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[librivore42]

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[librivore42]

Hey, happy thedas weekend! I'm a bit late, but how do you feel about “ we’re okay— everything is gonna be okay. ” for the Hawke family ?

Oh @ezriell I'm feeling REAL good about this because I needed some good family feels today. For @thedasweekend Words: 504

Characters: Hawke family

~~~~~

"We're okay," she remembers her father saying, no matter how many times they had to run, and way he said it had always made her believe. "Everything is going to be okay."

And for a time, it was, until they lost him, and the weight of the family had to shift, like a body losing a limb, the rest not quite prepared to compensate.

But they did, and his memory of voice were like a comforting shadow.

"We're okay," he would say, and it's still true.

For years, though they run and hide and lose home after home, it is. Though it aches, there were fine and golden memories that were worth keeping.

"Everything is going to be okay," she promises, as Carver clutches her hand and laughs because it's both true and not. He's not going to survive to see Kirkwall, not even to see the next hour, but they're going to be okay, and if he has to stop here, at least the others go on.

The body shifts again, two phantom limbs that are always there. They've never really lost them, even though they must accommodate.

Carver's memories do not dim just because he's no longer there to keep them bright. The memory of his death is to be honoured, not made all of him. He's best remembered as he was, and the way he laughed even at the end.

"It's going to be okay." Somehow it is, because they have to keep living.

When her mother's head lies in her lap, she can't speak the words. Can't breathe at the unfairness of it all, but her mother smiles and ghosts a gentle touch on her cheek she'll cherish until her dying day.

"We're okay," she says, her voice ragged in her broken throat, and smiles as softly as she ever did. "I'm going to see them again."

And it hurts more than she could possibly believe, and it takes months to feel like she can breathe again, to truly believe that the monstrous memory of her mother's death is not all of her. To remember her as she was, and the way she smiled and touched her cheek as she'd always done.

Until she can get Bethany back, she's going to be deeply alone for a while. But so had her father been, waiting somewhere beyond Fade. His patience rewarded, his lost loves returned.

The body has lost so much. But it can go on, and so it must. The old limbs are warm, though there is little they can do to help her body, they do so much for her heart.

It will, it must, it has to be okay. She believed her father as a child. She will believe him now, over years and oceans. It will hurt, there is no balm for this pain, but it dulls, it dims, and we keep the better memories brighter.

If she stops, who protects her friends? There is love still in her body.

Everything, somehow, is going to be okay.

[librivore42]

Happy Thedas Weekend! Back on my Sweetness and Light Agenda: "You want a revelation, some kind of resolution? Tell me what you want me to say." - No Light, No Light, Florence and the Machine

The siren song of the Agenda calls me againnnn. For @thedasweekend

Words: 747

Characters: Melia Surana, Lux, Cullen

~~~~~

The day the sky split open, there was no Maker in the Golden City. Instead there was an outpouring of fear that rocked the world, already on the edge of breaking.

But then, the Maker hadn't been present when the ground had fallen out from Lux's feet, and the tower fell. There had been no miracle to save the children, only Lux's sweat and steel.

The Maker hadn't been present when she'd had to lie to save a life that had used hers for its own purpose in all the ways she was meant to fight against, and yet the lie had come of its own accord. Because if she had spoken the truth, they would have not waited to hear the rest. There had been no Maker then. Only Lux.

The Maker hadn't been present when Alrik had cornered her time and time again. Perfect soldier, perfect obedience. And she feared what he would order her to do, who he would make her hurt, a prospect far more frightening than abominations and blood mages, for those could be fought against with a blade, and she had no recourse against him. No Maker. Only Melia.

No revelations had come the day the tower fell, the lies were told, the blood was spilled, the sky was opened.

No resolution between them, brimming with anxious fear through two towers where perhaps they would have been best rid of each other, and a war that had separated them at last.

It should have been an end to things. But how could it, when they had just begun to bear each other again? When she had just allowed herself to see Melia for herself again, and not those nightmarish minutes that had called everything into question.

Though it had to be said, the moment of seeing her again had been a nightmare in and of itself. Alrik's cold touch and the cold look in Melia's eyes still played equals parts in nights that made her jolt awake. The heat of his blood and the warmth of her arm. Kinloch and Kirkwall, all confused, night-sweats and night-terrors.

And still the Maker had no answer. If only someone would give her the words to plead, the prayers to make, that would guarantee some certainty.

Work and duty were all she had. The Inquisition needed numbers, and Cullen needed someone he could trust. It had been easy to fall to new instruction, better instruction. Far away from the darkened halls of the circles and power wielded over her that she could not fight directly, even when she knew it was wicked.

Now, in the light, there could be understanding.

Now, in the light, they could work to resolution.

And Cullen, Commander unlike her first and the rest of them, had been kind to her. Had seen the cracks that splintered through her sense of belief as the idols they had been raised to worship crumbled before them. Recognised that they both needed purpose. That they would need to find one that was all their own, and not words laid upon a child who took to them when there was nothing else they could hear.

Kirkwall felt centuries away. She could protect without her hands tied so tightly. Did not have to fear that her actions would hurt her charges from on high. She could speak, make decisions, and people would hear if it was worth hearing.

It was not the Maker's light. But it was a light they had made, with sweat and steel and words of diplomacy and hope they barely thought they had.

And then the mages came, and at the head was a shadow Lux had seen too many nights since, ice in her eyes and the light behind, catching the curls of her hair like a halo as blood pooled on the floor.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Kinloch was here, Kirkwall was here, and if Melia would arrive like a ghost of flesh and blood, what could stop Alrik? What could stop Meredith?

But her heart shook and shattered, aching relief, because her friend was alive, who had been so good to her, who had tried to care for her. Who had used and hurt her. Who had protected her. And for all of it she ached to clutch her to her chest like a crying child, like a unicorn on a tunic, to protect to protect something precious.

And still there came no revelation.

[librivore42]

I opened you tumblr and IMMEDIATELY saw the reblog of spicy/jealous prompts lmao.

Whoever you want to do this for, let's get some good gothic possessiveness vibes up in here. (I mean I would not say NO to a sweetness and light gothic possessive au...)

❝ You should be mine. I don’t care what they say, you are mine. ❞

Lee, I'm really sorry in advance for co-opting your prompt for my Toxic Blood-Mage/Templar Yuri Agenda, but in my defense... No actually I don't have any defense, but you knew who you were prompting! Anyway, Sweetness and Light be upon ye!

Melia Surana/Lux, blood mage/brainwashed Templar toxic yuri, past mind control, sexual harassment, murder, first kiss, Women's Wrongs

@librivore42 | @guacamolleee | @thedasweekend

execution in her eyes, she pointed to her prize

The first time Alrik’s hand stays a little too long against her shoulder, Lux dismisses it as her own overactive imagination, a lingering echo of the blood magic that sent her fleeing from Kinloch Hold (the blood mage who’d been sent to the Gallows with her, for all her brief, foolish hope that she might escape the hold Melia Surana had taken of her body, her mind her soul). People do not, as a rule, touch Lux deliberately. She unsettles them too much for that, with her wide, empty eyes, her lack of the right emotions in the right places at the right times.

(Melia had touched her, once, had looped her arm through Lux’s like they were any two girls in any place other than the prison that had made Lux a Templar and Melia a half-mad monster, had leant her head against Lux’s shoulder like they were friends rather than enemies, or draped her legs across Lux’s lap while she worked on her embroidery. She does not like, even now, how these memories glow warm against her skin, when they should make her shudder. She does not like to look at Enchanter Surana, with her lowered eyes and modestly-folded hands, and think of how softly those hands held her, before the nails cut through her skin and commanded the very blood in her veins.)

There is nothing soft in Alrik’s hands, the second time he touches her. They are discussing a change in the Tranquils’ rota, or a new transfer, or something she should have been paying closer attention to when she realises that her back is to the wall, and Alrik is far too close to her. Close enough to block off her exit with a too-casually raised arm, a hand rested against her shoulder. There is nothing improper about a hand rested on a shoulder, a fraternal gesture between fellow warriors, a sign of friendship, even, but still, it twists something in her stomach, the same thing that writhes and revolts when he praises her mildness, her perfect obedience. It is a Templar’s place to be obedient to their superiors, and to the will of the Chantry. She does not understand why in his mouth, it sounds like something filthy.

His thumb creeps from her pauldron to the place where her gorget meets the bare skin of her neck, and she shudders. She cannot help but shudder, when his hands are as pale and chill as corpseflesh, when his eyes are cold and hungry with some desire she cannot name. Does not want to name-

“Ser Alrik?”

There is a clank as Alrik pushes upright, away from her, and Lux stiffens like a rabbit at a different, more familiar fear: the sound of Melia’s voice.

“Surana. What are you doing out of the workroom?”

Melia’s eyes are modestly lowered, but her hands, when she spreads the skirts of her robe into a curtsey, are white-knuckled and shaking, and Lux’s hand twitches over the hilt of her blade.

But her skin does not prickle with rising magic, and Melia’s knees bend with a calculated degree of deference: “Commander Stannard wishes to see you, and requests Ser Lux’s presence in the workroom. If you please, ser.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then I will inform the Knight-Commander that you are both- otherwise occupied.”

She looks up, then, and her smile is sweet, but her eyes-

Her eyes, when they meet Lux’s, hold the same half-wild look they held when Kinloch Hold broke, and Lux’s heart catches in her throat, her feet rooted to the floor, and she cannot tell if it is Melia’s magic, or only the memory of it, that pins her to the wall like one of the butterflies Alrik pins to boards.

“There shall be no need. Ser Lux will escort you.”

He turns on his heel, and is gone, and Melia moves to do the same, but Lux has her orders. She falls into step, three paces behind Melia, and watches her back with a curious mingling of terror and relief and guilt. There is something broken in her, that she prefers the company of this malificar to that of her brother-in-arms, but then, his hand on her shoulder had somehow felt far less than brotherly.

“Has he touched you like that before?”

She flinches at Melia’s voice, though she does not turn her head to meet her eyes again.

“Yes. Why?”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Who would I tell?” Otto Alrik is her commanding officer, a Knight Lieutenant appointed by the Commander herself. Otto Alrik is one of the few Templars in the Gallows willing to tolerate her strangeness, her stupidity. Otto Alrik is, if not liked, respected by their brothers. Lux is neither liked nor respected, and besides, he has done nothing wrong. There is no sin in hands on shoulders, or standing closer than she would prefer, and, if there was a sin in that…

Lux was asked Is Surana a blood mage?, back in Kinloch Hold, when Melia stood in chains, and she had meant to say Yes, and She was afraid, and She did not mean it, but what had emerged was: No, and was that lie not the greater sin? Perhaps this is her punishment, and she should accept it. Perhaps this is a test, as Melia's rebellion was a test. She failed the first. She cannot afford to fail the second.

The third time, she tries not to shudder, or flinch. She does not pull away, as his hand moves from her shoulder to her jaw, as those corpse-cold hands turn her face this way and that.

“So close to perfection,” he murmurs, with that awful hunger in his voice, “to obedience, to contentment. If only we could people the world with Templars as well-trained as you, Lux.”

Not Ser Lux, and for some reason, that too nauseates her — the presumption of closeness, of an understanding that they do not share.

“I gave you a compliment, Lux.” She does not like the way he holds her name in his mouth, the way he makes it sound filthy, indecent. “It is proper to thank your superiors, when they offer you compliments.”

She wants to look anywhere but his eyes, his gleaming, white-toothed smile. “Th-Thank you, Ser Alrik.”

“Better, but again. Like you mean it.”

Andraste, Lady of Sorrows, bear our grief as we bear it. Weep the tears we dare not shed, and help us carry our suffering more lightly.

“Thank you, ser.” It emerges more as prayer or plea than thanks, but she can tell, by the way his thumb brushes along her jaw, that it has pleased him nonetheless.

“Good-”

He does not finish the endearment she does not want. Instead, he chokes on it, sinks to his knees, face purpling, and the mingled wave of terror and relief come close to drowning her as she wonders: Is this a miracle?

It should not feel like a miracle, to bring a brother in arms so close to death, and yet-

The shadow in the torchlit doorway is slight and slender, and haloed in amber light that bleeds through her dark curls, and Lux realises this is no miracle, even as Melia quietly closes the door at her back, and slides the bolt home.

“Malificar,” Alrik rasps, as though he cannot raise his voice above a whisper, as though he can barely breathe. “I knew- your kind- would try to end my work-”

Melia tilts her head as she looks down at him, a delicate, birdlike gesture. Her every movement is delicate and precise. It always has been.

“Fascinating,” she says, looking down at him as if he is a stain on her favourite robe. “You think you matter to me at all.”

She flicks her fingers, and Alrik makes an awful, wretched gurgling sound as blood bubbles from his lips, and drips from Melia’s hand. Distantly, Lux knows she should be sounding the alarm. She does not cry out. She does not move for the door. She does not look away from Melia as she approaches, slow and inevitable as the end of the world. Alrik seems suddenly very far away, rather than at her feet, and then he is further away, as Melia kicks him aside with her slippered foot, and raises her bloodied hand to Lux’s cheek.

She knows she should pull away. She does not pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Melia says, and if her voice was icy, when she spoke to Alrik, it is burning now, with anger, yes, but something else, too, something warm and bright that Lux has no name for. “I thought, after what I did, that leaving you alone was the best thing I could do for you. I was wrong.”

“I-” I missed you. I fear you. “I don’t understand.”

Melia rises onto her toes, and gently draws Lux down until their lips brush, and is there not something monstrous, that where Alrik — a Templar, a brother-in-arms, a good man — had revolted her, she cannot pull away from Melia’s kiss? Her lips are warm and bright and bloody, and they burn away Alrik’s corpse-cold corruption on her skin, even as she knows, she knows, this should make her filthy.

Melia draws back far too soon, and Lux wants to cling to her, to never let her go, even as she wants to flee whatever strange enchantment she has cast over them both.

“If you are not mine,” she says, “you will be someone else’s. And if they were good, perhaps, I could bear it, but there are no good men in this monstrous place, so I suppose I must simply be the kindest monster.”

She wants to say There is good here. She wants to say Most of us mean to protect you. But she thinks of gentle, smiling Karl, with the sunburst brand between his brows, and knows that that would be a far greater lie than the one she told in Kinloch Hold.

Instead, she tells a different one: “You are not a monster.”

“That isn’t what your brothers-in-arms will say.” Melia’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. “But I don’t care what they say- what anyone says, any more. You should be mine to protect. You are mine.”

“I was made to protect you.” It is the only truth she has ever known, and she clings to it now, as Alrik drowns in his own blood, as Melia cups her face in a bloodied hand, and it is the gentlest touch she has ever felt.

Perhaps she was not made for gentle touches. Perhaps that is why this one breaks her so uttterly.

“Then protect me,” Melia says, as if it is simple. “And let me protect you from filth like him.”

Obedience is a virtue. Lux obeys, and leans down to kiss her once more.

[librivore42]

Happy Fridayyy!

I of course come to you again with a sweetness and light agenda with the prompt D'you think I forgot about you?

I can never resist the Sweetness and Light Agenda! For newcomers, Sweetness and Light is a nickname for a universe in which my Surana, Melia, befriends Libri's brainwashed child Templar, Lux, while they both live in Kinloch Hold, and they develop a fascinating and tragic Thing that should be studied in a lab in order to improve Toxic Yuri for everyone. The love was real. So was the blood magic and mind control Melia used on Lux to escape the Circle. On that note, let's see what the girlies are up to during Inquisition!

Melia Surana/Lux, angst, yearning, embroidery as a love language, trauma, post-betrayal, pre-relationship

@librivore42 | @dadrunkwriting

come and take my hand (revenant)

“You remembered I like horses.” Lux had meant to start with a proper greeting, or possibly an accusation: How dare you, perhaps, or How could you. She’d thought both, when she found the tunic laid out on her narrow bed in the Skyhold Templar barracks. The softest wool, finer than anything she’d ever worn before, dyed a deep, verdant green, and stitched, of course, with a unicorn across the breast. It is a lovelier version of a tunic she wore a lifetime ago, when they were two girls in a tower, and Lux did not yet know she was Melia’s gaoler. She knows it now, for all that, even behind warded bars, Melia still sits like a fairytale princess, curled in the sill of her barred window, lap full of embroidery silk.

She turns her head, smiles (slight, sad) and the sense of slipping ten years back in time is gone. They are girls no longer. The years have transformed Melia’s grace to elegance, her prettiness to beauty, and Lux… the most she can say of herself for certain is that her edges are honed, her skills sharpened. She does not know if Melia sees her as she is or as she was — the hardened Templar, or the girl who’s will she overwrote, who’s body she puppeted for moments that have lingered in Lux’s bones with the weight of centuries. The girl who might, in another world, where they’d been permitted such words, called her ‘friend’.

“You don’t have to keep it,” she says, which does not answer the question Lux realises she did not manage to ask, which is why? “You can- burn it, or give it away, or- I don’t know. I know it isn’t enough, to make up for what I did, but- I see you in the training yard from the window, and you only have uniforms now, and- I said you deserved pretty things, once. You still do. That’s all I meant by it, I swear.”

Her fingers tighten on the fabric, and she does not know if she wants to rend it in two, or cradle it to her chest like a newborn kitten, like something infinitely, terribly precious.

“I did not need a new tunic.”

She shakes her head, her curls dancing like flowers nodding heavy on their stems. “You never ask for anything you don’t need, but- I liked to give you things anyway, before.”

“I remember.” She cannot forget. She wishes she could. “I don’t understand why you do, though.”

Melia Surana is a Grey Warden, a rebel leader, a King’s mistress, if rumours speak true. Melia Surana is a blood mage, and a hero, and a monster. She stole Lux’s will to gain her freedom, and she has made good use of it, in the slaying of archdemons and the ending of Blights, and perhaps, in that light, it was not so heavy a cost. The knowledge does not make the past weigh more lightly upon Lux’s shoulders.

But when Melia looks up, and her dark eyes meet Lux’s, she is not a blood mage, or a monster, or a hero. She is the girl who said You deserve pretty things, who leant her head against Lux’s shoulder, and learned to turn thread into unicorns because once, Lux said she liked horses.

“Do you think,” she says, softly, “that I could ever forget you?”

She has been told that, within the confines of the cell, Melia’s blood magic cannot reach her. That cannot be true, because there can be no other cause for why Lux feels her heart shatter in two.

[librivore42]

happy friday! i like this for your hawke: "letters between two of your OC’s companions about them"

I like this for Hawke too @adainesjacket! Since you left it open I'll pick Brennan, hope you enjoy!

A tragedy told in five parts, culminating in All That Remains. For @dadrunkwriting

Words: 253

Characters: Varric Tethras, Aveline Vallen

~~~~~

To Guard Captain Aveline Vallen,

Viscount's Keep, Guard Captain's office,

Kirkwall.

We haven't seen you in weeks and nobody's letting us get in to see you. I've told Brennan you're busy with the city falling apart but he's climbing the walls thinking you've been kidnapped or something. Like Sunshine getting taken the Circle while he was gone. But you didn't hear that from me. Just send us a letter or something so he knows you're okay. Not to him. Again, you didn't hear he's worried from me.

Felicitations and salutations,

Varric Tethras, of house Tethras.

~~~~~

Varric,

You don't need to address the letter to Kirkwall, we're in Kirkwall. Tell Brennan that everything's fine. I'm alive and unkidnapped. I'll see you all soon.

Aveline.

~~~~~

To Captain Aveline, first of her name,

Why do you grudge me my sense of fun? I don't know if he believed me, but at least Kirkwall's keeping him busy. Pretty sure he's about to single handedly start a war by mouthing off to the Arishok one too many times. Or maybe he'll piss off sister Petrice so much she'll convince the Chantry to call an Exalted March on the Amell estate specifically. I'll try and make sure that doesn't happen. It'll only make your workload worse, and then we can kiss all of our games of Wicked Grace goodbye.

Respectful regards

Famous author Varric Tethras Esq.

~~~~~

Varric,

Keep him out of trouble. Please. Give my best to Leandra and everyone else.

Aveline.

~~~~~

Red.

You have to come. Now.

Varric.

[librivore42]

happy friday! how about an overheard conversation about your OC for garnet aeducan?

Happy Friday! Ooh I like this one a lot @vigilskept. Let's dig into Orzammar for this one, before the events of Origns. For @dadrunkwriting

Words: 435

Characters: Garnet Aeducan, Bhelen Aeducan, Trian Aeducan.

~~~~~

"She's our sister, Trian," Bhelen murmurs softly, the heated words still burning the air long after Garnet has gone.

"Exactly, Bhelen." Trian always was too imperious for his own good, and he looks his brother over with a critical eye as if he's already the king, and Bhelen his willing subject. "She's our sister, and an Aeducan. She should be behaving like one."

The weight of the Aeducan name was a heavy enough burden without Trian using it to bludgeon anyone into behaving the way he wanted. Bhelen had learned just to sink, to be quieter and smarter and not raise his head high enough to be struck. Neither heir, nor favourite, nor as accomplished as either, he had learned to sink into the soft shadows, and hone is talents elsewhere.

But Garnet had always been different. Most stubborn, always locking horns with Trian and refusing to bend to his will as eldest and heir, no matter how much he might have the right of it.

"She hates you, I'm sure." Bhelen's voice is light, polite, perfectly disguising his glee. Maybe one day they'll be so angry they'll tear each other apart.

"So let her hate me," Trian snorts. Garnet's anger is hot and fierce as a volcanic eruption, all noise and sudden violence, and then it abates as quickly. "It'll pass."

"One of these days, brother, she might burn you before the lava cools."

Bhelen was always saying such things, and Trian had never paid much attention to what his brother said.

"You've mentioned," he says, sounding almost bored. "Tell me, when is she going to assassinate me, Bhelen?"

"It's no laughing matter, Trian. She's the more popular one, even you can't ignore that." No matter how arrogant you are. "People like her. She talks to them."

"She wastes her time."

"She has support. If she wanted to take the throne—"

Bhelen flinches back as Trian rounds on him, a flash of hot rage passing over his face. Maybe he pushed too far. Garnet's never wanted the throne, she's been more than clear about it, but if he can only plant the suspicion, that would be enough.

"I am the heir." Trian's voice is low, a threat as heavy as a war-hammer poised above Bhelen's head. "And I'll do what it takes to make sure it stays that way. You'd both do best to remember that."

Bhelen raises his hands, takes another step back and sinks back into shadowy softness, gracing Trian with his most accommodating, servile smile, that gives no indication of the dagger hiding beneath.

"Of course, of course. Who could forget?"

[librivore42]

Thursday Bangers (EXACTLY on Thursday)

Thank you so much @lottiesnotebook for tagging me! @woundedsoul12 and @brennacedria, a thank you to you as well for this wonderful idea.

Rules:

Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn’t have to include the prompt just whatever you’re inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn’t have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

Prompt:

I may be disturbed but won’t you concede Even heroes have the right to dream

~~~~~

What right does a hero have to dream? Surely there's not enough room carrying the dreams and hopes of everyone else.

It feels wrong to think of herself, when the Blight hangs heavy on the Warden's shoulders. The play of firelight on deft hands makes all of Thedas fall away, just for tonight, but it will be back, dark and ugly and screaming. So perhaps there's not point in reaching for those hands, lest she lose them in the trying. The present itself is a nightmare. Carving a dream out of it may take more power than she possesses.

It feels wrong to even breathe easy, when Kirkwall is a noose around the Champion's neck. But laughter flows as freely as the cheap alcohol, burning his stomach and heating his heat when he was sure it had frozen over. The present moment feels like a candle against an incoming tide, but he curls around it all the same. The past is a nightmare, the future uncertain. Let this flickering present be a passing dream.

It feels wrong to think of 'I', when the world looks only to The Inquisitor. This Fade-green identity is a facade as obscuring as any Orlesian mask. Those few who see beyond it make it easier not to forget her 'I', to lose her past to a future where she is nothing but the mask. The present lies perched on the edge of a blade, too ready to fall into that future.

Some nights, the Inquisitor dreams of being herself.

Some nights, the Champion dreams of peace.

Some nights, the Warden dreams. Of nothing special, simply as long as it isn't more nightmares.

~~~~

I tagggg @miladydewintcr @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @floralprintsharks and @the-barefoot-hatter

[librivore42]

happy thedas weekend!!!! "i am not a fool entire, no, i know what's coming" is a lyric from bitter water by the oh hellos-- it was giving me some angsty warden vibes ?

I'm right there with you @veilguardiumleviosa. I'm feeling a dramatic sort of monologue so here you go, I hope you like it!

For @thedasweekend

Words: 360

Characters: Dwarf Warden (Garnet Aeducan)

Warnings: Ruminations on death

~~~~~

I am not a fool. First and last, no longer. Blood was the price of of a moment's foolishness, dearly paid. It bought me this future, such that it is, dark and ever-racing, waiting to meet me with eager arms.

To think that I had thought my exile in the Deep Roads to be my final walk to death. Inevitable and present always, waiting only for me to lay down and sleep. The Joining has shown me the truth of it, washed my eyes clear with its tainted blood.

I feel that touch of death always on the wind. In the Stone under my feet, forever lost to me, and in the water I drink that turns to dust in my mouth.

Am I still my father's daughter? I hardly feel myself some days. How completely they took you from me. My stone and bones. Brother and mother. And left me the blood-price or death.

If only I'd known it had hardly been a choice. Death was always part of it. But now it hides in the shadows, no waiting to embrace me and lay me on the Stone's breast. Like a scavenger, it simply waits for me to fall, to take my skin and bones and twist them into everything I have fought against.

Was it worth it, this temporary escape from the Roads, only to know that I will, in time, have to walk them again?

Yes, always yes.

If I was taught anything, it was to fight with all my resources until the bitter end. The Darkspawn do not despair, they do not bargain, do not quail. My blood, my body, my life, have bought me a more distant end. More time to fight. More time to spill the blood that every day becomes more a part of me.

I know what is coming. Whispers and darkness and something that sounds like a wordless promise. Not of glory, nor riches, nor power. Purpose? It calls, always distant, always present. I know what it will make me, in time.

I only hope I will have spilled enough blood to make it all worth it, when the time comes.

[librivore42]

When they find you humerus

[librivore42]

hello! i'm late for thedasweekend prompts, oops. anyway, you mentioned in your recent tags about wanting to explore the scary/semi-monstrous side of wardens, so how about alistair/garnet being a terrifyingly in-sync battle couple?

YESSSSS @griffongrey YOUR MIND. This is referenceing this post. Let's dig into some action-spookies for @thedasweekend. I had SO much fun with this.

Extra tag for @highwayphantoms because you wanted some Warden food!

Words: 654

Relationships: Alistair/Garnet (Warden Aeducan)

Warnings: Canon typical violence in some detail, mild references to body horror

~~~~~

There was something almost natural about the scrabbling motion as Garnet tore her way up an ogre's back, her dual blades sinking into its flesh the way other claws sought to sink into hers. Somewhere in the chaos she could hear Alistair banging his shield to draw a genlock's ire long enough for her to savage her prey's eyes and leap on the genlock before it could reach him.

From his human throat tore a defiant yell that held the echoes of the familiar. Hoarse and rattling screeches that haunted the Deep Roads and every dwarf's fears, and that too felt almost natural instead of filling her with dread as it should.

They were neither of them ghouls. But they were tainted all the same. They could feel each other as they could feel any darkspawn blood, and in those early unguarded moments, in the space between the terrible nightmares and the waking, it was impossible to distinguish ally from monster. Monstrous instinct battled with revulsion, it was too easy to grab a blade and follow the line of the body's alarm until the brain screamed stop.

They knew better now. Garnet would recognise the hum of Alistair's tainted soul against hers through an army of darkspawn. Like plants seek the sun, like their bodies were drawn to the ground instead of falling upwards into the sky. Like the lava flowed to its ultimate end.

The genlock's blood spattered his golden hair, the blinded ogre's screaming and stumbling fading somewhere less immediate, and he shot her a fierce grin that was all teeth and hunger, hunger, hunger.

Oh Ancestors, the hunger. They didn't particularly need to eat as much as they once did, but the ever-present want was deeper than any abyss. To eat, to fight, to clutch—

He was dragged from her vision by another ogre, and she felt the sick crunch in the back of her teeth as he smashed against the rock face.

It should have shattered him on impact, every bone splintering and fighting for escape through his flesh, but he just shook his head dazedly, trying to steady his grip on his still-present sword to impale the creature's wrist.

There. The hum again. She knew, instinctively, what he needed. The same way he would force enemies into her waiting arms with his shield, the same way she knew when he would strike high so she could strike low, it was more and deeper than simply knowing each other well in battle.

One could spend twenty years fighting alongside one another, and still not react half as quickly, half as perfectly, as the Wardens did together.

Darting in and out, she slashed and worried at the ogre's ankles until, enraged, it lifted Alistair to shoulder height, ready to smash one with the other for all the good it would do. Confusion and anger made the creature's grip drift towards its body. Just high enough, just foolishly close enough, for Alistair's blade to find its shoulder, for it to release him with blood and roaring as she struck, struck, struck, severing some of those mighty pillars that kept it upright.

And these are only two Wardens, was a thought whispered often enough among their companions. Among the Dalish elves. The dwarves of Orzammar. The people of Redcliff and Denerim. Grateful, always grateful, full of the awe and respect of the old legends. And tinged with fear.

The story of the dragon is not the same as feeling the heat of its breath. At yet even still they only saw the outside of it. The efficiency, frightening as it was, was a blessing. A protection.

They would never feel the hum. The endless hunger. The lack of sleep and nightmares that came regardless. The teeth and claws that seemed always just under the skin, under the gums.

The story of the dragon is nothing at all like feeling it under your skin.

[librivore42]

Happy Friday!! For Cal Hawke ❛ i couldn’t stop missing you if i tried. ❜

thank you!! here's some Mixed Feelings™ during the events of Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts for @dadrunkwriting

Words: 750 Warnings: none

-

11 Firstfall, 9:42 Dragon Halamshiral

Cal still thought he was insane. It was one thing for Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, to attend a masquerade held by the Empress of Orlais. It was quite another for the man who lit the fuse for the breaking of the Circles to be there, even if he was there in full Warden regalia.

Anders was having none of it. Instead, he seemed to be having the time of his life every time Cal happened to see him. For a man who had been so keen on leaving the Grey Wardens behind, he seemed totally at ease wearing their colors and acting as if he hadn’t simply left for a full decade.

It was almost like seeing a different person. Even so, Cal knew him well enough to see past the mask. From wherever they were lingering—outside with Varric and his admirers, in the ballroom with Lady Josephine, or in the quiet refuge of the trophy room—they knew Anders wasn’t quite as relaxed and self-assured as he was projecting. They could see the tension in his spine, the way he withdrew from anyone who tried to touch him, the false smiles.

They didn’t, however, see him approach. Instead, Cal only realized Anders had come up behind them when they felt the Veil humming in response to Justice’s presence. An instant later, he draped an arm around their shoulders, pulling them close. His brazen appearance at the Winter Palace had been the first time Cal had seen him in months, and they couldn’t bring themself to resist.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you missed me,” Anders said in a low voice. The trophy room was mostly deserted, most of those in attendance having gone to the ballroom to see what the Inquisitor was up to, but both of them knew better than to assume no one was listening to them.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t,” Cal replied. After everything that had happened at Adamant Fortress, they’d been deeply glad that Warden-Commander Mahariel had kept Anders well away from all of it, but they’d also desperately wished he had been there. Carver had helped as best he could, but he didn’t understand. Anders would have understood. “I missed you terribly. I don’t think I could’ve stopped missing you even if I tried.”

“You know, I think you mentioned that in your letters once or twice,” he teased, though his tone was fond.

“I know you said you’re here on behalf of the Warden-Commander, but why are you really here?” As much as Cal suspected they knew the answer—as much as they hoped they knew the answer—they still felt compelled to ask. Just in case the little voice in the back of their head that screamed that everyone would abandon them given half a chance was right.

Anders released his hold on them for just a moment, long enough to move to stand in front of them, before he set his hands on their shoulders and said firmly, “I’m here because you are. Because I couldn’t join you at Adamant, and because I missed you.”

As much as Cal wanted to believe him, they couldn’t. Even now, years after reconciling, it was a struggle to believe him. He had never lied directly, no, but the evasion and the half-truths had done damage all the same.

“You’ve done more than anyone could have asked,” Anders said softly, seeming to understand their hesitation. “Come with me to Amaranthine.”

“I can’t leave. Not yet.” Cal sighed and took a step back, forcing Anders to take his hands back. “It’s my fault Corypheus isn’t still locked away in that prison. I can’t turn my back on this. I won’t.”

“And you won’t let me join you at Skyhold.”

“It’s bad enough that you’re here.”

“Well, if you’d prefer that I leave…”

Cal snatched at his wrist. “Don’t you dare. Not yet.”

Anders flashed them a sly grin. “I’ll come find you again later. And… you know, we’re going in the same direction, if you want some company on the road back to Skyhold.”

Despite themself, Cal chuckled. “I could be convinced.”

And then he was gone again, off to no doubt tell more tall tales about a Blight he barely saw. Cal watched him go with fondness deep in their chest, then began to meander back in the direction of the courtyard where they’d left Varric fending off his more ardent admirers.

[librivore42]

Happy Fridayyyy it's me here to be a PEST. Asking politely for something Cal & Lux related with the lyrics

'There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back/Well, tell her that I miss our little talks' (Little talks - Of Monsters and Men)

HI LIBRI i hope this satisfies hehehehe

Lux belongs to @librivore42 of course <3

@dadrunkwriting

Words: 992 Warnings: none

-

Fall, 9:45 Dragon Kirkwall

Cal wasn’t sure when they had stopped thinking about the Circle. Its shadow had loomed over them ever since that day in late autumn when their magic had made its first appearance. For close to a decade, it had been the walls that sealed them off from the wider world; those same walls had sealed off their heart for some years past that.

But it was over. There was no more Circle. No more templars. No more mages turned Tranquil against their will, no more children and barely-adults forced through Harrowings. No more Circle walls locking them in. No more shadow hanging over them.

The Divine had decreed it be so—though Cal suspected the Inquisitor was the one who truly deserved the credit, she who brought the rebel mages into the fold as allies rather than as conscripts, who never shied away from magic and saw it as something just as natural as birdsong and mud that stole boots in the spring.

No, Cal hadn’t given much thought to the Circle in months. For so many years, it had been inescapable, and now… for more than a year, they’d been free. It still wasn’t safe to be a mage, especially in Kirkwall, but Cal had learned how to deal with the whispers of demons as a child. So long as they did not reach too far, did not draw too much power, it was easy enough to brush their malign influences away.

And then they’d come upon a box full of old letters while cleaning. It was not a large box, nor was it one Cal recognized. It had been tucked away in the cellars, and the thick layer of dust on the lid suggested it had been there for quite a few years. It wasn’t as if Cal had to clean—in theory they had household staff to do that—but something about sweeping up dust was deeply satisfying to them, and so they’d stumbled across the box. They’d carried it up the stairs and into the library, where a fire burned low and steady in the hearth and where Anders had spent much of the afternoon engrossed in a book. Sprawled across the chaise, Anders glanced away from his book long enough to ask, “What’s that?”

Cal set the box on the floor, then settled beside it. “I’m not entirely sure yet. Looked like letters when I took a peek downstairs, but whatever’s in here has been down there for a while.”

“You think someone left it while you were gone?”

“I can’t imagine why someone would break in just to leave a box of letters,” Cal said wryly as they removed the lid and set it aside. “No, I think it’s probably been there for at least a decade. Could be older—we weren’t particularly thorough when we cleaned out the cellars.”

“Let me know if you find anything scandalous,” Anders said, his tone amused, then turned his attention back to the book in his hands.

Likewise, Cal focused on the box. The letters piled inside seemed to be in no particular order but rather seemed to have been tossed in haphazardly. They plucked one off the top of the pile and unfolded it with care—and stared at it for a long moment.

The writing on the letter. They were looking at their own handwriting. That was—

Cal inhaled sharply. In the top corner, the letter was dated.

The eighth day of Justinian, 9:26 Dragon. The twins’ fifteenth birthday.

They didn’t have to read the letter to remember. They’d only been Harrowed the previous fall, and had been skeptical of Raimund’s promise that if they wanted to write a letter back to their family, that he would ensure it reached them. Still, they’d written it. Even then, after six years in the Circle, their hope hadn’t been completely snuffed out.

How was that letter here?

Cal set it aside and reached for another letter. This one was newer, dating back to their first year in Kirkwall. It was addressed to their mother, and spoke of Lothering, of the devastation to the home Cal had never gotten a chance to know.

It was a box of Leandra’s letters—the ones she’d received, anyway. The time around her death was fuzzy in Cal’s memory, blurred by raw grief, but they were quite certain they’d had no part in collecting these letters and storing them away. Had Orana done it?

Had their mother left the box there for them to find?

Their heart ached in their chest, and they set the letter from Lothering back into the box. Instead, they reached for safer ground: the letter they’d written, never expecting it to actually reach its intended destination. After all, Cal had stayed behind when they left. It had been safer for everyone if Cal didn’t know where they went. How Raimund could have found them… Cal realized they didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t change anything now, nearly twenty years later.

It was a benign enough letter, nothing that might have drawn notice or punishment down on their head. Well wishes, vague references to what they’d done in the Circle. A mention of Lux.

Oddly, Cal realized they missed her. As strange as she’d been, she’d been nice. Genuine, in a way few templars were.

“I’m guessing that’s a no on the scandalous letters,” Anders remarked.

They hesitated for a moment, certain it was a ridiculous question to ask, then decided to ask anyway. “Did you know Lux? One of the templars in Kinloch.”

Anders was quiet for a long moment. Then, eventually, he said, “I did.”

“Do you ever wonder what happened to her?”

He shrugged. “Once in a while. You?”

“I think I was so focused on not thinking about Kinloch that I forgot all about her,” Cal admitted. “I hope she’s doing okay, wherever she is. She was one of the good ones.”

[librivore42]

Hi happy Fridayyyy. I bring you

We're gonna fall eventually So baby don't stop, don't stop Do it again

Maybe for Adrel who has been through so, so very much.

Please accept ~850 words of Adrel & Jowan in their Circle days for @dadrunkwriting! This is... fluff with teeth, I'd say. Bittersweet fluff. These lyrics are from Arizona by Carter Vail, which is SUPER catchy so thank you for introducing me to the song :)

"Wait, Adrel, how'd you do that?" Jowan reached out and flicked his hand right through the light, frowning as it dissolved under his fingertips. "Show me."

"Jowan..." They didn't mean to whine; he pouted, though, eyes full of Jowan's favourite kind of mock hurt. "We were taught this literally yesterday. Don't tell me you weren't paying attention."

Jowan's answering giggle was guilty, his knees pulled up to his chest. "Maybe I wasn't."

They were terrible at telling him no, even if he absolutely should have been listening. They were going to get tested on all of this at some point, and then he'd be fucked.

At least, that was probably what the Harrowing would involve. Adrel couldn't count anything out. "Fine, it's like this." They cupped their hands closer, twisting their right wrist over their open palm and clicking their fingers. The light reappeared, steadier this time.

Needing to click to cast without a staff was a bad habit - or at least, that was what Irving said - but the effect was worth it. The pale blue light reflected in Jowan's eyes, wonder lightening his expression. "This would be so good for..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but Adrel knew what he did sometimes, when they were all meant to be shut in their rooms past curfew. He wasn't half as subtle as he pretended to be. "Didn't you think any of this when they were doing it in lessons?"

Jowan shrugged. "It was light in there. I didn't realise it did something other than looking pretty."

"Most magic does things."

"Now you know that's not true." Jowan laughed. "Not unless you get really creative with it."

"Can't you two just kiss or go to bed?" Gabien's voice rang across the room, blurred with sleepiness. Adrel jumped, their light going out. "Enough with the flirting. Some of us are trying to sleep."

Adrel couldn't help it; they made the loudest retching noise they could summon in the moment, collapsing into laughter when Jowan did the same at almost exactly the same time. "We'll be quieter," they promised.

"You better be."

When silence settled again, Adrel turned to Jowan, and they both pulled a face. Laughter hissed out of them like steam from a kettle, both of them shaking the mattress with near-silent giggling.

Jowan pulled the blanket over both their heads. It would be too hot, but it would block some of the light and noise. Maybe then the others wouldn't be so bothered. "Go on," he whispered. "Do it again."

Adrel did it again, and Jowan immediately batted his fingers through it. "Again." They cast it closer this time, practically snug with their throat, but Jowan hesitated only for an instant before he jabbed a finger into it. "Again."

This time, they practically hurled it to the edge of the bed, trying to dart it out of his reach. It was a silly game, barely a game at all, but here in the quiet after curfew it was the closest Adrel could ever get to contentment. They were pretty sure Jowan felt the same, or he wouldn't keep poking, keep prodding.

Keeping their focus coiled tight, Adrel pulled it to and fro under the blanket, keeping it just out of Jowan's reaching grasp until-

Jowan lunged a little too far, overbalancing at the edge of the mattress and tumbling onto the floor with a thud. Adrel's heart caught in their throat and the light died once more. He stood, scrambling back to sit on the edge of the bed, but the damage was done. Someone else shifted in their bed.

"Jowan, please." It was Elissa this time, her voiced strained through annoyance. "Shut up. Or I'll go out and make a fuss so someone comes to make you stop."

None of the others had said anything, though Adrel knew most of the room was awake, if not all of them. At that, though, something closer to silence settled over the room.

"Elissa, you-"

"I'll do it, Adrel." Her voice was a warning Adrel didn't know if they had to heed. "Don't think I won't."

"Stop fussing and let us have this, alright? The Templars will get all of us eventually," Jowan said. Adrel was pretty sure that only they were close enough to hear the slight shake in his voice. "I'm not scared. Grow up."

Elissa made a grumbling noise, but Adrel heard her turn over instead of following through on her threat. She always backed down eventually, Adrel just hated standing up to her. Jowan was better at that, in a way he was better at so many things.

Jowan threw the blanket back over their heads. Without the light, they could barely see him, but they tried to meet his eyes in the darkness anyway. "Don't let the Templars get you."

They couldn't see his mouth, but they knew the light exhale that left his nose; he was smiling. Laughing at them. "They're not coming tonight. Come on, Adrel. Do it again - but green this time."

This time, when they cast it, they didn't need to snap their fingers. And if Jowan didn't see the tears prickling their eyes, they didn't see the relief in his expression either.

[librivore42]

Hello hellooooo

What if. What if more of that Mal/Blackwall modern AU? I want to see Blackwall falling and going oh no no bad idea, VERY bad idea.

thank you! here's a little addition to this au, where my cadash is in witness protection with thom as her handler

blackwall/f!cadash, modern au, 576 words, @dadrunkwriting

°˖➴〰️〰️〰️‏જ⁀➴〰️〰️〰️°˖➴

Thom leafs through the dossier on Malika Cadash for the thousandth time. From its crisp white pages it tells a story of a hard, cold woman; a drug smuggler who has evaded law enforcement and her own gang for three long years, a criminal with confirmed counts of larceny, smuggling, and petty violence.

'Mal' is a different story. Mal is soft and tired, wearing loose flannel pyjamas and leaning heavily on her crutches as she opens the door for him. He gets a flash of the creamy white skin just above her breasts as she straightens up and his mouth goes dry.

"Groceries," he stutters, gesturing to the tote bags of necessary supplies he'd brought up from the supermarket in the village. "I figured you wouldn't be up to walking down that hill any time soon."

"My hero," she says dryly. "Uh, come in? Sorry for the…" she gestures awkwardly at her state of mild undress, the crutches getting in her way. "I wasn't expecting company."

"It's your home, Ms Cadash," he says, following her down the hall.

"It's Mal," she calls back over her shoulder. The cottage kitchen is bright and airy, and looks exactly as clean and bare as he'd left it before she moved in.

"Have you been eating at all?" He asks, professionalism forgotten for a moment in his concern.

She sits at the kitchen table and shrugs. "Someone left a box of pop-tarts in the cupboard. And there were apples in the fruit bowl, so at least I won't get scurvy."

Thom tuts and makes a mental note to better prepare the kitchen next time. "I guess you haven't felt up to cooking in those crutches," he says, feeling like an idiot as he brings out fresh vegetables, boxes of pasta and rice, and other staples from the grocery bags. "I should have got you some ready meals, something easy."

"I'm a terrible cook," she admits.

He is supposed to do a welfare check, give her some new documents to sign, and be on his way. Instead he says: "I could cook dinner for you."

Mal looks as surprised as he is when she says yes, but it's hard to get a word out of her after that. He silently chops up onions, celery and carrots and adds some fresh garlic, and when it hits the sizzling oil in the pan she perks up and sniffs the air like a rabbit.

"I can't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal," she says wonderingly. "This can't be in your job description."

"My job is to help you adjust," he says, sliding some mince into the pan to brown. "And to keep you alive. That includes not letting you starve."

Mal licks her lips and continues to survey him. "How did you end up in this job, anyway? No-one puts 'babysitting failed drug dealers' in their career goals."

For a mad second he thinks about telling the truth. Neither of them are saints, he thinks, but while Malika is a criminal, she was more unlucky than malicious. A girl who fell in with the wrong crowd and attracted the wrong kind of attention. She is brash, and beautiful, and fearless - and she is counting on him to keep her safe. He has spent years erasing the stain of his past to make Thom Rainier a trustworthy man.

"I was recruited," he says, and puts a saucepan of water on to boil.

[librivore42]

howdy and happy friday! how about some messy handers for “You’re self-destructing.” “I’m enjoying the moment. Ever heard of that?” - @heylavellan

oooooh I love this @heylavellan thank you! I've done this prompt for Brennan and Fenris and I'm so excited to see how differently it looks for Bryony and Anders.

For @dadrunkwriting Words: 591

Relationships: Bryony/Anders (f!Handers)

Warnings: Self destructive behavior.

~~~~~

The clinic had worryingly become Bryony's regular haunt, and not the way Anders would prefer. Her visits in his imagination involved much less blood and bruises.

Of course she had an aggravating tendency to do things by herself, but the amount of injuries she turned up with couldn't be explained away by the work Kirkwall kept throwing at them. It was like she was going out of her way to get into fights, into trouble, into more extreme ways of getting hurt.

He frowned at the bruises at her throat, trying not to think too hard about the fingers that had caused them, and whether she'd left them intact.

"You're self destructing," he said, voice low but all too audible in the silence.

"Enjoying the moment," Bryony shot back quickly, her smile too sharp, dagger-like and pointed at him to stop him from getting any closer. "Just living life out in Kirkwall."

Anders did not smile back. Biting down a surge of frustration, he folded his arms and stared at her as if he could pick apart the irritating puzzle she was with his eyes alone. The cocky stance that was hardly genuine, the smile that was even less so, and bright eyes that were watching him closely like he was just another threat.

A picture of brilliant confidence and careless laughter. None of it real, not for weeks now.

She hadn't even started turning up until Varric had practically forced her, making excuses about not wanting to waste Anders' limited supplies or his energy on spirit healing. Touching, but he knew why he was avoiding her.

It was an act that could fool most of Kirkwall, but Anders had seen the mask slip, no matter how much she tried to keep him, and the rest of them, at arms' length. It had been easier for him to see than anyone else. After all, hadn't he done the same for years? Cocky confidence and a cheeky smile covered a lot of scars you didn't want people looking too closely at.

Bryony had definitely recognised that in him early own. Recognised that he saw her too clearly.

And everything about her right now was screaming at him not to look too close, to give her the grace she'd given him. Not to pry, not to push.

But he hadn't ever taken it this far. He didn't have a bruises around his throat that must have been a moment away from killing her. He didn't have a scar from a wound that would have spilled her insides across Lowtown.

"Bryony."

Her smile flickered at the gentle plea in his voice, switched off with unnerving speed as she pushed herself away from the wall. She used to have the decency to collapse on his floor, not run away as soon as he expressed any concern. Not this time. He reached the doorway before she did, not that he'd be much of an obstacle. Taller than her, yes, but he was a malnourished mage at the end of the day, and her sword probably weighed more than he did on a good day. She could shoulder him aside without a thought.

A surprise, then, when she didn't, instead flinching back like his proximity might burn her.

"Get out of the way, Anders," she said much too quietly. Weary.

"Not until we talk." He was ready to be every bit as stubborn as she was. More besides. He was a champion of running away, and he certainly wasn't going to let her get away with it.

[librivore42]

Happy Friday!!! My turn to be self-indulgent! Lux/Melia and "the terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue / and I know I shouldn't love you but I do" - Bitter Water, The Oh Hellos

One day I will actually write something happy for them but TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY. In fact I've made it worse by putting it in the universe where Lux stays in the Tower with her doubts. Come feast on this melancholy @lottiesnotebook and @dadrunkwriting

Words: 531

Relationship: Lux/Melia

~~~~~

Lux had liked for Melia for her kindness. For her care. Care for her in return.

But then, Lux cared for people. It was something nobody had managed to disabuse her of.

Envied Melia, perhaps, for how people seemed drawn to her. Trusted her. Loved her.

A strange thought, a strange feeling. And all it did was intensify the little core called Loneliness, that she didn't recognise by name but felt all the same.

A strange thought. A strange feeling.

She was not made to be loved or cared for.

She was made for use.

So perhaps it was silly to fear Melia, for how easy it had been to take Lux's mind and heart in her hands and make use of both. For the creeping sensation that maybe the kindness and care had been part of it. It was an unkind thought, one she didn't want to believe. But what would she know of such things in any case? What did she truly understand of feelings, that she had never been built to feel in the first place?

All she knew was that she had felt happy, to be seen as more than a tool.

And it was irrational to still feel a touch of fear, when Melia had made use of those tools at her disposal and disappeared into the wider world. She would not return in truth, no matter what moments dogged Lux's nightmares.

Was it even more irrational to wish she would, sometimes? It was. Melia would not have… done what she had done, if it wasn't important for her to get away. Lux hoped Melia was happy. As little as she felt she understood of being happy, she hoped it was a real and a warm thing that Melia felt, somewhere out in Thedas.

All the same… she also hoped it wasn't wrong to miss being spoken to. To be given little gifts. To have someone notice if she was not in her required place.

Surely nobody would know, nobody would mind, if she kept some gentle memories to herself? A smile, a warm arm linked with hers, an answering warmth in her chest that must be happiness. Contentment.

Wild eyes and a cold chill around her lungs had not quite tainted those softer memories. Though it cast a pall over them like clouds over the sun, called them into question in ways she was not equipped to answer.

Markus touched her shoulder lightly, and she blinked slowly as she came back to herself. With a sharp nod, she shelved the books she had been staring at as he tried to straighten another shelf that was probably best left turned into kindling. Not everything could be fixed. Not everything could be saved.

The work was never-ending, and she made herself endlessly useful. No time to acknowledge the doubt or grief that hung overhead like an overfed spider in a mess of cobwebs. More exhausted than when she'd run back up into the tower over and over again, looking for survivors to lead to the safety of the ground floor.

None of those things mattered, because she had to protect what was still possible to be saved.