#da fanfic

[baejax-the-great]

One Last Drink

“Well, here we are old friend.”

Varric takes one cup out of his pack, then another. He plonks each down on the creepy green stone he supposes he’ll be seeing a lot more of in the coming days and pours in some brandy from his flask.

He raises his cup aloft and says, “I always wanted to have one last drink with you.”

This is a lie. But then Varric is a liar. Hawke would forgive him for it.

He didn’t want to have one last drink with Hawke—he wanted a hundred more drinks with Hawke, a thousand. He wanted to sit around with her in their old age with creaky knees and white hair drinking mead and shouting over the table because their ears were both shot. He wanted to slide into old age listening to her sass all those heroes that have followed in her footsteps. He wanted to see her wielding a cane in a bar fight.

But this—this is what he has.

He taps the rim of his cup to Hawke's. The brandy goes down burning.

“You know, I somehow doubt drinking in the Fade will make it any better,” he says. “Seems like the place you’d probably want to be sober for.”

His ears strain. Was that a whisper somewhere? The Fade is weird. Maybe he’ll get a response. What would Hawke say, anyway?

Isn’t the end of the world a good enough occasion for you?

Something like that. Light tone of voice, half twisted smile at the end, she’d clink her cup to his and take a swig, maybe point out that if the Fade is now leaking into everywhere, then anywhere is as good a place to sit and drink with a friend.

“This new generation,” he says, “They’re something. They grew up hungry for a fight. Fearless. They saw the sky explode as kids. They’ve known something was wrong their entire lives. But then, I guess you also were forged in the crucible of apocalyptic disaster.”

Lothering wasn’t that bad.

This she’d say with an artful quirk of her eyebrow before letting her smile take over her face.

Varric fills his cup again. He’s played this game before, become the author of who Hawke would be if she was still anyone. He can hear her voice in his head so clearly, but for years he’s had that creeping doubt that her voice is actually just his. It’s been ten years after all.

He doesn’t know why he thought the Fade might do something nice for once. Solas always talked about those friendly spirits, but it looks like one can’t be assed to channel Hawke for Varric.

“These Veil Jumpers—out of their minds. You know they come here on purpose? Reminds me of you and all those damn caves you dragged us into, except the caves didn’t shift around while we weren’t paying attention. Similar number of demons, though.”

Not by the time I got done with them.

“They told me that right here, right where we are? That’s a fixed point. A landmark.”

“Creepy, isn’t it?” Bellara had said when Varric stopped in his tracks on seeing the statue. “She always seems to be pointed toward an exit, though, so we’re always on the lookout for her. We call her Macabre Martha.”

I’ve been called worse and you know it. You wrote all those names down in your book—you know them better than I do. Not to mention the atrocious name my own mother gave me.

Varric pats the foot of the statue next to him.

“Should I tell them who you are?”

That question he has not been able to answer for her. He looks up the silent statue, Hawke, caught in the moment a spider’s claw pierced her chest, her mouth open, her eyes wide in horror, both woman and spider leg petrified together.

He somehow thought in this place, in this warped reality, if he summoned her up in his mind, maybe she’d still be here. Maybe she’d speak to him. Maybe he could get her to look less scared.

This isn't how she'd want anyone to remember her.

“Never thought I’d see a statue of you worse than the one we put down by the docks.”

Varric pushes himself to his feet. He puts a hand on her arm as if to comfort her in the last frozen moment of her life. He thinks maybe this time the stone will crumble under his hands and reveal her, still fighting, still able to be saved, still ready with a joke.

This? Minor flesh wound. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been impaled.

It’s just stone under his hand. Stone, and half his heart stuck in this awful place for the rest of time.

He picks up Hawke’s cup and drinks that, too. He places the half-full flask at her feet in case she ever gets thirsty.  

“So long, old friend.” He gives her one last squeeze on the arm, then shuffles off in the direction of her terrified expression. The next generation of adventurers awaits, and Varric isn’t so quick these days.

The susurrations of the Fade are all that answers him, but he still calls her voice to mind. So long, Varric.

[oftachancer]

Thank you, @maxkennedy24, for this incredible portrait of Anders, Karl Thekla, and Cecily Hawke, from Aisles of Memory and Regret!

Also reposting for the fans of @tranquilweek!

[arlathanxchange]

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[shivunin]

Absolutely gnashing my teeth bc there are too many really wonderful Arianwen prompts on that list, however I must go with: "When I saw my demons I knew them well and welcomed them." - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb

Thank you for this!! This one was lovely to write c: I've been meaning to write Wen going home again for ages, and this fit so perfectly <3

(OhHellos Prompts)

A Lament

(1,632 Words | CW: References to grief/parent death | Warden Tabris & Cyrion Tabris)

“We both know I’m the one to blame 'Cus when I saw my demons,  I knew them well and welcomed them.” —The Oh Hellos, “The Lament of Eustace Scrubb”

Her father’s house hadn’t changed at all. 

It shouldn’t have surprised Tabris that this was the case. There was no reason for the place to change, after all. The Blight hadn’t made its way here yet. The illness that had stricken the alienage, the slavers that had followed…all had done little to mar this place.

The clothing she’d removed so she could don her wedding gown was still folded at the foot of her bed. Arianwen, who’d stopped just inside the doorway, looked at the mass of it while her father welcomed her in.

Truly, there was little to see: just a threadbare gown in dull colors, patched neatly by her own hands or those of her cousins. The dress probably still covered the stockings with a hole she’d meant to darn after all the wedding nonsense was over with. Below that would be underthings she’d only worn a handful of times before she’d…left. They’d been an indulgence, purchased with money she’d saved by bartering harder with the traveling merchants in the courtyard outside. When she’d bought them, she’d felt embarrassed, ashamed, as if such a simple indulgence were a transgression her father would see right away, as if—

“You haven’t changed at all,” her father said, cutting through the unending ocean-wave rush in her ears, and Wen’s attention snapped at once to him. Greyer hair, tired lines around his eyes, new scars at his cheek and his throat—all this, yes, but in the end he had changed as little as the house had. 

He flinched, just a little, when her eyes met his. Tabris saw that, too. 

“You wear your hair the same,” he went on. His hands might have been shaking when he tucked them away in his pockets. It was difficult to tell. Neither of them stepped away from the door, and a cool, sticky breeze eased over the back of Wen’s neck. 

“You never listened to me prattling on before you left, either.”

It was meant to be a joke. She was sure of it. Neither of them laughed. 

“You’re well?” she managed after the silence had gone on far too long, heavy between them with all the things she’d done since she’d left this place.

“You seemed—” her father began at the same time. 

Both of them grimaced and looked away again. 

Her mother’s things were still here, too. Had been since before she’d died, always in the same place. His clothing was kept tucked carefully beneath the bed, organized into neat rows inside three wooden crates. Her mother’s things, though—they were preserved always as they had been when she’d stepped out of their house the last time. Wen knew because she’d made the mistake of opening the trunk once, lifetimes ago. She couldn’t remember now what she’d been looking for. She knew only that the lid had been too light by far, flying open at the slightest touch, and that she’d sat for eons staring down into it and breathing in the faint, sweet scent of her mother’s soap mixed with dust. The things on top were still folded the way her mother had folded things—messy, loose, without a great deal of care to the look of them, only the function—and Wen had only worked up the courage to touch them just before her father’d come home from Chantry services. 

He’d told her she was engaged less than a week later. Somehow, this had blotted out the explosive fight they’d had over the trunk and its hallowed contents. 

“I am well enough,” he said at last, and Wen realized that she’d walked into the room without realizing it, one hand outstretched for the clothing draped over the end of her former bed. 

“I cannot say I am well,” he added, voice quieter. 

The door clicked quietly shut behind her. She didn’t turn to look.

“No, not well. But I’ll do.”

“Alright,” Arianwen said. 

The bedspread was the same, thick with every blanket that had been sewn into the mass of all the other blankets that had come before. They were all there still, layers and layers of winter and harsh spring and flooding in the streets. Through the holes, she could see shades of red and pink and girlish childhood pale blue, the color of the blanket she’d slept under in her earliest memories. The uppermost layer was a deep brown, nearly the color of her hair. The second to last gown she’d worn in this house lay slack as a corpse across it. Dull as the cloth was, it was almost shockingly pale by contrast. 

Her hand, still outstretched toward the fabric, was darker with sun than it ever had been when she’d lived here. The world had been so frightening for so long—the shadows full of mocking laughter, the alleys full of fists, this house filled with ghosts that waited hunched in the dark to consume her dreaming. The back of her hand was crosshatched with scars now, the nails clean-cut and short, the forearm corded with muscle. 

How many times had she huddled into the corner of this bed, shrouding blanket tight around her shoulders, faced pressed into the itchy wool? How many times had she wished she could be anybody else in the world, anybody but the Tabris girl that everyone despised, anybody but the motherless fool in the house near the end of the block? 

“And you,” her father went on behind her. “Well. I suppose you aren’t quite the same.” 

Wen couldn’t tell if the chuckle that followed was nervous or sad. She’d always had a difficult time telling the difference. 

“The, ah…the armor suits you. Thought I was looking at your mother when you stormed through those doors.”

Tabris passed a hand over her damp face and turned from the bed, from the limp pelt of a gown there. Her father’s mouth was pursed when she turned, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deeper than they had been a moment ago. 

The armor suits you, he’d said. 

Any armor suited her fine. Even loose and wrought for someone else, it had all fit her like a second skin. Her blades, too—they had been more fingers, longer arms, an extension of her sight and her will. Taking the first set from the body of a guard had felt like becoming whole for the first time in her life. And the blood on her teeth—it had tasted as fine as wine, as pure as the cold clear water that fell from the clouds in winter. 

“Yes,” she agreed. 

Had he always been so short? She couldn’t remember. 

“It does. I…am well too.” 

He hadn’t asked. She realized as much the moment she opened her mouth. 

“No, not well,” The words wouldn’t come correctly. They always fouled themselves in the net of her teeth, had always gotten caught in the same, even when she’d called this place her home. “I am…good. At what I do, I mean. I’m very good at it. Fighting.”

“I saw.” 

The scrape of wooden chair legs over uneven wood floors. The soft sound of her father settling into it, the soft creak of bone on bone when he settled in. Outside, the clouds parted. Light filtered through the dust-streaked window and settled on the trunk away in the corner. It gleamed on the steel bands over the old wood, on the new lock fastened to the front. She could have it open in a moment now, if she really wanted to. She’d had enough practice these past months, had enough calluses from the training the bard had given her at it that popping it open now wouldn’t even hurt. 

The wood of the chair’s back felt just as it had a thousand times before, but she thought her fingers felt it differently now. The same calluses, perhaps, or maybe it was just her own perception of it that’d changed. When she sat, her father looked at her and the Warden looked back. 

She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s eyes, and she certainly had her mother’s long, tapered fingers. Adaia had been a fighter—that was what almost everyone said first about her. A fighter of rare caliber, they would say, and then, usually, she loved you very much. 

Wen still carried parts of her mother in her body. Always would. Eyes, agility, fingers, grace, hair, always braided sharply back and out of her way. Little as she liked to admit, she also had her father’s nose, his stubbornness, his ears…Once, she might have wondered how much of her was hers at all.

Now, she did not have to wonder. Her strength was hers. Her steel was, too, and her hands, and her dogged determination. The joy she took in battle was her own, and her love of tearing her foes to shreds, and the thrill of victory—those were hers, too.

So were her friends, lost and broken and deadly as they were. Wen carried them inside her just as she carried her blood and bone. 

If she’d lived in this room for a hundred years, she would never have learned that for herself. 

“I’m not the same,” she said, and took the cup from the table. Her father watched while she took a drink and set it back on the table again. “But…I am glad to be here.”

His fingers lifted from the table, as if he thought to reach for her. The motion lasted less than a second, but she saw it. Saw, too, when his worn fingertips lowered again to the old wood. 

“I am, too, my Wen,” he said. “I am, too.”

[ly-art]

Why am I like this? I THOUGHT SOLAS COULDN'T HURT ME ANYMORE

Okay... so this girl maybe restarted DA:I because she has to romance a certain bald elf with a voice I would kill for. To pump up my excitement for Veilguard. Anyway... it brought back certain memories of getting dumped...TWICE.

I really just wanna see my elven boyfriend in Veilguard, fuck everyone (not you Lucanis and Harding, got you my babies, oh and Varric don't you fucking die on me, I love you).

Anyway. Since I'm still writing on my longfic and sadly had to push back the next post since I was on vacation in Greece, I'm gonna update this week and playing DA:I...seeing Solas. Welp, short story: I'm so fucked. It inspired me and the next chapter just makes me so sad AND I FUCKING WROTE IT!!

DAMN YOU SOLAS

For those who are interested:

Amatisha’s gaze seared into him, burning with questions, with hurt. She was too perceptive, too attuned to his moods, and he hated how she saw through his walls. But Solas didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He had to keep running, as he always did when his secrets were on the verge of being uncovered. He had done this for centuries—lying, manipulating, always one step ahead of those he cared about, distancing himself from the emotions he so desperately longed for but could never afford to have. This was no different. Fen'Harel could never love a mortal. *Or anyone at all.* The sound of footsteps behind him—Amatisha’s and the rest of the group—echoed through the cave. He caught the faint scent of lavender and vanilla mixed with the metallic tang of her blood. The scent stirred something in him, but he shoved it aside. Every glance from her tore at him, the weight of what he could never tell her hanging like a blade above his head. His heart ached, but he swallowed it down.*Do not let her see how deeply this affects you. Maintain your composure This is temporary; it must be.*

I will go cry now, thanks guys

[andrastesacredknickers]

Stone and Moonlight

Summary: Lavellan has struggled to get restful sleep since the events at Haven. Though, her nightmares may be the least of her worries as she tries to navigate her relationship with one Commander Cullen Rutherford.

Pairing: Cullen x Lavellan

Word count: 2.4K

Tags: mentions of nightmares, Cullen fumbling as per usual, awkward flirting, Varric being a good friend

While writing this I was listening to: Distance by Christina Perry

Find me on Ao3 here

Eve could feel the fire against her neck as she ran. Her legs felt as if they were going to turn to jelly as she sprinted towards the gates of Haven. As she ran it felt as though her destination was growing farther out of her reach. Eve turned to see a wall of fire coming towards her, stumbling on her feet and beginning to fall.

The elf shot up in her bed, breathing heavily as she tried to orient herself. Her room at Skyhold began to materialize around her as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, sweat dripping down her brow. Eve couldn’t remember the last night she didn’t have a nightmare since making it out of Haven. The feeling of the archdemon’s fire at her back haunted her every night, the screams of those lost at Haven ringing in her ears.

She took a deep breath before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She waved her hand, conjuring a small ball of light to illuminate her room. Eve stood, stretching her sore muscles and walking towards her desk. She reached for a robe slung over the back of her chair, pulling it on and tying it tight. The mage slipped into a pair of boots, messily lacing them and heading towards her bedroom door. The light she conjured followed behind her a she made her way down the stairs.

Eve was beyond grateful for the suite she was provided at Skyhold. The room was massive, much more space than she would ever know what to do with. She had never had this much that was just hers. Among her clan she had a tent and a few belongings. But nothing like this. A large row of doors to her balcony let in the most beautiful morning light, she even had her own storage of wine. Eve did wish, however, that her room wasn’t so far from the kitchen.

The mage sleepily made her way through the halls, savoring how quiet Skyhold was this late at night. No soldiers running about, no visitors to make nice with, no one running up to her yelling “Inquisitor!”. Just stone and moonlight shining through the windows. Eve yawned as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, jumping as she saw a silhouette of a person sitting at the table in the center of the room, facing away from her.

“Maker's breath!” The figure hissed, jumping up from the table and turning to face Eve, fists raised for a fight. Eve froze for a moment, recognizing the voice immediately.

“Cullen?” Eve asked, waving her hand to bring the ball of light forward and illuminate the person before her.

“Inquisitor! I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle to you,” he said quickly, lowering his fists and bracing himself against the table. The commander wore loose trousers and house slippers, his upper body bare, the taut muscles of his stomach illuminated in the light. Eve’s eyes lingered on him, her cheeks going warm as she took in his form. The light she had conjured began to glow brighter for a moment, buzzing loudly. She ripped her gaze from his body, looking up to find him watching her.

"Erm, what was that?" Cullen asked, cocking his head to the side as he looked at her.

“Uh, nothing," she said with a sheepish grin. "It looks like I startled you a bit more than you startled me,” Eve deflected, watching Cullen’s jaw flex. He took a breathe, a smile crossing his lips as he relaxed. “May I ask why you’re sitting in the kitchen in the dark? We’ve got candles, you know,” Eve said, looking up at the chandelier hanging above the table.

“That’s true, however I couldn’t find a-,” Cullen started, but cut himself off as he watched Eve shoot flames from her index finger, lighting the candles one by one. “Match,” he finished with a chuckle, the room now illuminated with a warm light. Eve smiled, waving a hand and dismissing the light she had been using to illuminate her way. 

“That’s something I’m growing used to. You using magic to do stuff like that,” Cullen said, pulling out his chair and sitting back down at the table. His eyes lingered on Eve for a moment, noticing that her robe was beginning to fall open slightly.

“I can’t imagine not doing so, it’s just habit,” Eve admitted pulling her robe closed and walking towards the counter. “Why are you even awake, Cullen? I was joking when I asked if you ever sleep,” she said, facing away from Cullen and searching the cabinets for a tea cup.

“Hah, I- I do struggle to sleep some nights. So I come in here and scrounge for something to eat. It’s a bad habit, I know,” he said, running his fingers through his blonde hair. Eve pulled a tea cup out of the cupboard, looking inside to ensure that it was clean.

“I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before then, making tea in the middle of the night has become somewhat of a routine of mine,” Eve said, searching through canisters for the right blend of tea leaves.

“Well, I… have seen you. In here. At night. I just figured you’d want some time to yourself so I always just… turn around,” Cullen said, picking at a half eaten loaf of bread that sat on a plate before him.

“Time to myself?” Eve asked, turning to look at Cullen. He shrugged, popping a piece of bread into his mouth.

“You’ve got so many people demanding things of you all day, I suppose I thought you might cherish some alone time,” he said, looking over to her.

“That is true, though I cherish time with you more,” she said, immediately turning away from him to hide how deeply she was blushing. Eve closed her eyes, cursing under her breath as she placed the bag of tea into her cup.

“I- I enjoy spending time with you too, Inquisitor,” Cullen said rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Eve looked over her shoulder, rolling her eyes at the commander.

“Cullen, I’ve told you, you don’t need to call me Inquisitor. I much prefer my name, I’m just Eve,” she said, pouring some water into her cup over a teabag. She brought her tea over to the table, sitting down across from the commander and resting her elbows on the table.

“You’re more than ‘just Eve’,” he said, watching puzzled as she stuck her index finger into the water. The tip of her finger glowed red, heating up the water inside her cup. “You do things like that,” he laughed as she shook the water off of her finger.

“You know what I mean. I just... everyone else sees me as this big important person here to save the world. I need at least one person who still sees me for me,” she said, fiddling with the string on her bag of tea.

“I can understand that,” Cullen said with a nod, his eyes falling to the table. “I’ll do my best to refrain, Eve,” he said.

“Thanks, Cullen,” She replied with a smile, bringing the mug up to her lips.

“What has you making tea in the middle of the night? Is something troubling you?” Cullen asked, watching her intently. Eve took a sip, sighing as she set the cup down.

“I’ve just… had a difficult time sleeping since Haven,” Eve admitted, her hands wrapped around her mug of tea.

“I know what you mean,” Cullen said, shooting her a sympathetic glance. The two sat in silence for a moment, Eve drinking her tea and Cullen picking at the bread on his plate.

"You have them too, then? Nightmares?" Eve asked, watching Cullen as he pushed around bread crumbs on his plate. 

"I do. Not just from Haven, but those are the most prevalent right now," Cullen sighed. Eve nodded, toying with the string of her tea bag.

"Every time I close my eyes it's like I can feel the fire at the back of my neck. Nightmares always worry me. There are enough demons around when my eyes are open, I don't need them trying to plague me when I'm asleep too," Eve said quietly, letting out a huff of air. Cullen watched her closely, trying to hide the concern from coloring his expression.

"Yes, I understand your concern. I'm always here for you, if you need anything Inq-, Eve," he corrected, leaning back in his chair.

“Don't make promises you can't keep. Be careful Cullen, I might start to think you like me,” Eve chuckled, her fingers wrapped around the now long cold cup of tea.

“I, uh, I do. Like you, I mean. Uh, you’re a great friend, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, stumbling over his words. He buried his head in his hands, letting out a sigh as he felt his ears and face flush red. Eve nodded, awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck.

“Right, thanks,” Eve said, pushing her cup away from her. “I suppose I should go back to bed. Get some sleep commander, you look like you need it,” Eve said, standing up from the table and swiftly turning towards the door.

“Eve I-“ he began, however when he looked up the elf was already gone. “Andraste guide me,” Cullen huffed, resting his forehead against the table.

______________________________________________________________

“Let me get this right, he said, ‘you’re a great friend’?” Dorian asked, his eyes wide as his hand covered his mouth. Eve groaned, her forehead resting on the table in the Herald's Rest. The tavern was mostly empty, probably because it was mid morning and most people had jobs to attend to. 

“Oh, that’s rough Boss,” Iron Bull said, tossing back a mug of ale. He slammed it down on the table, eliciting a huff from the mage sat beside him.

“Ugh, thanks Bull,” Eve sighed, softly hitting her forehead against the table.

“My dear, I think your commander might be a bit daft,” Dorian chuckled, watching as Eve sat up and rolled her eyes at him. She leaned her elbow against the table, resting her chin in her hand.

“The more likely scenario is that I’ve made this whole thing up in my head,” she huffed, reaching for a bottle of wine on the table and taking a long swig. 

“By the Maker, Eve. Don’t you Dalish use glasses,” Dorian huffed, pulling the bottle away from her. “Besides, everyone in Thedas can tell the commander has a thing for you. He turns red just at the mention of your name,” he said, pouring some more wine into his glass. Eve rolled her eyes at the other mage, threading her fingers through her white hair.

“This feels more like a ‘drown my sorrows straight from the bottle’ kind of moment, don't you think?” Eve huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’ll drink to that!” Bull laughed, grabbing the bottle from Dorian and downing most of it in one swig.

“Eugh,” Dorian huffed with disgust, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. "Go back to the part where you said he was shirtless," Dorian said, leaning back in his chair.

“What are we drinking to?”

Eve looked towards the door to see Varric entering the tavern, Bianca slung over his back. She swiped the bottle of wine from Bull, swirling it around to see if there was any left.

“My sorrows,” Eve huffed, downing the remainder of the wine and slamming the bottle on the table.

“Count me in,” Varric chuckled, taking a seat next to Eve. "What's troubling our hero this morning? Orlesian politics, all of the holes in the sky, the kitchen is out of pie?"

“The commander called Eve a ‘great friend’,” Dorian said, leaning back in his chair.

“Oof, that’s..,” Varric said, patting the elf on the back.

“It would be a lot better if we all just stopped talking about it,” Eve hissed, resting her head in her hands.

“Let me just say my piece and we can let it go,” Varric said, cocking his head at Dorian and Bull, signaling for them to leave him with the Inquisitor. Bull nodded at the dwarf, laying a hand on Dorian.

“Come on Dorian, let’s go get some more wine,” Bull said, getting up from the table. Dorian narrowed his gaze at Varric, who widened his eyes at the mage.

“Ah, yes, let’s. It’s certainly a two man job,” Dorian said, getting up from the table and flashing Eve a smile.

“Where are you two-“ Eve said, watching as the other two men swiftly made their way towards the bar.

“Here’s the thing about Curly. He's great with the soldiers. With order, discipline. He’s not so great with the touchy feely stuff. He’s been through a lot,” Varric said, his hands folded in front of him on the table.

“So what do I do, Varric? Every time I feel like there’s something there, he just, deflects,” Eve said, looking over to the dwarf.

“Have you directly told him how you feel?” Varric asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“What? No! Of course not,” Eve huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s not going to be the first one to do it, Lucky. If you truly care for the man it’ll have to come from you first,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Ugh, I hate it when you’re right,” Eve hissed, letting her head fall back.

“And I’m always right, you must be miserable,” Varric laughed. Eve rolled her eyes, pushing his shoulder playfully. “So, you going to do it?” Varric asked after a moment.

“Do what? Now?? Certainly not,” Eve huffed, shaking her head. “I need some… time. To think,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Time to think about what?” Dorian asked as he and Bull returned to the table, two bottles of wine in hand. Bull placed three wine glasses on the table.

“Dorian insisted we use these,” Bull said, rolling his eyes at Eve.

“Yes, it’s so terrible that I ask you to use a glass and not drink from the bottle like a couple of heathens,” Dorian huffed, sitting back down at the table.

“Time to think is later, time to drink is now,” Eve said, pulling a glass towards her.

“You got it, Boss,” Bull laughed, pulling the cork off of a bottle and pouring Eve a hefty glass.

“Cheers,” she mumbled, downing the whole glass in a one swig.

“Slow down there, Lucky. You're going to have a headache tomorrow,” Varric laughed.

“Maybe that’ll serve as a distraction,” she huffed, belching loudly.

"Nice one!" Bull cheered, pouring himself a glass. Eve laughed, shaking her head at him and leaning her shoulder against Varric.

"You'll be alright, Eve," Varric laughed. "Who's up for a game of Wicked Grace?"

[calamity-jc]

Connor in Thedas

He's finished, y'all! I'm so happy! In case you're curious, I did write a crossover story to go with this, so feel free to check it out!

[queenaeducan]

Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter Three: Echoes

The sight of mages mingling freely at his doorstep stir old memories in Solas's heart. He finds himself still a stranger to the world he now inhabits, catching only glimpses of the familiar in the faces around him.

They had arrived in Redcliffe a humble party of five, and left in numbers beyond his reckoning.

Haven now groans beneath the weight of its new occupants. Mages, young and old, mingle in her snow-lined streets, finding their bearings and reconnecting with faces they had missed in the fog of war.

Solas walks in their midst, yet does not number among them, his plain robes and homemade staff are enough to mark him as an outsider. Instead, he observes, as he has through countless dreams in the past year and change since waking. For their part, they are no more receptive to his presence than the memories, parting around him as though he were not there.

A disarming thought gnaws at him as he recognises that he’s seen this all before. In their eyes, he beholds uncertainty, unsure if they have arrived at their future or another false hope. Others beam with promise so potent spirits press through the Veil to feel their warmth.

Echoes.

Echoes is the word he comforts himself with. Like the farthest ring in a ripple of water resembles the hand that moves the waves.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” the Herald’s voice resonates with the present, dispelling his stupor with a few warm words. She draws level beside him, her close proximity easy, undaunted. He looks down at her. She looks healthier this morning than she has in several days; her eyes bright and the sides of her head freshly shaved, leaving only a patch at the top that lifts in tight curls. More notably, Redcliffe’s wounds have begun to fold back into her skin, unmaking the memories of the false year. One mark remains, a deeper cut that has the makings of a scar, carved beneath the Carta brand under her right eye. Leaning against the side of a building, she says, “I think they’re settling in nicely.”

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[psalacanthea]

idk just some DAI Solavellan stuff. Solas POV, 2.6k, Mature.

Three hours of pensive searching and troubled wandering had finally borne fruit.

Ellana had been impossible to find since their tumultuous arrival at Skyhold, a habit which had become her silent protest against what she could not change or control.  Solas understood, but he knew it was not merely suffering that drove her away.  It was also spite and anger, two emotions she felt perhaps more deeply than even he realized.  At first he had thought her reticence was merely distrust.

Now that they were acquainted, he could see instead the rage that fueled her silence and stubbornness, the hatred she bore towards the Chantry that had made an icon and a prisoner of her.

He had no doubt that Leliana had an idea of where the newly-christened Inquisitor was, but she and the spymaster had an odd understanding.  He hadn’t intended to overhear Ellana taking her own life hostage to make a point to Leliana, but it had deepened his understanding of her.  Solas had little doubt Ellana would in fact kill herself if they tried to drive her too far.

There was a selfishness in her he abhorred, but a desperation he understood.

Unfortunately, to find her forced a contemplative stroll through the ruins of what had been built over Tarasyl’an Te’las.  It was foreign enough to dull that distant pain, but every now and again there would be a sign.  A piece of Elvhen statuary shattered into gravel, visible only due to its material, hints of older stonework at the base of some walls.  The bones of an ancient dragon encased in stone formed long after its death.

She was atop the walls, in the center of an intact section bounded by shattered stonework; a destination with no easy path to reach it.

A tower kept it from view, but he had heard the sounds of metal on stone in the distance, giving her position away.  After navigating the crumbled stonework to the top, she came into view at last.  The way between them was treacherous, a long section of fallen wall caved by ancient siege weaponry, no doubt.  It was tumbled into a pile, some of which had fallen down the side of the cliff.  

She sat on the intact wall beyond it, her back to Solas, a campfire lighting her silhouette.  Tendrils of deep mahogany hair were pulled free of her messy braid, streaming in the cold wind that blew past; the only signs of motion from her.  He knew instantly why she had gone silent and still.

Better to simply admit his approach, then, since she knew he was coming.  “Were you intending to stay all night, I wonder?”

In one fluid movement, she rose.  Her limbs unfolded, and then extended, arms stretching over her head until she stopped, short and sharp with a wince.  The left elbow again, he imagined. The fingers stretched wide over her head towards the evening sky curled in, hands balling into fists as her arms fell like dead weight to her sides.  Turning on her toes, she faced him at last.

Her impenetrable, sharp-jawed face was calm, eyes dark with their current distance and the light behind her.

Wide lips pursed minutely as she walked to the edge of the wall, the crumbling gap and the tempestuous mountain wind between them.

“I am displeased to see you, falon.  You should take care.  If you keep pestering me on word of the Andrastians, I may begin to think of you in the same light.”

“The only curiosity I sate is my own, lethallan,” he said, ignoring her return to sarcastic formality.

A grim smile touched her lips, but not her cold voice.  “Not going to fetch me for Cassandra this time?”

“No.  I asked that she no longer involve me.”

Her expression was bland and unreadable, but her eyes were alight with a gleam of curiosity.  “Why?”

“In light of your considerable and ever-increasing quarrel with the Chantry, I have decided to alienate them rather than you,” Solas replied, rather than lying to her.  She accepted lies without question, but counted them, and he had already lied to her more than he was comfortable with.  Every lie compounded, and renewed scrutiny might see things he would rather not be seen.

Finally she smiled, half-hearted and rueful, shaking her head.  “Your placation skills are as impressive as ever.  Don’t feed me medicine and tell me it’s honey, Solas.”

“It was a great unkindness, what Leliana did.”

Her smile faded away, and the light left her eyes.  “I’m tired of shouting over the wind.  Find your way across or go away,” she said, turning on her heel and returning to her fire.  He could see the frustration in her sharp steps, in the way she threw herself down on the stones.

By now he knew that his struggling might amuse her, but it would garner no sympathy or softening of her attitude.  And so, rather than making a show of attempting the dangerous climb, a feat which would be simple for her, he made the trek simple for himself as well.  Using magic, of course.  

Whatever occupied her continued to, and he knew it wasn’t merely a show of ignoring him.  

  Crossing the ruined wall was completed in a heartbeat, and as she was watching he didn’t bother to reduce his ability down to a spell she might recognize and accept.  Ellana seemed intensely familiar with magic, he’d cast before without a staff in the midst of a fight and he’d seen her discreetly checking his hands for injuries at camp.  Which he’d had, of course.  Some singed fingertips were a small sacrifice to his facade.

Not that she had any herself, but unlike the humans she treated it as something unremarkable as lighting a fire with flint and steel.

“Mac na galla,” she cursed under her breath, in a language he recognized but did not understand.

Something from the Free Marches, which made sense considering her origin.

As he came close, able to see over her shoulder, he could see what she was doing.  A small, rectangular metal box rested next to her knee, an array of tools and half-finished pieces spread before her.  Resting in the heart of her fire was a small crucible approximately the size of a teapot, which was filled with melted metal.  The source of her curse seemed to be a shorn nail, which had torn the delicate skin underneath, leaving a thin, ragged piece of nail behind at the edge.  It was bleeding, but she’d apparently already dismissed that injury, tossing a piece of her nail aside and picking up a half-finished arrowhead.

Having just been unmolded, it was rough and covered in burrs from its casting.  She picked up a file and began working at them, barely moving as he circled the fire to sit across from her.  There was a flicker of a sidelong glance, but nothing else.  

She had obliquely invited him to stay, and so he had no qualms about interrupting what was obviously some form of meditation. Self-soothing, perhaps, or simply a repetitive task to help clear her mind.  The Inquisition had plenty of arrows.

“Your finger is bleeding.  Might I assist?”

“Bleeding cleanses the body,” she muttered, which was entirely untrue.

“I am fairly certain all that bleeding accomplishes, in most cases, is to relieve you of your blood.”

“You can do some blood magic with it if you want,” she said, finger dripping onto her thigh as she filed down a spike of pebbled iron from the edge of the arrowhead.  It was a narrow, pyramidal one, of the type she tended to use against templars.

“I will abstain.  Was it you that left the basket in my tent?  If so, thank you– it is exactly what I was in search of.”

“The mountain pine trees have good bark for weaving.  The inner bark, not the outer.  The outer makes excellent fire-starters, especially if you can find a pitch-knot.  If you soak their cone-buds in honey for six months, strain, boil, and then ferment it, it makes something called melash, I think, but we just called it pine wine.  I learned it from a Frostback clan during the Arlathvhen.”

He had to admit, privately, that at times her presumption that he was an ignorant, helpless scholar that needed to be taught everything did grate.  On the other hand, in his company she was completely free with her speech, manner, and all of those vicious bristling edges she hid from everyone else.  She treated him, for better or worse, like she would any Dalish despite their disagreements about her people.  With one glaring difference– Ellana habitually acted as if he was a bird fallen out of a nest, something pitiable and fragile.

At least he had proven he knew how to forage, which had quelled her fears that he was three seconds from starving to death at all times.

Her concern was amusing, but knife-edged and imperious.  He knew it by now intimately, and no longer felt any arrogance in it.  She simply knew no other way to show people that she cared.  Not with her guard up constantly.

She and Sera were constantly at odds due to it, which was amusing to witness.  

Solas sat in quiet, contemplative silence, watching as she finished the arrowhead and moved to the next.

The metal box split in half, width-wise, revealing an interior packed with damp sand.  She pressed it back into each disheveled half, leaving it flat, and then carefully pressed her new arrowhead into the surface.  Then the box was closed over the arrowhead, to force its impression into the sand.

It was calming to watch her, scarred, graceful hands moving with authority and purpose, not a moment’s hesitation to impede her work.  He could imagine her as she doubtless had been, doing this exact same thing at a thousand firesides, during a thousand nights, small practiced movements as intricate as a dance and just as full of beautiful artistry.  The arrow was removed from the mold, and she set it atop her left knee, perched for later use.

The mold closed again, with a small reed caught between the halves to leave an opening for the metal to pour into the cavity.  The metal glowed, a sullen fiery hue, as she used a small metal ladle with a spout to scoop up the molten iron and tipped it into the mold.  The arc of magma-hot liquid iron was transfixing, despite the brevity of the moment.

She set the mold aside to cool, and lifted her narrowed eyes back to his face.  “You heard her threaten me.  You heard me threaten her.”  It was a statement, not a question, so he waited until she continued.  “You must be disappointed again that I had to be forced into the role they have chosen for me instead of happily sacrificing myself to save Thedas like a good little icon.  So please, tell me how selfish I am for attempting to choose my manner of death.  Make certain to be abstruse, or I won’t know how smart you are.”

“Yet again I am scolded for preferring specificity in my speech.  Lethallan, were I to write a treatise on you, it would be filled with contradictions.” 

Solas was pleased to see her smile, sly and barely-stifled.  Still, he hadn’t quite spoken his thoughts, which was what he had come here to do.  It was a faint hope that his words– marred by secrecy and a thousand lies– would do any good to comfort her, but he could try.

“It need not end in death, Ellana.”

“It will,” she replied placidly, staring into the fire.  “One way or another, it will.  To be raised up is to be chiseled down, the pieces of yourself that are inconvenient, or wrong, or too uncomfortable removed from you.  By force, if necessary, and by history, inevitably.  Whatever survives this will not be me, if anything does.”

She looked up at him, eyes reflecting the molten metal, gleaming like a predator in the night.

“I am already dead, Solas, I’ve told you.  I can feel them killing me.”

It was too matter-of-fact for dramatics, the words laden with a hard-won weariness and resignation that gave them a vicious certainty.  

“If you can think of any wisdom, any wisdom at all that will make this burden lighter for me, then speak.  But until the day I do not feel my back breaking under the weight of their expectations every time they look at me, this is where you will find me.  But eventually…”  She reached over and knocked open the mold, pulling a jagged arrowhead from it.  Lifting it, Ellana shifted her gaze over to it, gently spinning the metal in her fingers.  “Eventually there will be nothing of me left.  But there is no sympathy for me, no.  Because I am a thing, a beacon, a hand and not the woman connected to it.”

She turned the arrowhead one last time, and then tipped it towards him.  He could see the flaw in the metal, a hollow that had not filled properly during the casting.  It was thrown back into the crucible, his eyes tracking it, watching the metal begin to soften at the edges as it gave in to the heat.

“Would it make for a better tragedy for me to be hopeful, Solas?  To rail against the very sky, to stand up against an ancient magister like a child flinging stones at a giant?  Would that make it sad enough?  How pathetic must I be?  How humbled?  Tell me, Solas.  What form of martyr must I be?”

There was no answer that was both kind and true. “Ir abelas, my friend.”

Ellana laughed, soft and hollow, graceful, able hands limp in her lap. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“No,” he said quietly, “I am not.”

The wind whistled past them as the conversation fell silent.  

Fading from the edges of the sky, the day finally ended, leaving them in a circle of firelight   with the darkness all around them.  Ellana made no move to craft another arrows, busy, helping hands unable to do anything to lighten her burdens.  The guilt he felt in that moment eclipsed, even for a moment, the shield wall of duty and distance that kept him focused on his goals.

They had always felt small, these vestiges of the Elvhen, but at this moment he felt as overwhelmed by inevitability and grief as she did.

In this moment they were joined, and equal.

Victims of his grief.

“I’ve been thinking about when we spoke of your dreams.  Your Fade journeys.  It was some time ago, when–”

“I remember,” Solas said quietly.

“Not even the spirits will really remember me as I am, but as whatever they make of me,” she said with a small, faint laugh.  “Somehow that makes it all worse.”

“I will share my memories of you," he said, an odd, uncomfortably impulsive promise. It was no burden to make, of course, but it came with an emotion that must be ignored. Thrust aside. "Such as they are."

"Unflattering?" she joked grimly, and shook her head, leaving a smear of char on her forehead as she pushed her hair away. "The truth often is unflattering, Solas. You have ink on your chin."

Hastily he reached up to lick his thumb and wipe it away, her tired laugh easing some of the tension in the air. When he glanced up, she was smiling at him, and her eyes were clearer. Less heavy.

"Will you tell me a story?"

"I would be glad to," he assured her quietly.

And he did- ensuring it was a story with no villains, no struggle, and most importantly, no heroes.

There had been enough tragedy already.

[greypetrel]

For the very juicy prompt list (if you are taking requests!) What about 10. “You fucking lied to me and wasted my time, yet you have the audacity to cry about it and make it seem like it’s my fault things ended badly?” 

For whoever you think fits best !

You thought I forgot? Well I didn't! xD

I just had to turn the prompt around in my hands for quite some time, I had ideas but they never fit perfectly. Until it came the realization that it is peak Solavellan. So here, on a silver plate with a side of extra angst, enjoy!

Tis the prompt list

Severance.

[ Female Lavellan x Solas | 2262 words | Trespasser. Post-breakup scene. A most necessary confrontation. Not a happy reunion, no "Var lath vir suledin". Canon divergence. ]

10. “You fucking lied to me and wasted my time, yet you have the audacity to cry about it and make it seem like it’s my fault things ended badly?” 

Just one small step, and yet everything changed from one to the next.

A metallic sound, as she crossed the last eluvian, leaving behind roars and thunder and an ongoing battle, what had been her friends and what had been her sister, to find quiet.

A perfectly still and quiet afternoon on a ledge of rock gently climbing up in the shadow of a mountain, cool and shaded enough so that water puddles couldn’t evaporate. The grass was luscious and damp, and the very light told of rain. Stark and clear as it is just after a heavy summer rain, the sunset painting the forest in the distance, the mountains and hills in vivid greens speckled in the first autumn yellows. Now it was all golden.

Perfectly still and quiet as the statue of the Qunari, frozen in stone in battle snarls, throwing spears or raising swords and axes, that formed some sort of corridor leading forward and up to-

Radha ignored how eerie it was, and took advantage of it. Her hands hurt as she clenched her fists on the hilts of her daggers, both drawn, as she stepped to the side. No stoney Qunari seemed to mind if she used them to hide as she progressed. Steps quiet, eyes focused on the target, ears sharp to try and hear what they were saying.

The Viddasala spat something she couldn’t hear, and as she rose her spear, tall and fierce and terrible, something blinked blue in his eyes, and under Radha’s eyes her skin took a deeper shade of grey, her clothes solidified. A blink, a breath caught, and the Viddasala was stone too.

Which left her-

“I know you’re there.”

Solas.

Of course he knew.

Two years ago, she would have been flattered that he did. That no matter how much she could try and disappear in a crowd, make herself unperceivable, there to listen and observe, never to speak, he always seemed to notice her. He always seemed to mind her and what she thought. Prodded her for her opinion, as much as he loved to explain his own he had always attention for what she had to say.

Radha hated how it still made the butterflies in her stomach swirl and turn. It had a bitter aura to it, but-

No.

She schooled herself, clenched her daggers more, and stepped to the side, out of the shadow of a warrior brandishing a two-handed axe and into the corridor left.

Not saying anything, but saying enough with her eyes.

He was already looking at her, tall and dressed in armour. Different than she remembered and yes, beautiful. More at ease in his skin than he’d been in Skyhold, stepping towards her with otherworldly grace.

“It’s good to see you.”

He told her, with a bitter smile. She didn’t buy the emotion written plain on his face, subtle but there. She had spent a good year observing him, it was enough to read his expression. She didn’t care if he was remorseful. She couldn’t care.

She worked two years to be there, ran throughout half of Thedas, never stopping, exactly to be there. She couldn’t falter.

She said nothing at all.

“I was not expecting to meet you here.” He spoke, instead “I didn’t think you would have wanted to see me ever again after Crestwood.”

His eyes travelled down, down to her daggers still clenched tight in her hands. Blades naked and bloodied already. Radha didn’t flinch nor lowered them, and Solas frowned.

“But I see you’re not here to talk.”

“You used us. You’re killing her.”

A deeper frown, more remorse on his face. Radha’s blood boiled in her veins.

“If it helps, it was never my intention to involve either of you. If things had gone according to my plan-”

“-But they didn’t.”

“No, they did not.”

To his honour, he had the good grace to not step back as she stepped forward, daggers in hand. Ignore the pain that clenching her hands so tight brought. She knew her limits, that wasn’t it. Not yet. Not until she did what she had to. For herself, for Aisling, for what he broke and took away. For her family and the faith she had lost.

“Radha, if you would just listen-”

“I listened to you enough.”

“Can I just explain?”

“What’s there more to explain?” Radha snorted. “I may not be a Keeper, but my memory is just as good. You told me you’re the Dread Wolf.  You told me you plan on tearing the Veil down, even if it means casualties and the possibility of this world ending. What’s more?”

Something hardened in his expression, but his voice remained calm, poised as if he was explaining to a child that boiling water will hurt your fingers.

“The reasons. I didn’t want to upset you more, in Crestwood, but if you knew the full picture, I’m sure you would understand. You would agree, even, that-”

“You didn’t explain in the next two months in Skyhold.”

“I seem to recall it was you avoiding me. And after Corypheus, I couldn’t quite track your movements.”

No, he couldn’t. She travelled, in the last two years, on her own, looking for old ruins, libraries, anything that could give her any clue or hint on where to find him. She didn’t follow a clear path not to attract any attention, not only to avoid raising suspects over her research, but first and foremost not to let him know she was coming. It figured out, she thought.

“I only respected your wish, you didn’t want to see me. It hurt that you didn’t, but I understood. If now you would allow me the courtesy to speak, before raising your daggers, I would be grateful.”

She didn’t, in fact, gave him the time. The accusation made her blood boil, even more than it already was. If she could have been brought to listen, that was really not the right way for it. Not after a crazy rabbit chase in a maze, running away from the Viddasala and a group of Ben Hassrath. She had trained with the Iron Bull long enough to know exactly that she couldn’t hold herself up against all of them together, so she ran. Lost all her notes in the Library. And wouldn’t have made it there if it wasn’t for Aisling, who freed her when the Saarebas caught her. Aisling’s face - consumpted, pale, deep eyebags and the stark line of cheekbones that never showed up – would haunt her in her dreams: she owed her that. Owed her for allowing her to be there. She knew her sister like the back of her hand, and she saw that was the end of her line. All she could do was to clear all the Viddasala’s accusation from her, her work, avenge her death.

So, for herself, for Aisling, for their family, their clan that got targeted, their people that would get their chance by dying or being blamed yet again for the actions of a mage with evil overlord fantasies, for seven months of butterflies in her stomach and two years of misery and pain and betrayal, Radha rose her dagger, and flashed forward, slicing with one and stabbing with the other.

The slice was ducked, the stab collided with a barrier, but she didn’t step back. She grew up with mages, she knew how to fight a mage.

“You fucking lied to me and wasted my time, yet you have the audacity to cry about it and make it seem like it’s my fault things ended badly?” 

“I’m not the one attacking. Please, Radha-”

“No.” Crouch, side-step, keep close to him, don’t leave him space to cast, aim for the kidney. “Our clan almost died for your plans.”

“I’m trying to avoid that happening ever again.” Another barrier, he turned, she followed. He casted way quicker, way effortless than she was used to. “Elves too would benefit-”

“We would just be blamed for your actions. As the clan has been blamed for Aisling’s. They would hurt us to hurt you, in the end, you would hurt the People you’re trying-”

It was like the air solidified in front of her, and pushed. She saw strong winds on the coasts of Rivain, so strong the trees bent, their trunks grew close to the ground. She saw him mind-blasting enemies already. This was worse, and she was pushed physically behind, even if the tried to turn and offer her side to the wind. All that she could do was stumble, without falling.

“The Dalish are not my People.” He hissed, now positively angry. “I tried to reason with them, when I woke, they only shunned me like a madman. You’re all free because of me. And all I get is distrust and now this.”

It struck Radha. He had never been cruel, not even in breaking her heart and leaving her on her own. Never. And that…

“I love you, and you killed my sister.” Was all that came to her lips, as an answer.

It struck him too, his barrier came up just a second later, and it shattered just short of having her actually hitting him. Something in the back of her head sounded an alarm, her heart clenched still, but she listened not. She listened just to the rage, and to the memory of the Viddasala implying her sister was working for him, against their people -an idea she didn’t want to entertain- the memory of Aisling looking one step away from death, because of him. The first time she looked at herself in the mirror and saw her face without her tattoos. Because of him. He had the good grace of not answering, at least, so Radha could continue speaking, and lounge forward again. Another barrier shattered, but he stepped away in time.

 “I trusted you, I fell in love with you, you told me you loved me, and then left me after shattering my whole world.”

If another plotoon of Qunari had come running at them in that moment, she wouldn’t have noticed. It was two years she had those words stuck in her throat, and it felt good to finally tell him just so. She stroke him, but a scratch high on his cheekbone, It didn’t feel as satisfying as she thought it would have. It tempered her down a little, and him as well.

Radha stopped, breathing heavily but still refusing to let her eyes down, or let her daggers go. Her hands hurt, her grab on them trembling, and her eyes pricked with tears she didn’t want to shed. Not there, not in front of him. She could cry later. She had one last accusation to bring.

“I gave you my mother’s bonding gift.” She vomited still. “And you accepted it.”

If he had turned and asked her what did it mean, it would have been better. He didn’t accept it knowing what kind of gesture it was, he couldn’t know. That would have been better.

Instead, he just nodded and lowered his eyes, frowning deep but looking at her straight in the eyes. If that was pain what she saw, she didn’t want to consider it.

She could not.

“Do it.”

As simple as that.

What she had wanted, cemented day after lonely day in the last two years of resolutions. Salvation, for her and her people, revenge for Aisling. Revenge for herself.

She waited a moment, frowning in a silent question. He nodded, and close his eyes, raising his chin a little in a clear offering.

That was it, moment of truth.

The little voice in the back of her head screamed, but she heard it not. She had spent too much time thinking that that simple gesture would fix everything that still could be fixed. Not her sister, not her role in her clan, her faith or how elves were treated, not their missing history or what Morrigan having drunk from the Well of Sorrow could mean.

Her arm felt heavier than before, but she pushed it through. She had killed, many people, so many she had lost count. She wasn’t proud of it, and could live with knowing that it was all out of protection, for herself or for the people she loved. This killing wouldn’t have been different. Kill him, kill Solas, to save how many?

One step. Two step. Her dagger high.

She jumped, a scream coming out of her throat, half rage and half mourning, in advance.

First it was time slowing down, as if every moment lasted longer, so deep in concentration she was.

Then the sensation heightened: everything tinged in gold, and it was like falling through honey. She blinked, and she wasn’t moving as quick as before. She could see Solas, right in front of her, opening his eyes again to look at her, his mouth opening in realization.

He turned to the side, but Radha didn’t need to. She knew whose spell it was, and it hurt her even more than the man in front of her did.

She pushed, she pushed more, knowing that it was a complex spell, and in that state-

- The bubble broke, and she fell heavily on her feet, hit amiss. She didn’t turn to look at who was it, but she turned to look at Aisling’s face -haunted, tired, skinnier than she ever saw her, pale in a sickly manner, curling on her arm and screaming in pain.

“So it’s true. You are working for him”

[bearlytolerant]

Shhh it’s not Wednesday anymore for me but it’s fiiiine. Tagged by @fangbangerghoul and @galadrieljones thank you! And tagging anyone who sees this and wants to participate!

There is a ball happening in his estate. Down on the floor below him. The music, the laughter, the joy muffled in the bowels of this lack-of-family mansion, belongs to anyone and everyone but him. Up here, he hangs his hands over the balcony wall and gazes at the stars. It’s another night of brawls in the streets, cloud covered canopies, and moans in the adjacent estate of lovers entwined between silk or satin sheets. It’s like the city is pushing up and around him lately, maxing his capacity with all things cacophonous and obnoxious. Who thought a city so big could have him feeling its smallness?

He focuses on the sky for his own sanity. Picks out a couple of stars and makes pointless wishes.

“Care for a glass of wine?”

Sarya Lavellan appears at his side. A regular occurrence over the past six years. He never knows when she’s going to show but he always looks forward to it. She’s prettier than the stars with her orange curls that dance in the gentle night’s breeze and frame her freckled face like flickering firelight. A few greys have made an appearance and they make her lovelier than ever. Eyes like ocean in midday sun, she pulls him in and quiets his surroundings. Brings a sense of peace to his mind.

“I was hoping for a cigarette,” he says and takes the glass.

[herald-divine-hell]

The Inquisitor laid in their own blood, the breaths coming sharp as knives, slicing slivers of their heart into bloodied ribbons.

The Requisition officer drew near. She drew close, knelt before them, and took their hand into her own. The fingers were cold, and despite their groping felt flimsy and loose like a mishapen stone tucked into a wall, ready to crumble.

She smiled. "I have news, Ser."

The Inquisitor smiled, through the blood and the dribbles of bile. "I...I don't have time."

The tears fell, without the Requisition officer knowing. Her arm slipped beneath their neck, lifting them up, and held the Inquisitor close to her chest.

In the silence, a raven croaked; and all the Requisition could do through a clogged, choked throat was, "Yes, Ser."

[daisymeade]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

Thank you, beloved!!! Hilariously, I only actually have five fics to choose from so that's no need to even pick. 😂 They'll be from most to least favorite.

1. The Hard Choice (Loghain Mac Tir & Gregory Dedrick, Teen+, 2.3k words)

I'm extremely proud of this fic. It's written for what I call my "tapestryverse" which is just game canon without any changes. I had the idea for this a few years after thinking about the similarities between Loghain and Dedrick, the Mayor of Crestwood, and wanting to do some character introspection. I love the mayor a lot, but I also always knew he was going to die in the Joining, from the very first time my Inquisitor gave him to the Wardens. The fic title comes from the name of a Loghain-themed cocktail. It's my favorite drink irl. 😌

2. The Nature of Daylight (Surana/Loghain Mac Tir, M, 3.8k words)

This is the first time I ever wrote smut in my life. When Miles and I came up with fusionverse they snatched Heulwen's canon romance, Zevran, away from me and I was like, who am I going to kiss now? 😂 Loghwen started as a one-off thing! Look at me now! *hundred of Loghwen pictures fall out of my pockets* I've learned my lesson about crackships. Though, it's my most read and kudos'd fic!

3. Solace (Zevran Arainai/Surana, M, 1k words)

Solace was a last minute fic that I wrote for ZevWarden week. I'll admit, I decided to do this because I felt weird at the time that I didn't have as much content for Zevwen that I did Loghwen and the elf-kissing deserved it! I got the entire thing written in a few hours which is a record for me. I need that writing energy more often to be honest. I also came to the conclusion that I'm incapable of writing smut without putting some feelings/introspection/etc into it. Ace win?

4. Blood and Feather (Jowan/Morrigan, Teen+, 4.2k words)

I AM THE CAPTAIN OF THE TRS (Thedosian Royal Ship) JOWIGAN. BOW BEFORE OUR MIGHT. I'm so invested in this ship. Jowan is such a linchpin for so much of my canonverse because Heulwen would have never agreed to Morrigan's ritual, but Jowan would. I'll be honest, I need to do some rewrite's on this, but Miles is absolutely head over heels for it. Their enthusiasm makes me feel all warm and fuzzy right here: 💚 I'm sorry, Lily, Morrigan's bi-ace swag and blood magic instruction captured that man mind, body, and soul.

5. A Bridge Ablaze (Alistair & Surana, Gen, 1.2k words)

Yes, I got this title from the Waidwen quest in POE2. No, I'm not sorry about it. 😂 So, I always play games and imagine how my characters would react because too often I don't get the choices my brain thinks makes sense! WHERE IS YOUR RAGE??? And I was always like 👀 that Alistair raises his voice at you post-Landsmeet if he becomes king and Loghain lives. I did grab heavily from in-game dialogue but feel like it was balanced nicely with my additions and Heulwen's inner monologue. I have a lot of thoughts about their working relationship after this, especially considering Heulwen becomes good friends with Anora. curse of keeping lore in my brain

I have plenty of ideas for other fics but my brain hates me. RIP!

[hekaerges]

A new of my Post-Trespasser Mystery fic, In the Hollows of Their Footprints, is up!

Ch. 2 Tabris: "In Peace, Vigilance"

Following the mysterious disappearance of their Arcanist, the Inquisition taps into their contact network to see if it's an isolated incident. It's not.

Small snippet under the break!

When someone gets kidnapped, you’re distraught. You go searching. You find the guards, and you scream at them. Tearing at your clothes, skin, and hair to see them safe. When you’re in an Alienage  and someone gets kidnapped, you’re pissed. Because you can’t do anything without risking it all, risking everyone, and you know it.

And you do it anyway. It’s all in the art of not getting caught, in trusting only the people you know won’t fuck it all up. That’s what Sera did. If it were Sarnai, she would have vanished in the dark and armed to the teeth, and she’s confident that was Sera’s first instinct as well. But she chose to go to Adaar first. Because Adaar is strong and Adaar has never steered her wrong before. Sera can trust Adaar with this. And doesn't that say the world about her?

DAFF Tag List: @about2dance | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @blarrghe | @bluewren | @breninarthur

@crackinglamb | @delicatefade | @dreadfutures | @effelants | @exalted-dawn-drabbles |

@hekaerges | @inquisimer | @ir0n-angel | @leggywillow |

@oxygenforthewicked | @plisuu | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @warpedlegacy

[shivunin]

In Confidence

( Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,392 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Fantasy racism, past parent death, emotional hurt/comfort)

“Where are you taking me?” Zevran asked, keeping pace with his Warden as they scaled the side of a building in the alienage. It was not a difficult task, though the state of the scaffolding they were climbing did give him pause. 

“You’ll see,” she told him, grunting slightly when she caught the board over her head and pulled herself up. 

Only fifteen feet separated them from the top—or so he hoped. Meeting her family had been trial enough on its own. He had not anticipated this sort of exertion afterward or he would have eaten far less at her father’s table. 

“Almost there,” she added, and there was the faintest note of an apology tucked beneath her usual impassive tone. If he had not known her so well, Zevran might not have heard it at all. 

“I am in no particular hurry,” he told her, and she stopped climbing to cast him a skeptical look. 

“Well,” Zevran amended, glancing below. “I must admit this is not how I thought we would be spending our evening.” 

Below, the vhenadahl swayed in the evening air off the Drakon River. People stood in clusters, their voices ringing off the stone, and food peddlers had staked out rival ends of the courtyard. It surprised him even now to see the condition of the alienage; he supposed that it explained something of his Arianwen that she had grown up in such a place. And yet—these people had built something here, among the ruins. He could see the bright hair of Tabris’s cousin bob through the crowd, pausing near one cluster of people and speaking for a time. They opened to her reluctantly, but even from this distance Zevran could see some of them begin to nod. Perhaps they would yet rebuild their community, even after what the slavers had done to them. 

“Are you coming?” Arianwen called down, and he realized that she’d made her way to the top while he’d looked below. Zevran climbed instead of answering, and reached for her hand at the top when she offered it. 

“We used to play here,” she told him, bracing to pull him over the edge and onto a wooden platform. “Shianni and I. Before and after it burned. It was our secret place, just the two of us. Poor Soris was never one for heights. He’d wait until he heard us climb down and then we’d all wander together. When his parents still lived, he’d grown up in the building next door. I used to hear his mother singing while she made dinner, back when I used to wander the streets looking for strays.”

“Ah—I see,” Zevran said, glancing around. 

The two of them stood in the burned shell of a house three stories from the ground. He had thought that they’d reached a platform at the top of the scaffolding, but he saw now that he’d been wrong. They stood on all that was left of a wooden floor, the edges blackened and crumbled away. Arianwen stood to the empty doorway, patting the wall beside it fondly. There was little else to see here—only the remnants of a bed, piles of fabric in the corners of the room that might once have been blankets or clothing, holes in the floor where the structure below had given way. He did not struggle to imagine two young girls finding this place out of curiosity, for he had done much the same when he’d been a boy. 

“Ready?” she asked while he was still considering this. She vanished through the darkness of the doorway before he could answer, so Zevran had little choice but to follow her into the hallway beyond. 

“How did this place burn?” Zevran asked, ducking a fallen beam and testing the floor before he went on down the hall. 

“Humans,” Wen said, and her face was shadowed when she glanced back at him. “It burned the night Soris’s parents died.”

There was a heavy silence then. She stopped long enough for him to catch up and caught his hand in hers. This was still new—Arianwen reaching for him, for comfort. Zevran did not know quite what to make of it yet. 

“She tried to escape the building after they set it aflame. One of them kicked her back inside. The man who—oh, nevermind. You don’t need the details,” she took a sharp breath, her hand squeezing Zevran’s, and went on down the dark hall. “A few days later, my ma was gone all night long. They found his body washed up on the river, cut to ribbons and bloodless. I didn’t realize until far later what that meant.”

“She was a fighter, your mother?” Zevran asked, for it seemed the safer topic of conversation. Tabris dropped his hand to climb under more debris. 

“She taught me everything I know,” she sighed, “I tried to forget it after she died. My body remembered for me. I’m grateful to it. But—here. Look.” 

They’d found the end of the hallway at last. Arianwen pushed the door open and revealed—

A closet. 

Zevran looked at her, brows arched high in question. To his surprise, she laughed. That was new, too—hearing her laugh when they weren’t in the heat of battle. It was a tired laugh, but that mattered very little in the run of things. 

“Watch,” she said, and turned the coat hook on the back wall. The wall fell away at the pressure of her hand, swinging open into the room beyond. 

“However did you find this?” Zevran asked, stepping into the room behind her. This room was lit by the lone window on the far wall, through which moonlight poured. In the cool light, he could see her clearly enough to read her face. Wistful—yes. She seemed wistful. 

“You know—I don’t remember,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know which one of us opened the door, or even when it happened. I only remember it being our place, Shianni’s and mine. Here.”

She lit a candle and held it up to the wall. Messy colors snaked up the crumbling plaster, handprints followed by rough drawings and holes in a familiar shape. 

“Throwing knives?” he asked, making his way to her side. Arianwen nodded silently, her lips parting and pressing tightly together again. 

Zevran knew that look. She was fighting some battle with herself, weighing what she ought to say to him. They would both be better served if he gave her space. 

“May I…?” he asked, gesturing to the room at large. Tabris nodded again, stepping closer to the marks on the wall, and Zevran slipped away. 

The corners held stacks of books here and there, all adventures set in distant lands or histories of Ferelden. He found only two that he supposed must have belonged to his Warden: a book about animal physiology and one about the care and keeping of various household pets. Zevran smiled at the sight of them, leaving a streak in the dust covering each volume, and moved on. 

Most of the wooden walls bore the marks of her blades. Many of the marks had been thrown wide from their fingerpainted targets. He could follow the progress of her skill by those holes, could trace the time spent in this room by the neatness of the circles they fell within. 

When he had met the Wardens on the road all those months ago, he had met a blade of a woman. She was hard and quick and sharp, flashing through the crowd of Crows like light through a fast-running river. There had been nothing of fear or weakness in her. She had seemed—impervious, somehow. As if nothing in the world could touch her, as if she had sprung into existence precisely as he saw her in that moment. 

Zevran knew better now, of course. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in the mornings when she slept, had watched her uncertainty upon seeing her father again. Two days ago, she had wept over Zevran’s body when she’d thought him dead by Taliesen’s hand. Today, standing in the dusty remnants of her childhood, he knew her better than he might have thought possible even a month ago.

Even so—it was surprising and endearing, somehow, to know that she had not leapt from her mother with blades in hand. Once, many years ago, she had learned her craft just as he had. Maker’s teeth, but sometimes Zevran wished they had known each other then, before the softness had been carved from them both. Who had she been? Who might he have been, in that other life that neither of them would ever live? 

“Here—this is what I actually meant to show you,” Arianwen said. 

Zevran blinked and found her beside him, though he had not heard her approach. She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him with her to another door. When she opened it to the night beyond, cool air brushed over his cheeks. They had only been in the room for ten or fifteen minutes, hardly long enough to notice how still the air was. Even so, it was a relief to step into a fresher breeze.

“You can sit,” she told him, but leaned forward against a flimsy railing. 

They’d stepped out onto a narrow balcony of sorts. A broken pulley hung from the wall to their left and an alleyway stretched into the darkness of the alienage beneath them. It was wide enough for two chairs and little else, though the gleam of glass bottles beneath them suggested what this space had been used for most recently. 

“This was—” she sighed, and one fist thudded lightly against the wood of the railing. “I was last here on the night before my…before the wedding.”

Arianwen leaned forward until her shoulders hunched.  Her hands were joined into one fist, knuckles pale against the brown of her skin. Zevran breathed sweet night air and watched her. It was still difficult—to wait, to allow her to unspool whatever she’d been fighting. It would be easier to make some joke. Already, one stood waiting on his tongue. But—no. 

No, he found he rather wanted to know what she’d brought him here to say.

“Shianni was too drunk to climb down. I was too scared to try on my own. We dozed off here and dragged ourselves back home at dawn. I remember thinking that it would be the last time I ever came up here. I knew…I knew I would never want to share this place with a stranger. How could I?” 

Zevran nudged one of the chairs aside, wincing when he heard the bottles beneath tipping against each other. He found a spot beside her at the rail and rested his arms against it. Arianwen did not look at him.

“The night my mother died, I was here. I came home late because I’d argued with my father and I knew he would worry if I was out for too long. I was…punishing him. By the time I came back, she was already gone.”

A breeze brushed small, loose hairs over her forehead. Tabris reached up and pushed them back, frowning slightly. Zevran edged closer and leaned his shoulder against hers. After a moment, she bent to lean her head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t blame myself. It wasn’t my fault. This isn’t about that. This is—ugh.”

Zevran wrapped an arm around her waist, thinking hard, but there was little he could say. He had come to trust her slowly, had given himself over one careful piece at a time before he’d realized that he was doing so. It did not often pain him to tell her the hard things now. For her part, Arianwen had opened her arms to him readily enough once she’d begun to care, but it had taken longer to offer pieces of her heart to him in turn. Even now, he could feel her cutting them free for his perusal. 

“There is nothing that you must tell me. Yes?” he said, resting his shoulder against hers. “It can wait. A different night, some other place.” 

“No,” she said sharply. “I want to say—I’m glad you’re here. You should be here. I love this place and I hate this place and I miss it all the time. It was my secret, but now it’s yours, too. And that’s all.” 

Her eyes flicked up and away again, focusing on the dark alley below. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Zev,” she repeated quietly. “That’s all.” 

What could he say to this? Wen could be harsh and difficult and wore the intensity of her feelings like armor. Even so—she had brought him to this, the most vulnerable of places, the tenderest of wounds. She had brought him here and no other. 

Zevran swallowed around the thickness in his throat and nudged her hip with his. She looked up at him, the moonlight snared in her eyes, and what could he say? 

“Do you suppose any of these bottles still have wine in them? Some wine, a fine whiskey, perhaps?” 

Arianwen snorted, shoulders loosening slightly. 

“None that I’d chance drinking,” she said, but tugged a slim, dented flask from her pocket. “Here—I’ll share. But only because you asked.”

“You have my most sincere thanks, dearest Warden,” Zevran told her, voice smooth and dripping with charm. She snorted again, tapping his chest with the flask, and he took it. It was warm, held tight against her side all this time. He treasured the feeling of it as he unscrewed the cap. 

When they walked back to Eamon’s estate later, all but alone on the street, he sought better words. It was easier when she wasn’t watching him. It was easier when they were away from the place that had hurt and raised her. 

“I am glad I am here, too, mi vida,” he told her, watching the ragged road ahead. “Thank you.” 

Her hand slipped into his, palm warm and rough. Zevran wondered if she knew that the words were meant for more than just tonight. He wondered if she understood how far back the sentiment could stretch, that he was grateful for more than a secret shared and glad for his continued existence in a broader sense than glad could encompass. 

“Thank you,” she echoed quietly, and held on tight.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told. Thanks @zevraholics for organizing this!)

[ly-art]

Snippet of my latest chapter—NSFW (Solas x Lavellan

I'm a bit late with updating since some personal shit came up, but I'm trying to catch up! So here is a snippet of some sexy time between Solas and Lavellan. enjoy!!😈

When he sank his teeth into her shoulder, she gasped, arching towards him, her hands clawing at his tunic, desperate to feel more of him. A deep, primal moan escaped Solas, sending shivers down her spine and fueling her frenzy. It was the most erotic sound she had ever heard, intensifying her desire beyond measure. Surely, she couldn't get any wetter. Whispering into her ear, his voice husky with lust, he murmured, "Isalan na. Isalas em?" His words were barely restrained, and her grip on him tightened. Her thoughts scattered, unable to form coherent sentences. All she could think of was Solas. Whatever the consequences, she needed him. "Vin! Aman na'mis, Solas! *Sathan!* Her voice cracked with desperation, almost unrecognisable even to herself. "Ma nuvenin," he purred, a smile playing on his lips against the crook of her neck. His hand slid underneath her leggings and small clothes and found her heat, his touch fierce as he rubbed her clit, eliciting a cry from her as her hips surged against him. Inhaling sharply, he chuckled. "Already so eager? So wet..." His fingers slid inside her, moving slowly at first, the friction against her walls causing her entire body to tense with pleasure. She tilted her head back, lost in the sensation, small gasps escaping her lips as he increased his pace. Amatisha's mind overloaded. All she could do was grind her hips against his gand, urging him deeper. Before she knew it, the surroundings shifted. They were no longer outside, but inside the Chantry. Leaning against the war table, catching her breath, she watched in disbelief as Solas withdrew his hand and brought his fingers to his mouth. His eyes glinted devilishly, liquid silver with hints of amethyst dancing within them. "You taste absolutely delicious," he murmured, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. Amatisha flushed at his boldness, realizing more and more that he was the predator, and she, his willing prey. In this moment, as he towered above her with a smirk, Solas seemed divine—a god she yearned to worship. Cocking his head to the side, he rasped, "How about you find out yourself how perfect you taste?" Closing the distance between in two strides, he seized her, his hand gripping her neck firmly as he pressed his lips against hers. His tongue explored her mouth with an intoxicating hunger, leaving her breathless and dizzy. She tasted herself on him. His hands moved to her breasts, his touch both firm and gentle, teasing her nipples until they hardened under his thumb. Amatisha's breath hitched as he pulled away, his lips trailing down to brush against her chin. The urge to surrender overwhelmed her, her head instinctively tilting back, eyes fluttering closed. "Do you know how many times I imagined fucking you right here on this table?" His voice was a low hum, laced with temptation, holding her captive. Amatisha swallowed hard, shaking her head. "No..." she breathed, astonished that he had desired her for so long. "Since I held you that night you sought comfort," he confessed, his words sending a shiver down her spine. "Since my cock hardened the next morning, craving your heat. As much as I hate to admit it, you have haunted my thoughts since the day we met. Your mesmerizing emerald eyes, your wonderful round ass," his hands gripped it possessively, fingers digging into her flesh. "Your perfect curves, those full, ripe breasts," he tore away her tunic, exposing her breast wraps, which he swiftly discarded. Solas cupped her breasts, kneading them roughly. The slight pain made her writhe beneath him. As her tunic slipped away, she felt his hungry gaze devouring her exposed skin. His mouth descended on her nipples, sucking them fervently, teeth grazing over sensitive skin. Amatisha arched against him, pulling him closer, wishing he would never stop. *I'm going... crazy... This is...*