#athdheafic*

[warriorofmint]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV) Additional Tags: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, more like enemies to friends to friends with benefits to lovers, (very) soft smut with feelings, everyone needs a sad ghost boyfriend Summary:

Are we pretending, Ardbert? she’d asked him once, her eyes half-lidded by bliss and exhaustion in equal measure. Do I imagine I am yours? That you are mine?

No, he’d told her, then. We don’t need to pretend. We only ever wanted one thing from this.

[warriorofmint]

I literally haven’t done any serious writing in like a year, so I feel like I should post this excerpt from the fic I was working on....like a year ago LOL. Because I honestly miss these two.

Has Cullen ever dreaded something so much? It’s almost funny that everyone has been waiting so long for this moment—Cullen had been among them—yet he now wishes it doesn’t have to happen.

He still remembers the immense surge of energy that threw Althea across the chamber. He remembers the insurmountable guilt when she didn't wake.

What if it’s worse, this time?

His gaze drifts towards her—as it always seems to do lately. She stands before the rift with her head held high, bathed in its eerie green light. Althea would hate him for thinking it, but Cullen can’t help it; she looks ephemeral, divine, truly like a saviour sent from the heavens. 

No one would know that anxiety and fear twists within her, a constant thrum she’s careful not to reveal. She’d observed his efforts to coordinate the mages with an impassive mask, kept her expression closed and her posture nearly standoffish when they discussed sealing the Breach in the war room. Cullen had never seen her this militaristic, not even before she’d started trusting in the Inquisition. That is perhaps what had first alerted him to her nervousness.

He thinks it is because he had already guessed, that he had been able to coax her into speaking to him about it. His heart clenches, remembering the way her fingers closed reflexively around her cloak—his cloak, which she has to hold up as she walks to keep it from dragging on the ground. 

She'd looked so small, then, swallowed by the cloak he'd given to her, shoulders hunched with the weight of their expectations. And even when she told him her fears, her quiet voice rendering his heart in two, she had to reassure him. I'm fine, she said every time the furrow in his brows seems to deepen. 

She's still doing it now, standing so confidently beneath the massive Breach. Solas is at her side, likely giving her instructions, trying to reassure her. Cullen watches her nod without looking at the elf, her eyes pinned straight ahead as though she might lose her resolve if she looks anywhere else. Finally, Solas leaves her to direct the mages. 

Inexplicably, Althea turns, her eyes finding his.

Cullen very nearly blushes at the sudden eye contact. It is only because of the solemnity of the situation that Cullen manages to keep the warmth in his cheeks at bay.

His resolve shatters when the corner of her lips lifts.

It’s foolish, selfish, completely and utterly delusional to think that she reserves that smile for him alone. Cullen knows this, yet he thinks it anyway. The sight of it steals his breath, has his heart racing so quickly, he fears the rest of the Inquisition can hear its pace.

He only just remembers to return the smile, trying to look more assured than he feels. Cullen must have succeeded because a bit of tension seems to leave her, and her smile widens just a little before her attention returns to the rift.

[warriorofmint]

Eh, I caved and decided to post this anyway, since I haven’t posted any writing in a while. Enjoy the fluff (and Cullen blushing really hard)!

Althea inches the gate open, slipping through the gap and gently letting it close. No one is usually awake at this hour, except she and the Commander (whose trouble sleeping is no longer a surprise to her), and Skyhold is absolutely silent this morning.

Which only makes the thwak of sword against straw dummy sound loud enough to cause an avalanche. Cullen’s silhouette is stark against the Frostbacks, and noticeably, without the bulky lines of his fur mantle and armour. He moves with fervour, striking hard enough against the dummy that Althea can see debris flying away in his sword’s wake.

During their sessions, Althea doesn’t make the mistake of thinking he’s going easy on her because she’s the Herald. Even so, he’d never been quite this ardent.

It should put her on edge to watch him destroy the training dummy with little more than a blunted practice sword. Instead, Althea continues to watch in silent curiosity, noting where he settles his weight, the pattern of his attacks. Althea’s learned to identify an adept combatant from one merely going through the motions—and she’s learned to appreciate their form. And, well, Cullen’s form is—appreciated.

It takes some time before he finally notices her, and there’s an almost startled look over his face—embarrassment, perhaps—that almost completely dissipates the look of dark intensity he carried only seconds ago. Althea simply arches a brow, “woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

That startled look once again, followed by something almost sheepish.

Cullen swipes the end of his sleeve over his forehead, and it’s then that Althea notices the way the fabric of his shirt looks almost soaked through. The smirk on her lips dims somewhat, brows knotting together just slightly. How long had he been at this? Or is the perspiration from something else, something more concerning?

He doesn’t seem to notice, instead turning his gaze upwards. “You’re up rather early.”  There’s a hoarseness to the his voice; he sounds a little distracted, mind still clinging to whatever kept him from sleep.

The smile on her lips is small. “I got used to waking up at this time.” The faintest glimmer of orange lines the horizon, but the dark remains dominant. Stars continue to shine brightly, stubbornly against the oncoming daylight. “I thought I’d take advantage of the quiet.”

There’s something peculiar in Cullen’s expression as he regards her. The corners of his lips are quirked, but his brows are just slightly drawn together. He is no stranger, Althea realizes, to her dislike of crowded places; to the way she feels the weight of every pair of eyes turned to her, reverent and so full of expectations.

“I apologize for disrupting that.” His voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“You weren’t.” She smiles, brightly enough that it might reassure him. A pause, chest tightening as her gaze traces the lines of wear on the Commander’s face; the darkness under his eyes and the way his chest still heaves with ragged breaths. Althea knows little about the nightmares, though she imagines the withdrawal must not be making them any easier to sleep through.

There’s still several hours before the sun would truly rise and Skyhold would wake. That’s plenty of time for Cullen to return to whatever ghosts seem to haunt him.

Her smile slants, crooked but careful.“You know, it’s been a while since we sparred.” 

A brow rises, the look of surprise on Cullen’s face almost endearing. He recovers quickly though, parted lips replaced by a rather smug half-smile. “Are you challenging me to a match, Inquisitor?”

Her head cants, looking as though she’s considering. “Yes, I think I am.” The smirk on her face matches his, mirthful and smug as she unties her cloak. “I assure you that I’ve become quite comfortable with my daggers. Perhaps we should try something new. Hand to hand?”

There’s a little quirk in Cullen’s lips, a brief moment’s consideration before he drops into a combative stance across from her deceptively relaxed posture. Her gaze skims over the tautness of his muscles, his tunic still clinging to his form. Perhaps not long ago, the thought of fighting against someone like that would intimidate her. Now, though, Althea only finds thrill.

(And, perhaps, something else.)

As per usual, the Commander strikes first. There was a point in their sessions when he seemed to have given up trying to get Althea to make the first move.

Cullen moves faster now, unencumbered by his heavy armour—but Althea is faster still, reacting without conscious thought and sidestepping away from the fist swung at her face. Her mind registers the opening before she has a chance to take a breath, and her own arm lashes out in a left hook, just narrowly missing the Commander’s jaw.

And just as quickly as before, they fall into the same dance. Though she may be more agile, weaving around Cullen like a nymph, he matches her almost move for move.

A hand closes around her wrist, stopping a hook mid-motion. Momentum unbroken, Althea lashes with the elbow of her free arm, jaw tightening when the Commander catches it in the palm of his other hand. Her back is flush against his chest, and his grip tightens. When Althea turns her head, she can see that scar on his lip lift just slightly in some semblance of a victorious smirk.

(Althea feels her heart skip a beat.)

“It’s not over ‘til it’s over, Commander.” She tuts, and before Cullen might interpret her meaning, Althea twists, turning one foot and leaning her weight on the other. The change in balance succeeds in throwing Cullen off, and he tries to step back, still holding her arms even as he teeters.

Althea lets her legs buckle, trying to fall out of Cullen’s grasp. And for perhaps the first time in a long time, she’s not quite quick enough, unable to escape in time before Cullen truly loses his balance and they’re both falling. The only noise that escapes her is a small whelp, the air pushed out of her lungs when she lands in the packed snow.

It’s perhaps by some miracle that Cullen releases her arms in time to keep his weight from crushing her. His eyes are wide, a startled apology tumbling past his lips that’s abruptly silenced by sudden awareness. He’s close enough that Althea can feel his breaths over her lips, that she might feel his heartbeat through his ribs.

Close enough that if Althea is to lift her head just slightly, their lips would touch.

And it terrifies her a little just how tempting that is.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Cullen’s eyes widen as he pushes himself off her. He seems to sputter, unable to meet her eyes even as he holds a hand out to help her up. A steady flush blossoms from his collarbone, and Althea can’t tell if the staccato pulse she feels against her palm is her own or his.

“I do believe that round was yours.” There’s just a sliver of mischief in her voice, an attempt to mask the rosiness of her own cheeks.

Doing a very poor job of recovering, Cullen clears his throat, still not quite meeting her eyes when he looks at her. “I, uh, yes. Well, we were close—it was close. The match, I mean. Not that—I—Maker.” His gaze moves skyward, as though he’s actually praying to the Maker—likely for the ground to swallow him whole, if Althea’s the guess by the bright flush on his cheeks.

Althea can’t help the little laugh that escapes her, as bemused as it is bashful. Even now, the infallible Commander of the Inquisition remains so endearingly easy to fluster. The sound of her laughter, of course, does nothing to dispel the red on his cheeks.

“I’d say that we should work on your close-quarter combat, Cullen. You might be less startled, next time.” She’s amazed at her own ability to maintain her composure in spite of her (concerningly) rapid heartbeat.

“I...uh…” Cullen clears his throat, looking anywhere but her face.

Well, she’d hoped to distract him from whatever terrible thing was keeping from sleep. It seems Althea has succeeded.

“I think I should leave. Give you some breathing space.” Is it even possible for Cullen to get any more red than he already his? Althea’s almost concerned he might give himself an aneurysm, and resists patting him pityingly on the shoulder as she turns away. He mutters something that sounds like ‘I’ll see you at the meeting’, but Althea doesn’t trust herself to respond.

[warriorofmint]

The space beside her is empty when she wakes, though she needn’t search long before finding him. It’s difficult to miss the fractured breaths stark in the silence of midnight. Althea finds him by the window, shoulders heaving, one hand pressed over his brow while the other trembles in a clenched fist. 

He tells her that the nightmares aren’t as bad when she’s here; yet Althea witnesses their aftermath, anyway. Dark circles stark against the pallor of his skin, something lost in his eyes when his gaze drifts away from her. If they’re not as bad now, then Althea is loathe to wonder what they’re like when she’s away.

Her footsteps are soft as she crosses his loft; Althea’s careful to make just enough sound so as not to startle him. 

Cullen doesn’t look at her when her fingers curl gently around his wrist, pulling him from the window. Grief closes around her heart, a barbed vice sinking wickedly into her when Cullen wraps his arms around her, pressing her to his chest with a quivering breath.

“Ar amahn, vhenan,” she whispers, reaching up for him.

commission info | support me on ko-fi

[warriorofmint]

Early morning kisses for @a-shakespearean-in-paris. Thanks for the ko-fi!

She rises just moments before the sun, eyes opening to its warm glow chasing the moonlight. Lydia can see her breath in front of her, feel the bite of the dawn on her exposed skin—but she’s enveloped in a comforting, familiar warmth; slow breaths and gentle heartbeats, oakmoss and elderberry. Home.

Cullen’s arm lays over the dip of her waist, his chest pressed so closely to her back that Lydia can count each beat of his heart. Her lips curve into a small smile, turning carefully beneath his arm so that she can see him.

His lips are parted just slightly, soft snores widening Lydia’s smile. For perhaps the first time in a long time, Cullen sleeps with his expression relaxed, without the pinch between his brows or his jaw clenched tightly. His hair has long since escaped from its pomade hold, soft curls falling over his forehead, brushing the top of his brow.

Lydia doesn’t notice that she’s stretching closer to him, angling her head up to his, until their lips touch. So gentle, Cullen doesn’t even stir at first; for a moment, Lydia considers pulling back. The stubborn fool might not ever admit that he needs more sleep, but it’s plain in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the pallor of his face.

And—well, it might be an easier departure if Lydia simply slips away. Every expedition in which she embarks feels a little harder; every goodbye hurts a little more. 

She’s no opportunity to make such a decision, though. Her lips still hover just over his when Cullen’s arms tighten around her, broad hands against the small of her back.

His eyes open, slowly, bleary with the remnants of sleep. 

“Morning,” Cullen murmurs, his voice a little slurred and hoarse. The sound of it chases shivers down her spine, presses her tighter against him.

“Almost.” The word is whispered into his lips, hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. Cullen’s lips move against hers, slow, relaxed; as though he’s telling himself that he has all the time in the world, that he won’t wake up tomorrow in cold sheets and an empty bed.

Lydia sighs against him, fingers closed around his arm, back arching, pressing out the space between them. Some day, she thinks; some day, they will have all the time in the world. Some day, they could wake unhurried, staying in each other’s arms until the sun shines high above their home; some day, the multicoloured glow of sunlight through her windows won’t have her pulling away.

Cullen looks almost wounded when Lydia pulls back, a crease between his brows as he presses his forehead to hers. “You have to go.” It’s said with such heaviness that Lydia feels her heart drop.

“I won’t be gone for long,” she tells him, almost too quickly. Lydia presses another kiss to his lips, trying to memorize the taste of him. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Another kiss to the tip of his nose, and another over each eye, before pulling away.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see his fingers twitch before closing into a fist; as though he wants to stop her. But the fist remains atop the wrinkled sheets, and his smile is sad as he nods. 

[warriorofmint]

Not to burden you with even more writing but Althea and Cullen "40. Hiding/hoping not to be caught kiss"

PROMPTS

I couldn’t have resisted this even if I tried tbh

The crowds thin the further they are from the ballroom, and Althea feels most of the remaining tension leave Cullen. She leans closer, meeting his gaze when her arm presses against his. The corner of his lips lift, sweet and gentle; the one truly good thing in this gilded hell. Althea mirrors the smile, tugging on his arm as she pulls him around a corner. It’s darker here, and the only illumination is the silverite glow of the moons, the faint glimmer of gold on the window panes. No one occupies this isolated corner of the foyer. Good.

“Are you alright?” Althea turns to him, brows furrowed as her gaze skims over the tightness in his jaw, the strain on his brow. Cullen’s shoulders still heave, breaths leaving him in long, even strokes as though he’s fighting desperately to control them.

A moment passes, the silence assuring them both that they’ve this moment to themselves.

Still smiling, Cullen brushes his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Yes. It’s—a bother,” he says, rather carefully. “But I’m not the one chasing assassins in the palace.”

A brow arches, smile turning just a little rueful. Must he always turn the concern around? “I’m used to that, at this point,” she reminds him, slender fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket. Althea needn’t try to pull him closer to her; a hand slides around her waist immediately, and Cullen lowers his head. The tip of his nose brushes hers, and Althea’s lips quirk at the soft touch. “I wish they’d just leave you alone.” And I wish I could make them leave you alone.

A shadow flickers over the gold of his eyes, and Althea feels his body tense against hers. “Me, too.” He say, his voice hoarse, strained. Cullen’s eyes are closed, and he leans closer, forehead pressed gently against hers. Althea feels his shuddering breaths, the staccato of his heartbeat; her heart breaks.

Quiet falls over them, only the din one music and stilted conversation in the distance. Finally, Cullen’s eyes open, the amber of them so striking that Althea nearly forgets how to breathe. “I missed you,” he tells her, simply, before pressing his lips to hers.

It begins softly; his touch little more than a spectre against her skin; his warmth enveloping, alighting. Cullen’s hand slips around her waist, and the press of his fingers against the small of her back turns her quiet sigh to a desperate whisper. Althea’s fingers close tighter around his jacket, pulling him closer; any distance between them is too much. His tongue in her mouth turns the quiet thrumming in her heart into wildfire, and Althea very nearly moans out loud.

It’s perhaps fortunate that she doesn’t, because in spite of the song of gasps and hammering hearts in her head, Althea hears them. The merchants, she thinks, from whom Varric’s trying to hide. Their voices are quiet, carefully muffled, but approaching rather quickly.

Althea breaks away first, something dark and wanting curling deep within her at the sound of protest Cullen makes. She raises a finger to her lips, her other hand moving to entwine her fingers with his. 

They disappear behind the door as the first dwarf rounds the corner, and Althea is nearly breathless with the narrow escape.

The library is empty, now (Althea flushes to think of what Cole had sensed when he realized he’d not be wanted in the library), and silent, with the heavy doors muffling all sounds from the foyer.

When Althea turns to Cullen, she finds him watching her with his lips set in that maddening smirk. Those flames within her flare, a firestorm threatening to engulf as he presses her against the wall; fire against fire as his lips crush to hers. She should be listening for those merchants standing just outside, Althea thinks, but her mind is a mess of smoke and oakmoss.

[warriorofmint]

59 for the kiss thing :)

59. Kissing So Desperately That Their Whole Body Curves Into The Other Person’s | PROMPTS 

AKA I’m going through so many emotions writing this fjdklfjsdkl

She clings to him, fingers scrabbling against fur and metal, terrified that if she doesn’t hold him, she’d lose him. Even now, green touches at the edge of her vision, fear still thrumming in her veins, and Althea is desperate to replace it with gold, with warmth and fire and the gentle sort of ferocity only Cullen can elicit. 

His name leaves her in a strangled whisper, and he hushes her with his lips. Burning, wanting, her body pressed into his until she can feel his heartbeat through his chestplate. Cullen’s lips move against hers, and electricity dances between her shoulder blades. Her shudder has him gasping against her, a soft moan that has her heart hammering—a caged, wild thing fighting its restraints.

Althea is drowning in him, and she’ll happily let him fill her lungs until he’s all she can breathe.

I can’t lose him, she thinks; the very idea of it pulls a quiet sob from her, shoulders wracking. Althea doesn’t think she’s ever been terrified of anything more than she is terrified of that—it only took falling into the Fade to realize it. Fingers threading in his hair, she pulls him closer, closer, curling into him. Cullen murmurs her name, again and again into her lips, his voice broken and scared. 

“I love you.” She doesn’t even realize that she’s said it out loud until she feels Cullen falter. A whimper leaves her as they break apart, but though Althea can’t stand even that small distance between them, she doesn’t try to pull him back.

She doesn’t need to. When her eyes find his, she can feel her heart bursting at the tenderness of his face, the awe. Cullen brings a hand to her cheek, thumb swiping the tears she hadn’t realized were there. He kisses her nose, soft and chaste and reverent, then her lips, softer still.

“I love you, too.”

[warriorofmint]

A (little saucy, to be honest) fic for the sweetest @tessa1972, featuring her lovely David Trevelyan and Dorian uwu. Thank you for the ko-fi support!

Dorian feels an awful lot like some petty thief, tiptoeing through the library so late a night. Well, no, he’d be a very poor thief, in fact, with the way every footstep seems to send a thunderous creak through the rotunda. It seems a small miracle he stirs neither Leliana’s birds above, nor the slumbering elf in the floors below.

When he finds his destination, he almost bursts out laughing.

His amatus is little more than a dark smudge against the burgundy chaise, a tangle of limbs barely fitting the seat. One hand lays (looking rather dramatic, which is quite the statement, coming from Dorian) over his forehead, dark strands falling haphazardly over his face—David is, without a doubt, going to wake up with half a dozen kinks in his neck.

Shaking his head, Dorian lowers himself beside the chaise. For a moment, he considers waking the Inquisitor with a gentle shake to the shoulders—but finds himself unable to. In this moment, the brave, valiant, righteous Inquisitor looks absolutely the opposite of all those things, sprawled so unceremoniously in some dark corner of Skyhold’s library. But he also looks, perhaps for the first time in a long time, truly at ease.

Dorian’s never realized how tense David seems to be. What he’d thought was simply the tautness of battleworn sinew was instead, the strain of so much responsibility thrust so suddenly upon him. His chest tightens; it hardly seems fair.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips as Dorian’s hand finds David’s, lacing their fingers together as he rests his head against the side of his chaise. There are, a slyer part of him thinks, other things they could be doing here, in the library, at this time of night.

Yet, Dorian can’t help but think that seeing his amatus like this, relaxed and free of the weight on his shoulders, isn’t a bad way to spend the night. His thumb traces concentric lines on the back of David’s hand, eyelids feeling heavier with each passing breath.

Dorian is right on the precipice of sleep when David shifts. The Inquisitor turns, and faintly, Dorian can see his wide-eyed expression. He barely has the time to disentangle himself when David sits up so quickly, he nearly knocks Dorian back.

“It’s just me, amatus.” It’s uttered with a muffled voice, between huffs of laughter that become more difficult to contain at the indignant look on David’s face.

“Were you...watching me sleep?” He looks rather conflicted at that, caught somewhere between endeared and indignant.

Dorian responds with a slow curl of his lip. David’s hair is a mess, his eyes bleary and soft; the very sight of him makes Dorian’s heart sing, soar—a choir of a thousand songbirds, sweet and bright. “Me? Of course not. But you look absolutely ridiculous when you sleep.” The grin widens, “like you haven’t a care in the world.” He moves to seat himself beside David on the chaise, ease settling in his bones at the feeling of David’s warmth by his side.

For his part, David takes only a beat longer for the words to register. He chuckles, the sound simultaneously soft and rich. It sends lightning up Dorian’s spine, and very suddenly, the mage remembers his earlier thoughts of the other things they could be doing in this library.

“I didn’t see you at supper,” David eventually says, shoulder leaning against Dorian’s. His eyes fall to their hands, which have inexplicably entwined again since David woke. “I thought I’d find you here.”

The corner of his lips quirk. “Ah, your arcanist had some magical requests. I obliged.” Dorian turns in his seat, facing David. It seems instinctive when David leans closer, his lips a hair’s breadth away from Dorian’s. He doesn’t even seem to notice the way his fingers close around the front of Dorian’s shirt, pulling him just a little closer. “That doesn’t explain why I found you sleeping here, though.”

David laughs again, and it reverberates beneath Dorian’s own ribs. “I was reading—” he pauses, frowns, and pulls away for a quick moment (Dorian tries not to pout) before spotting the book. It lays, face-down, on the floor beside the chaise, and in the bright moonlight, Dorian can make out the cover.

He sputters, scandalized. “You actually read that drivel?”

For the briefest moment, David looks a little offended. “It wasn’t—” A pause, contemplative gaze turning skyward, “alright, it was pretty bad.”

Dorian doesn’t notice the wicked curve of his lover’s mouth until David learns toward him again, his breath on Dorian’s lips. “But,” he says before pressing a quick (too quick!) kiss to the corner of Dorian’s mouth, “it does,” the second word ends in a breathy sigh as his lips press along the curve of Dorian’s jaw, “have some rather,” another kiss, open-mouthed and hot against the side of his neck, “brilliant ideas,” and another, searing, lips against his collarbone, hot enough to distract him from the deft fingers tugging at ties of his tunic.

For his part, Dorian is—well, he’s pretty sure he’s not breathing right now.

[warriorofmint]

Some blushing Cassandra and Everly Trevelyan for @jt-boi-n7! Thanks for the ko-fi c:

Cassandra doesn’t think she’s ever seen the Herald quite this disgruntled before. For the most part, the young woman seemed absolutely unflappable; sunlight where shadows would otherwise grow long and twisted. Her enthusiasm, Cassandra thinks, makes the Herald a fast learner; and it lends her a compassion that is, admittedly, admirable.

Now, though, she trudges down the path with her shoulders slightly hunched and bottom lip jutting out. Cassandra thinks she hears the Herald grumbling to herself, but she’s much too quiet to make out the words. Frowning, Cassandra’s pace falters; is it really her place to say anything?

Yet, the longer her gaze lingers on Trevelyan, the quicker her feet seem to carry her towards the younger woman. Cassandra is walking astride the Herald when the younger woman finally seems to notice her; eyes widen just a little, lashes fluttering with rapid blinking that reminds Cassandra just how young the Herald is. Too young, she can’t help but think, to be shouldering this burden.

She doesn’t have a chance to ask Trevelyan if she’s alright; the woman stops so abruptly that Cassandra nearly walks into her. Instinct moves her hand to the pommel of her sword, and the only thing that stops Cassandra from drawing her blade is the sound of the Herald’s excited little squeak.

“I’m going to take a bath,” Trevelyan announces, loud enough that it stops the Iron Bull, Varric, and the two scouts behind them. “And none of you are going to stop me!” She’s off before any of them can react, running towards the lake with renewed vigour.

Cassandra stares.

Was….that what was bothering the Herald?

Admittedly, they’re all in need of a bath. No change of clothes is enough to remove the thick layer of  grime and dried blood from their skin. And Cassandra supposes that a noble from Ostwick is unlikely used to being this...dusty.

Still, it’s with exasperation that she turns to instruct Varric and the Iron Bull to keep watch before marching off towards the lake. By the time Cassandra reaches the water’s edge, Trevelyan has already divested of all clothing; her armour and weapons lay in a haphazard pile at the base of a tree.

Dappled sunlight glimmers on the lake’s surface; the water is still and clear, and suddenly it’s as though Cassandra can feel the very weight of dirt on her own skin. With the Herald’s back turned to her, Cassandra removes her own clothing, laying it in a much neater pile beside Trevelyan’s belongings.

She slips into the water with an embarrassingly shrill yelp. The water is shockingly, deceptively cold; it bites at her skin and if not for the Herald turning around at the sound of her voice, Cassandra would have clambered out of the water.

Even Trevelyan’s skin is flushed bright pink from the chill of the lake, but whether it’s her constitution or sheer joy at being able to bathe, she doesn’t seem to mind. Her lips are curved into a bright smile, so exuberant that for just a second, Cassandra forgets that the water is positively freezing. “It’s not that bad!”

She near scowls. “No, it is very cold.” It’s said rather petulantly, but whatever embarrassment it elicits in Cassandra just as quickly dissolves at the lopsided grin on Trevelyan’s face. There’s something just a little smug about it, but it’s not nearly as grating as Cassandra expects it to be. Rather, she sees something...sweeter, in the smile, as well. Amusement mixed with something Cassandra might call fondness.

It’s strange enough that the heat rising to her cheeks nearly nullifies the cold of the water.

“It’s refreshing,” Trevelyan amends, cupping her hands to bring a splash of water over a particularly stubborn smudge of dirt on her shoulder. “We should not be spending as much time as we do in that armour.” Her nose scrunches; a childish gesture that reminds Cassandra little bit of a small woodland creature. It’s...endearing, and Cassandra is a little startled.

In spite of herself, Cassandra feels the corner of her lips quirk. “The armour is a necessity.” It’s in this moment that, perhaps for the first time in a long time, Cassandra wishes she had something a little more clever to say.

Mercifully, Trevelyan doesn’t seem to think that stating the obvious is as mortifying as Cassandra seems to think. “So is bathing.” The answer is accompanied by a short laugh, every bit as carefree as Trevelyan is known to be. It eases the little knot between Cassandra’s brows, enticing even a small smile from the otherwise stony Seeker. “If only I could reach all the dirt on my back…”

And at that, Cassandra nearly blanches. Her eyes remain on the Herald only for a brief moment before very quickly darting to the trees. “I am not washing your back for you,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. Certain as she is that Trevelyan meant nothing untoward, heat flares on her cheeks anyway. And in spite of the persistent chill of the water, Cassandra sinks a little deeper, hoping the Herald hadn’t noticed.

By the grin on Trevelyan’s face, it would seem that she very much had.

[warriorofmint]

a (overdue) lil ficlet for @joufancyhuh (oh wow look at that, tagging didn’t work >_>)! Thanks for the ko-fi!

Althea can count on one hand the number of times she’s been rendered speechless. After all, few things can surprise her after confronting a darkspawn magister—and even then, Althea had a few choice words for the monster.

Yet, here she stands, eyes wide and blushing like one of those naive, young maidens in the shem love stories at which she normally turns her nose. 

Words barely register in her mind, and instead Althea fixates on peculiar details—the ones Varric never mentioned in his book. A little scar above one cheekbone, raised and pale; freckles where the smudge of warpaint is supposed to be, more evident under the glare of the afternoon sun; and rather impressive biceps for a mage, flaunted with nonchalance.

Varric is introducing her to the Champion of Kirkwall, and all Althea can do is stare.

“Oh, please don’t tell me you thought I’d be taller,” Hawke says, ducking her head in a way that Althea can’t help but think is exactly like the book describes. “Varric has a habit of making us all seem a little larger than life.”

It takes Althea a few seconds to respond; a few seconds for the words to even register, and several more before she can be certain that she won’t stutter. “To be fair, the Champion of Kirkwall is a little larger than life.” Her words are fluid, unbroken, and Althea silently thanks the Creators for that small miracle. 

A bashful little laugh, so terribly mundane-sounding, so terribly approachable, that Althea’s nerves actually settle.

A little.

“True. I’m sure you know the feeling.” The smile on Hawke’s face dims somewhat, her gaze drifting out to the activity below them. Merchants in the courtyard; Dennet’s stable hands tending to the Inquisition’s mounts; more pilgrims and supporters than Althea could count, mingling, watching the soldiers train. “It’s not easy, knowing how many people depend on you.” Her eyes return to Althea, and she sees something else Varric’s book doesn’t mention.

Even with her affable demeanor and warm smile, there’s something weary about Hawke. The corners of her lips seem weighed—by all those people who depend on her, all those people she can’t afford to fail. It doesn’t really mar that veneer of Hawke’s title, of her character—instead, Althea almost feels as though she can see her own reflection in that shine. 

The corner of her lips lift, mirthless and just as heavy. “No, it’s not easy at all.”

[warriorofmint]

A lil (overdue) Cullen/Amell ficlet for the sweet anon who donated to my ko-fi. Thank you so much for your support!

He hears the sound of paper shuffling; a page turning, a thoughtful hum. It startles Cullen into stillness, a moments pass like that until he hears another page turn.

It’s likely a mage, Cullen thinks, urging his feet to move to the origin of the sounds. After all, few templars would spend what little free time they’re afforded in a library—as if they hadn’t had enough reading during their training.

A sort of heaviness settles over his chest; it’s well past curfew, and a mage being in the library at this hour would be breaking the rules. Having to report such an infarction does not sit well with Cullen, but neither does shirking his duties as a templar.

It’s just once, he tells himself, shoulders heaving just slightly. A warning should suffice.

Steeling himself, Cullen peers down each aisle, finding nothing but shadows. It’s only when he reaches the furthest aisle that he finds the source of the turning pages, and his breath, inevitably, catches in his throat.

Amell.

She sits, legs tucked beneath her and her back against one heavy shelf. Those dark curls she normally keeps in a braid now cascades over her shoulder in soft waves. Her eyes are bright, so intent on the contents of the page that she doesn’t seem to notice his approach. Cullen hadn’t seen her since her Harrowing, for which he’s a little relieved.

He should tell her she’s out past curfew, Cullen thinks. But his mind always seems to work a little too slowly in her presence, and so he remains, standing by the bookshelves looking rather dumbstruck.

Several seconds pass before Cullen finds his voice (and the relief he feels that he’d been able to do so before Amell notices him). He clears his throat, the sound of it a little strangled, but loud enough that her gaze snaps up.

Eyes widen, fear flickering over her features; Cullen feels his chest tighten. He doesn’t want the mages to be afraid of him—especially not Amell.

“You’re, uh, out past curfew,” he says, shifting his weight between both feet. That should have been said, perhaps, a little more authoritatively, but Cullen finds his voice softening instead.

Amell remains quiet for a moment, viridescent eyes flitting over his face, gauging his reaction. “I, erm, just wanted to read.” Her voice is careful, tentative, and it’s making Cullen’s heart beat impossibly fast. For a moment, it’s easy to imagine; just the two of them here, in the quiet, sitting in a pool of moonlight. They’d both have books on their laps, but Cullen’s eyes would likely not remain on the page for very long.

Get a hold of yourself. She’s a mage. She’s your charge. Don’t even think about it, Rutherford. He swallows, tamping the pathetic tremor beneath his ribs, straightening his shoulders. Cullen had accepted his responsibilities when he joined the templars; he’d accepted that he’d given up those childish fancies, those quiet moments. His life was no longer his own.

“You will have to return to your quarters.” Silently, he congratulates himself for the steadiness of his voice.

Something like relief flickers over her face, and she nods. Cullen doesn’t miss the little smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and his heart skips a couple of beats. Slowly, Amell stands, book in hand. There is, Cullen can’t help but notice, nothing unsteady about her. Petite she may be, but Amell stands with her head held high, moving with an effortless grace that is more befitting of a noblewoman than any Circle mage.

When she turns to him, having slid the book back into its shelf, Cullen nearly sputters. Warmth rushes to his face, the tips of his ears no doubt as red as the templar insignia emblazoned on his armour. Very nearly, his arm rises to worry at the back of his neck; Cullen stops himself just before he could move. Coughing, he motions toward the library exit.

Her head cants, quiet curiosity accompanying the veiled caution on her face. “I...know the way to my quarters, ser.”

If Cullen’s face turns any redder, the entire library might catch aflame. “I—I will walk you there,” his voice stumbles, nearly cracks (Maker preserve him if it does; Cullen would wish he does burst into flames). “In case you feel the need to wander,” he adds, trying to force his features into something a little more stern.

It’s not entirely a lie, he tells himself. After all, it is his duty to maintain order within the Circle, and ensuring that a mage is in her dormitory by curfew is a part of that. Yet, Cullen is also familiar with where his colleagues are stationed, where they may tread so as to avoid the attention of a less lenient templar.

Amell nods, watching him still with an expression Cullen can’t quite interpret. Heat prickles over his skin, and he very nearly sighs in relief when she begins walking, back turned toward him. They are silent as they walk, with Cullen redirecting her occasionally to avoid the other templars. His veins thrum with a dangerous mix of fear and excitement; he can’t help but feel like this little act of leniency leads to the sort of forbidden...fantasy of which he’s occasionally heard. Or, he might be making a mountain out of a molehill, but still—

When they finally reach the dormitory, Amell turns to him again. That smile remains on her lips, soft and playful, her eyes bright in the flickering light of the nearby sconces. She says nothing, and Cullen can’t say anything, and she turns away again, slipping past the doors.

A shuddering breath leaves him, and Cullen remains standing by the doors for a long moment. As his heartbeat returns to something a little more manageable, as do Cullen’s thoughts. And he can’t help but think that this wasn’t the first time Amell had stayed in the library past curfew. Perhaps, he thinks as he leaves, he should check the library more often.

[warriorofmint]

For prompts "Is that a blood stain ?"

PROMPT

The floor beneath her is worn with the movement of the chair legs, after many months of meeting with her ambassador for an hour of sweets and gossip. She hadn’t really known what to expect when she proposed the idea—or why.

The concept of a tea party had been a completely foreign one until Althea took up the mantle of Inquisitor; no such frivolities were afforded to Dalish clans nor lone wanderers in the Marches. Still, when Althea ended up spending more than an hour on her balcony, letting the overworked diplomat rant to her heart’s content, it seemed like the sort of thing Josephine desperately needed.

She knows that Josie had attempted to arrange something similar with the other members of the war council. She knows that had been meant to foster camaraderie between them, to encourage relationships outside of the war room so as to strengthen relationships within. 

And she knows that the whole endeavour was sometimes more stressful than helpful, especially given the advisors’ many disagreements at their meetings. 

Given how often Josephine’s gotten the Inquisition out of slightly precarious situations, it only seemed right to offer the diplomat a reprieve. And Althea can’t deny that it’s a relief to her, as well, to be able to just rant about all those little things—the meaningless, minute little pet peeves that only niggle at her, the things she can’t change and would never bother to try to change, because they’re so, so small beneath the weight of the Inquisition.

She reaching for another little cake (this one is topped in impossibly bright pink icing and candies that look more like tiny jewels than molten sugar) when she notices the crease between Josie’s brows. Frowning, Althea holds the cake delicately between her fingers as she watches the diplomat.

“Is that…a blood stain?”

Althea follows her friend’s gaze to her right shoulder, where she sees nothing, at first. It takes her a lot longer to notice that the fabric of her blouse had darkened. Rolling her shoulder, Althea grimaces.

“Ah, I must have reopened it,” she mutters, setting the cake down with something like a pout. Fingers brush against the blood-stiffened shirt, frown deepening when her fingers come away with a smudge of crimson.

“Reopened? Oh, Althea, we must take you to the healers.” Josephine’s already standing, rounding the small table with a deep crease between her brows and her lips parted in open alarm. “I forgot that—“

Althea waves her off, shaking her head with a small smile. “It’s not that bad, Josie.” The smile turns a little dry. “It’s not the worst injury I’ve had.”

That does very little to reassure the flustered Antivan. “Even so, you’re still bleeding!” She’s gently tugging Althea up from her chair, surprisingly strong for a woman who spends most of her day at a desk. Althea muses that having to deal with nobles all day is apparently as potent an exercise as training with the recruits. 

She lets Josephine usher her to the infirmary, where it is confirmed that, yes, the wound had reopened quite a bit and how is it that Althea hadn’t even noticed that she was gushing blood from one shoulder?

(Incredibly high pain tolerance, she tells them with a cheeky grin.)

“Sorry,” she says to Josephine, who sits wincing every time the healer presses an alcohol-soaked sheet of gauze into the wound. “I know how much you were looking forward to the tea.”

“Don’t be rid—” Josephine stops herself, remembering that they sit in the presence of a healer and a dozen wounded soldiers. Althea tries not to put herself above any other member of the Inquisition, but she supposes as the order’s diplomat, it’s Josephine’s duty to remind everyone that Althea is, technically, above everyone in the Inquisition. Scolding her would probably not uphold that well.

“Your well-being is not more important than a silly little tea party, Inquisitor,” she says instead. Her head shakes, dark ringlets bouncing in incredulity. 

The smile that elicits is warm and bright and laced with all the sugar and vanilla beans of the petite fours they’d abandoned in the secret, makeshift parlour. “I’d chance to say that a silly little tea party is vital to my well-being, Lady Montilyet.” 

[warriorofmint]

Hopefully the other prompt went through too bc I've been Having It Out with my laptop...but!! Dialogue Prompt! (43. “I’m not a lot of people’s favourite person.”)

PROMPTS

Perched on the highest branch, bathed in dappled sunlight, Althea can almost breathe here. Here, where she hears no revered whispers or disdainful murmurs; here, where the only eyes that track her are those of the wandering nugs and druffalo (and, probably, one or two of Nightingale’s spies, who were likely ordered not to let their Herald out of their sight). Here, where the only walls around her are the Frostbacks, Althea can almost pretend she’s free.

So, when Althea hears the crunch of boots on snow, the frown comes rather automatically. Shifting to a crouch, she lets her gaze drop from the book, tracing the path she’d taken from Haven until she finds the intruder in her quiet space.

Recognizing the slender silhouette, she relaxes, just slightly.

Solas’ lips are quirked into the smallest smile when his eyes find hers. Althea responds with an arched brow. 

“Dare I ask how you got up there, da’ean?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, his eyes sharp with curiosity.

Althea cants her head. “Da’ean?” Little bird. The nickname surprises her, for Solas hardly seems generous with terms of endearment. Yet, he watches her with a soft smile, a sort of openness that seems to contradict everything she knows of the enigmatic mage. And despite her perpetual guard, despite the wall forged of blood and tempered steel, Althea finds herself settling into a strange sort of ease. “Hm, maybe I flew up here,” she eventually responds, lips stretched into a toothy grin.

“A convenient skill to have,” Solas muses, slender brow rising, “for a bird who seems to scorn the company of people.”

Her expression falters, shoulders slumping. A weight settles over her chest; scar tissue accumulated from too many scornful words, too many contemptuous stares. “I’m not a lot of people’s favourite person.” And at the very thought of it, Althea suddenly feels the prickle of a hundred eyes on her, hears the praises and prayers as though carried in the wind. “Actually, I’m barely a person, to most.”

The pointed look on Solas’ face softens, the smallest crease appearing between his brows. A silence follows and Althea allows her eyes to drift, a twist in her stomach when her gaze finds the walls of Haven. They would call her Herald, bow to her like a deity, but Althea knows. She knows it’s not greatness that made them bestow on her such a title, and she knows what it is they want from her—and they don’t want her to be a person.

“You are stronger than they are.” His voice is quiet, a faint murmur beneath the wind of the Frostbacks. For a moment, Althea wasn’t sure Solas had spoken at all. Her eyes find his, and he watches her with something she might call kinship. “Do not forget that, da’ean.”

It’s another surprise when Althea feels a foreign sort of warmth settle over her. She’s reminded, briefly, of a boy she knew in her clan. He was several years older, seemingly decades wiser, and every time Althea stumbled, he’d be there with a hand held out. He’d always been quiet in his support, like Solas is. Oh, Althea is not so naive as to equate the two of them so directly, but the familiarity is a comfort.

Althea smiles. “I’ll try.”

[warriorofmint]

For the prompt thing: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

PROMPT

“There you are.” 

His voice comes as no surprise to Althea, but she feels her body tense, anyway. It’s the frustration in his voice, the exasperation, like he can’t believe she bloody ran off because she couldn’t win this argument.

(She could; she’s just too damned tired to. Her ears still ring with the warped humming of red lyrium; her limbs ache from battle and from travel; her chest still seizes with the memory of the bodies in the mine, blood mixing with the crystalline vermilion growing out of their chest. Althea is tired, and she just wanted to come home to Skyhold and sleep for a year.)

“I don’t want to talk to you.” As if that wasn’t clear from the fact that she had climbed onto the highest tower, hiding in the shadow of the Frostbacks because the library, or her quarters, were obvious enough places. “Leave me alone.” Althea’s voice is stilted, her own agitation simmering beneath each syllable. 

An annoyed huff leaves the Commander, but Althea doesn’t hear any retreating footsteps. “Oh, you don’t want to listen to me chastise you again? You don’t want to listen to me telling you how reckless you were?” On this isolated tower, away from the guards, from the scouts, Cullen doesn’t try to hold back. 

She almost turns around to punch him in the jaw; her clenched fists shake with the effort not to.

So, it’s this again, is it? 

“Does it matter if I’m reckless?” Althea does turn, a storm in her expression as she finally looks at the Commander. “The Breach is sealed, isn’t it? You don’t need me to defeat Corypheus.” Her chest heaves but her voice is steady, certain. “I’m sure you can just find someone else to be Inquisitor. It’s not like anyone knows who I am, anyway.” They’ve had this conversation before, haven’t they? When Althea was no more than a reluctant Herald, when she was just a figurehead, a prisoner with no chains.

She thought that had changed. Apparently, it hadn’t.

Cullen is silent, lips still parted with a retort. He almost shrinks away from her glare, and Althea takes a single moment to relish in that before she moves for the door.

“Do you truly believe that?” It’s said so quietly, she almost doesn’t hear him. Something shifts in his expression, the anger so quickly giving way to…something else. Something a little broken.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.” Althea’s anger is still there, accompanied by something that feels an awful lot like resignation. 

“It does.” He takes a step toward her, and instinctively, Althea takes a step back. She’s trying very hard not to notice the hurt on Cullen’s face.

“Why? Why does it matter?” Her voice breaks with the weight of her exhaustion, her overwhelming sense of inadequacy. The night after a long journey is not the best time to tackle those feelings again.

"Because it’s not true.” It’s said softly, resolutely. “Because you’re—you’re not just the Inquisitor. Because you matter. To us.” Cullen pauses, and when Althea chances a furtive glance at him, she sees him struggling with his next words.

“To me.” His eyes meet hers, and—Althea doesn’t know what it is that she’s feeling. Like her ribs are tightening around her heart, a heart that’s beating too fast, like the wingbeats of a hundred doves. “Althea, I…I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Her eyes widen, and it’s the only response she can muster. Because her mind, already a maelstrom, takes this moment to politely decline to function. 

Cullen watches her, brows knotted together, his expression tender and hopeful and hurting all at once. But Althea still says nothing.

“I—I’m sorry.” His expression breaks, and he’s taking steps backwards, putting more distance between them. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Like he can’t bear to look at her any longer, Cullen turns, his shoulders hunched as he disappears behind into the stairwell.

Althea remains, unmoving, staring at the spot where the Commander had stood.

[warriorofmint]

Prompt: "Is that my shirt?"

PROMPTS

Dappled sunlight falls through the heavy canvas, bright enough that it all but drags Althea out of an otherwise peaceful — and much needed — slumber. Their journey the previous night had been…difficult, with constant wind and rain and roads that were not so much roads as they were precarious ledges over sheer cliffs. When they finally made camp, Althea hadn’t even waited around for dinner. In any case, her early departure from the campfire was likely a relief; a tired Althea is often a grumpy Althea.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Althea sits up. Her limbs are still a little sore, sinew tight and protesting as she attempts to stretch. For a long moment, Althea just sits there, staring at the tent entrance without actually looking at it. She barely registers the shifting of fabric beside her, catching sight of the Seeker’s ridiculous bed-head out of the corner of her eyes.

“Morning,” Althea greets, lips slanted in a lopsided smile as she pulls the thin blanket from her legs.

It takes Cassandra a moment longer than is typical to respond. Her mouth opens with her usual (translation: slightly cranky) good morning, but stops suddenly. A crease forms between the Seeker’s brows, her eyes narrowing as her gaze falls to her chest. “…is that my shirt?”

Althea blinks, the words taking several seconds to register. “Is it?” Her gaze drops to her nightshirt, the fabric soft and loose, and definitely too big for Althea. And though Cassandra is much more formidably built than Althea is— the shirt seems a little too big for her, too. “I thought it was Cullen’s.”

It’s said with nonchalance at first, but Althea’s expression very quickly freezes. Not meeting Cassandra’s eyes, she sets to packing up her bedroll, desperately hoping that her friend isn’t entirely awake yet.

But alas, this conversation will not go her way.

“Cullen’s? Why would you have—” The words die on the Seeker’s lips with a sound similar to a choking nug. 

Someone might as well set the tent on fire, else the heat on Althea’s cheeks might just do it. It would be a more merciful end, in any case.

“Oh,” is all the Seeker says. 

Oh?! What does oh mean?! The tent is silent save for Althea’s very focused attempt to roll her bedding. There’s a part of her that tells her this is ridiculous; she’s the Inquisitor! She sits atop the entire chain of command in the Inquisition; she commands armies and spies stationed throughout Thedas. She has a throne. If Althea wants to have a relationship with the Commander, she can very well do so.

The other part of her just wants to melt into the ground.

The silence stretches until Althea is out of things to pack up. She’s staring at her small pile of belongings, eyes wide, mind reeling, when Cassandra finally speaks again.

“I do not disapprove.” It’s said with all the severity that always accompanies the Seeker’s voice— but it’s lined with something else, too. Something gentler, kinder. Happier. “Cullen may not believe it of himself, but he is a good man. And you are a remarkable woman.”

Althea blinks. Once. Twice. Finally, she finds the courage to face Cassandra. The woman is smiling, the noble angles of her face looking softer, younger. There’s a brightness in her eyes, a brightness that Althea doesn’t immediately understand.

Then, it strikes her; Cassandra’s happy for her. 

It’s a realization that washes Althea in warmth — not the burning, red-cheeked warmth from before, but something softer. It’s a feeling to which she’s still becoming accustomed; Althea’s just a little overwhelmed. She must look a little teary-eyed, because Cassandra’s eyes suddenly widen. Althea had just enough wits about her not to just throw her arms around the Seeker.

“Thank you.”

[warriorofmint]

WIP WEDNESDAY: black, steel, silence

Meme

Cheating a bit because technically this entire fic is a WIP lmfao

Black: His heart jumps, eyes squinting against the snowfall at the silhouettes of the Inquisition scouts—and the black smudge against all that white, just ahead.

Steel: He swallows, steels his nerves—don’t you fail her again!—and lowers himself beside Althea’s fallen form.

Silence: The silence stretches only for a little while, interrupted by the shifting of heavy canvas.