up at the sky. “You ask for a trapdoor. Look at that this view.” Her breath left her in a sigh. The whole world was alight with stars, diamonds and crystals hanging over velvety blackness. The snow on distant mountains glimmered. And-

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen said softly.

Bright lights flickered across the heavens, little dashes of pink and green.

Alda shifted as the breeze picked up again, and-

Her boot slipped.

Even sitting on her ass, it was enough to have her sliding down towards the edge of the roof, cloak tangled around her other leg-

“Alda!” Cullen’s hand closed around her arm like a vise, keeping her from sliding any further. Slowly he pulled her back up, relaxing his grip once she’d found her footing again. But he didn’t let go of her. “Careful. We need you.”

She stayed silent, waiting for the adrenaline to pass. It’d just been so sudden…

“Alda. Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Just… I wasn’t expecting to slip.”

His eyes didn’t leave her face.

No, Alda had to get off the roof, stop looking at him like that, he was too close and her heart felt like she was still slipping on the ice. There was snow stuck in his curls. And he was warm compared to the icy wind-

She cleared her throat. “You know, your roof may not be the safest place for us to stargaze.”

“Right.” He broke eye contact and started down the ladder. “I’ll have to warn whoever fixes the hole. We don’t need to lose anyone to the ice.”

“No, not after Haven.” Alda followed him down. “That would be a cruel twist of fate.”

Cullen brushed snow off her shoulder. “Indeed. Are you certain you’re alright?”

“Yes.” Alda adjusted her cloak and ignored the chunk of ice that was stuck against the small of her back. “And just step back so I can cast a barrier.”

He did as she said, leaving her under the open roof .

Alda frowned in concentration, picturing the symbols and lines of a favorite ice shield. It would just take some manipulation to get it into a barrier… She flicked her wrist and cast the base, working on the rest of it. It took more energy than she thought to get it fixed in place. She’d poured her strength into it, giving it more than enough to feed on. She wouldn’t have to sit by, alert, while it was in place. “That should do it.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

And there he was, back with the title. Alda smiled faintly to hide her distaste of the rank. “Now you can stop smelling like a wet Fereldan dog.” She glanced over at him. “That was a joke, Cullen.”

He recovered quickly. “I thought that was you,” he teased back.

“I’m not wearing enough furs to cover a great bear. Why would I smell?”

“I- I don’t know.” Cullen’s own smile was soft as he gestured to the ladder down. “I’ll walk you back to the castle. We don’t need you slipping again.”

Alda slid down the ladder and waited for him. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime slip. Usually I never slip on ice.”

“Hm… sounds like magic.” He offered her his arm, other hand on the door. “Ready?”

She checked her hood and scarf. “Yes. Lead the way, Commander,” she said as she took his arm.

The wind hit them in the face. It tore through her clothes, like icy needles stinging her. Cullen’s arm shifted, going from being next to her to now being around her, shielding Alda from the worst of it.

She squinted, seeing a lantern. “Nearly there, Commander.”

And then they were. He heaved the door open against the wind. “See you tomorrow, Inquisitor. Goodnight.” And he paused, like he wanted to say more.

Frigid air was coming into the warm castle. Alda nodded. “Be careful on your way back, Commander. Goodnight.” She watched him let the door go, one final gust hitting her in the face before the door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

#da:I #dragon age: inquisition #dragon age #Cullen #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x inquisitor #inquisitor x cullen #inquisitor trevelyan #Cullen x Trevelyan #Alda Trevelyan #asks

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

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Felassan/f!Lavellan: The Love That Grows From Violence, Chap 2

The second chapter of Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan is up on AO3! (It was since yesterday, too, but I guess I’ll crosspost everything here anyway.

The first chapter (the prologue) is here on Tumbles.

~5100 words; read on AO3 instead.

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

Kirkwall, one year after the Exalted Council...

Varric handed Tamaris a set of keys. “All right, here it is. Home sweet home.”

Tamaris stared blankly at the mansion. It was… frankly, it was huge. And fancy. Two gold-plated Orlesian lion statuettes flanked the front door, which was carved with an elaborate pattern of fleur-de-lis. The windows were made of elaborate stained glass that would make a Chantry sister envious, and she was fairly certain that the front door handle was made of gold. The outdoor fixtures alone must have cost a fortune, and she hadn’t even seen the interior of the house yet.

She shot Varric an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

He chuckled. “Nope. It’s yours. Your name is on the deed and everything.” He folded his arms. “I’ve kind of been waiting to see your face when you saw it.”

“Well, I hope my total sense of bemusement isn’t a disappointment,” she said. Honestly, she didn’t know how Varric expected her to live in this place. She was used to aravels and tents, for fuck’s sake. Moving to Skyhold had been a stretch for her, and Skyhold at least was a functional fortress as well as being a huge grand castle.

This mansion, on the other hand, looked totally frivolous. Tamaris could only hope that it was less gaudy on the inside than the outside.

She hefted her travelling pack onto her shoulder and unlocked the door. She took one step into the house and stopped dead in disbelief.

The floor was shiny rose marble with gold veins, and the wallpaper was cream silk with gold stripes. As Tamaris slowly made her way through the foyer into the main room, she wrinkled her nose; the fireplace, the staircase bannister, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling: all of it was gold.

She unceremoniously dropped her pack on the floor. “Varric, you’re not serious,” she complained.

He laughed again. “Trust me, Cuddles, this is restrained for an Orlesian mansion in Hightown. Orlesians who settle here think they need to remind us that they’re not from here. As if we could ever forget.” He patted the fireplace. “Don’t worry, you can get it all redone. Tear out the floors, maybe put in some sod so you can pretend you’re in a forest or something?”

Tamaris snorted. “Should I set up a ritual circle too, for the evil Dalish child sacrifices that I perform every other week?”

“You could,” Varric said wryly. “Just don’t tell our Captain of the Guard. She tends to get a little antsy about blood magic here. Well, we all do, really.”

Tamaris looked at him. He was smiling, but it only now just occurred to her how she must sound.

She sighed. “Varric, I’m sorry. I’m being an ungrateful bitch. This is… I mean, you gave me a fucking house. This is really nice of you. Even if it’s the gaudiest house in Thedas.”

He snorted a laugh, and Tamaris gave him a rare smile. “I mean it. This is really kind. Thank you.”

He waved her off. “Ah, don’t worry about it. And you don’t have to apologize. I’m used to moody elves, remember?”

“Right, right,” Tamaris said dryly. “Hawke’s husband and all that. Hey, you said her mansion was in Hightown too, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Her uncle lives in it now, though. Hawke is off hunting slavers with Fenris or whatever it is that he’s doing.”

Tamaris nodded in acknowledgement, then looked idly around at the vaulted ceilings. Shit, this house was big. And empty.

Oh, there was furniture, sure: a big ugly carved dining table with matching chairs and a writing desk in this room, and some plush velvet sofas in the study to the left. But the house still felt so… empty. It was going to be so quiet living here all by herself. After spending the better part of the year doing contract work with Bull and the Chargers, Tamaris couldn’t decide if she was grateful or not for the impending quiet.

“So,” Varric said. “Do you want to hear the updates on the wolf hunt now, or do you want to settle in first?”

Solas. Her gut twisted unpleasantly, like the feeling of stepping into a pothole that you didn’t realize was there.

“Sure, let’s hear it,” she said. She rifled around in her bag with her mechanical left hand and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Rivaini rum. “Fancy a drink?”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll wait until it’s past noon.”

She shrugged and pulled the cork out of the bottle. “Suit yourself.” She took three big gulps, then shoved the cork back into the bottle and plopped down in one of the padded dining chairs. “All right, let’s hear it. I don’t suppose we’ve actually been lucky enough to find him.”

“Not yet,” Varric said. “A couple interesting leads, though. You actually got back just in time. Rhys and Evangeline are on their way here from the Hunterhorn Mountains. Should be arriving in the next day or two.”

Tamaris blinked. “Rhys and Evangeline? But I thought Cassandra needed them.”

“She does,” Varric said. “Their work at the Tranquil sanctuary has been going pretty smoothly so far. But they recently had someone staying with them who, uh, might be interesting for you to meet.”

That’s cryptic, Tamaris thought. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m listening.”

Varric leaned casually against the fireplace. “An elf with Dalish tattoos,” he said. “Only he says he isn’t Dalish. And he says he knows Solas.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, from… before.”

Tamaris’s eyebrows shot up. Then she folded her arms. “Uh-huh. And we don’t think he’s full of shit because…?”

“Tranquil don’t lie,” Varric said. “He told Cassandra about Solas before they reversed his Tranquility.”

Tamaris narrowed her eyes appraisingly. Then she straightened. “Hang on. You said… Are Rhys and Evangeline are bringing him here?”

Varric nodded, and Tamaris stared at him. “Varric, that’s insane. Solas definitely has spies in Kirkwall. This is the last place in Thedas that someone who knew Solas from before should be coming.”

Varric grimaced. “Well… Cassandra wanted you to go to the sanctuary instead. But we, uh, had some trouble getting in touch with you…”

Tamaris rubbed her forehead guiltily. Going off to mindlessly do a bunch of contracts with Bull and his company had been a selfish move, and Tamaris knew it. But the whole Exalted Council incident had been just… so much fucking bullshit, with the qunari attack and the Shattered Library and the crossroads and Solas.

Fucking Solas. Fucking Fen’Harel.

A year later, the truth still chafed. Tamaris had always known there were things he wasn’t telling her, and it had always grated at her nerves. Even during the moments when he was at his sweetest, it had always felt like there was some undercurrent of subtext behind his affectionate words. But Tamaris had never imagined that his lies were so spectacular.

Only by omission, he’d said, but in Tamaris’s opinion, that only made it worse. That he’d been so careful to omit things — so careful to stick to the truth without telling the most important parts of it…

She could feel her ears getting hot with anger. Varric stepped a little closer to her. “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “Rhys and Evangeline are used to travelling incognito, and apparently the mystery elf is too. No reason to think they won’t make it here safe and sound.”

She took another gulp of rum, then placed the bottle back on the table. “Fine. A mysterious former friend of Solas’s is coming to pay me a visit. Anything else?”

Varric eyed her warily, then sat in a chair beside her. “How about a hand of wicked grace?”

Tamaris lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t have to coddle me, you know.”

“I’m not,” Varric said. “I’m trying to avoid Bran, really. You’re doing me a favour by showing up here so early in the day.” He pulled a pack of cards out of his coat pocket and began shuffling them.

She scoffed and propped her dirty bare feet up on the pristine table. “All right, since I’m doing you a favour.” They played wicked grace for a couple of hours, and by the time Varric finally got up to leave, Tamaris was nicely buzzed.

She lazily followed Varric to the door. “Can I swing by your office later? See how tightly the Viscount of Kirkwall runs his ship?”

“Sure,” Varric said. He opened the door and smirked up at her. “Or tomorrow, or whenever.”

She leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were ashamed of my drunken ass.”

“Not ashamed,” Varric said. “Just a little concerned, that’s all.”

She shrugged. There was no point denying that she wasn’t really okay. “I’m probably not the most stabilizing influence for a newly de-Tranquilized mage at the moment,” she said baldly.

“Ah, you’ll be fine,” Varric said. “You’ll be good for him, probably. You’ve got a knack for this kind of thing.”

“What, dealing with hysterical people?” she said sarcastically.

“Yeah, actually,” Varric said.

Tamaris scoffed and looked away. “Lucky me.”

“Let me know if you want to talk,” Varric said casually. “That’s all I’m saying.”

She shrugged again. “I probably won’t,” she replied. “If you want to hit me with a stick Bull-style, though, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass,” he said dryly. “Hey, I should have asked — this arm’s doing okay by you, huh?” He tapped her mechanical arm.

“Yeah, it’s great,” she said. “The lyrium powers it perfectly.” She flexed her arm and fingers to demonstrate. “I wrote Dagna a couple months ago to thank her, but you should let Bianca know it works almost as well as my real hand.”

Varric smiled. “I will. See you later.” He started to walk away, then paused and turned back. “Hey, I should have said. It’s, uh. It’s good to have you back.”

Tamaris managed a smile. “Thanks. It’s… well, it’s good to see you.”

He nodded understandingly, then gave her a little salute before taking his leave. Tamaris tottered back inside of her gaudy house, then toppled onto one of the big fat couches and fell fast asleep.

When she woke up a few hours later, it was with a raging headache, a stomach cramping from hunger, and a very dry mouth. She gulped down some water, then strapped a couple of daggers to her belt and put on her cloak. She pulled up the hood — more to shelter her pounding eyes from the lingering rays of the early evening sun than to hide her identity. She didn’t much care if anyone knew she was in Kirkwall, especially since she’d been out of the loop all this time and had no interesting contacts here aside from Varric. If Solas’s spies wanted to give him the useless information that she was here, they could fucking feel free.

Even so, she wasn’t particularly keen to be spoken to. So instead of leaving through the front door, she made her way up the stairs and into the first bedroom on the left.

She raised her eyebrows appreciatively when she opened the door; the bedroom decor was a Free Marcher style instead of Orlesian, and way more simple and plain than the rest of the house. Varric must have set this bedroom up just for her.

She smiled faintly, then headed for the window and pushed it open. After a careful peek into the alley to discern that no one was looking, she slipped out of the window and quickly climbed up the brick wall to the roof.

Once she was on the roof, she breathed a sigh of relief. The air was fresher up here, and the openness of the sky was frankly a relief. From up here, she could clearly see the shifting shades of the sky as the sun started to set, and she could almost pretend that she was on the shores of Hercinia admiring the sky instead of on the roof of a noisy city.

She drew another deep lungful of air, then began making her way to the Lowtown market via the rooftops. She made it to the market unnoticed and bought herself enough food for three days, then returned to her house using back alleys so no one would talk to her, and the furtive journey was challenging enough with the added weight of her bags to distract her from her headache.

Once she’d returned to her house, she immediately went back up to the roof with her indulgent supper of fish and chips. She spent the next little while on the roof watching the sun sink down behind the squat buildings of Lowtown. When it started getting dark and her thoughts started darkening to match, she moved over to the edge of the roof so she could watch the people below instead of the sky above.

She dangled her feet carelessly over the edge of the roof; no one ever looked up, so no one would see her anyway. She reached into the pocket of her vest and pulled out a slender joint and a matchbook, then lit the joint and took a deep drag.

The sweet-and-bitter smoke filled her mouth, and she held it for a few leisurely seconds before releasing it to the cool evening air. And as usual in the evenings when she had nothing else to do, she started mulling over her mistakes and failings of the past.

First and foremost, as always, was Solas. Was there anything she could have done to stop him when they’d been together? Should she have realized sooner that he was from an earlier age? Solas wasn't the only concern, though; the news about the qunari’s activities on the Tevinter coastline were frankly alarming, and Tamaris couldn't help but wonder if she should have foreseen that as well. She and her companions might have stopped the Viddasala from killing the leadership of Thedas during the Exalted Council a year ago, but had they really achieved anything if the qunari were attacking Tevinter so aggressively now?

Another huge concern was where the fuck the Grey Wardens were. Tamaris had thought she was doing the right thing by sending them to Weisshaupt until Corypheus was gone, but there had been no word of them since then, and their silence made her wonder whether sending them away had been a good idea after all. Solas certainly approved of her action, but in truth, Tamaris had never been clear on exactly why he’d approved. Even now, after what he’d told her about the Evanuris and the Veil, she still didn’t understand why he got so irate about the Grey Wardens.

Solas, she thought moodily. Her thoughts cycled back to wondering if she should have foreseen his betrayal during the time that they’d been lovers. She smoked her joint slowly and mulled over her gloomy thoughts, and all the while she was watching the streets below for anything strange.

It wasn’t until late that night that something caught her eye: a pair of figures, one tall and slim and the other shorter and a bit more broad. They were cloaked and moving quietly along Hightown’s largely silent streets, but not sticking to the shadows.

Humans, she thought. Only humans walked around at night with that much confidence. But these humans were being quiet and subtle, so they didn’t want to be noticed.

She peered more carefully at them, and that’s when she noticed the signature style of the shorter figure’s gauntlets. A Templar, she thought, and she relaxed slightly. It must be Rhys and Evangeline. But where was their former Tranquil companion, then?

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the streets; no one else was around. Curious now, Tamaris waited until the two cloaked people were closer – not so close that they were under her, but close enough that they could hear her.

She let out a low whistle, and the cloaked figures looked up sharply; sure enough, it was Rhys and Evangeline.

Rhys smiled at her, and Evangeline visibly relaxed. “Lady Lavellan,” she called out quietly. “What are you doing up there?”

“Skulking, obviously,” Tamaris replied. “Nobody ever looks up.”

“You’re right,” a man’s voice said behind her. “They don’t.”

Tamaris was on her feet with a dagger in hand before he finished speaking. But even before she could turn around to face him, a spill of goosebumps was rippling down her neck. The voice was unfamiliar to her, but the accent…

It was like Solas’s accent. Not exactly the same, but close enough to Solas’s smooth lilt that it gave her a chill of recognition.

The former Tranquil, she thought tensely. She eyed the stranger in silence for a moment. He was a tall elf, barefoot and cloaked and apparently unarmed, and he was leaning languidly against one of the chimneys with a smirk lifting the corners of his lips.

“It’s all right,” Rhys called from the ground below. “He’s with us.”

“You don’t say,” Tamaris retorted.

The former Tranquil’s smirk widened slightly, and Tamaris raised an eyebrow before restoring her dagger to the sheath at her hip. “It’s your lucky day,” she told him. “I’ve decided not to gut you on the spot for sneaking up on me.”

“Very gracious of you,” he said with a little half-bow.

She eyed him suspiciously. His words were polite enough, but his tone was faintly mocking.

She pursed her lips, then started toward the side of the roof that led back to the bedroom window. “Come on, then,” she said to the strange elf. “If you’re bringing trouble to my doorstep, I might as well roll with it.” She swung down from the edge of the roof and back into the window, then made her way through the bedroom without waiting to see if he was following her.

He was, of course; if he was nimble enough to sneak up on her via the roof, he was nimble enough to follow her back through the window. He chuckled as he followed her out of the bedroom. “And what a doorstep it is,” he said. “A fan of gold, are you?”

She scoffed and traipsed down the stairs. “Hardly. This house was a gift from a dwarf with an overdeveloped sense of humour.”

“My kind of dwarf,” the elf said.

She shot him an odd look, then paused in surprise at the bottom of the stairs. She’d just realized something odd about his appearance. He had vallaslin branching across his cheekbones and his forehead, but it wasn’t the marks on his face that surprised her per se; it was the lack of a particular kind of mark.

He didn’t have a scar on his forehead from the Templars’ lyrium brand. But Varric had said he was a Tranquil…?

He raised his eyebrows. “Something I can do for you?”

“Um,” she said distractedly. “Let me just…” She nodded at the front door, then went to open it for Evangeline and Rhys.

She stood back to let them in, then gestured at the dining table with its padded chairs. “Have a seat. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, but we should get going,” Rhys said.

“Yes,” Evangeline agreed. “We don’t want to linger in Kirkwall for too long. And Lady Cassandra requires our services.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “But — wait, you just got here. I don’t think Cassandra would begrudge you a night’s rest.”

“Of course,” Evangeline said. “But we are anxious to return to our duties as well. For now, Rhys remains the only mage at the sanctuary who can safely guide the spirits through the Veil. We can’t cure any more Tranquil until he has returned.”

Rhys let out a little laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m hardly the fulcrum of this whole operation,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be so modest, cher,” Evangeline said firmly. “In any case, we should be going.”

Tamaris held up a hand. “Hang on. You’re not going to explain anything to me before you go? For example: who the fuck is he, exactly?” She jerked her thumb at the raven-haired elf, who had availed himself of one of the dining table chairs.

He gave her a charming smile. “I was wondering when you’d remember I was here. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. There’s something quite powerful about being forgotten, under the right circumstances.”

Tamaris narrowed her eyes at this cryptic remark, and Rhys smacked his forehead. “Maker, I’m sorry, Tamaris. This is Felassan. He came from — well, the whole story will probably be more coherent if you hear it from him, which is why we accompanied him here, obviously.”

She eyed Rhys skeptically. “And his whole story is good enough that you’re willing to leave him with me, even though he’s only been cured for…” She trailed off, then turned to Felassan. “How long have you been, um, back to yourself?”

He looked at Rhys. “It’s been, what? Three months?”

“That’s right,” Rhys said. “About three months.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “It only takes three months for former Tranquil to become stable?”

“Oh, I’m not stable,” Felassan said cheerfully. “I can be quite volatile, unfortunately.”

Tamaris stared at him. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Evangeline answered her unspoken question. “That’s true, unfortunately. Felassan is still getting… adjusted.”

“Adjusted?” Tamaris said warily. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning,” Felassan said, “that she had to neutralize me several times during our journey here. Not that I hold it against you,” he said pleasantly to Evangeline. “It’s been interesting, in fact. I never had a chance to see a Templar in action before.”

Evangeline nodded politely to him, but Tamaris wrinkled her nose in confusion. How was that possible? He’d been made Tranquil. He had to have seen a Templar in action before.

She didn’t have time to ask, however; Rhys and Evangeline were already making their way back to the door. She hurried after them. “So — so he’s… he’s supposed to just stay here with me, then.”

“That’s what Cassandra wanted, yes,” Rhys said.

Tamaris sighed. At least Rhys had the courtesy to sound apologetic. “And if he gets volatile? I suppose she was confident that I could just… handle it.”

“She was very confident,” Evangeline said.

Rhys smiled faintly. “I believe her words were something along the lines of ‘Tamaris has a special talent for highly charged situations such as this.’”

“Of course,” she muttered. “Well… I suppose I should thank you for bringing him here.”

“I think it will be worth your while, once you hear what he has to say,” Rhys said earnestly. “There’s a good reason we didn’t just send you a report.”

Tamaris pursed her lips. “If you say so. Well, travel safe.”

Rhys gave her a little salute and Evangeline bowed her head politely, and they took their leave. Tamaris sighed, then locked the door and returned to the dining table.

Felassan was sitting cross-legged on his chair and idly twirling a short length of wood in his fingers. Tamaris folded her arms and eyed him. “It sounds like I’m in for a good story, hm? Or a long one, at least.”

He quirked a brow. “I suppose that depends. Do you enjoy hearing tales of Fen’Harel?”

Fen’Harel. Fucking Solas, she thought bitterly. “I enjoy it as much as I enjoy lancing a boil,” she said snidely. “It’s distasteful but necessary, especially given… you know, everything.” She waved her hand in a vague gesture meant to encompass the entire world.

His ever-present smirk widened into a broad smile, and he let out a burbling laugh. “I think you and I will get along just fine, then.”

His laughter was knowing and playful at the same time, and she couldn’t decide if she liked the sound of it or not. She pursed her lips, then turned toward the kitchen. “You must be hungry. I’ll get you something.”

“I’ll join you,” he said, and he rose from the chair and tucked the piece of wood back inside of his cloak.

Tamaris raised her eyebrows, then shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself. I thought you’d be tired, though. It’s a long way here from the Hunterhorn Mountains.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “A long and perilous journey, fraught with bandits and poor weather and the odd Tevinter refugee. Is that really what you want to talk about?”

“What do you mean?” Tamaris said. She opened a cupboard and pulled out an apple, then tossed it to him.

He caught it deftly. “I mean that I was brought here to speak with you about our… mutual friend. I assumed you would have questions.”

I suspect you have questions. Felassan’s words were almost an echo of the ones that Solas had greeted her with a year ago, and the memory made her curl her lip.

He lifted one dark eyebrow, and Tamaris carefully smoothed out her expression. “I would rather talk about you,” she said. “Like why you don’t have that fucked-up sunburst scar on your face, for example. Does the Tranquility cure involve removing that scar?”

He smiled slowly. “They mentioned that you were blunt. They weren’t wrong.”

Tamaris huffed, then opened the enchanted icebox and pulled out some hard Fereldan cheese. “Uh-huh. What else did they tell you about me?”

Felassan leaned back against the counter. “They said you can be aloof, sarcastic, and hard to crack. That you get things done through force of will more than charm.” His smile widened slightly. “They said that you allowed Empress Celene to be assassinated at the Winter Palace, and that you helped Briala to become the true power behind the throne.”

Tamaris shrugged. “They weren’t wrong about any of that.”

Felassan nodded and idly rolled the apple between his palms. “They also say that you are far more compassionate than you seem, and that you and Fen’Harel were lovers.”

She paused in her cutting of the cheese and gave him a hard look, but his expression was pleasantly neutral. He shrugged and took a bite of the apple. “I don’t blame you,” he said through his full mouth. “He’s undeniably compelling.”

Tamaris stared at him for a moment longer, then continued cutting the cheese. “You didn’t answer my question. Why don’t you have a scar on your forehead?”

Felassan made an apologetic face. “If you were hoping to talk about something other than Fen’Harel, I’m afraid you’re taking the wrong tack.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He idly flicked the side of his half-eaten apple. “I mean that it wasn’t that delightful Templar order that made me Tranquil,” he said. “It was him.”

Tamaris went still. “It… what?”

He looked up from the apple and met her eyes, and her belly jolted. For the first time since they’d met, his expression was utterly serious. There wasn’t even a hint of laughter in his strange amethyst-coloured eyes.

“Fen’Harel made me Tranquil,” Felassan said.

She stared breathlessly at him. Solas had made him Tranquil? No. No, that... it couldn’t be true. Solas abhorred the idea of Tranquility. He’d initially thought all the people of her time were Tranquil, and his horror at this misguided impression had fuelled his original plans to bring the Veil down on all of them. There was no way Solas would have done something so terrible to someone.

But Felassan looked so serious, and he had no reason to lie to her. And Solas had told her that he would see his plans to fruition, by any means necessary…

Her heart was pounding, and she couldn't tell if it was because of agitation or disgust or fear. She swallowed hard. “Felassan, I am so sorry,” she said. “Do you want a drink?”

His expression went slack for a moment. Then some of his usual humour returned to his face. “That’s… not the response I expected.”

“Glad I’m still capable of surprising people sometimes,” she said. “Do you want a drink or not?”

He chuckled. “I do. Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. She carefully placed his impromptu meal of cheese and bread on a plate, then picked up a bottle of cider and headed back to the main room with the dining table. “So, Felassan. That’s a strange name. Who decided to call you a slow arrow?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” he said wryly.

She raised her eyebrows and set the food on the table before taking a seat. “Why would you call yourself that?”

He sat in the chair beside her and studied her quietly for a moment, and she lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“This is truly what you want to talk about?” he asked.

She wilted in exasperation. “Cassandra might not have told you this, but I hate small talk. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t actually want to know. If you don’t want to answer the question, just say so.”

A smile lit his face again, and Tamaris idly noted that he was quite handsome. His hair was as black as her own unruly waves, and probably about half as long if he were to unbind it from its leather wrap. A few faint wrinkles creased his tawny skin, giving the impression that he was maybe ten to fifteen years older than her, but his dimpled smile held a boyish sense of mischief. And then there were his unusual and luminous violet eyes.

She dropped his gaze and started peeling the wax seal off of the bottle of cider. “So? Are you going to tell me about your name or not?”

“I wouldn't dare to turn down my gracious hostess’s request,” he said. “But I have to warn you, our dear friend Fen’Harel plays into the tale.”

Of course he does, Tamaris thought bitterly. It seemed like she could barely talk to anyone about anything these days without Solas coming up somehow.

She pulled the cork out of the bottle of cider, then took a gulp of the tart-and-sweet booze before offering it to him. “All right. Let’s hear it. Tell me about fucking Fen’Harel.”

#felassan #felassan fic #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #pikapeppa writes

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