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barbex · 3 years ago

Note

"I wish you would write a fic where" Fenris tries to teach Anders some Tevene and it all goes horribly wrong.

Thank you for this prompt! I don't know why, but it turned into a musical AU. I hope you like me writing about singing even though I know jack shit about it (apart from my secret singing career in the shower). For @dadrunkwriting on this Friday.

- - -

Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're making this needlessly difficult."

"Am not! I'm really trying to do this right," Anders says, trying to sound certain but failing. Fenris can hear the wavering in his voice. The man better not start crying now.

Fenris is going to kill Hawke. Slowly. Not only did she ask him to help a friend, fluttering her eyelids at him, the friend turned out to be Anders. There is just something about Anders that makes him nervous. He usually avoids him, even if he had to accept that he is an unremovable part of Hawke's friend group.

He is obviously educated, knowledgeable about all sorts of different subjects, but he is unable to pronounce the Tevene phrases he brought with him on a sheet of paper. "Let's try this again. Astia valla femundis." He makes sure to articulate every syllable clearly, even exaggerated.

Anders nods, squares his shoulders — and obliterates the three words in ways that Fenris could not have imagined before.

"Stop, stop!" Fenris wonders if elves used to be able to fold down their ears. What a useful feature that would be. He glares at Anders. "How? How do you even do that?"

"I don't know." Anders looks sufficiently sheepish and Fenris can't help but feel sorry for him. The man is perfectly intelligent, annoyingly so sometimes. He should be able to speak a few words in Tevene.

"You have a perfectly normal, if slightly Fereldan accent, but when you speak Tevene you sound like some hick from Texasia." It's almost adorable but he would never admit that to Anders. He looks at the sheet of phrases again. "Try this: Tutum te robore reddam, semper habebis liberatem."

He tries not to wince, but what Anders does with these words would probably be considered an insult in Minrathous. He is hopeless. Fenris pinches his nose again. "What are these expressions, anyway? I will give you safety by strength, you will always have freedom."

Anders falls into a stuffed chair and leans his head back. "It's a musical. I'm friends with the director and, well not the lead, but one of the bigger side-characters got into an accident last night and she asked me to help out, and —"

Fenris drops his hand. "You're meant to sing this?"

"Yes?" Anders looks confused.

Before he can pinch his nose again and possibly hurt himself, Fenris flexes his fingers a few times. "Singing uses an entirely different part of your brain than speaking does. Why didn't you say so?"

"Oh fuck, I forgot about that." Anders slaps his forehead. "I heard that before at the hospital. Okay, hang on."

Anders jumps up and grabs the sheet of paper from Fenris hand and strikes a pose. He looks taller, stronger, his expression calm and convincing. He takes a deep breath, hums the beginning of a melody and then starts to sing.

"Donum habeo tibi, amatus. Amor est fortior quam mors. Tutum te robore reddam, semper habebis liberatem."

I have a gift for you, beloved. My love is stronger than death. I will give you safety by strength, you will always have freedom.

Anders' voice is incredible. He fills the too large hall of Fenris' decrepit house with the melody, warm, strong, beautiful. It echoes off the walls, almost humming in Fenris' chest. He sings of love and freedom and Fenris realises after the second verse that his pronunciation is perfect.

Anders stops, smacking his lips a few times. "Was that okay?"

Fenris realises that his mouth hangs open and snaps it shut. "It was... adequate."

That was not the praise Anders had been hoping for, judging by the way his shoulders sink down. "Well, let me try again, I think I can do better on that rolling R."

"Yes, please, go ahead," Fenris says. His throat is scratching more than usual and he takes a long sip of water.

Anders starts singing again. This time, his voice is even more like velvet, the words rolling gently from his tongue, dancing along the melody. There is a spot at the centre of Fenris' chest that flutters in an unfamiliar way as he listens. Anders looks at him the whole time, as if he sings just for him.

"That was wonderful," Fenris says, when the last sound of Anders' singing slips from the air. "Your pronunciation was very good."

"Thank you. I'm glad I won't be embarrassing everybody tomorrow." Anders looks at him a while longer and then turns away, hiding behind strains of blonde hair falling into his face. "Maybe you want to come to the show tomorrow? It's at 19:00, I can reserve a ticket at the door for you."

"Yes," Fenris says after a short hesitation. "I would like that."

"Good." Anders grabs his papers and shoves them into his backpack. "Thank you for your help." He starts to walk past Fenris but stops, leans over, and brushes a tiny kiss on Fenris' cheek. "See you tomorrow then."

Fenris is too stunned to answer. He watches Anders rush out, his fingertip hovering over the spot where Anders' lips were just a moment ago.

He might not avoid Anders anymore.

- - -

(yes, I've put Texas into Thedas 🤣🤣)

#dadrunkwriting #DADWC #fenders #fenders fic #Fenris x Anders #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #my writing

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thedasreacting-blog · 8 years ago

Note

So how about DA:I companions and advisors react to a blood mage Inquisitor? (maybe romanced reactions too?) thank you <3

Thank you for the request, dear anon! I’m sorry this took a bit longer; I wanted to consider each reaction carefully before answering. I hope I did them all justice. Enjoy! ^-^

~Hakkon

Cassandra: When the only survivor of the explosion at the Conclave turns out to be a mage– and a blood mage, at that– it takes a great effort for Cassandra not to antagonize them. She is cautious, to say the least; until the Inquisitor manages to gain her trust, they are on thin ice. A Seeker’s job is to protect, and should they become a danger to innocent people, she will do what must be done– Herald or no Herald.

Cassandra, if romanced: Her lover turns Cassandra’s world upside down in more ways than one. The Inquisitor is everything the Chantry warns about, and yet here they are: helping people, saving lives, mending a broken world by making use of– yes, blood magic. So what if they’re a blood mage? Cassandra is not unreasonable. She can change her opinion based on new information. What she cannot do is stop worrying for her lover’s safety as her heart skips a beat whenever blood is spilled in battle.

Solas: Blood magic is magic like any other, and a most effective tool when properly used. He has said it before, and he will say it time and again when everyone else seems to condemn the Inquisitor for their choices. Solas is curious to find out how they have learned the skill, and always happy to lend his expertise. It is good to have someone who is not indoctrinated by the Chantry around.

Solas, if romanced: He is proud of his vhenan for standing up to a world that would see them slip up and fail. He knows they are more than capable of taking care of themselves, and he does not insult them by offering perfunctory warnings about the dangers of demonic possession. The only grievance Solas nurses is about the difficulties a blood mage faces when attempting to enter the Fade. But even so, he helps the Inquisitor tune their magic to make it easier for the two of them to meet in the realm of dreams.

Vivienne: “A fool,” she calls them. “Irresponsible, weak, and ignorant.” She has no reason to hide her disapproval. Why would she? The situation is crystal clear for Vivienne, and she is not interested in hearing the Inquisitor’s excuses. She has heard it all before. More than anything, Vivienne finds it pitiful. The Inquisitor has the chance to set a positive example as a mage, but they are throwing it all away by resorting to blood magic. Alas. She can only hope that they will find it in themselves to keep it hidden, and not flaunt it in everyone’s face as if it is something to be proud of.

Sera: Wait, this is a joke, right? A bad joke. Inky can’t be a blood mage. That’s just frigging daft! They’re the Herald of Andraste and Andraste hates blood mages. It doesn’t make sense, but they’re here anyway and they help the little people and they stop the baddies, so Sera will make sense of it: Inky is not blood magic; Inky uses blood magic. It’s different, yeah? Just need to keep that demon shite at bay. Can’t stop Cory-friggy if you’re possessed.

Sera, if romanced: Sera isn’t picky with her lovers. She’ll take whoever is right and feels right, and few things are actual deal breakers. Demons and blood magic and Fade rubbish are among them. So here’s the dilemma: Inky feels right, but Inky is a blood mage. And they’re so frigging– normal. Shouldn’t they be scary, with an army of demons following them around, all “Muahahaha!” and “Obey me or perish!”? If some blood mages can be good people– better than all the noble shits she’s met, even– then Andraste may as ruddy well suck it up. Sera loves Inky. They’ve never given her reason not to.

Blackwall: Maker’s balls, now how’s that for a turn of events? “You are who you choose to follow,” says Blackwall as he follows a blood mage. Can’t sink much lower now, can he? He’s well aware he’s in no position to throw stones at the Inquisitor, not after all he’s done. Too many people die in wars that aren’t theirs to fight, and Blackwall knows this better than anyone else. He’ll be there to make sure the Inquisitor won’t hurt the innocent and the helpless; he can promise them as much.

Blackwall, if romanced: Blackwall’s lover is an honorable person, a capable fighter, and a leader worthy of following. It so happens that they’re also a blood mage. Any weapon, when wielded responsibly, can help and protect, and Blackwall is relived that the Inquisitor uses it as such. When they’re fighting demons, he throws himself in battle harder than anyone else, and the demons meet his sword before they get a chance to take notice of the Inquisitor, always a few feet behind his protective shield.

Cole: “Blood that burns and boils and bites. It’s an old song they know, but they can’t sing it. It’s real, more real than they’ll ever be, and they want in. They don’t want to hurt you. They want to be like you. If you bind me, they’ll stop. The other mages will stop too. We’ll both be safe. Please, please– don’t let them use me.”

The Iron Bull: Demons crap and Fade crap and blood magic crap were to be expected when he joined the Inquisition, but Bull always assumed they would fight all that shit. Turns out, the blood mage is not only on their side, but also leading them. As uncomfortable as he is with this arrangement, he can tell the Inquisitor’s intentions are sincere. “You should’ve been a ‘Vint, boss,” he says and he laughs, but his good eye scans their face for signs betraying hidden motives all the same.

The Iron Bull, if romanced: His kadan is the toughest, wisest, most beautiful person Bull’s ever met. The fact that they choose to practice blood magic doesn’t change this reality one bit. Through them he learns how to allow himself to love and trust the things he was trained to be apprehensive of his whole life. The Inquisitor is what the Qun hates and fears the most, but at the end of the day Bull loves them enough to make up for it.

Dorian: He’s seen enough blood magic for a lifetime, and recognizes the Inquisitor as a blood mage before they even have the chance to practice their skill in front of him. Blood magic is not inherently dangerous or evil, no. Few things are. But the temptation to push for more is always there, and Dorian worries, but jokes about it nonetheless, as he always does.

Dorian, if romanced: “Please be careful. Please don’t do anything stupid,” he thinks. “Ah, isn’t it wonderful? Just like home,” he says. Dorian’s amatus is a blood mage, and the notion alone makes his own blood run cold. He loves them, he trusts them, and he knows that they wouldn’t turn against him. Not all blood mages will try to break his mind– Dorian knows this. There’s a long way from knowing to truly, genuinely believing, and each day spent with the Inquisitor is one step closer.

Leliana: Sister Nightingale is one of the first to hear the rumor that the Inquisitor might be a blood mage, but doesn’t jump to conclusions before checking the information with the Inquisitor themselves. “Nowadays a mage sneezes and someone will cry blood magic.” It’s a risk they’re taking, yes, but she’s unfazed because she trusts they’re capable enough to hold their own. If the Hero of Ferelden is a blood mage too, she’s even more adamant in supporting the Inquisitor.

Cullen: Out of all people who could have found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, it had to be a blood mage that would survive the explosion at the Conclave. It had to be a blood mage that would end up leading their efforts to stop Corypheus. For a long time, Cullen is suspicious and uncomfortable around the Inquisitor. Years upon years of templar training aren’t so easily forgotten. Torture at the hands of blood mages even less so. Despite all this, he’s willing to give them a chance. Just the one.

Cullen, if romanced: Relationships between mages and templars are strictly forbidden by the Circle. “You must act quickly, without hesitation. Your judgment cannot be clouded.” But he’s no longer a templar, the Circle is no more, and the Inquisitor might be a blood mage, but they’re not a monster, not like the Chantry teaches. They’re putting themselves at risk, more so than being a mage already entails, and he shudders to think about everything that could go wrong. Andraste preserve him, he can’t lose them this way. He will not lose them.

Josephine: Josephine is not particularly well-versed in matters pertaining to the arcane, but two things she knows for sure: 1. blood magic is dangerous, and 2. blood magic is scandalous. While the Inquisitor may be able to deal with the former on their own, the latter falls on her. There is no way the nobles houses of southern Thedas would ever publicly support a Chantry-shunned organization led by a blood mage. Josephine does admire and respect the Inquisitor, but at the same time she wishes they would be a little bit more discreet with the blood magic. “It is such a terrible mess to clean up.”

Josephine, if romanced: The Inquisitor and the ambassador being involved romantically is already seen as outrageous by many. The Inquisitor being a blood mage and involved romantically with the ambassador is truly the stuff of legend– and not the good kind, Josephine fears. In spite of all this, she’s willing to go to great lengths to protect them from the public’s unforgiving eye as well as she possibly can. She doesn’t doubt her lover’s ability to defend themselves, yet each time the Inquisitor is away, she watches Skyhold’s main gate from behind small windows, with restless steps and her heart in her throat. They have to come back. They always do.

Varric: Well, shit. Blood mages really are like lost socks– they turn up where you least expect them. He’s not surprised, of course, not after meeting Merrill and possibly a mage Hawke. It’s almost funny; ‘Home is where blood mages are’ should be the title of his next book. He doesn’t try to change their mind or convince them to stop. There would be no point in doing that. Still, he does keep a close eye on the Inquisitor lest it all ends in tragedy.

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trulycertain · 8 years ago

Text

Reprise (6/8)

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five

In this chapter: slightly less stupidity than usual.

vi. we can only understand what we are shown

Dorian wakes, shivering, from dreams of laughter in his ear and kisses along his spine, and doesn’t hasten to the nearest source of alcohol. He hates to admit it, but he has work to do.

After a perfunctory, half-freezing bath that mostly involved splashing water into his face and cursing his stupidity – he barely bothered to warm the water, and he wonders if he isn’t some kind of masochist – he all but throws on clothes and robes. The garb of a magister feels oddly like armour. He lines his eyes, for appearance’s sake more than anything, waxes his moustache, and then assesses himself in the looking-glass, wrinkling his nose. To anyone else, there would be little difference. He looks at the hollowness in his eyes and the tired darkness around them, and thinks he looks like shit.

After another session of glaring at Venatori missives and finding nothing – just him, Mae and Lucia, because the raiding party is meeting to discuss last plans and the world has some mercy; he’s not sure he could stand to be in the same room as Gal, not now – they disperse. He stands there, in the mostly-empty mages’ tower, and exhales.

It’s too quiet here without a task to puzzle out. It allows him to think, and that’s dangerous when every time he closes his eyes, he can still feel Gal’s hands on him. When he can do little but think of that terrible slip of the tongue - so frighteningly true, because everything he hasn’t said and has tried not to think has been amatus, even after…

He curses under his breath and walks out of the room without another word. He hears Mae say something from behind him, but he keeps going.

He manages to make it halfway through his drink before there’s the quiet sliding of silk robes and she takes a seat next to him. “It sounds like you’re moping,” she says quietly.

He frowns. “I hadn’t said anything.”

“Exactly. And you’ve ended up in the nearest tavern. That sounds like the Dorian Pavus I knew in Qarinus.”

He looks into a glass of the only half-decent wine he could find. Too dry, but perhaps everything tastes sour today; he can’t think why. Not that that matters – if he can throw it back fast enough, it will barely have to touch his tongue. “I’ve done something very, very stupid.”

Mae sighs and moves to lean on the bar next to him. After making the “what he’s having” gesture to the barmaid, she says in a resigned tone, “Was ‘something stupid’ called Galahad Trevelyan?”

He tenses, looks around them to see if anyone’s heard. “You can’t just say things like that.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “We’re not - ” He takes a rather undignified swig of wine. “Besides, no-one calls him Galahad.” The words are too bitter.

“He broke my friend’s heart. I’m calling him Galahad.” The wine finally arrives, and she thanks the bartender before taking a sip, and then grimacing. “I thought you told me they could occasionally find a decent grape down south.”

Dorian can’t bring himself to play along. He rests his head in his hand, and says, “How am I meant to look him in the eye?”

“The same way you used to look at every other noble’s son. It was never a problem before.”

“They were different. I didn’t - ” He swallows wine to drown the words fighting to leave his mouth, and his eyes sting. No, no, no. Not again.

There’s a silence, and he thinks she’s probably mulling that over. “Still?” she says, sounding surprised.

“I never stopped.” He realises his voice sounds more than a little despairing. He drains the wine and says, “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

With the reflexes of a consummate caster, she grabs his arm. “No. You’re going to tell me what happened, or I’m going to Fade-pull his intestines out of his nose.”

He blinks, fighting mental images, but the distraction is enough. He turns, and tries to find the words, sagging. “He apologised, Maevaris.” He sighs, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “It was precisely what I’d wanted to hear. He was practically on his knees. And I… I couldn’t stand it.”

She frowns. “Was this you being contrary again?”

He shakes his head. “I think he actually meant it.”

Raising an eyebrow, she prods, “And then?”

“What do you think?” he grits out.

“Oh,” she sighs.

“I thought that it must just be the sex, because it’s always just the sex, no matter what they say, and for all the I love you nonsense, he couldn’t be bothered to stay either, in the end. I thought… well, getting it out of my system worked so well last time I was here.” He laughs bitterly and swigs. “You know, I almost miss the days when I thought that was all I could have. Easier to be disappointed. And I’ve…” He touches an absentminded hand to the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Dorian…”

He presses his fingers to his forehead. “Forgive me. I need to be… somewhere else.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” “This was my own stupidity. Just let me… let me deal with it, for now.”

She scoffs. “And this is your idea of dealing with it?”

“Mae, this is mine.” He runs his palms over his forehead, through his hair. “This whole fucking mess… I’m responsible for it, and it’s mine alone. My fault.”

“I know. And I know you’ll solve it, too, because you’re brilliant, darling.” Mae’s never been a hugger – unseemly, for a magister to show any sort of emotion other than smug triumph, and it brings you within easy stabbing reach, he remembers telling Gal that once – but Dorian feels arms around him, and suddenly all he can smell is perfume and the faint tang of recently-cast spells. “But you’re better than this. You know it, and so did Alexius, before that bloody cult got to him. Don’t force me to pick you up off the floor again.” She pats him on the arm and then withdraws. “So rather than drinking yourself to death, how about you help me to put those bastards in the ground?”

He looks at her, and manages, “See, this is why I’m so fond of you.”

Her smile is like a knife. “I know. You should be.”

He manages two days of dealing with it. Somehow, after the initial pain, he manages to keep from drowning himself in a bottle, remembering his mother’s drunken laughter and “All this heartbreak over some soporati?” He remembers, too, the fact that he’s here for a reason. If he can’t be of use to the Inquisition, he might as well be across an ocean, pretending to be a decent magister. At least then he might not be too aware of the man he’s avoiding, only rooms away, and the constant, teeth-gritting ache somewhere under his sternum.

He’s making his way across the grounds in the shadow of the battlements, watching sunset approaching and turning the stones of Skyhold orange and thinking how much he’s missed the sight, when he hears the sounds of steel, and there’s a grunt. Then a flash of green. He can’t help looking at that, and sees… ah.

Gal’s arm is wreathed in that green light, and for one dreadful moment Dorian can’t help but think of him staggering out of the Eluvian, half-dead but for magic and will, disintegrating in front of them – but he knows this must be different, and so he looks again before the panic can rise. It’s magic, this green, and it feels different from the rampant chaos of the Mark near the end. There’s a shine under the gauntlet, one that certainly isn’t skin. Dagna’s work, perhaps.

Gal weighs his sword in that metal hand, then turns it to adjust his grip. He slams his shield into the training dummy and it tears half out of the ground. He nods approvingly at that, much to Dorian’s disbelief, and then follows it up with a series of savage slashes, teeth gritted, with a low snarl.

When the dummy must be well and truly defeated, Gal steps back, panting, and wipes at his brow. There’s a moment where he tenses, pausing, at the coldness of metal. Then he shakes his head, hissing a frustrated outbreath, chest heaving. He shucks the shield, unstrapping it with those new fingers. He’s fast, dextrous, as if he’s used to the way they handle; this development must have happened some time ago, and Dorian… missed it. Of course.

Gal puts the shield aside and then does the same with his sword. Then he’s unlacing his gambeson, shrugging it off, and Dorian knows he should be moving, at best, or at least saying something suitably derisory to let him know he’s here –

Gal’s shirt hits the ground, and Dorian’s words die in his throat.

Surely he should be used to this. He spent years with the man. And yet he tilts his head, looking at the short hair, the metal below Gal’s elbow, and pauses. There are new scars; he didn’t see them all when – well. Perhaps with a decent mage at his back, Gal wouldn’t have gained them; what are they teaching these idiots in the Inquisition? Gal rolls his shoulders, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair that spikes under his fingers, and Dorian swallows, trying not to pay attention to muscle and barely-hidden strength, and skin he knows nearly as well as his own.

Gal glances around him, and Dorian catches sight of smudged black paint around his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. He’ll have spent the past, oh, hour or so fighting like a wild thing, probably, throwing himself against limits in the name of preparation because if he isn’t strong enough, fast enough, someone will die – someone that isn’t him, because oh, it’s fine him throwing himself at death, better him than anyone else, because he’s just a shield. Dorian remembers wiping away paint, threading black-stained fingers into that hair and unbinding it, as he listened to Gal say these things. Remembers waiting there, nose against Gal’s cheek, hand wrapping around Gal’s and pulling, making him stay. I’d notice if you got yourself killed. Try not to. Or at least do it with me about, so I can exact my dramatic revenge. He remembers Gal inhaling and sagging against him, still exhausted; Dorian putting hands on Gal’s hips, ignoring sweaty skin, and steadying him. Letting him rest for a while, for once in this entire bloody mess. But… like I said, do try not to, amatus.

Dorian thought he’d never see this man again. And he turns, all but fleeing – or rather, creeping away as quietly as possible, because no matter how much he’d like to turn and run, it might raise some questions, such as, Why were you watching me creepily from the shadows after rejecting me?

He makes it to his quarters, and it’s a relief to close the door behind him.

Of course, that relief only lasts a moment before said door is knocked on, and he glares at it. He throws it open. “What are you - ?”

Marius shrinks a little at his expression, and he again has to wonder when it became customary to appoint magisters who are barely out of short trousers. (Well, that’s hardly fair. A few sudden family deaths – the convenient for other magisters sort, not the convenient for him sort - and Marius got shoved into the position. That, Dorian understands.) “I… it’s about tomorrow.”

“The raid?” he tries.

Marius nods. “I… I know we’ve taken on Venatori before, but I’ve never done it with the Inquisition.”

“You’ve trained with them?” “I have, I just… Even the mages, their techniques are so different from ours. Older, some of them, but… efficient. It’s kind of… fascinating.” Marius grins from under that mop of curly dark hair.

Dorian can’t help but mirror it, slightly. “Yes, I remember saying the same. Before I realised they didn’t even know how to salt bacon.”

Marius gives him a wide-eyed stare, and then barks a laugh.

“But remember to deal with the blighted lyrium and you’ll be fine. You’re a strong mage. You also don’t let your ego get in the way. A rarity in Tevinter, and certainly never something I’ve mastered. Now please tell me you aren’t disturbing me this late just to panic. Not that I was doing anything particularly interesting, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“No. I was just asking for advice. You know about working with the Inquisitor, I thought – “ Marius ducks his head. “Um.”

Dorian has a feeling he knows where this is going. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

Marius looks up, wide-eyed. “Not that I – I didn’t mean - !”

“Of course you didn’t. I’d be very careful what you say next, if I were you.”

Marius darts looks around them, as if this is some bloody ballroom back in Minrathous and there are a thousand ears listening for the terrible scandal of deviance, it’s the Pavus boy again isn’t it, and then says, “I’m sorry. I only meant to ask if there was some way to show him my worth as a mage. I don’t – it might be that southern standards are different. I was afraid of getting something wrong.”

“It... was?” Kaffas.

“But if you… were you… with him?”

Dorian sighs. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear from the Inquisition rumour mill, Marius. And you won’t have to work particularly hard to impress him – give him half a light show and he’ll want to recruit you. Now get some sleep, unless you want to sleepwalk through the raid.”

“I… Sorry. Thank you.” Marius nods, and turns to leave with a low whisper of robes.

Dorian closes the door with a touch more finality, and wonders if he’s that bloody obvious. He never used to be.

He’s halfway through sorting The Qarinus Histories the next day, when he pauses. Ah. Finally. He doesn’t look when he hears those familiar footsteps; even out of armour, he knows them as well as his own. Gal will never be stealthy, but he’s surprisingly quiet for such a large man.

“I don’t like playing games,” is what Gal says, after a moment.

“Neither do I,” Dorian responds, and looks back to the bookshelves.

“Then why?” Gal’s voice is sharp, but there’s a shake to it that Dorian can only spot due to paying far too much attention. “You could have had anyone else. You could have done anything else.”

“Because I…” Dorian shrugs, and moves on to the Ancient Geography section. “I suppose I wanted to feel something.”

“And what, you couldn’t do that in Tevinter?” Gal’s fighting to keep his voice level, so that it won’t end up the mumble he gets when he’s hurt; it’s obvious, if you’re someone who spent years listening to him.

A moment passes, until Dorian finally says, “No. I couldn’t.”

Gal frowns. “What?”

“No time, amongst other things.” Dorian scrubs a hand across his face. “Funnily enough, having the Qunari on our doorstep and half the country doing its best to plunge us into civil war is rather a mood-killer.”

Gal frowns. “You mean you haven’t - “

Dorian’s shoulders tense. “There hasn’t been anyone since…” He tilts his head, but still doesn’t look at Gal. “Well.” He sighs.

He hadn’t wanted to, not truly. He could have gone to one of many houses of ill repute, could have taken the offers implied in some of his colleagues’ sly glances, but somehow he… hadn’t the heart. It hadn’t been the same. Bitterness rises in his throat at the thought.

He can’t help himself, then, and he’s not proud of it: “I’m sure you didn’t waste any time after I left.”

He hears Gal swallow. “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No-one. Not since you.” Gal’s eyes are pained, and then he looks away.

Dorian feels something like his heart seize. “The first time or the last?” he says, and it’s too harsh to be a joke. He sighs. “No, I understand. Even if things are easier down south, I’m sure disbanding an Inquisition doesn’t leave much time for more enjoyable pursuits.”

“Dorian - ”

“Not that that’s any of my concern, of course. It hasn’t been for some time.”

“Just…” He hears Gal’s exhale of frustration. “Listen to me. Please.” Gal says quietly, “You left something in my quarters.”

Dorian tries not to grit his teeth. He knows. It was a stupid mistake - one of several that night. He remembers the panic when he realised, and he remembers his grim resignation at the thought of having to ask for it back. He plays dumb anyway. “The last shreds of my dignity?”

“Your birthright.”

He sighs. “Ah. That.”

Gal frowns at the floor, then reaches into a pocket and pulls out the amulet. “Thought you might want it back.” He holds it out.

Dorian takes it. Gal’s hand is warm, and gentle. Dorian realises too late that his fingers are lingering, somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” Gal says.

“I know,” Dorian replies, his voice too quiet. “I – “

“Inquisitor!”

Gal turns, rapidly removing his hand, and though he doesn’t curse, For fuck’s sake is written so clearly across his face that Dorian wants to laugh, even while his heart is in his throat. “Something wrong?” Gal asks.

“Party for the Storm Coast’s gathered, ser,” the messenger says. “They’re asking for you.”

Gal nods. “Thank you. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

She nods, too, and Dorian swears she shoots him an apologetic look over Gal’s shoulder as she turns and leaves.

“Dorian – “ Gal starts.

“No, please, don’t let me keep you.” When Gal opens his mouth again, Dorian says firmly, “Now is not the time. You have Venatori to slaughter, and I have research to attend to.”

Gal swallows, and then nods, turning and striding away.

Dorian wonders what he was going to say, and then decides it was probably safer not to hear it.

“I told him he was an idiot.”

Dorian sighs. Dammit. They'd made it nearly fifteen minutes, too. “Sera - “ At least she doesn’t know how he spent that ill-advised night. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

“The minute I heard, I said, ‘Screwed that one up well and good, but you can still fix it.’”

Dorian rubs his forehead and stares into his tankard. “Can we not? It’s not as if he wanted to fix anything, anyhow.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why he spent a year moping and dragging himself round the castle like someone’d just shot him in the arse.”

Dorian pauses, and just looks at her, considering that. “You do have a way with words,” he manages.

“More like he did. He kept muttering stuff about how he’d just get you killed, stuff about bleeding out in gutters, yada yada yada…” She waves her hands in a scare-mongering sort of way.

Dorian raises a brow, uncertain whether to be amused or offended or… something else. “He knows I’ve probably killed more Venatori than he has?”

“Sure. But it’s not about you looking after yourself, we know you can do that. He knows that. It’s about him being stupid and scared.” She winces and glugs her ale. “Nobles always are. Even the good ones.”

“...Thank you,” Dorian manages, dryly.

“Yeah, well, you’re stupid too. You’re just different stupid.”

He barks a laugh, though there’s little humour in it. “You’re not wrong there.” Taking a mouthful of ale, he says thoughtfully, “I’ve missed your wisdom.”

“I thought you were swanning around with your magey friends and getting new capes and killing people. I didn’t think you needed any wisdom.” She sounds more bitter than she perhaps intends to.

“Now you know that’s not true. I’ve missed all of you. I’ve missed this…” He waves a hand. “Rustic backwater charm and the scent of horseshit in the morning.” Sighing, he admits, “I’ve missed… everything.”

She picks at her nails, not looking at him. “Guessing he’s included in that everything.”

He exhales, glaring at her and then at the wall of the tavern. “Yes. But I never pretended otherwise.” He takes a heavy swig from his tankard.

“You know...” She sighs. “You know what, nah, not touching that. Tried it with him and he didn't listen.”

With a snort, he says, “I think the Maker’s return is more likely than Gal not being stubborn.” He sighs, and looks around them. Listens around them, too. “Was it always so… quiet here? I don’t think so, but I might just be too used to Minrathous, where people would pickpocket you as soon as look at you. Where is everybody? I thought they’d have left, if the Inquisition was to be dissolved, at least publically. An empty keep would make more sense than… whatever this is. This half-compromise that’s like… waddling round with your breeches round your knees because you can’t decide whether the trousers are better on or off. Indignity and embarrassment for everyone, and not knowing how to address it at parties.”

She shrugs. “It’s nearly empty. Getting emptier.” She narrows her eyes at him. “And don’t say it, cause I did talk to him. Said, ‘Oi, you, big hairy noble Jenny, come with me and we can piss up some parties, yeah?’ And he went on about the Venatori and duty or something. So now he’s sat on his arse moping.”

“As usual,” Dorian mutters.

“But why are we talking about him? Thought you were talking about that time someone tried to kill you with jelly.”

“No, Sera, that was…” He ends up laughing, much as he tries to contain it. “That was a sorbet.”

“A what?” She squints at him.

“No? That’s not a thing here?” He sighs; he’d forgotten how horrifically uncultured it was down south. “Well, you get some ice magic and some sugared, pulped fruit, and in his case, quite a lot of poison…”

“Kaffas. Imbecila!” He all but throws the book outside, ignoring the others’ startled looks – they’re not used to his… somewhat unique style of researching, the way the Skyhold librarians were – and reconsiders, again. The best resource on ancient Tevene he’s found – and this is the ancient stuff, the sort he’s only ever had to learn pieces of for spellwork, because who in their right mind would go for a form this archaic except for reasons of snobbery and secrecy? – is… Ah.

He realises that he shouldn’t still be thinking of it as “Gal’s library,” considering he half-lived down there himself, but he is. It was the place he could always find his – Gal squinting at some new theory or plan of action, dragging out long-forgotten textbooks and memoirs, coughing from the dust but being so thrilled at some new piece of knowledge or obscure trivia that he didn’t care. The way his eyes would light up.

Dorian tries to shake that thought aside and makes his way to the stairs, descending them and making his way over the balcony with an interrupt me and be immolated sort of stride, tome under his arm.

He all but runs down to the second library, opening the door and… pausing. There are a few books on the desk, the piles far more organised than his usual haphazard research structures. That seems a decent place to start; probably better than searching the entire collection first.

He puts the Regulus on the chair and then pulls books towards him, putting them aside as soon as he sees that they’re not what he wants – blood magic, blood magic, the making of grenades, a history of Minrathous, bloody Orlesian gourmet…

He looks up, frowning, at the tingle of faint magic, the hairs on the back of his neck raising and a hum beginning at his fingertips. It feels like someone whispering close by, not quite audible. Very close by, in fact.

He squints, moving the last book, and then can’t help himself – he opens the drawer underneath the desk.

And there, next to quills and inks, he sees the sending crystal.

There’s barely any dust on it, and as he picks it up, he notices faint marks, smudges across the finish. Almost as if – He runs an absentminded thumb over its faces. Yes. As if someone has done precisely that, several times. Or as if they’ve stood here and considered using it, before deciding not to.

He stares at it, weighing it in his palm. Why didn’t you, you bloody idiot?

He holds it, feeling the enchantment flowing through it, and tries not to be surprised. Here he thought Gal would have sold it, or left it for the enchantment to fade, untouched. He thinks of the other one of the pair, still with his things, tucked away under wrapped staff blades and a few lyrium potions. He wonders how often Gal sat here and almost spoke to him.

“Dorian!”

It’s the lack of a title and the breathlessness in Josephine’s voice that make him turn quickly, his heart sinking. “This isn’t good news, is it?”

“They’ve taken him.”

“Who?” But there’s a coldness in his chest, one growing rapidly, and he knows. He knows.

“The Venatori. They have Galahad.”

#my fic #reprise #dorian x inquisitor #male trevelyan #dorian pavus #post-trespasser #aus #maevaris tilani #sera #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #shield raised

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ramblinganthropologist · 9 years ago

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18. Wine tasting: Dorian/Kaas

Wow this is like... fourth on my list of prompts.

Better late than never.

“Dorian, this is pointless. Theyall taste like grape.”

“Nonsense, this is part of thefun.”

Kaaras was starting to get aheadache, and it wasn't from the alcohol. They had been at this fornearly a half hour and all he had gotten from it was that he reallyhated wine. If he ever regained taste in his tongue, he'd consider ita miracle.

“This isn't exactly what I wouldconsider a fun date, Dorian.” It came out as dry as the white –or was it red. Fuck, he didn't know they all tasted like rottengrapes to him – that he had tried a few minutes prior. Usually hewas a better sport about this, but it wasn't one of those days.

When the mage had come to him about afun thing to do on their next date, he had been all for it. Thatenthusiasm had been lessened the minute they had pulled up to thevineyard. Now, very much sober and even more bored, he had taken togiving the different bottles his own names.

Dorian seemed fond of the one he hadnicknamed 'Shem Piss', since he had gone back for seconds. A lot ofthe people there seemed to be, judging by the fact they crowded byit. It had tasted like its namesake, so one sip was good enough forhim.

“I promise it'll become interestingshortly. These things do tend to liven up after a few glasses.” Hetook a sip, then did the weird slosh thing someone had tried to teachhim but had gone right over his horned head. “Not bad, but aboutwhat you'd expect from Orlesian white.”

Kaaras couldn't resist an eye rollthat time. “I swear you're making this all up just to have me on.”

“Believe me, amatus. There areplenty of ways I'd wish to have you, and this isn't one of them.”There was a downright devilish glint in the man's eye as he smiled.It would have made a Desire Demon blush, but since there was none tobe found, the qunari filled in. Sometimes, he was just too much.

It passed just as soon as it had comeon; Dorian was back to normal. “You should try this one. It'scalled Elgar'nan's Wrath. I figure the name alone ought to pique yourinterest.”

It was one of the red ones he wasbeing offered; Kaaras might not have known shit about wine, but heunderstood that much. Maybe it was the nod to his heritage, but thequnari shrugged his shoulders and took the glass anyway.

After one sip he could understand thename; that was enough to put someone as large as the Iron Bull on hisass if he had enough. Still, it wasn't as bad as the others. It evenwon the honor of another sip, then a third.

Pleased, Dorian leaned back againstthe table his boyfriend had been hiding near, surveying the crowdwith an easy eye. Most of them Kaaras had noted were human, and ifhis ears were anything to go by, the majority makeup was Orlesian.That put both of them at a distinct disadvantage, though the mage hadthe advantage of not having horns coming out of his head.

“You have to admit, this is farmore pleasant than sitting in a stuffy war room watching Cullen andCassandra try to get one over Josephine.”

A lot of things were more enjoyablethat that; hell, watching paint dry might even register on the funscale with what they had to discuss some days. But, he had to admit,at least it was a nice day and he wasn't stuck inside.

“The company helps.” Kaaras hadto admit the wine had helped with that one. “Though I can't see whypeople enjoy this normally.”

Much to his surprise, Dorian chuckledas he set his glass aside. “Watch closely. That woman in theobnoxious hat is on her fifth glass, and her companion somewhere inthe seventh. I had heard rumors of affairs, but we'll see.”

The qunari quirked an eyebrow, but henodded. His patience, and his lover's enthusiasm, was rewarded. Thewomen were soon screaming at each other like they were in the middleof the Herald's Rest. All they needed was some blood on the floor anda lute in the background and it would be hard to distinguish the two.

“If only Sera were here, her arrowsmight prove a bit more entertaining.”

Kaaras kept watching; the one in thesilly hat had quite the right hook. “I might have to ask that oneif she's interested in joining the Inquisition with an arm likethat.”

“See? Now you're joining in thefun.”

Well, he wouldn't call it fun but itcertainly made things interesting. Kaaras shrugged his massiveshoulders and sat back to watch his lover survey the crowd. Of allthe things there, he was the most interesting thing of all.

Though that was definitely the winetalking.

“I could think of a few more thingsthat might be fun.” He was surprised at his own tongue, but thequnari decided to roll with it. In a fluid motion, he reached over totake the mage's hand. “Though they might require a more privatesetting.”

Dorian's face made it all worth it ashe set down his glass. “Oh? Do tell.”

“It would be more fun to show you.”He nodded his head towards the exit. Soon, they were walking towardsit as the crowd continued their squabble in the distance. Maybe itwould be a fun afternoon after all.

#This is silly #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Kaaras Adaar #Dorian Pavus #reallyfuckinggay

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stardustandash · 8 years ago

Text

Waiting on the Edge of the Abyss (chapter 2)

A Dragon Age Fanfic

Ëonwë Lavellan does not like the fade or tough decisions. Or, I can’t deal with Here Lies the Abyss so here’s a third option.

Chapter two time!

Read Ëonwë’s first adventure

Read on Ao3

With one ear Dorian listened as Hawke rounded up the remaining Wardens, claiming leadership until such time as the Inquisition decided their fate. Alistair in turn announced that he would be leaving to inform the Wardens as Weisshaupt of the corruption in their ranks and the death of Warden-Commander Clarel. Dorian couldn't care less about the Maker-damned Wardens though, he was far more concerned about the limp body in the commander's arms.

Ëonwë's senses came back slowly. First, he was aware of the cloth beneath him. It was soft, but not the familiar softness of his own bed. There was the taste of elfroot in his mouth, a bright earthy note on his tongue.Then he was aware of the hand holding his own. The thumb gently stroking across his knuckles had familiar callouses. Dorian. He was then aware of the voices. Dorian's was there, murmuring in Tevene, but there were others as well. Was he still at Adamant? How long had he been asleep. The next thing Ëonwë became aware of was the pain. His leg hurt, and his side. Ëonwë would not be surprised if his skull was fractured judging by how it felt like a whole team of dwarves had been mining it from the inside out. His breath must have hitched from the pain, because Dorian broke off his quiet murmurs.

"Lavellan?" asked Dorian in a quiet voice.

Ëonwë tried to answer, but all that came out was a dry moan.

"Come on Amatus, open your eyes for me."

He said it so gently, Ëonwë had to try, just for him. It was an effort, but Ëonwë managed to force his sleep-crusted eyelids apart. Dorian was there, looking worried and ragged, though wearing clean robes. Some time must have passed then. Beyond Dorian Ëonwë could see healers, magical and mundane. This place was familiar, and it took Ëonwë's tired brain a few minutes to realize he was in Skyhold's infirmary.

"Lavellan?"

Dorian's question dragged Ëonwë's attention back to him. His mind felt like pea soup and it was hard to concentrate.

"Wa-water?" Ëonwë asked in a raspy voice.

His throat felt like the hot sands of the Western Approach had been poured down it. Dorian was quick to comply to his request, sliding one hand around Ëonwë's shoulders to help ease him upright enough to drink from the cup Dorian held to his lips. Creators did the movement make his side sting, but the water felt wonderful against his throat.

"Thank you," said Ëonwë.

"You should know I absolutely detest playing nursemaid," said Dorian, but without any of the usual bite. The sarcasm was lost behind the worry that tightened his eyes and deepened the lines around his mouth.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ëonwë let his gaze roll over Dorian again, assuring himself that the man was fine. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and bathed only once in that time, but there were no visible injuries.

"Did you know your library has remarkably little on early Tevinter history?" said Dorian.

Ëonwë only shrugged. Really, he hadn't had time to actually read anything other than reports in months.

"All these gifts to the Inquisition and the best they could do was the Malefica Imperia. Trite propaganda. But if you wanted twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, you need look no further."

"Critiquing every book in my library?" Ëonwë grinned. Of course Dorian would be upset that they only had books with the southerners views on his homeland.

"I wouldn't have to, if you could find some rebellious heretic archivist to join the cause."

"Are there rebellious archivists? Other than you that is."

"If Corypheus ever starts burning masterworks of literature I'm sure a few would pop up."

Ëonwë laughed a little at that, though stopped quickly as a flair of pain burst in his side.

"I think I saw something by Genitivi there," said Dorian, beginning to rise.

Something in the way Dorian said that made Ëonwë think that the mage was yelling at him for something other than the fact that his library was lacking.

"What is this really about, Dorian?"

Dorian sat back down with a heavy sigh.

"When we fell into that castle, into the Fade, I thought you were done for," Dorian couldn't keep the emotion out of his voice, and Ëonwë felt utter guilt at causing that sadness. "I don't know If I can forgive you for that moment."

Ëonwë reached for Dorian's hand.

"I'm here, I'm alive, aren't I?" Ëonwë tried to reassure Dorian.

But Dorian shook off Ëonwë's hand. His face was stony and his eyes burned with emotion.

"You sent me ahead, and then didn't follow. For a moment I was certain you wouldn't. I thought 'this is it, this is where I finally lose him forever'. And then you do stumble out of the Fade, and for a second everything is all right. But you had to go and ruin the moment by bleeding all over the damn courtyard and bring that feeling right back."

Ëonwë felt properly chastised. But it hadn't been his intention to scare Dorian. He'd just wanted to make sure everyone who he dragged into that mess managed to get out of it. Creators, Ëonwë felt his age for the first time in a long time. He'd been playing the Inquisitor for too long, forgetting he was not even properly the first of clan Lavellan, forgetting that he was only a few short moons past his twentieth winter. And here he was, not for the first time, lying injured in a shemlen infirmary with too many people waiting for him to get back up and make life changing decisions for them.

"I'm sorry," offered Ëonwë.

Dorian just leaned down to press a soft kiss to his temple before taking his leave. Ëonwë wasn't sure what to do with that. But then a healer came by with a potion that made everything hurt less and he slipped back into a dreamless sleep.

Before he'd managed to make his escape out of the infirmary, many of the inner circle had been by to visit. Solas had been very curious about the Fade, and asked questions until Ëonwë's head spun and he was chased out by a healer to let Ëonwë get some rest. Blackwall had come to give him an update on the Wardens, Sera had snuck him a berry tart, Krem had been by to thank him for bringing back Iron Bull, and Iron Bull had been surprisingly quiet though winked when Ëonwë asked after Dorian. Dorian hadn't been to see him since Ëonwë woke. Neither had his advisors, though Ëonwë suspected it was because they would prefer him to get a moment of rest before diving back into business. He was bored and frustrated by the fourth day, and despite the healers insisting he stay on bedrest for a little while longer, Ëonwë managed to convince one of them with his famed doe eyes that he was fine to walk around with a crutch. This saw him hobbling around Skyhold, taking stock of morale. Everyone was glad to see their Inquisitor out and about, though the atmosphere in the courtyard was sombre. Even the tavern seemed somewhat subdued, though Ëonwë only glanced in as he made his way to where he spied Cassandra slaughtering training dummies.

"I think he's dead, whoever he is," called Ëonwë.

Cassandra spun around, though lowered her blade.

"Inquisitor! Did the healers say you could be up?"

No, but Ëonwë wasn't about to admit it.

"I'm fine. I'm sure there's a whole host of people waiting to hear my report of what happened in the fade."

Ëonwë just wanted to get the whole nightmare over with so he could move past it, preferably on to mending things with Dorian. Cassandra gave him a knowing smile.

"Luckily for you, we just need to hear the part where you were alone. I'll call the others to the war room, meet us there in half an hour."

Ëonwë nodded.

"And Inquisitor, I am glad you made it back to us."

"Thank you," said Ëonwë.

Half an hour. Just enough time to sneak to the gardens. If he was lucky, he could even avoid being hounded by Mother Giselle. Chantry sermons after just seeing the strange apparition of the Divine? Not something Ëonwë really wanted.

The garden was quiet. Morrigan and her son were there, as usual. Morrigan seemed content to watch Kieran while he investigated the various plants Ëonwë had planted from the seeds he collected on his travels. Movement on the battlements caught his attention. It was Alistair, warden armour shining bright in the pale sunlight. He had something in his arms. Ëonwë watched as he approached Kieran. Morrigan said nothing, though she seemed ready to spring into action.

"Hello, Kieran isn't it?" Alistair greeted cheerfully.

"Yes. Oh! I know who you are."

"Really?" Alistair looked oddly eager, hopeful almost.

"Yes! Mother says you helped her friend slay the archdemon," said Kieran.

It was more excitement than Ëonwë had ever seen from the boy before, but Alistair seemed disappointed by the answer.

"That's right. Anyways, I have it on good authority that your birthday may be soon, and I came to give you this," said Alistair, holding up the basket, which Ëonwë could now see was covered in a wriggling cloth.

"For me?" Kieran took the basket, and gleefully ripped off the cloth to reveal an utterly adorable Mabari puppy.

The dog took one look at the boy, gave a happy bark, and decided that Kieran's face needed the best washing of his young life.

"She'll need a name you know. And don't forget, Mabari are smart, so you should teach her as many tricks as possible."

"Noya," said Kieran.

"What was that?" Alistair looked shocked.

"Noya, like the Hero of Ferelden. Mother talks about her all the time. She says that Noya was fierce and protective for a mage. I think those are good qualities for a Mabari too."

"Noya still is fierce and protective. I think it's a great name," Alistair said.

With that Kieran eagerly ran over to Morrigan to enthusiastically show her his new pet. Ëonwë made a mental note to ask about what had just happened later. For now he was needed in the war room.

The meeting wasn't all that bad. And Josephine, bless her heart, had gotten him a chair. None of them commented when he sank into it gingerly, very aware of all the aches, bruises, and healing wounds still covering his body. From there he launched into his story.

Ëonwë had sent Alistair and Hawke ahead. The rift was close, so close, and he needed to see them leave. But he also had to get past the nightmare as well. So he told the advisors, how he had gathered the magic, and released it, hoping to stun the creature long enough to get a decent head start to the rift. He didn't count on the creature being immune to the stunning effect of his lightning magic. As soon as he had tried to run the thing had sent one of its spiny limbs straight through his side. The monster had retracted it, thank the creators, but the force had knocked him to his knees. The next blow had been to his head. He had tried to fade-step away, but being in the fade and all, it hadn't exactly worked. From there things were fuzzy, and he told as much to the advisors. How he managed to get past the nightmare creature was beyond him.

"I think I owe it to luck that I'm standing here," finished Ëonwë.

"I only wonder, could it really have been Divine Justinia you saw in the fade?" Leliana had a distant look in her eyes.

"I don't think we'll ever know now," said Ëonwë. Truthfully, he thought it could have been the Divine, or what was left of her spirit, but it could have just as easily been another spirit, who, like Cole, had taken the shape of the person it had tried to comfort.

"Your safe now, and on the mend. That's all that matters. We can debate if it was truly the Divine or not at a later date. Inquisitor," Cullen nodded to him, and took his leave.

Ëonwë was grateful. He was feeling all kinds of tired. Barely concealing a groan, Ëonwë stood slowly from the chair, trying to stretch out his stiff limbs without aggravating his wounds. He turned to go, but before he could leave Leliana's voice stopped him.

"Inquisitor, I believe I have something for you."

Ëonwë turned. Leliana was holding a small leather pouch. She gave it to him and Ëonwë curiously peeked inside, wondering what it could be. Inside was the amulet. Dorian's amulet. His dratted lineage. Ëonwë had almost forgotten their row in the market and his subsequent words to one of Leliana's spies in Val Royeux.

"Thank you."

With the pouch weighing heavily in his pocket, Ëonwë retired to his room with a lot on his mind. One of the healers found him just after he'd managed to drift to sleep. Back to the infirmary he went, but not before stashing the pouch in one of the drawers in his desk.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #da #da:i #da:i fanfic #fanfiction #my fanfic #dorian/inquisitor #dorian x inquisitor #dorian pavus #inquisitor lavellan #Ëonwë lavellan #hurt/comfort #h/c #fluff #support fanfic writers #fanfic

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