#*takes drag of elfroot* he's just such a good friend

[themournwatcher]

ok so i was really struggling with getting my approval with everyone where i needed it (save Sten/Shale/Oghren, Naoise is really friendly with everyone, altho I am not sure if I will recruit the latter two so stay tuned) so i decided to CHEAT and use the feastday gifts. however i forgot this would trigger everyone's personal quests at once so it's like naoise got trauma-dumped every time he talked to his friends.

naoise: what the fuck. my job is to trauma dump

[bluebeetle]

Ashes of Yesterday - Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Summary: Male Hawke/Anders, Merrill/Carver Hawke; Red Mage Hawke and very anders positive/pro-mage.

Sebastian has captured Hawke after taking the Starkhaven throne, hoping to lure out Anders to bring them both to trial for their crimes. Being held captive on a ship heading towards Starkhaven isn't exactly a vacation for Hawke, but it gives both Sebastian and him time to reflect on their past friendship before it all came crashing down.

A fic exploring a religious pro-mage Anders romance mage Hawke and his tentative relationship with Sebastian, along with a hearty helping of headcanons and flashbacks.

Ch 1  | Ch 2 |  Ch 3 (here - 23k words) | Ch 4 

Then.

    If Hawke had been told a few years ago he’d be wedged between a Templar and a Chantry Brother willingly—without either of them wanting to drag him to the Circle—he would have laughed. 

It wasn’t so funny when the Templar was his brother.

“Oh, so High and Mighty Ser Carver has come to grave me with his presence,” Hawke spat, staggering along the streets of Lowtown. He nearly face-planted into the market stairs, his weight supported by Sebastian. The smaller man’s face pinched into a frown.

“Grace, not grave,” Carver corrected. He sounded tired. It was late, admittedly; the half moon was bright in the sky.

“High and mighty,” slurred Hawke, waving his hand dismissively in Carver’s face. Smug bastard, always bragging about being the taller one…

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, “you’re drunk. Let’s get you home.”

“Why’re you even here, Sebastian? I’m trying to yell at the idiot who looks like my mother,” Hawke snapped, struggling against the archer. Sebastian held tight, refusing to let Hawke slink away. The rogue’s frown deepened.

“You invited me to meet your… friends at the Hanged Man,” Sebastian explained. His face reminded Hawke of his father when trying to corral three overactive children into bed. “And I promised Varric I’d get you home to Hightown in one piece. He seems like a good man. Good dwarf?”

“What ‘bout Anders? I’d rather… he can take me home instead,” Hawke replied. He liked Anders. Anders was tall and warm and smelled like elfroot—and had just agreed to move in. Move in! Mother was more hesitant, but she had given in, muttering about how Hawke was too much like her. 

“Anders left early. He went to his clinic, remember?” Sebastian said, concern sparkling in his eyes. “Are you alright? I think you had too much to drink if your memory has gaps.”

“I’m fine,” Hawke grunted. Maybe he had overdone it, but he’d been through worse. He just… had some nightmares about his return from the Deep Roads recently, that was all. Not even about the Darkspawn, or well… not just the Darkspawn. After all, none of the horrors he had seen in that Maker-forsaken place had frightened him so thoroughly as seeing the blade of mercy etched onto his little brother’s chestplate.

And now his little brother was haunting his waking world too. Ugh.

“I don’t think you are, Hawke, trust me. I know what it’s like to drink so much you forget or black out,” Sebastian murmured, voice soft and warm, too close to Hawke’s own ear. 

“I don’t care about your sad backstory right now! I need to yell at my idiot brother,” Hawke yelled, straining his neck away so that Sebastian’s mouth was less likely to eat his earlobe. Gross.

Carver rolled his eyes. “You can barely stand,” he pointed out. “I don’t have time for this, Garrett. Let’s get you home.” He moved to occupy Hawke’s free side, a too-gentle hand on the older brother’s back. Far too gentle for someone in Templar armour. Ugh . Hawke was going to be sick if he had to look at that damn burning blade any longer.

Together, the three of them stumbled up the stairs in Lowtown. Or rather, Hawke stumbled, half carried as he was by the other two men. “Why’re you here ?” Hawke asked Carver, earning a groan for breaking the silence.

“I wanted some air,” Carver explained, not looking at Hawke. “The barracks are stuffy. Then, when I got to Lowtown, I was pulled in by the sound of yelling and went wow, that sounds like my brother! But yet, I smell a brewery? And then I thought, oh, I better go investigate before he decides to use a fire spell on some poor pickpocket and blows up half of Lowtown! And then I found poor Brother Vael trying to help you.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Hawke. He stared at the ground, idly counting the cobblestones as they walked. 1… 2… 3…

“Real mature, Gar,” Carver sighed above him.

“Please, don’t antagonise each other,” Sebastian added, exasperated.

“You’re not our mother,” Carver and Hawke said together. In turn, they glared at each other, finally meeting eyes. Hawke hated that he had to tilt his head up.

“And thank the Maker for that,” Sebastian grumbled, barely audible over their shuffling and the sound of Carver’s armour. 

Why’d Carver even put on platemail for his damn walk? What a tit, thought Hawke. Maybe it was a lie to cover up being on a patrol or something. Probably worried Hawke would freak out on him about hunting for poor mages at night. Whatever. Hawke didn’t care. Really. He didn’t. Nope, his idiot brother didn’t matter to him anymore—

“I don’t need Carver’s help,” Hawke sneered, trying to pull away from the Templar—but Sebastian held fast, not letting the mage stumble over him in order to do so.

“You never need my help,” Carver retorted, “because you’re sooooo perfect at everything, right?”

“Please, both of you, there’s no need to fight,” Sebastian said, fingers digging into Hawke’s side hard enough to bruise. “Let’s just all get everyone home safe, okay?”

“Stay out of this,” Hawke snipped, ignoring Sebastian's painful warning. “This is between us brothers.”

“It’s hard not to when you insist on arguing right beside me,” Sebastian replied, levelling Hawke with a look. Overall, he seemed rather unimpressed by the two of them.

Hawke rolled his eyes, moving his entire head to exaggerate the motion. “Then let me knock Carver out and we can leave—” 

“I’m not going to let you—Hawke, please,” Sebastian sighed, free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is no need for you two to argue like this right now. He’s just trying to help.”

Carver snorted in Hawke’s poor, poor ear. “He hates it when people dare to help him.”

“I do if their idea of help is to join the damn Templars!” Hawke sneered, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sebastian’s shoulder. Sweet revenge! “So much for being the protective little brother like you promise Father you’d be!”

“I am trying to protect you and mother!” Carver retorted, towering over Hawke’s face. Stupid tall asshole. “And I have a right to prove myself! To have a life out of your damn shadow!”

“So you joined the fucking Templars?!” Hawke shouted. Fury flared, snapping into place over despair and annoyance, slotting in nicely with the flush on his cheeks from alcohol. “That’s real fuckin’ smart of you, it’ll look real good for everyone when your fuckin’ Knight-captain is dragging your older apostate brother into the Gallows kicking and screaming!” 

“Hawke, volume—” Sebastian tried. 

“That’s not going to happen!” Carver asserted, speaking over Sebastian. “I won’t let it happen!”

Sebastian winced, glancing around nervously. Luckily, Hawke’s druken yelling had long since chased away any stragglers in the streets. The chances of a bloody fight breaking out in Lowtown were never zero, after all.

“Oh, lucky me,” Hawke said, rolling his eyes yet again. “I get to be everyone’s favourite free apostate then while you beat some poor circle mage.” Sebastian flinched, violently enough that Hawke felt it. He frowned, glancing over at the archer. The man said nothing.

“I’m not—I’m not going to do anything like that. I won’t,” Carver said. Hawke turned to meet his eyes once more, molten gold to sky blue. “You… I would never.”

Sebastian stayed silent, stiff as a statue at Hawke’s side. Hawke wasn’t feeling very charitable, so he only thought good, he shut up.  

“You hate me,” Hawke whispered, voice shaking ever so slightly—a far cry from his slurring words earlier. “You hate Anders. You’ll probably find some other mage you hate too, and then what?” He laughed, the sound venomous even to his own ears. 

“It’s not like there’s anyone who’ll stop you in there from hurting them, you know,”  Hawke sneered, pulling away from both men. He learned on a wall, the hard stone Kirkwall was cut out of digging into his flesh through his thin jacket. He kept his eyes to the ground, biting back tears, biting back his own guilt at the cruel, bitter words that slipped through his lips. “You could get away with it, with nothing but a slap on a wrist and a guilty conscience—and who fuckin’ knows how long that last one’ll last.”

Carver was quiet for a blessed moment. He just stared at Hawke, pale as a ghost. Sebastian disappeared into the background. Hawke wished everyone else—his brother, his own conscience—would join the archer there so he could finally be alone; completely and utterly alone.

Then, “...I wouldn’t do that,” Carver croaked, all anger drained. “...I.. Garrett, do you really see me like that?” He sounded hurt, genuinely hurt in a way that Hawke hadn’t heard in a long time. “ I… I’m not going to say we’ve always gotten along, and I still meant what I said, back when… when you returned,” Carver sighed, platemail creaking nervously. He looked away, adding, “…most of what I said, anyways.”

Hawke’s hand slinked up to his neck. He rubbed at the scar there, long and ragged across brown skin—a memory of long ago playing on loop in his head, half forgotten but never to be forgiven. 

Carver swallowed, filling the silence where his brother had decided to not. “I would… I wouldn’t hurt someone like that, even if I did hate them. And I don’t… I don’t hate you. Some days I wish I could hate you, but you’re… you’re family, dammit! And I already lost Bethany and Father, I don’t want to lose you too, either to death or the Blighted circle.” They really shouldn’t be having this conversation out in public, out in front of Sebastian. But yet, here they were… If Hawke wasn’t feeling so much rage and guilt, he’d be flushed with embarrassment instead. 

Carver ran a hand through his hair, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are just… so infuriating to talk to.”

“...I don’t.. I’m sorry,” Hawke said finally, deflating. His entire body felt sore, his mind sluggish. He felt like was going to throw up. “I don’t see you that way, Carver. I really don’t. I guess… I just. I have a hard time seeing… just, the idea of a nice templar doesn’t work in my mind.” Hawke’s hand brushed against his scar. “But that’s not your fault. And I guess I’m just… I’m just scared one day you’ll be just like them and I know I'll have lost my brother without him having to die,” he finished, voice a near whisper.

“I’m not going to abandon you, or mother,” Carver replied, voice just as hushed. “Let me protect you.” 

“...I don’t think you can, Carv, especially not as a Templar,” Hawke replied bitterly. “...but thank you.” His mouth felt like a desert, and he swallowed hard as the words forced themselves out.

“Let’s get you home,” Carver sighed, an unreadable expression scrunching up his face. He draped Hawke’s right arm over his shoulder, hefting up his sibling with strength Hawke sometimes forgot Carver had. But it made sense—Carver had always been the fighter. That was why he was the soldier, the Templar. He had muscle, stamina that even Hawke did not, despite Hawke being rather fit for a refugee apostate himself.

Carver’s strength was an idea that was hard to marry with the Carver in his head; the Carver who was still a little boy, flip-flopping between hero worship and jealousy when it came to his older brother, the little boy who played with sticks and made Garrett be the dragon he rescued Bethany from when they played outside in the dying light of half forgotten Fereldan summers. 

Hawke missed those days more than anything.

He barely registered Sebastian at his other side, the man’s presence reduced to nothing but a spectre. He’d deal with Sebastian later; hopefully if the man had any tact, he wouldn’t involve himself in the siblings' feud further. Even if they had argued in front of him. Ugh, he’d have to apologise for that when he had a clearer head and the ability to swallow his pride enough (unlikely; apologising to Carver was hard enough).

Hawke sighed as he leaned his too-warm face against the biting chill of Carver’s armour. “I love you,” Hawke breathed. 

Carver didn’t reply. The tightening of his grip was enough. Carver cared, in his own annoying way. But that was the relationship they had, wasn’t it? Where they loved each other despite never seeing each other eye to eye, because they couldn’t imagine a world without. Where they both tried to protect each other, in ways that only made the other brother frustrated. It was the game they had always played, even if now the pain of their failures cut far deeper than it had years ago.

There were times Hawke wished he could hate his brother too. Especially after such a betrayal. And yet, he couldn't, leaving his anger with no place to go. 

“...you… you don’t have to stay away from me, from everyone, you know?” Hawke murmured, hobbling along towards Hightown. What a sight they must have made: a fully armed Templar knight dragging some drunken noble through the dark streets of Kirkwall, aided by a brother of the Chantry who was the sole heir to the throne of Starkhaven. It sounded like the start of a bad joke. Varric would have laughed.

“They weren’t much happier with my career choice, Varric and Anders especially,” Carver replied. “They act like I stuck a knife in your back.”

You did. Hawke didn’t voice that thought. Not with the waters of their relationship calmed, finally. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal from his brother, from everything, but that didn’t mean he wished to open up the wounds already, after they had finally stopped festering for a blissful moment. Anyways, with how drunk Hawke knew he was, stumbling along to keep up with Carver’s strong strides, he’d say something he’d regret, something he may or may not mean. Again.

“I don’t think Sebastian or Fenris are mad,” Hawke said instead. “...and I’m sure they’ll get over it. Except maybe Anders. But it’ll be easier for them if you, I don’t know… actually talk to them? Talk to me in front of them without us breaking into an argument? I… I don’t want… I don’t want to lose you, Carver.” 

“I think joining the Templars is an admirable thing to do,” Sebastian agreed, alive once more. “They do good work.” Hawke ignored how Sebastian’s words made his skin crawl. He didn’t feel like dwelling on anything negative. Not tonight, anyways.

Carver nodded, fighting to keep from preening under Sebastian’s praise. Hawke could tell. He knew his little brother too well. “...Fine. Maybe when I have free time I can stop by the Hanged Man occasionally. Maybe. Just… keep Anders from attacking me like a rabid animal,” Carver relented, adjusting his grip on his brother as they climbed the steps up to the Hightown Market. 

“He’s usually too busy being destroyed by Isabela at cards to do anything else,” Hawke snickered. “But I will. He likes me a lot, I think. I hope. I like him a lot. A lot."

Carver groaned, the sound low but yet too-loud all the same. Hawke's head was pounding now, and all he wanted was for his companions to stop making noise. “You’re unbelievable,” Carver muttered into the night. Sebastian chuckled in agreement, but the sound was off. Hawke chalked it up to the awkwardness of having two siblings argue in front of him about something so personal—and not Sebastian’s budding distaste for Anders. He had doubted the two would get along, but luckily, they had barely gotten any time to even talk. Perhaps that was for the best…

As they approached the Hawke-Amell Estate, Carver made himself scarce. Avoiding Mother, the coward. Still, Hawke was glad they had come to some sort of truce before his brother ran with his tail between his legs.

Sebastian lingered in the entryway to the estate, warmed by the candles burning around them, a sharp contrast to the unseasonably bitter cold of the night. “Hawke…” the archer began, fiddling with his hands. He had chosen not to wear his armour, which wasn’t the smartest decision around Hawke. Even normal social gatherings with him could turn into a brawl—that’s just what Kirkwall was like. Lowtown especially. “Do you… really hate the Templars? I thought… you’ve helped them before, yes?”

Ah. And thus Hawke’s big, drunken mouth had backed himself into a corner yet again. It was so easy for his lies to unravel when he wasn’t careful, after all. 

“I’m just mad about Carver and very drunk, don’t listen to me,” Hawke replied, waving him off dismissively. “I’m not… I’m…. but, it’s… it’s complicated, alright? And I have. I just… it’s…” He fought for the right words that wouldn’t dig his grave any deeper, hand rubbing at his scar. But he had a splitting headache and needed to sleep off the drinks he had that night before he could form a halfway decent defence.

“You… you touch that scar a lot, especially Templars are brought up,” Sebastian pointed out. “I only started to notice recently, but even during some of our talks…”

“Yes,” Hawke said curtly. He schooled his face, chasing away the sneer that wanted to make itself known. “I do that. Nervous habit. Thank you for your help, Sebastian. Sorry about the family drama. Good night.” And with that, Hawke sulked off to his room to sleep off his inebriation, leaving Sebastian alone in the atrium.

(If he only made it to his room because of Orana’s help, well, no one needed to know.)

  Laughter rang out in the warm air, spring in full swing as the days grew longer and longer in the Free Marches. The smell of alcohol invaded his nose, mingling with whatever oils Isabela wore and the elfroot lingering on Anders’ clothes.

“And what do you know, Anders loses again,” Isabela snickered as she swiped some coins, Anders merely rolling his eyes. 

“Y’know, Blondie, I don’t get why you play if you always lose,” Varric sighed, shaking his head.

“I don’t always lose,” Anders muttered, shifting closer to Hawke despite the humidity. He almost missed the dryness of Fereldan's cooler months, so long as one was away from the coast. Almost—Bethany and Carver had been the type to get nosebleeds often because of it. Ugh, what a pain that had been to deal with. 

“I’ve yet to see proof of that,” came Fenris’s dry tones. 

“Whatever,” Anders huffed.

“C’mon now, go easy on him, he’s got a clinic to run,” Hawke said, shuffling the cards Aveline had passed to him. 

Varric’s room was crowded tonight, bodies crammed together in the candlelight. Even Aveline and Sebastian had made it, and Anders himself was in a good enough mood to keep from picking any fights with the latter or Fenris, despite his losing streak. It was nice; a break from the pace of the city, from the looming tensions of the Qunari.

Hell, even Carver was present, which was a miracle in and of itself; it seemed their little truce the week before had turned out to not be a bittersweet lie. The fact that Anders wasn’t turning blue and glowy over his presence was enough to almost make Hawke wonder if this was a dream. It helped, of course, that Carver was rather quiet, nothing more than a ghost from his past sitting in the corner with Merrill, nursing what passed for an ale in Lowtown.

His mother had urged him to try and reconnect with his brother; they didn’t have much family left, though Hawke couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she was just wishing they wouldn’t turn out like her and Gamlen. After Carver and Sebastian had brought Hawke home nearly wasted, she had doubled down on her efforts—even if she too always flinched at the sight of Templars in Hightown. (Apparently Mother had been woken up by Hawke coming home. She had talked with Sebastian, the traitor, while Hawke was being helped to his room by poor Orana.)

Hawke worried in that scenario his mother had constructed, he’d be Gamlen, despite already having an apostate lover to run off with. Templars didn’t pay much, but they paid consistently. And didn’t leave as much time for gambling like Hawke’s ‘work’.

“I’d feel pity for him if he still lived in Darktown,” Varric said, cutting through Hawke’s thoughts, “but I hear he’s now got a new place up in Hightown, hm?” He gave Hawke a pointed look, like Varric often did when he knew the answer to something but wanted to pry anyways.

Anders flushed, the red chasing off his freckles. Hawke merely chuckled; it wasn’t like he and Anders were exactly subtle and hiding their interest in each other. “Yes, he even somehow managed to smuggle a cat into the Amell Estate the other day,” Hawke said, splitting the worn deck. No point in dancing around the fact. He knew none of their friends would have much problem with it, or at least wouldn’t dare voice such a fact in front of everyone.

“And your Mabari was fine with that?” Aveline asked.

“Of course, Nightshade didn’t even try to eat her, because he’s such a good boy,” Hawke said, ignoring Anders’ scoff. “They get along now, anyways. Thick as thieves. Nap together. It’s real cute. No name yet, Anders isn’t allowed to pick it.”

“Ugh,” Isabela said, “he really is rubbing off on you if all you can talk about are your pets instead of anything actually interesting."

“Trust me,” Anders muttered into his mug, “talking about Ser Pounce-a-lot is more interesting than anything I could tell you about broodmothers and the deep roads. Just a bunch of horrors and boring old rock.”

“Not even anything about the Hero of Ferelden?” Sebastian spoke up. “You knew her, yes?” 

“Oh!” Merrill chirped. “So did I, actually, we’re from the same clan and we were around the same age so we grew up together. I mean, we weren’t friend-friends since I was so busy with the Keeper but I do have a few stories, and oh I’m rambling—"

“It’s fine, Daisy,” Varric said, “why don’t you tell us a story then if Anders won’t?”

The conversation flowed like that, swirling around Hawke as he let himself relax. 

Merrill launched into a story about the Hero of Ferelden from when they were young—something about her getting stuck in a tree when she was a hunter apprentice. Tamlen and herself tried to get Yorii Mahariel out, only for Tamlen to end up with a broken arm from Yorii falling on him.

 “She was small,” Merrill laughed. “But she was a warrior and had all the muscle for it, so when she landed on him, she landed hard. He pouted about it for weeks! She teased him about being scared by the bear cub, too. Yorii always insisted she was just scared the mother was around.” She giggled, glancing over at Carver sulking in the corner as her story came to an end.

“Sooooo, I got a question for you, Hawke,” Isabela said, loud enough to get everyone else’s attention.

“Ask away,” Hawke replied, taking a swig of his drink. Ugh. Awful as always.

“That scar,” Isabela said, waving vaguely at Hawke’s neck. He stiffened, muscles tense as he slowly sat down his mug. “How’d you get it? It’s real sexy, y’know. Bet it has a great story.”

He was distantly aware of his other friends leaning in a little as well. It wasn’t a surprise; the scar was ugly, a prominent ridge along the cusp of his throat, nearly impossible to hide and only made more noticeable by the swirling tattoos along his neck. Hawke caught people staring at it often; whether it was back in Lothering or Lowtown, or especially Hightown. It was usually one of the first things people noticed about him, other than his eyes.

Hawked swallowed, silent for a moment, mind lost in thought. He could tell. These were his friends, not ogling strangers. But the memory was not pleasant; the memory of it made him feel… vulnerable. Open. It was odd, he often listened to those around him, his demeanour inviting in a way that had people just telling him about their inner workings and problems. Coming for help. He had no idea why, but they did.  He tried to help, even with the rage that boiled inside him.

But opening up in return? Allowing himself to be dissected for those around him, for them to know what kept him up at night, what the demons whispered about to him in his sleep?

Hawke wished the floor of the Hanged Man would swallow him whole.

“C’mooooon,” Isabela whined, prodding him again. “We’ve known you for years! Years, and you never told us!” 

“...he doesn’t have to, you know,” Anders said, bristling defensively. But when he glanced at his lover, Hawke saw a spark of curiosity in his brown eyes.

Hawke turned back to counting the grains in the table. “I…” he began. “It’s just.” It’s just… I don’t want you to think less of me, even though I know you won’t. I don’t want to be vulnerable; I don’t want to shatter the idea of me as some untouchable battle mage who violently helps those in need that you’ve all started seeing me as. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. And I worry you’ll all end up turning on me like that day–

“Shut up, he doesn’t have to tell if he doesn’t want to, alright?” Carver’s voice cut through the swirling thoughts in Hawke’s head. He was sure this was the first time Carver had spoken to the whole group all night, or possibly spoken to anyone at all.  

“C’mon, Junior, they’re just a little curious,” Varric said, shrugging a little. “Surprised you even chipped in to help him out.”

Carver ignored the dig at him. “Look. It’s not a happy memory, or an especially daring one. It’s just a really shitty thing that happened years ago. Drop it.” 

“...he has a point, some things just aren’t meant to be shared in front of everyone,” Sebastian added. He politely kept his eyes on his cards.

Hawke blinked, surprised by Carver’s concern and vitriol over this. Then again, he doubted it was a happy memory for Carver either… Still, his brother’s words sobered Isabela enough to stop prying as the group turned back to their game of Wicked Grace. 

The awful feeling in the pit of his stomach remained for the rest of the night.

  He couldn’t sleep that night. Neither could Anders, if his constant tossing and turning was any indication. A pity both of them were too exhausted for anything else but staring at the ceiling together. 

“...you don’t have to answer this,” Anders said finally, settling down, his back to Hawke, strawberry blonde hair splayed on the pillow. “...but did a templar do that to you?” 

Part of Hawke wanted to laugh bitterly, accuse Anders of only caring about mages and nothing else. To say of course you’d assume it was a Templar who did it, you act like all cruelty comes from them!

But Hawke knew those were not his real thoughts, not at all; they were just the cruel, mean part of him that didn’t want to expose his heart, even to the man he loved. 

Hawke stared at the curtains, moonlight breaking through a crack between them, illuminating Nightshade sleeping at the foot of the bed (Anders has been insistent there was no room for two grown men and a Mabari war hound in the bed. Hawke begged to differ). 

“Yes,” Hawke breathed.

Anders said nothing more.

     Sebastian hadn’t been sure what he had signed himself up for, when he had agreed to lend his bow to Hawke as a way of showing thanks. He had gathered that the mage led a very… interesting life, but Sebastian hadn’t thought there would be so much going on in Kirkwall. Still, he didn’t mind; it gave him a way to look at the city with different eyes, to extend a helping hand to its people. Trouble knew how to find Hawke and his friends, but Sebastian found himself not minding. 

They were trekking through the dunes of the Wounded Coast that day, the breeze from the ocean light and salty. It was a fully booked day—find fresh plants for Solitivus from the Circle, deal with a bounty for some bandits, and take Nightshade the Mabari for a much needed beachside run.

The aforementioned Mabari was hot on the heels of its owner, sending up clouds of dust and sand as the hulking beast ran. Sebastian found himself watching the dog with a curious eye for most of the hike—Hawke and he ahead, Fenris and Varric just steps behind them.

Sebastian had heard many stories about the Ferelden war dogs but being up close to one was something else entirely. Apparently the smell hadn’t been an exaggeration… Nor the size or intelligence. He had never seen a dog understand what it was being ordered as well as Nightshade did, a knowing sparkle behind its yellow-orange eyes. It still felt so foreign to Sebastian, though, to use any animal but mounts in a battle. 

Still, Nightshade seemed to be a very loyal and talented beast; he could see why Hawke was so fond of it. And he could understand why walks in the market weren’t enough to stretch the creature’s muscles, built as it was for endurance.

They reached a small cliff—if one was feeling generous enough to even call it that—overlooking more dunes, the sea grasses blowing gently, the sounds of waves just in the distance. It was peaceful; so unlike Kirkwall, yet so similar in the mix of loneliness and beauty it contained.

“I—” Sebastian started—but he never got the words out. He was focused instead on the arrow that had nearly gone through his eye, grazing off his armour just as he moved to talk to Hawke. “Shit.” Sebastian had gotten lucky—whoever was aiming at him wasn’t as good of a shot as he was.

“I think we found our targets!” Fenris shouted from his side, ripping the heart out of a rogue who had made the mistake of trying to sneak up on him. Sebastian winced. He did not enjoy the sight of blood and gore up close and personal; this was part of why he was an archer, thank you.

“Least they made it easy,” Varric muttered, pulling out Bianca with a sigh. Fenris ran ahead, leaping from their high point into the fray. They were outnumbered, but not significantly so; four to ten.

Hawke groaned as he stuffed herbs farther into his bag. He jumped down into the soft sands, close to Fenris’s crater. The Mabari charged forward, strong jaws snapping around a woman’s arm with a sickening crunch. 

Hawke had explained to them that he was hoping to practise his spirit healing and creation magic, so he’d be taking a backseat role similar to Anders. Of course, that meant their group was a healer, two archers and Fenris—who while certainly capable, was only one man. 

Like Varric and Sebastian, Hawke was trying to keep distance between him and the bandits. At the very least, he wasn’t undefended—Hawke was willing to still get his hands dirty with the blade on his stave, if the way he held it at the ready was any indication, anyways.

“This isn’t so bad,” Hawke said, blue light dancing on his hands as he healed Fenris. The elf grunted in thanks.

“I’m surprised you even agreed to this. You’re usually impossible to keep from jumping right in,” Varric muttered, looking like a beleaguered brother. Sebastian knew that look well. (He tried not to think about the fight he had witnessed between Hawke and his brother. He had a feeling the man was just as embarrassed as Sebastian was that they had the fight in front of someone. Even if there were questions that nagged at Sebastian incessantly…) 

“I am a man of many talents; I know how to be patient when I want to be, I just usually don’t want to,” Hawke laughed.  “I can still switch to elemental magic if I need to.” With his focus on Varric, he wasn’t paying enough attention to the battlefield around them. Sebastian was—surveying the dunes of the Wounded Coast with an eagle’s eye. He saw movement in the grasses behind Hawke, just under Sebastian’s perch. The sparkle of a blade hitting the sun just right was the only warning he had—

“Hawke! Down!” Sebastian yelled, jumping into the soft sands below. He didn’t have time to load and draw his bow—the major downside between it and Varric’s crossbow. Instead Sebastian lunged, shoving Hawke to the ground. 

Sebastian drew his dagger—one he rarely used; the blade only a precaution in case something happened to his bow. He wasn’t like Isabela, he didn’t have much in the way of dual weapon expertise. But it didn’t take talent to hit a target directly in front of him. Of course, the same went for his rival; Sebastian felt the blade before he saw it, puncturing through his chainmail and digging into the soft flesh of his lower ribs. Warm blood blossomed around the wound, the colour too saturated, too rich for the storm greys of the coast, for stark colours of his armour. 

Sebastian gasped. Pain shot through him—but it didn’t immobilise. He felt his own dagger reach its mark, digging into the man’s throat—the bandit only able to cry out once before the blood from the severed artery choked him. The man fell to the ground, limp, knife abandoned in Sebastian’s abdomen. 

Hawke pushed himself onto his feet, looking sheepish. Sand stuck to his dark clothing. Concern flashed along his face. “Shit,” he said, immediately at Sebastian’s side.

Sebastian put his hand on the hilt of the knife. The blade was sharp; clearly well taken care of. Surprisingly well made, from what he could tell. Which was good—it would damage less when pulled out unlike a jagged, dull blade. “Don’t pull that out yet,” Hawke warned. “You’ll bleed out if it’s not dealt with fast enough.”

Hawke hooked an arm around Sebastian, lowering him to the ground. The sounds of fighting faded to the background; Sebastian had a feeling that the bandits’ numbers were dwindling fast, if Hawke was able to put his full attention on the archer now.

“Sorry,” Sebastian murmured, letting his hands drop. It hurt a lot—but it wasn’t the worst he’d been through. There was that one time, after a bar fight…

“Don’t be, you might have saved my life there, to be honest,” Hawke said, inspecting the wound with gentle touches and a perceptive eye. “Or saved us the trouble of dragging my sorry ass back to Anders for healing.” 

“I’m going to have to open up your tunic,” Hawke warned, hands fumbling with the holds. Sebastian chuckled—and immediately regretted it. Ouch, ouch, fuck that hurt—

“Careful, he got you near the diaphragm; that’s why it hurts when you breathe,” Hawke explained. Sebastian winced; it was true, each breath brought with it a sharp jolt like he had overexerted himself.

Hawke slowly peeled Sebastian’s clothing away from the wound, deft hands removing broken chain mail. He was careful not to jostle the knife. It was odd; to see Hawke’s face scrunched up in such rapt attentiveness, to watch his hands move with such gentleness. The man was focused solely on healing–not to hurt, to kill, like Sebastian had seen his magic do in the past.

“When I say, pull the knife out; I can’t heal you fully with it in there, or else… well, it’d be bad,” Hawke warned, blue light at his fingertips. It was soft, warm; it reminded Sebastian of being wrapped in blankets and furs on chilly winter mornings after a blizzard, rare as they were in the Free Marches.

“Alright,” Sebastian croaked. He wasn’t going to die, not from this wound. Still, he felt like a newborn babe, trying his best to follow Hawke’s instructions. What had been thinking, jumping in like that with no plan? Without his bow? 

He knew, of course, what he had been thinking: that he didn’t want to see anyone else he cared about die. Not after losing his family. And he liked Hawke, despite him being someone Sebastian knew he shouldn’t like; despite being an apostate, a killer, all because Sebastian knew there was more to the man than that.

But that didn’t erase the fact that those things were still true about him.

“Bite this,” Hawke said, stuffing one of his gloves in Sebastian’s face. At his befuddled expression, Hawke sighed, adding, “It’s so you don’t bite yourself when we remove the knife. Just in case.”

Sebastian gave a slow nod, relenting, opening his mouth. It tasted like sand.

“Ready?” Hawke said, his touches cool against Sebastian’s too-warm skin. “Pull it out in 1… 2… 3–”

Sebastian wretched the knife out, biting down on the glove. Hawke’s hands hovered over the wound, the soft glow strengthening to a blaze. Warmth flowed through Sebastian’s veins. He watched in amazement as the wound began to knit itself together, the pain receding like the tides. Soon, all that was left to tell a story was the jagged scar tissue in his abdomen. “...you’ve really taken to that magic, haven’t you?” he said, awed. Magic was… magic truly could be amazing, wasn’t it? Healing was a gift from the Maker; even if every other magic wasn’t, healing definitely was.

Anyone could maim, kill, burn—but healing like that was unique to only mages. Spirit healing, from what Sebastian understood, was even rarer. Far stronger than what creation magic and potions could do. 

“Why’s everyone always so surprised?” Hawke asked, shaking his head, but he smiled good-naturedly. “I’m surprised myself, honestly. I thought I’d struggle more than I have—and trust me, I made a fool out of myself a few times at the clinic.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured. His skin tingled, and felt sore and tight—but the pain had mostly been chased away. Deft hands redid his tunic and armour, the motions a habit now. He’d have to repair his armour later; chainmail was good, but was made to block slashes from a blade, not piercing at close range. “I feel like you are always saving me, friend.”

“Not always,” Hawke replied, still smiling. “You just saved me a moment ago, didn’t you? And anyways, it’s my job; I always seem to be saving people’s asses. Just ask Varric.” Hawke laughed.  “It’s annoying how much he likes talking about me.”

“Of course,” Sebastian said, smiling in return. “I’ll consider it.”

“Anyways, let’s get going before Varric and Fenris get all the good stuff,” Hawke said, dusting himself off as he stood up.

“Maybe we shouldn’t steal—"

“Why not? They’re dead, they’re not using it. You kill them, you get their stuff, that’s the rule. Anyways, they probably all stole it from other people in the first place. It’s only fair,” Hawke retorted, hands on his hips. “Don’t chicken out on me now, Vael.”

Sebastian sighed, wondering why he liked Hawke again. 

    “I’m surprised you came. Roughing it out on the Wounded Coast isn’t what I would call a princely activity,” Hawke remarked, poking the ambers of the campfire with a stick. The charcoal popped and snapped, sending warm sparks into the air. 

Sebastian watched the sparks rise and disappear into the dark, burning away to nothing like dead stars. He mulled over his response, leaving Hawke in silence.

Fenris and Varric were asleep. Usually he brought Anders with him, but he wanted Sebastian to be eased into their group without Anders’... everything (Hawle loved him, but it was clear long before they met that the two wouldn’t get along). It was a good chance to flex his healing abilities, anyways.

Hawke found himself not minding being a support, despite being so used to leading the charge. It was a refreshing break from feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. To be there to help, but only from the sidelines; to not be the main event, the ringleader.

Sebastian shrugged, staring up at the twinkling stars above them. It was a beautiful night—the air crisp but not too cold, the humidity chased away by the winds from the sea. The sky was clear, the moons full and illuminating them all. “It is… humbling, I suppose,” he said, lips twitching into a smile. “I don’t mind it. I am used to living outside the means of royalty by now.”

Hawke hummed, scratching Nightshade’s head. The Mabari huffed in his sleep. “I guess that makes sense,” he said. “It’s my watch, you don’t have to stay out here, you know.”

Sebastian hummed. He looked tired, still drained from the healing earlier that day, dark bags around his eyes. Magic could only do so much; the rest was up to the human body. “I… couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Can’t promise I’m good at comforting, but I can at least lend an ear,” Hawke tried.

“I… it was. About family. It’s not important, I’d rather not dwell on things that aren’t real,” Sebastian murmured, still staring at the stars.

“That’s fine,” Hawke said, eyes back on the fire.

“It is nice out here,” Sebastian remarked. It was; the air was fresh in a way Kirkwall’s wasn’t, and the constellations were easier to spot without the smog from the foundry district. Hawke could see the princess crying a sea of stars for her beloved fallen knight, in a slightly different position than it had been in Ferelden. He remembered that story well; he and his mother had always found it romantic, though sad. He remembered her telling him, playing with his little fingers as she spoke slowly; her words punctuated by the snapping of the wood in the fire, his small body curled up in hers to keep warm.

“Yeah. I like to try and get out of Kirkwall once and awhile, or I’ll go insane,” Hawke agreed, turning away from the stars and the memories that they brought forth. “It reminds me a lot of travelling with my family.”

“You travelled around Ferelden a lot?” Sebastian asked, titling his head as he met Hawke’s eyes.

Hawke poked at the fire again, stoking the flames higher. “Yeah. We…” Were avoiding Templars. “It was just how it was, for us. Travelling from small village to small village, town to town. We were a transient family when I was young.”

“That seems like it must have been difficult, so young,” Sebastian said, tone sincere. “I’ve only ever been between Starkhaven and Kirkwall myself. And Val Royeaux once or twice.”

“I was used to it. I’m pretty good at making new friends because of it. Lots of practice, that,” Hawke replied, leaning onto Nightshade. The dog huffed in his sleep, but only adjusted slightly to get comfortable under the extra weight. Hawke was used to the smell of Mabari, so he never got why people complained about his dog. “And it was nice, nights like this, camping out under the stars.”

“Surely you must have wanted to not have to uproot your entire life, though?” Sebastian asked, digging out the tin tea set he had brought. Hawke had gathered herbs to make tea, which the rogue made to grab.

“...yeah. Sometimes,” Hawke agreed, handing Sebastian the tea leaves.  “Lothering was the place we stayed the longest, until the Blight. Nearly ten years there…” Hawke hummed. It was hard thinking of that village, some days. It was the place where he had lost his father. The place where he had lost his sister escaping. And yet amidst the pain, so many happy memories too. It was the place he had watched his siblings grow up. The place he had become a man. “It wasn’t so bad. It was one of the more bustling places we had been since it was a crossroads, too. I got to meet a lot of interesting people, all passing through.”

“Was that where you met Ser Bryant?” Sebastian asked, filling the kettle with his waterskin. He left it hanging over the fire to boil.

Hawke blinked, taken aback for a moment. “How… do you know that name?”

“Carver mentioned him to me once,” Sebastian explained. He kept his eyes trained on the kettle.  “He said you liked him. That he was a Templar.” Not a question outright—a simple statement, but a question hidden within. Hawke flushed; he had been hoping Sebastian would just forget about what a fool Hawke had made of himself while drunk.

Hawke shifted nervously. Nightshade grunted, annoyed with his shuffling. Hawke’s boots dug into the soft dirt. “Yeah. He was, and he… he was kind enough, I suppose. To the point. Knowledgeable.” Hawke paused. “... he knew I was a mage,” he whispered.

“So he…” Sebastian started, eyes narrowing, lips pulled into a frown. “He did not tell anyone? Why?” His kettle began to steam. Sebastian leaned forward, pouring the hot water into two tin cups, leaving in the tea leaves to steep. It wasn’t the most elegant way to make tea, but it was what they had. 

“Normally the answer would be blackmail,” Hawke said dryly, “but in this case he… saw no reason to, I guess.” Hawke shrugged, jostling his poor dog again. Nightshade must have been comfy by the fire, as he still did not move.

“We weren’t hurting anyone,” Hawke explained, “and after he got to know us, I think he ended up having a soft spot for us. What we thought was a liability that would end up forcing us to leave early ended up being what made us able to stay as long as we did.”

Hawke reached out with his stick, drawing aimlessly in the dirt as he spoke. “We ended up going to the Chantry there in Lothering more than we had in any other place we lived before,” he said. “And it was nice. My sister learned how to sew from the lay sisters there. Carver had a crush on this redhead sister from Orlais who was way too old for him. It felt like it was a place we could spend most of our lives. That wasn’t something we had before, on account of the whole… having apostates hidden in the family thing.”

“I see,” Sebastian murmured.  “It does sound nice. This Ser Bryant…”

“He was a good man,” Hawke hummed, staring at the blade of mercy he had etched into the dirt without realising. His face stayed neutral. Bryant had been a good man, despite being a Templar. “I hope he survived the Blight, but he was the type who’d stay behind to try and make sure others got out safe. He… he helped with my father’s funeral.” That had meant a lot, with Byrant knowing his father was also a mage. Few other Templars would have carried out the holy duties for a cremation like that for an apostate.

Ser Bryant had even let Hawke steal a few of his father’s bones from his pyre’s ashes before they were crushed to dust…. Byrant hadn’t asked why, had only made Hawke promise it wasn’t for any weird blood magic ritual (it hadn’t been; it just hadn’t felt right to have his father scatter to ashes and be nothing more.)

“And yet he did not follow his duties…” Sebastian pointed out, fiddling with his hands. Hawke recognized it as Sebastian being unsure, being uncomfortable. Best to tread carefully. Sebastian reached down, taking his drink. The other, Hawke assumed, was for himself. That was nice, at least.

“Being able to follow rules doesn’t make someone a good person,” Hawke said sharply. He met Sebastian’s too-blue eyes as he grabbed his own mug. “Sometimes you need to know when to bend them. And anyways, rules should always be judged by their power to oppress.”

“...I am starting to see why you and Anders get along so,” chuckled Sebastian. “You do sound a bit like him, based on what little I’ve heard from the man.”

“I am capable of having intelligent thoughts sometimes,” Hawke replied. He blew on his mug, taking a sip. It was awkward without anything to strain the leaves, but it didn’t taste bad.

“...that’s not quite what I meant,” Sebastian said cryptically, looking back to the stars. He rubbed his hands along his mug, warming them. “Honestly, I think you’re very well spoken and well read, especially for someone who apparently spent so much time on the road.”

“And the rest mostly on farms,” Hawke added with a shrug. He sat his drink down by the fire. “My mother was noble-born and my father was well taught by… tutors. They did what they could to educate us, and the Chantry sisters often helped fill in gaps. As a result, my siblings and I ended up with a better education than your typical peasant.”

“I see,” Sebastian hummed, closing his eyes. He was silent after that; leaving Hawke to his watch.

Hawke had almost thought Sebastian had fallen asleep when he spoke again. “...Were Templars why you moved around so much?” he asked, finally sipping his drink.

Hawke hesitated. It wasn’t like he wasn’t capable of defending himself if things went south, and anyways, out in the Wounded Coast was the best place to murder someone and get away with it. Just—he didn’t want to have to fight with Sebastian at all, physically or verbally. “Not always,” he said evenly. Not a lie; sometimes it was nosy lay sisters or suspicious neighbours, or his father’s own preemptive choice to leave before any Templars got involved.

“But it has been, before?” Sebastian pressed. “At least once?”

Hawke sighed, scanning the outskirts of their camp. He found himself hoping for darkspawn or Tal Valshoth to show up and cause trouble just to escape the conversation. He tried to tamp that part of him down; Sebastian was just curious. Hawke was just paranoid. Not everyone was digging for reasons to argue or drag Hawke to the Circle, not everyone who wasn’t a mage was trying to make his life miserable. 

It was a hard truth to remind himself of, some days. 

“Once or twice; usually we’d leave before there’d be any trouble,” Hawke replied, shrugging. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone but we felt that… going to the Circle wasn’t the right choice. As I said before. We wanted to stay together as a family. And they would have separated us.”

“Are you certain?” Sebastian asked. He didn’t sound doubtful, just… unsure.

“Yes. I am,” Hawke answered curtly.

“But you’ve never been to the Circle,” Sebastian pointed out.

Hawke chewed on the side of his cheek. The time for lies of omission had passed, he supposed; since the rest of his friends knew things Sebastian hadn’t been told, he could easily learn with the right questions anyways. “My father did though. He grew up in the Circle, spent a lot of his life in them,” Hawke explained.  “And my mother’s cousin’s children were all taken to the Circle—all five of them were split up.”

“Your father was a Circle Mage?” Sebastian said, eyebrows knit together. “But then how… ah. The Templar you spoke of, the one your brother is named after, I take it?” Sebastian wasn’t stupid. It made lying harder.

“Yeah,” Hawke breathed. He wondered if Carver still had those letters… 

“...I understand that some mages do have a… terrible experience in the Circles,” Sebastian tried.

Hawke snorted before he could stop himself. What an understatement; never mind it didn’t matter if a mage was treated like a king. The entire problem was having rights taken away from them; the loss of freedom and agency. Being treated ‘well’ did not change that.

Sebastian frowned, taking another drink of tea to chase the expression away. “Did your father?”

“He didn’t speak of it often,” Hawke admitted. He bristled; the question felt too personal, but if Sebastian insisted on digging, Hawk would give him the truth. “But the things he did share weren’t always bad.” There had been people his father had loved, had cared about, in the Circle—even Templars like Ser Carver. 

“But some of the stuff…” Hawke trailed off. His father’s back had been a landscape of scars he never spoke of. Anders had ones that matched. “I suppose it wasn’t very child friendly. I don’t think he wanted to scare us anymore than he needed to.”

“What was he like?” Sebastian asked, finishing off his tea. He sat the mug down beside his feet with a clink. “I’ve spoken about my family with you, and yet… I fear I never asked much in return.” Honestly, Hawke didn’t think Sebastian had shared that much; but perhaps he had shared all he could, given the strained and distant relationship his words had painted about his parents and brothers in their previous conversations. Sebastian was the sibling who felt he did not matter; no wonder he and Carver seemed to get along so well, if the two were apparently talking about Lothering together.

“Don’t fret about it, I spoke your ear off about my mother and siblings enough as is without prompting,” Hawke said, sipping his tea. He waved his free hand idly.

“And yet never your father,” Sebastian said. 

“No,” Hawke relented. “It’s not that… He died when I was young.” Barely out of his teens, honestly, but still young—especially now that he was looking back with the eyes of a man who was nearing his 30s. “And it's hard to talk about him without talking about the whole mage thing.”

“I understand.”

Hawke hummed, eyes closed for a moment. Finding the right words was hard; how to describe his father? It was like describing a sunset; even his damnedest attempt could never compare to seeing the real thing. “He was… well, people say he was a lot like me,” he snorted. Saying that felt a little too egotistical for his liking, but he had heard it enough to figure it had some truth. “I also get most of my looks from him, while Carver looks more like Mother, as did Bethany. He was... A direct man. Always said what he meant—he’d only lie to strangers. Wasn’t the best at it, though. He made his expectations clear—you’d know when you didn’t meet them.”

“That sounds familiar,” muttered Sebastian.

“...yeah,” Hawke murmured with a sigh. “But he wasn’t a bad father. Strict, maybe at times, but he was just afraid of us hurting someone or someone hurting us because of our magic. The moment it was clear Bethany and I were mages he was making sure we understood the importance of control no matter what.” Hawk rubbed at his face. He needed a shave. “But he wasn’t cruel. He didn’t yell or anything, even when he got frustrated. He was kind too. He sacrificed a lot for all of us. I loved him a lot.”

“Can I ask how he died?” Sebastian’s voice was light, soft.

Hawke hesitated. His father’s death was an old wound, but a wound nonetheless. “Illness,” Hawke murmured. “Not much we could do, in the end.” Not much he could do, with his limited knowledge of healing and medicine at the time. Malcolm Hawke had not been a healer by trade; there was only so much he could teach his children.

It didn’t stop Hawke from feeling like he had failed his father. He hoped that Malcolm would forgive him for not learning until it was too late; hoped the Maker would understand Hawke had done all he could.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sebastian said.

“Thank you,” Hawke sighed. “Part of me is just glad he never had to deal with the Blight.” Or Bethany’s death… though perhaps she’d have lived, if there had been a better mage to protect her. He was a terrible protector. Maybe he was better off being the violent mage of the group.

“He sounds like my own father,” Sebastian admitted, pulling Hawke out of his self pity party. “He was a man of honour, but… strict as well. We fought a lot when I got close to being of age.” Sebastian sighed as well, watching the flicker of the waning campfire. “I wish… sometimes that I had better memories of him. It was a little better after I came to the Chantry, especially after I accepted my role there, but… still, in the end, he had to devote his time to Starkhaven, and to raising my older brothers to be the heirs. It makes sense he didn’t have time for me… so I suppose I sound a little selfish.”

“No,” Hawke cut in, shaking his head. “It’s normal to wish things had gone differently, had been better… especially after someone’s gone and you can’t fix anything. To wish a long gone father could have spent more time with you…” He pushed thoughts of Carver out of his mind. “That’s normal. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re far kinder than you let on, Hawke,” Sebastian teased with a smirk. “My mother was the same, you know; all tough and cold on the outside, but she was a real softie on the inside. A bleeding heart, especially for animals.”

“Shut up,” Hawke laughed. He cuddled into Nightshade again, bristly fur against his skin. “You’re going to ruin my tough guy image.”

“The neck scar does the leg work there, I think—ah, sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s fine, I’m not made of glass,” Hawke muttered. He didn’t meet Sebastian’s pitying gaze.

“It’s just, you did seem upset at the Hanged Man, so I apologise,” Sebastian insisted. Hawke just hummed, rolling his shoulders. 

“...though I am glad you’ve managed to not hold a grudge towards Templars and the Chantry like Anders has,” Sebastian continued. Wrong, Vael, shut up—“I know you told your brother that you could not understand a nice templar, but I suspect that was just your frustration speaking.”  Hawke twitched, because his feelings toward the latter were extremely complicated—twisted up in good and bad memories, with good and bad people—but his feelings about the former, towards Templars? 

Sure, people like Keran, Bryant, Thrask, and the original Ser Carver seemed decent enough folk, but that didn’t excuse any of the work they did as mage hunters in his eyes. He may not want him dead, but that didn’t mean he carried no ill will towards them. They had chosen to take up the role, to become what mages feared more than demons. It didn’t matter how kind they were; they still were required to kill children if it called for it, required to make mages tranquil. If they lasted in the Order, they’d likely become jaded and hateful towards mages after seeing them at their most desperate, hatred fueled farther by the damage lyrium usage did to their minds.

But it was clear Sebastian didn’t want to hear any of that.

“I tend to hold grudges against specific people as opposed to groups,” Hawke said instead, since it was diplomatic enough whilst also not being untrue. 

“And so you’ve never had a bad experience with a Templar?” Sebastian said. “That’s good to hear, the way Anders spoke of them when we met, you’d think they thought all apostates were wild maleficarum—”

“That’s not what I said,” Hawke cut in, anger flaring for a moment before he could temper it. He couldn’t help it; Even if Sebastian didn’t mean it, he could not stand having someone else put words in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, hands up.

Hawke tried to cool his rising emotions. He didn’t need to say something stupid. But how dare Sebastian assume such a thing? Not when he wore the scars of a Templar encounter on his skin. Not that the archer knew, really, so who could blame him?

Part of him didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to share the story he had kept within him. Another part of him wanted to shout it to the heavens, to make it clear that was a victim to zealots just as much as Anders was, even if he had stayed out from under the Chantry’s claws.  

The latter part of him won out, in the end. He found himself uncaring if Sebastian told anyone else—though he doubted the archer would. “When I was a teenager,” Hawke began. Sebastian blinked owlishly, not following the thread of conversation just yet. “Right before we settled outside of Lothering. I was about 14? 15?” Hawke made a vague hand gesture, continuing on. “Regardless, I… I had a crush on another boy in town. It was a small village, up around the Waking Sea. Anyways, I had a crush on him and so I ended up admitting to him that I was an apostate, which frankly—looking back? Idiotic of me, but I was stupid and young and I trusted him and I thought… I don’t know, that he’d understand?”

“...but he told the Chantry,” Sebastian concluded.

Not really a question, but Hawke replied anyways, “He did. He waved me off awkwardly and told me he’d think about my love confession.” That had been the last time he saw his crush. “Later that day, I went to grab the twins from the Chantry—they were still rather young, so they went for small lessons with the sisters there while the rest of us worked.”

“On our way back home for dinner, we stopped by a Templar,” Hawke said.  “I didn’t think anything of it, at first; I knew the guy, had seen him around a few times, since he was only one of two Templars in the entire village. I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but then next thing I know he’s telling me to come with him, to turn myself in to the Circle, that he was told I was an apostate, yadda, yadda. I knew who betrayed me, and my heart shattered. But still… I ran.”

“Running makes things worse,” Sebastian interjected, shifting awkwardly.

“Really? Had no idea,” Hawke snarked.  “I was just thinking about how Bethany had just found out she was a mage, a mere month prior, and how I wanted her to be safe, and how Carver could still turn out to have magic too, he still had time to be a late bloomer! So I ran, tried to get home to get our father’s help. I ended up trying to carry the twins—but we weren’t fast enough. The Templar caught up, even in his armour. I remember dropping to the ground like a sack of bricks from a holy smite.”

“And your father managed to come save you, at that point?”

“No,” Hawke breathed. “If he had, maybe things would have gone better than they did. No… I told Carver and Bethany to go on ahead, and they listened. Took off into the wheat fields to take a shortcut home. Too short to see over the stalks, too.” He laughed. “But anyways, I thought about fighting back, at first, but… I didn’t want to hurt anyone, you know. I hadn’t ever used my magic to hurt anyone back then, and certainly didn’t have any muscles to fight with. Funny how things change. Not that I had my magic to use against him at the time.”

“Sometimes violence is necessary,” Sebastian murmured. He was staring at this empty mug.

“Yeah, my father would say that too. Anyways,” Hawke sighed, running a hand through his hair. He felt exhaustion settle over him. “I thought that I’d just be chained up and taken to the Chantry where I could be rescued from. So imagine my fear when the Templar drew his sword instead.”

“He was probably afraid you’d attack him,” said Sebastian, glancing up at Hawke.

“I had no magic because of him. No weapon, no staff. I was a child, still,” Hawke retorted. “I don’t remember exactly what he said. Just something about me clearly being too old now to be integrated into the Circle, that I had probably been corrupted by a demon already. That it was why I had ran. That I wouldn’t likely pass my harrowing if I was brought there at my age. He said he was doing everyone a favour, including me. And then he slit my throat.”

Sebastian’s frown deepened. “But—that’s not—he had no authority to—”

“The ‘rules’ didn’t matter to him!” Hawke snapped. “He was told he had the power to carry out the will of the Chantry and do what was right when it came to mages. You’re not supposed to just kill random apostate children, of course, but… I’m sure he would have made up a lie. Maybe he would have been punished, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Sebastian murmured. “Surely, he—”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Hawke said, motioning towards his face. “The story doesn’t end there. I don’t really remember much; the shock of the wound, of losing so much blood took precedent. But I was told later that my Father had made it to me in time, using the work horse that belonged to the farmer our family worked for back then. He killed the Templar in a rage, and then did what he could to heal the wound before I bled out. He wasn’t much of a healer, but I guess he knew enough to stop the blood flow from the wound long enough to patch me up. We fled immediately, with me barely lucid in the back of the cart. It wasn’t safe to stay after that, between the apostate thing, the murder, and the horse stealing.”

Sebastian was still pale, washed out under the moonlight. His face was contemplative. A good sign, Hawke hoped. Sebastian needed to get his head out of his clouds some days.

“My father was no master healer, so I got a scar out of it,” Hawke finished. "When I was older, I got the tattoos in a fit of teenage rebellion, claiming that if people wanted to keep staring at the ugly thing, I’d give them something to stare at. I was kind of an idiot teenager, if it wasn’t obvious.” He snorted at the memory; Mother had been livid. Father had just said the red colour of the ink suited him.

“I.. I am sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate… I just don't understand,” Sebastian said lamely. “It seems so antithetical to the oaths the Order gives… so unlike all the Templars I have met.”

“Many people enjoy the power their positions give over others,” Hawke replied, voice hard as stone. “And they use that power to hurt people because they can, or convince themselves their actions are merciful regardless of the bloody truth. And it can be easy to not notice, if you aren’t the person they have power over.” 

“To do that to a young mage though,” Sebastian murmured, leaning on his hands. “Without giving them even a chance… It’s not right.”

“No. No it’s not,” Hawke said. He scratched between Nightshade's ears, not looking at Sebastian.

“I… thank you, you didn’t have to tell me this,” stammered Sebastian. “I… I think I’ll turn in,  until my watch. I need.. Some time to think about things.”

“Good night, Sebastian,” Hawke murmured, arms wrapping around his Mabari for comfort. He wondered if this would change how Sebastian viewed Templars and Mages. The terrible truth of the oppression his people faced was an ice cold wake up call to some. Still, he didn’t dare get his hope up, however; people’s deep rooted beliefs were not weeded out overnight.

   Now.

     Blood, warm and wet,  running down his neck, coating his skin. Too much, too much—his hands slippery, unable to find any purchase, unable to apply any pressure. The taste of iron filled his mouth, choking him; he couldn’t breath, couldn’t scream. He was dying, dying in a field in a backwater village, all alone—

“I can help. I can give you the power to stop this from ever happening again—” Power? He had no power, back then, but now?—NO!

Hawke gasped, eyes shooting open. His heart jumped, feeling like he was falling despite the weight of the bed pressing against his back. The cabin was completely dark; the smell of sea and the rocking of the ship reminded him, however, that he was out of the Fade now. 

The Fade? He could feel it now, and a wisp of mana tingling the back of his mind, barely out of reach. Not enough for anything but nightmares. 

The magebane must have worn off enough during the night; perhaps his body was adjusting to the dosage? He could only pray they didn't notice and try to increase it to combat his resistance. 

It had been days since he last dreamt. It felt so foreign to be cut off from the Fade, to have only dreamless nights.

Nightmares were not new for him, but it had been years since he had dreamed of the worst day of his childhood. He rubbed at his neck, feeling the scar tingle. “Ugh,” he muttered, voice hoarse like he had been yelling in his sleep. Perhaps he had. He did a quick look over his body, confirming he was himself—not possessed, no demon contracts made in the midst of a bad dream.

Good, good. He settled back down, closing his eyes to try and sleep again anyways. There was little to do until the candles in the cabin were lit by a crew member.

Hawke heard his cell door click open. His body tensed; a tightly coiled spring at the ready. Nothing good came from late night visits to prisoners' quarters. 

“Hawke?” came Sebastian’s voice, soft just like his footsteps. Hawke could feel the faint heat of a candle. He cracked his eyes open, rolling over to face Sebastian. The prince was dressed down, in comfortable looking sleep clothes made of silk, one hand holding a candelabra that looked out of place on a ship. Royalty sure insisted on bringing odd things with them, huh?

Hawke glared at him, still on edge. Just because it was Sebastian didn’t mean this visit was going to be good. Honestly, it being him made it worse. No one would punish the actions of a prince. 

Perhaps his idea of what was Hawke’s due punishment had changed. Hawke’s heart pounded, still off kilter from the nightmare. He didn’t want to think of what sort of punishment came only in the dead silence of the night.

“I thought… I thought I heard you scream,” Sebastian admitted. His thumb traced circles on the worn metal of the candelabra. “Are you alright?”

“...Just a dream, it’s nothing your royal highness has to worry about,” grumbled Hawke.

Sebastian nodded, unsurprised with his stubbornness. Good. At least he was getting used to it again. “...I had a nightmare too,” Sebastian mentioned. Hawke said nothing. 

“About… my parents, and my brothers. Them coming back from the dead in order to tell me how disappointed they were in me,” Sebastian continued. Hawke frowned, not wanting to deal with Sebastian’s problems. He wasn’t the only one with a dead family and many regrets, after all. Hawke had to see what his mother actually looked like brought back from the dead. “And then they attack me, tear me apart limb by limb…”

“I dreamt about my encounter with a Templar when I was a young teen,” Hawke cut in. Sebastian’s jaw clamped shut. 

“Ah,” he said, looking away awkwardly. “I just wanted to…”

“Make sure I wasn’t going to be an abomination when you send someone to give me breakfast?” Hawke snapped. He glared at the wall. Go away, go away—

“No. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay,” Sebastian murmured, eyes closed. He looked remorseful. It made Hawke’s blood boil. 

“I’m fine. I don’t need your pity. Go away.”

“I…”

“Leave me be, Sebastian. I don’t have the energy for this,” Hawke huffed, forcing his eyes shut despite the fear pumping through his veins. Leave, leave before you do something awful, please— He couldn't stop the anxiety he felt, the stories he had heard from other mages who had been at the mercy of powerful people just like he was swirling in his mind. The feeling choked him, closing up his throat like the blood in his dream. He hated how small and fragile he felt—but the weight of his capture, of his dreams, of his memories, were all heavy on his mind.

“You are still mad about our last talk,” remarked Sebastian. 

“No shit I am,” Hawke said. Among so many other things. “Go away.”

“I pray you rest easy, Hawke. I… I hope you will reconsider. I miss the trust we once had in each other, to talk about our vulnerabilities...” Sebastian lamented. He seemed to realise something then, surprise on his face for a moment. "And speak to the herbalist about increasing your magebane dosage, if you are able to dream in the Fade again." Shit. He should have lied, said he was just angry and yelling. Nice going, Hawke. Ruining things yet again by not keeping your mouth shut.

Hawke barely heard Sebastian leave, the door clicking softly as it was locked once again.

Hawke settled back down in the bed, determined to force himself to sleep regardless of how little he wanted to. He didn’t let his mind wander. The phalanges, the metatarsals, the lateral, middle, and medial cuneiforms… Going through the bones he had drilled into his head by Anders all those years ago had helped. Took his mind off his troubles, kept him focused;  but simple enough to lull him into sleep. It was a trick he hadn’t had to fall back to for a long time now. The cubioid, the navicular, the talus is part of the ankle, the calcaneus forms the heel… the fibula, the tibia, the patella in the knee… 

He drifted off to sleep like that, mind away from any princes or breaches of trust. It didn’t matter anyways, the words that Sebastian spoke. Even if they still hurt, it wasn’t new. Sebastian had already broken his trust long before the chantry explosion.

   Then.

    Hawke hated visiting the Gallows. The sight of Templar armour no longer made him flinch, but still his heart sped up, his skin itched with sweat, every time they got too close. 

Hawke knew he wasn’t untouchable—his title of Champion and the protection it gave was fragile. As soon as the nobles grew bored of him, as soon as they seemed to remember they were supposed to fear and hate mages, well…  his wealth, his nobility, Varric’s connections, even the people of Darktown who rallied behind him because of his position as assistant at Anders’ clinic—none of it would be able to keep him out of the Gallows. Assuming that Meredith even deigned to let Hawke live after all he had done; she might just name him a maleficar and order his death, clean her hands of him forever, or worse—have him be made tranquil as an act of ‘mercy’.

Meredith hated him, hated how he dared to be a mage living happily outside the Circle, free from her grasp, out of her reign of terror. He was no dog for her to kennel and there was little she could do until the protections around Hawke crumbled to ash. The only thing uncertain to him other than the when, was what exactly she’d do once she dug her claws into him.

His wandering mind drifted to Meredith’s tranquil assistant, his mouth dry. It’d be a real sight, wouldn’t it, for him to be the tranquil at her side instead? The former Champion of Kirkwall, now emotionless and without his magic; serving their great Knight-Commander like a loyal Mabari, just as she wanted.

Hawke felt like throwing up. He needed to get off the island. His task for Meredith was done, his hands washed of her for now—two blood mages dead, another mage free to the wind. He’d not given Emile up, even knowing Meredith saw through his paper-thin lies. There was nothing she could do to Hawke, not yet.

Not. Yet.

He headed down the stairs from the Templar’s Hall. His friends were waiting in the shade for him, skirting around the harsh midsummer sun. No one dared to let Hawke go to the Gallows alone—Hawke had no idea if it was for his safety or if they were worried about him turning it into a battleground—but he had them wait outside the Hall. There was no need to crowd into Meredith's office, especially when Anders was likely to push his luck and mouth off. Hawke would much appreciate it if his love stayed alive and outside the Circle, thank you, Anders. The Warden could bitch about her as soon as she was out of stabbing range.

Hawke sighed, rubbing at his forehead. His head pounded, the merciless sun beating down on him without end. Cicada chirps mingled with the cries of gulls in the distance. Maybe he’d return home with Anders now that they were done. They could spend the evening together in each other's arms reading. Or drinking, in Hawke’s case. He really needed a drink.

Anders stood by the stairs, leaning against the wall, stiff as a statue. He glared at the Templars keeping guard near his perch. Fenris and Sebastian were farther away, near Solivatus’ stall. The two had never got along with Anders, but Hawke trusted them regardless. That, and they’d be unaffected by a holy smite if things went sour. Also, Aveline and Varric were busy. With Isabela long gone and Carver in the Templars, he had a limited supply of friends who fit the bill of “not a mage”. 

“Hello, love,” Hawke murmured, pulling Anders into his arms with a sigh. He kissed Anders’ cheek, wanting to chase away the scowl etched into his love’s face. “Let’s go home. It’s all done, and I doubt Meredith will waste time on going after Emile. Not with everything else going on.”

“I hope so. Thank you,” Anders murmured, eyes closing for a moment as he leaned on Hawke. “Let’s go. I hate this place.”

Hawke hummed in agreement. He freed Anders from his hug, but took the man’s calloused hand into his own, thumb stroking freckled skin.

“It is our duty,” came Sebastian’s voice, Starkhaven accent thick. The phrase was familiar; Sebastian cared a lot about personal duties—“to tell the Templars.” Hawke’s heart plummeted. He felt weightless, floating in a void with only his own shock for companionship. He barely even registered the pain from Anders’ bone breaking grip.

“Then why haven’t you done it?” Fenris drawled, having not noticed Hawke’s return. He was staring off into the Kirkwall harbour, the murky waters barely visible through the bars and pillars of the Gallows, his arms crossed and face broody as always.

Sebastian also seemed unawares of the mages’ return, blue eyes focused on Fenris. “I guess I was hoping they’d come to it on their own, considering…” Considering neither Anders nor Hawke were all that subtle about their magic, even before Hawke was made Champion. Even Merrill stood out, with the too-fancy ‘walking stick’ she had, topped with a gem that hummed with the magic of the Fade. After the Qunari siege, there was no excuse but the layers of fragile societal protection Hawke had managed to pull around him and his friends.

Fenris snorted, but his tone was cold when he spoke: “And then you wouldn’t have to betray Hawke’s friends, right?” he asked, emerald green eyes glancing at the rogue. 

Sebastian shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the accusation. He worried his lip, adjusted his grandfather’s bow on his back—the very bow Hawke had gotten back for him. “That’s… that’s not reason enough to allow a maleficar to walk free,” he said, confidence slowly returning to his voice, his stance.

Anders dropped Hawke’s hand, marching towards the pair, a fire alight in his eyes. “You think the Templars don’t know I’m here?” Anders demanded, staring Sebastian down, shoulders squared for a fight. The sleek samir feathers on his coat seemed to puff up in agitation. “That they don’t know that I’ve been here for years, practising my magic freely? They just haven’t caught me yet.”

Sebastian regarded Anders for a moment, eyes flickering, thinking, calculating. Then he turned back to Fenris, saying, “Which one of us should do it? Shall we draw lots?” It would have been smug, humorous—the type of banter had got Hawke smiling even as his friends grumbled in frustration at each other—if not for the dark expression on Sebastian’s face. If not for the subject matter.

Anders gripped his staff so hard Hawke was afraid it’d splinter and break. His other hand shook in anger, balled into fists so tight his knuckles were white. But Anders made no move to say or do anything. Hawke could tell why; could see the flashes of blue struggling to break out in Anders honey coloured eyes; struggling to crackle along his sun-freckled skin (getting out of Darktown more often had done wonders for his complexion). 

Sebastian was playing with fire, so close to having Justice come out in full force—in the middle of the Gallows. Did Sebastian want a bloodbath?! Sure—Anders would probably die, Hawke would probably die, but who knew how many Templars Justice could take with them before they did. Nevermind Fenris… 

Though perhaps his siding with Hawke was only hopeful thinking. He liked to think they were good enough friends, though.

“Uh-uh,” Fenris replied, shaking his head. His eyes flitted between the three humans in front of him, clearly assessing the chances of a fight breaking out. “You want to turn them in, you work it out with Hawke.” Despite seeming like a diplomatic answer, Hawke saw it for the threat it was—because Hawke would not allow Merrill or Anders to be taken to the Circle, and was already known to resort to violence, probably more than necessary. 

Hawke took the lull in the conversation as a chance to get his legs working again. They felt like they were made of lead, his heart still beating in double-time, adrenaline spiking through him with no outlet. There was no beast here to slaughter, no bandits to fight—just the betrayal of a man he thought was his friend, a man who he thought understood. A man who had eased Hawke’s worries about being both a mage and a believer in Andraste and the Maker. And yet, here Sebastian was, being everything Hawke hated about the Chantry. 

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to hurt Sebastian. Make him regret those words. Yet, Hawke could not bring those emotions to the surface, buried too deep, drowned out by the pain he was feeling.

He had always known Sebastian was the unpopular friend in the group—which was saying a lot, since he knew Anders often rubbed his companions the wrong way with his own callous words, or talked their ear off about mages. Still, Hawke had always disregarded what was said about Sebastian, much like he did with Anders. Sure, some of it was true—the man was sheltered, unaware of the real problems that plagued the world, but Hawke had been sure he truly cared, truly wanted to help. 

Maybe Hawke had been a fool this whole time.  Maybe Sebastian had just been hoping he could convince Hawke to turn himself into the Circle, just biding his time, only to realise now it was a lost cause. Or maybe he was like Fenris, and somehow saw Hawke as different from other mages; as special. Hawke always hated that—even more so in that it still stroked his ego despite his discomfort. 

Sebastian had been acting differently since their return from the Vinmarks. Hawke had no idea if it was because of the shock of Hawke’s father being a blood mage (a surprise to Hawke too, but he understood his father had no choice; that he had done it for love, for the safety of his wife, of Hawke still in his mother’s womb). Carver hadn’t seemed sure of what to think about their father after that; Hawke was glad his brother had come though, and that it gave them time to talk—even if they had devolved briefly into bickering about resentment like they so often did, no matter how many truces they formed. It was part of how they loved each other. 

Though, Sebastian’s change in attitude could also have been due to meeting one of the Magisters who defiled the Maker’s Golden City. That had shaken Anders as well, quite deeply. He still had the amulet of Dumat retrieved off of Corypheus’ corpse, which Hawke had found him staring at late at night more than a few times. 

Or, perhaps it was for more petty reasons—like Hawke siding with Larius over Janeka. Sebastian had been angry with that choice, despite the fact that it was obvious the Wardens were being controlled by Corypheus. After all, the magister had done the same to Anders—and Hawke was forever thankful Justice was there to keep Anders safe, keep Hawke from having to kill the man he loved in self defence. He wasn’t sure if he could have kept living with Anders’ blood on his hands.

Hawke worked his mouth, trying to find the right words before they died on his tongue. “This isn’t a conversation for the Gallows,” he forced out, his swirling emotions poisoning his tone. “Let’s get out of here and return to the docks.”

Hawke stormed off, not waiting for anyone to follow. He heard Anders fall into step behind him, but didn’t dare look. He was afraid—afraid that if he saw even the barest look of pity or sympathy in his or Fenris’s eyes, he’d break down. It was silly. Sebastian and him hadn’t even been that close, right? But… but he had trusted Sebastian, despite his own instincts to not. And that trust had meant a lot to Hawke.

He had thought that Sebastian understood at least a little—especially after sharing with him the story behind his scar. Most of Hawke’s friends still didn’t know; it was not something Hawke liked to share. As much as people seemed to enjoy barring their souls to him, it was rare he did the same.

(Anders knew the whole story; it was hard to keep things from him, the words just tumbling out of Hawke’s mouth whenever the man smiled at him right)

He was reminded of when Isabela had left him. He had trusted her. And the worst part was, her leaving wasn’t what hurt him the most, no. It was her not trusting him to be able to keep his friends safe, keep her from being hunted down and harmed by Castillion. But Isabela was his own fault—he knew that he hadn’t done enough for her in the end. If he had only tried harder, maybe she wouldn’t have left, maybe she would have returned after the siege. 

She was gone now, nothing but a memory. Perhaps Sebastian would soon be the same.

Maybe it was for the best; things were going to come to a head in Kirkwall soon, he knew. He could taste it in the air. And Maker only knew how things would end.

Hawke was silent on the boat ride to shore. Fenris gave him a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, but Hawke barely acknowledged it. He loved Fenris, truly, but the elf still troubled him at times. While Hawke understood why Fenris was the way he was—why he feared and hated mages and magic, because of all the horrible things he had seen and been subjected to. Knowing didn’t make it easy to swallow. Not when Fenris insisted all mages were dangerous; were weak-willed and just waiting to fall into the hands of a demon. Except, apparently, Hawke himself. 

While Hawke was glad he had found a friend in Fenris, glad he had gotten through the man’s defensive walls—because Fenris was intelligent, kind, funny, and deserved so much more than the hand he had been dealt—it didn’t make his dislike of other mages easy to accept. Because it was too hard to stop himself from wincing when the man spoke of torture at the hands of Danarius, all too hard to feel those words apply to Hawke himself—because Hawke wasn’t that different from other mages. He wasn’t special, or especially selfless. He was just a man, with wants, desires, and fears like any other. He was just as liable to be corrupt as even Danarius was, just as capable of cruelty or falling prey to a demon. Unlike Danarius, Hawke fought tooth and nail to be better, to swallow his pride, to swallow his lust for violence; all in order to help others, in order to fill the hole in his chest with something other than bloodshed. All to feed the righteous anger that smouldered inside him.  

Even he had a limit, a moment where desperation overtook all logic. There had been times where he had teetered on the edge, and he feared what he would become if he ever did fall off. What he’d do to the people around him. Knowing his father—once an incorruptible force in his mind—had once turned to blood magic only added to that fear. For now, that fear kept him from doing anything stupid—but only for now. If he found himself backed into a corner, faced with tranquillity at the hands of Meredith… Hawke may do something he’d regret, he knew, because the alternative frightened him too much. Not even death struck him like tranquillity did—he liked to think he could accept his own death with grace.

Truthfully, Hawke didn’t want to be seen as a shining example of a ‘good’ mage, he wanted to be seen as a man just like anyone else. No different than Carver or Sebastian. He wasn’t even that good—he could heal, he tried to help those who needed it, sure, all that was great. But he was hyper-aware of his own anger, the aggression he struggled to reign in, especially in the wake of his Mother’s death. His friends were all well aware of it too; and yet, seemed blind to all his faults. It shouldn’t’ve bothered him—and his ego did enjoy the love and attention—but yet he found himself frustrated anyways that he kept being put on a pedestal despite being, frankly, a damn mess of a human being. He was just one that got results, one who hated being caged and cornered—and thus lashed out like a wild animal.

The weight of his title of Champion was heavy on his shoulders—so many people relied on him now, so many hung onto his every word. Part of him revelled in it, in the attention, the power—the ability to finally change things for the better. But at the same time… the same time he was a candle burned down to just the wick. He had no ideas on how to fix anything, no idea how to stop Meredith before it was too late, and no idea how to bring revolution and change to the mages in Kirkwall, let alone Thedas. Hawke was burning away to nothing but ash from the inside. He was exhausted, and he knew his friends had noticed. 

Then there was Anders, his Anders who barely smiled anymore…

And now he had to worry about Sebastian possibly turning the Templars against them, Champion title be damned. All for some idiotic sense of duty. Ugh. Blind loyalty was what got so many men killed in Ostagar, instead of running when it was clear the battle was unwinnable. He was glad Carver had gotten out, even if he had to apparently be dragged kicking and screaming. Despite their arguments, despite being a Templar, he really did love his brother.

Hawke had thought he had gotten through to Sebastian in a way similar to Fenris, but… He sighed, wanting nothing more than to slip into the dark depths of Kirkwall’s harbour and disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice, to sleep in the ocean forever? 

They made it to the docks too fast for Hawke’s liking. “Thank you, Fenris,” Hawke murmured, clambering out of the rowboat. He worked his mouth, trying to think of what else to say. “..for everything, I…”

“You’re my friend, Hawke,” Fenris cut in, shaking his head. A small smile played on his lips. “Get some rest.” He turned, heading towards Lowtown—likely planning on talking to Varric as soon as the man was free. Part of Hawke hoped Fenris wouldn’t even bring up what Sebastian had said to the dwarf.

“Let’s head home, love,” Anders murmured. Hawke could still see the lingering embers of fury in his face. “I think rest would do us some good. It’s been a long few days.” Rest, and maybe something else. 

Hawke nodded, following Anders. He felt a tug at his arm and stopped in his tracks. Sebastian’s thin fingers were hooked into the sleeves of his robe. Hawke looked back, keeping his face neutral. For a moment, guilt flashed in Sebastian’s features, before he too schooled his expression to something flat and unreadable. “Hawke,” he began, “I…” He trailed off, glancing down, “...did… did Anders ever tell you what he wanted with the Chantry, before we left for the Vinmark Mountains?"

Hawke blinked. At the Chantry?—Ah. When Anders had asked him to distract Grand Cleric Elthina. “No,” Hawke replied, shrugging Sebastian’s arm off. “Go home, Sebastian.” He started after Anders, taking long strides, not daring to slow down. He felt like if he didn’t get out of there soon, the urge to look back would be too strong. And if he looked back, he feared what he would do—unsure if he’d merely breakdown and cry, or if his rage would finally claw its way out of his chest.

“He’s unstable, Hawke, I—I’m worried about you!” Sebastian called, voice echoing through the empty marina. 

Hawke didn’t reply, falling in step again with Anders, hooking his arm with his love’s. Anders shot him a concerned look, but said nothing. Hawke was grateful for that. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak without saying something he’d regret, not until he calmed down.

Sebastian wasn’t completely wrong—Anders struggled mentally, and had once told Hawke he was the only thing keeping Anders sane. But Hawke wasn’t about to start throwing fireballs in glass houses. He had his own share of problems, his own moments of instability—especially in the wake of his Mother’s death, the wound still raw after three years. Hawke knew Anders benefited from having someone as an anchor, someone to help him on the days he was too melancholic to get out of bed; on days he was too manic to remember to eat while he worked. 

But that didn’t mean Anders wasn’t worthy of being loved, of having people there for him. Having a rock like Hawke made it easier to keep together, anyways; Hawke knew that, since Anders had been his after his mother’s death.

What Hawke had told Sebastian wasn’t a lie, either—Anders had yet to tell him exactly what he had been doing in the Chantry that day. Hawke had a few ideas, not once believing Anders was trying to actually split from Justice. He regretted joining with the spirit, with his friend, without thinking things through—but never once talked of splitting from him. He had always insisted that they were too intertwined now, two halves of a whole. The idea of Anders cutting Justice out was more akin to amputation to Hawke—especially as he had never known Anders without the influence of the spirit (or demon, maybe. Hawke did not care what Justice, what Vengeance, was—because all that mattered was that he loved Anders and everything about him—flaws and all, including the Fade creature that shared his body. Merrill insisted there wasn’t much of a difference between spirits and demons anyways.)

And the way Anders spoke, the things he had asked for… He was hiding something, and Hawke knew it. Anders was not a good liar; it had cost him a lot of sovereigns in the past—and Hawke knew all the man’s tells.

It frustrated Hawke—that he could not trust even the word of the man he loved, the man he shared a bed with every night. He had thought he had made it clear to Anders, to Justice, that he believed in their cause wholeheartedly; that he agreed with their ideas of revolution, that he understood violence was sometimes necessary for the greater good, that he would not cry over the deaths of Templars who abused others. And yet, Anders was keeping things from him—from their friends, but especially from him. It hurt. It hurt, but like with Sebastian, he was a coward—unable to confront those closest to him. He had no qualms with being direct, being aggressive towards most people, but something about it being… being a friend made him clam up, and made him able to voice his frustrations and concerns. Made him afraid of his own anger.

Part of it was due to his pervasive fear of losing what few people he had left. Most of his family was dead—dead because he couldn’t save them, because he wasn’t a good enough healer, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t fast enough. His brother and he had a shaky relationship, one based on snide remarks, quiet drunken confessions, and trips away from the soul crushing atmosphere of Kirkwall that always ended with someone dead by their hands. Normal brotherly bonding, for them.

Even his friend group was dwindling—Isabela had been gone for years, abandoning him after he had proved unworthy of her trust; proof he really wasn’t fit to be a ‘hero’ like Varric built him up to be. Merrill rarely left her hovel; trying desperately still to figure out her Eluvian mirror. Anders had been more and more involved in his cause, his clinic; more and more he was spending nights away from their shared bed. Varric’s writing kept him busier than ever; he couldn’t remember the last time he had joined Hawke on an outing. Aveline was struggling to keep the Guards afloat in troubled times; she hadn’t even been down to the Hanged Man for weeks. And then there was Fenris and Sebastian—Fenris was always a bit of a loner, but he at least visited Hawke and Orana from time to time. Sebastian he had continued to speak with in the Chantry, when they weren’t hiking in the mountains together, but now…

Maybe Hawke deserved it. He was a coward. A liar too. How often had he lied to Sebastian, lied to his other friends? Lied to people who had trusted him. Most of the time it was to protect himself, protect his family, lest someone learn he was an apostate. But not always. Sometimes it was smaller things, too. Lying was easier than barring his soul.

Anders' secret could be something no one needed to know until the right time came, lest people get hurt. But Hawke still couldn’t shake the hypocritical pang in his heart at the thought of Anders lying to him. He kept telling himself it was because Anders was clearly keeping something big from him—and Hawke had only lied about small stuff. Oh no, I’m fine, I wasn’t crying in the study alone, I’m over my family's deaths, really—but truthfully he had no idea what Anders was hiding. Hawke only assumed it was big, only assumed it was connected to his work. 

It was all Hawke’s fault, in the end; it was his relationships he couldn’t keep together, all while Kirkwall seemed to crumble around him despite so many relying on him as their Champion. His fault, and he had no idea how to fix anything.

“I’m going to kill that bastard if he even thinks about turning any of us in again,” Anders hissed as soon as they were through the door to their bedroom. Orana didn’t need to hear any threats of violence; she was finally starting to really open up and blossom now that she was free from slavery and in a better environment. There was no need to scare her. 

(Hawke hated to admit it, but he was glad she was so used to magic being used so freely because of her upbringing in Tevinter; it made her working for two apostates go a lot smoother, when she didn’t jump at the sight of a spark or glow.)

“I think Sebastian’s parents were married,” Hawke replied, voice tired. 

Anders sighed. Evidentially, he was not in a humorous mood. “Whatever. I’d have to deal with Fenris accusing me of only killing him because I’m possessed if I did,” he muttered. “He can run back to the Chantry and tell all of Thedas we’re mages for all I care. It’s not like anyone’s going to dare try to piss you off. And everyone already knows what you can do anyways.”

Hawke hummed vaguely, changing out of his robes. It wasn’t himself he was worried about when it came to Sebastian’s words, but he felt too hollow, too exhausted to find the words to explain. If Sebastian was like Fenris, the ‘maleficarum’ he spoke of were Merrill and Anders, not Hawke. 

“He does live in the Chantry, right?” Anders asked, but it was clear he wasn’t really addressing Hawke; merely thinking out loud. Anders fiddled with his jacket—his new one, all black and sleek, simir bird feathers iridescent under the light. Hawke rather liked it. “Spends a lot of time there…” Anders' eyes narrowed, trailing off.

Hawke slid into bed, not wanting to think anymore. He’d rather sleep, not think; and certainly not think about how suspicious Anders was being. It didn’t matter that the sun was still up. He wanted to drift into the fade and be alone.

Anders slid in beside him, jacket since shed. He slipped his arms around Hawke, legs tangled, Anders' body warm against his chest. If Anders ranted about Sebastian further, the words merely washed over Hawke, deaf. He only felt the light kisses to his face, neck, the caresses along his back and side. 

Hawke just wanted to sleep until everything was back the way it was supposed to be.

   Now.

    “Hawke,” Sebastian greeted. “Have you reconsidered my offer?” 

“It will always be a no, Sebastian,” Hawke said, staring at the wall.

Sebastian had the audacity to look forlorn. Hawke wanted nothing more than to puke on him, but he hadn’t had any food yet for the day. The nausea from the poison lingered. The night before he had also been wrecked with chills and fever. Hawke really did wonder how much more magebane he could take before he died, or if his body would merely grow accustomed to it, leaving the poison to drain his mana only. He had grown used to the last dosage but would they continue to up it and pray it didn't kill him until his execution? He hoped not; dying was bad enough, being hopelessly sick from poison prior to bring brought to a hangman's nose was worse.

Hawke hadn't dreamed since the nightmare.

Sebastian took a seat. “Hawke,” he began, “back during that day in Kirkwall, when the Chantry was destroyed… I asked you if you would have been unable to decide what to do if I had been in there and died. You never gave me an answer in the end, but I have been thinking about it again.” 

Hawke hummed, rolling the words he wanted to say around in his mind first, trying to find the right order to put them in. “But you weren’t in the Chantry, were you? That was on purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not notice that I started asking for you to come with me more often, after we met Lady Nightingale?” Hawke asked. “Sometimes even without Anders. I asked you to come with me to the Vinmark Mountains, to deal with demons under the city, that kind of stuff. Before, I mostly talked to you at the Hanged Man or the Chantry.”

Sebastian sat back, leaning against the wall as he thought Hawke’s words over. “...so you knew Anders was planning something and instead of warning me, just decided to… to keep me out of the Chantry?”

“I had a feeling something was going to happen, and right before the trip to the Vinmark Mountains was when Anders asked me to talk to the Grand Cleric while he set the charges. At the time I honestly didn’t know what he was doing, but I figured he was planning something that would lead to people dying,” Hawke explained, staring at his hands. “And I knew whatever he was planning, it was all in service of mage freedom and overthrowing the Templars, so I wasn’t going to rat him out when I wanted the same thing.”

“And you thought it was important to keep me alive over the Grand Cleric, why?” Sebastian demanded, tone sharp.

“Because you were my friend at the time, and I’m selfish. I had no attachment to Elthina,” Hawke replied with a shrug. It was the cold hard truth; Hawke’s empathy had always been limited outside of his inner circle.

“And your brother—”

“I had Thrask and Keran make sure Carver was never stationed in or near the Chantry after the trip to the Vinmark Mountains,” Hawke cut in, rubbing at his knuckles idly as he spoke. They were scarred; he had split the skin open punching Carver once, years ago. “They both trusted me since I had helped them before, and they knew he was my little brother—my little brother who had just been attacked in the Gallows barracks. They just assumed I was being a worrying, protective sibling—which I suppose I was, just for different reasons.”

Sebastian studied Hawke’s face. Hawke shifted under the scrutiny as the silence seemed to stretch on and on. He could hear the muffled sounds of the crew outside, likely preparing for lunch. 

“I just don’t get it,” Sebastian finally said. “Why do you worry so much about the deaths of some but then condone the deaths of other innocents?”

“Because I know the people whose deaths I worry about? And the rest are all strangers, or people I couldn’t care less about?” Hawke said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

“But that doesn’t mean their deaths are okay! They’re still people, with lives, and families, and many of them were good people!” 

“Hrmm… well, I know that but… I told you. I’m very selfish. So I only end up caring about the deaths of some,” Hawke sighed.  “People just seem to forget that, just because I do care about strangers sometimes, if I feel what’s going on is… wrong. Like those elf children who were killed by the magistrate’s son, or mages who didn’t do anything except want to be free. And sometimes I just help people not because I care, but because I know it’ll make them like me. I guess I’m just good at fooling people into thinking I’m some heroic soul.” He could practically hear his friends’ voices in his head, telling him he was being too hard on himself, that he was better than what he was saying. He ignored them. 

Sebastian’s voice was one of them. Hawke didn’t dare linger on that fact.

Hawke looked Sebastian in the eyes, unflinching as he said, “You’re not much better, you know.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?” he prompted.

“You act all selfless, but you really aren’t, not completely, is what I mean. You only help for some weird sense of self righteousness and redemption in His eyes. It always bothered me but I couldn’t figure out why, until now, and I’ve finally realised that. I mean, you at least do things that actually help people, so that puts you above Elthina in my mind,” Hawke replied, tracing the scars on his right hand.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hawke,” Sebastian said. “I—I do not have to justify my actions to you.” 

“No. But I do to you, it seems. Isn’t life unfair?”

“Because your actions—your choice to not tell anyone of your suspicions about Anders plans—led to the death of innocents! Killed Elthina, destroyed my home, threw all of Thedas into chaos! And even now when given the chance to be redeemed, you refuse!” Sebastian shouted, standing quick enough to knock his stool over. He was pointing his finger at Hawke accusingly, all while Hawke just smirked at him. There was no joy behind the expression. 

Hawke had been wondering how long it would take to boil Sebastian’s fury over enough for it to replace the sickeningly sweet ‘I’m-just-worried-for-your-immortal-soul’ schtick. Not long, if he pushed the right buttons, it seemed. Or maybe it was just anger left over from before. Hawke knew what it was like to have it smoulder under the surface, no matter how much it was smothered by other emotions. It always found a way to spark back to life, to burn everything in its path, if one wasn’t careful.

Anger was better than pity. Anger he could match easily, argue with. Anger didn’t make his stomach churn, it didn't make him feel pathetic. It'd be cathartic for Hawke to have free reign to yell with Sebastian, if nothing else.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I really don’t feel all that regretful about what happened in Kirkwall, Sebastian?” Hawke questioned, shaking his head. His hair was tangled, neglected from days of illness and stress. “I remember you accusing me of condoning it even then, and you weren’t wrong.”

Sebastian opened his mouth. Hawke cut him off before he could speak, the apostate’s voice growing stronger, clearer. “I am sorry you lost Elthina, but she… she wasn’t listening. She was refusing to do anything even as the situation became dire, even as Meredith started calling for the Right of Annulment. Her inaction was going to cost the lives of so many innocent mages, including children, and there would have been nothing to be done. It would have been swept under the rug like so many other crimes to my people. I wish she hadn’t had to die, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“It had to be done. I’m not going to pretend it was the morally right thing to do—a good thing to do—but it was what needed to be done. It was better to force Meredith's hand, to die fighting, to fight for freedom than to let her kill everyone laying down. If Anders hadn’t killed Elthina, hadn’t made it clear there was no compromise to be had, Orsino would have kept pushing for it—and then Templars would have just killed every mage in the Gallows and no one would have cared." Hawke’s voice shook, righteous anger fueling his words. “Anders and I do not regret it, even if we know it’s a mark on our souls. It’s not like I haven’t killed people who didn’t deserve it for lesser things, after all. I used to kill people in the streets for money! At least this was for a cause, at least her death was to force change, to save other lives before it was too late. To allow the deaths of those who did die to matter instead of being forgotten like they were disposable.”

“Nothing you say will justify what Anders did to me,” Sebastian said, his voice wavering. Hawke couldn’t tell if his words were laced with sorrow or rage. 

“...I suppose I knew that,” Hawke lamented. “But it was worth a try.” He stared at his hands, folding them delicately in his lap. “We chose to fight. To make Meredith angry. To give mages a chance to at least fight back. It was better than letting everyone be slaughtered like cattle.”

“His betrayal wasn’t necessary,” Sebastian stated. “I don’t know how you can keep defending him when he betrayed your trust as well."

“I’ve lied to a lot of people who trusted me, Sebastian,” Hawke stated. “I’m a hypocrite, but I know when to forgive people when I am being one. I’m not angry he lied to me, not anymore.” Hawke sighed; his heart missed Anders more with each day they were apart. He prayed to the Maker each night that Anders would be okay, that Anders wouldn’t do anything that would get himself killed before his time came.

He had no idea if his prayers were even being heard. He didn’t care.

“And you talk to me about betrayal?” Hawke snorted. “I seem to remember you discussing with Fenris once, about turning Merrill and Anders over to the Circle; to the Templars who’d kill them. Or do worse. Fenris had the sense to shut you down gently, but yet you still thought about it, didn’t you? Despite knowing I cared for Merrill like a sister; that I loved Anders. And what about me? You knew I was a mage too. Did…” Hawke's voice cracked, his tongue wetting his lips, “did you ever consider turning me into the Templars too?”

“Yes,” Sebastian answered, far too fast for Hawke’s liking. “When I first found out you were a mage.”

Hawke sagged into the bed, the tension draining from his body. “Then don’t you dare talk to me about betrayal, Sebastian,” he hissed, teeth bared, but its effect was dampened by the hurt in his tone; the hurt written on his face. “You were considering sending me and the people I loved to the one place we feared the most, and you even spoke about it to my friend like you thought he’d throw me to the wolves too!” 

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t turn me in, any of them in, because why? Because you were afraid of me?” Hawke snapped. “What? Too scared I’d kill you before the Templars executed me or made me tranquil? You’re a coward. No wonder you needed someone else to enact your vengeance for your family.”

Sebastian was in Hawke’s face in one swift movement, towering over him. His hand gripped the hilt of the dagger at his waist, muscles shaking. Hawke’s pulse jumped, throat bobbing as Sebastian leaned in. “Do not speak of my family,” he hissed. “I will not let you sully their name.” 

He pulled away, pacing in the room. “I considered you a friend, Hawke. I thought… That is why I did not wish to turn you in, in the end. I was more afraid of you being hurt by it than you hurting me. And I thought perhaps it really was the Maker’s plan for you to be outside the Circle in order to use your magic to serve others, like I explained the other day.” He stopped, staring at the wall. “But. The friend part was also why I hesitated, especially at first.”

Sebastian sighed, turning back around and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was a fool to have not turned in the other two however.” Oh, Sebastian was only digging his grave, wasn’t he? Hawke regretted not letting Anders kill Sebastian, regretted not ending him then and there in Kirkwall even when the archer had said his death would achieve nothing. It would have certainly kept Hawke from having to hear such traitorous words, saved him the heartbreak, the despair. Yet, even now, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to kill the prince. He didn’t care so much about the consequences of assassinating a leader of the Free Marches; no, he just didn’t want the blood of an old friend on his hands, not when he was already drenched in so much. Selfish, selfish, selfish…

“Merrill would have led her entire clan to a terrible death if you had not been there, and Anders… well...” Sebastian chuckled darkly. “No point in elaborating there.”

“I considered you a friend, too, you know,” Hawke breathed. “Or did you think I came to visit you in the Chantry to talk just for my nefarious plans?”

Sebastian locked eyes with Hawke. “I know,” he whispered.  His hand dropped from his face. “I only thought someone who seemed as faithful as you did would not condone, would not be a part of something so terrible—willingly. Maybe I have been a fool, thinking you could be saved. Maybe it is truly too late for you, Hawke.” 

“It’s been too late for me for years, Sebastian,” Hawke said with a sad smile. “Faith doesn’t stop people from hurting others. If it did, there wouldn’t be so many Templars raping and abusing mages, now would there? I can still believe in Andraste and the Maker, still want to seek out a Brother or Sister to speak to at a Chantry about the Chant while still wishing for my fellow mages to be free, no matter the cost.”

“But the Chant says—”

“The Chant says that ‘magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him,’ ” Hawke recited. “That doesn’t have to mean locking mages up, taking away their rights and treating them like lesser. Did I not serve the people of Kirkwall as Champion?”

“Of course you did, but—”

“And so did Merrill and Anders, even if you don’t want to believe it. Merrill tried to help her people reclaim their history. She aided the elves of the alienage in that last year in Kirkwall. Anders healed and saved so many with his clinic and work with the Mages’ Collective.” Hawke paused, swallowing, before he continued. “And in the Book of Shartan—”

“That text is considered heretical by—”

“By whom? The Chantry? Funny thing, that. They didn’t always, and it sure is interesting they only started leaving out the part about the elf who helped free his people along with Andraste when the Divine ordered the Exalted Marches on the Dales,” Hawke hissed. “Fenris and I talked about those verses often, you know. Even Anders spoke of Shartan, about how his Warden-Commander had a lot of respect for Andraste and Shartan as a Dalish elf, how she had supposedly talked with Shartan in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“...And why bring this up?” Sebastian inquired. 

“Faith is not determined solely by what other people decide, faith is a personal thing,” Hawke murmured, “And even if Andraste and the Maker are infallible, men aren’t, right? So the Chantry can’t be perfect and infallible because it is created by men. It is just as affected by the ills of man as anything else, and that means sometimes… sometimes the people in charge have other goals that do not align with what He wanted. And that’s why I believe He and his Bride didn’t want mages to be locked up—that was because of the fear of man. Andraste wanted magic to serve man, yes, but the fear of it is being allowed to rule instead. The Chantry was made by man, and so it could be torn down by man too.”

Sebastian was quiet.  Hawke took that as his chance to continue. “Anders and I always opposed the Chantry and its unjust laws, but not the Maker or Andraste. If that makes us maleficarum, so be it. But nothing you knew of me before this, nothing we discussed, really contradicts who I am now. I kept things from you, yes, but those details weren’t necessary to understand the fundamentals of who I am. I won’t lie; I have changed since we met, but it wasn’t because Anders manipulated me into hating the Maker or anything. He’s actually devout himself. I’ve merely grown like any other living being.” 

“I just… struggle to make sense of you, Hawke,” Sebastian said finally, tapping the hilt of his dagger in thought. “I really do. And I hate that I so desperately want you to allow yourself to… for you to disavow Anders and come back to the Chantry while you still have hope, all because I believed in you once; because you were my friend. Even though I know it’s too late for that, even though you've made it clear you never will.” 

“We all wish for things to be as they once were, especially in hard times,” Hawke murmured. “It’s not a sin, but it is something you have to learn to move past. It took me a while to realise that too.”

Hawke pushed himself up, staring down Sebastian. “We can’t be friends again, Sebastian. Not unless one of us radically changes ourselves. I doubt that will ever happen. It’s just how it is, so stop chasing the past, stop trying to make me ‘redeem’ myself.” He sighed, looking towards the wall. “I would say I’m sorry that we can’t kiss and make up, but you did threaten to kill me and the love of my life, so I have no idea if I’d really mean it. Just let them execute me, Sebastian, instead of chasing a ghost. It’s the kinder mercy.”

Sebastian was quiet. Hawke had no idea if the prince was taking his words to heart. Part of him didn’t care. Regardless, Sebastian didn’t apologise either. Instead, he stood up, making to leave. “We’ll be in the Free Marches soon. Then your trial preparations will start,” he said in lieu of anything else.

Hawke was alright with that. There was no need for apologies, not when the bridge between them had been rendered to ash years ago.

   Then.

    There was a Templar, staring up at the memorial wall in the Chantry. He looked tired, eyes red-rimmed and tear stained, his dark hair dishevelled. And although they had few interactions, Sebastian recognised Carver Hawke easily now, even when he was bound in the identical armour of his brother-in-arms. 

“I am surprised to see that you are still on active duty, I must admit,” Sebastian murmured, coming up beside him. It was easy to follow the young man’s gaze, landing on Leandra Hawke Amell’s remembrance plate that Sebastian had put up. 

“I took some time off earlier, at the behest of the Knight-Commander and my Knight-Captain, though I actually didn’t want to,” Carver rasped, voice cracking. He looked and sounded like he had been crying all night. Sebastian did not dare speak on the Templar’s emotional state; he didn’t want to see the lad break into sobs in front of him. Military men like Carver often preferred to cry alone; Sebastian’s older brothers had been the same.

“I think their insistence was more about them feeling guilty for not catching the blood mage that killed her, more than the fact that my mother died,” muttered Carver. “Some apology, huh?” he sneered, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. 

“I am… sure they tried their best,” Sebastian tried. Carver’s brother was an apostate, one Carver had no intention of turning in it seemed, so there was always risk of him turning against the Order. Sebastian had to tread carefully. “Even if they did fail your mother and so many others.” 

Carver turned to Sebastian, looking down at him—Sebastian had always thought himself a decently tall man, but Carver and Anders towered over him. Almost made him feel small; almost. (Hawke, however, had always seemed sensitive about his height)

“No... you’re right,” Carver relented, shoulders sagging. “Even dear Brother tried and failed to track Quentin down in time. Ser Emeric tried, and it cost him his life. I… it’s not really anyone’s fault but that Maker damned blood mage, may he rest in the fucking Void.”  Carver sucked in a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t come here to rant, I just… wanted to thank you for putting this up for our mother.”

“It’s alright,” Sebastian reassured him. “And of course; she seemed like a fine, strong woman. She certainly raised two very impressive sons. She deserves to be remembered.” 

Carver nodded, looking back up at her remembrance plate, as though he was trying to commit it perfectly to his memory. “It just doesn’t feel… real, that she’s really gone. But I know that I’ll get used to it. It was the same with Father and Bethany’s deaths. It’s just… we were supposed to be safe here, the three of us.” 

“Nowhere is truly safe from the ills of man, no matter where they are, until they are at the side of the Maker,” Sebastian said.

“Yeah, I suppose not,” Carver sighed, rubbing at his face. “I’ll miss her. So much. I… At least… at least she’ll be able to see Father and my sister again. She loved them.” 

“She loved you and your brother, as well. I could tell when I spoke with her,” Sebastian said, choosing not to comment on Carver���s sniffling. He let a melancholic silence settle over them. He understood. He had been a mess after the death of his family as well. And then that sadness had turned to anger…

Sebastian itched to ask about Hawke, worried for his friend—but he knew from his few interactions with Carver that he had something of an inferiority complex with his older brother. Sebastian understood that more than anyone. He did not want to dig at any still-scabbing wounds.

“...Anders came to me, actually,” Carver spoke, filling the silence with his deep tones. “It surprised me, because I thought he hated me and was pretending I didn’t exist anymore.” Anders' irrational hatred for Templars was, after all, no secret. “He was worried for my brother, as always. Said Garrett barely leaves the house now, and was drinking a lot. I had no idea what to say to Anders, other than to just… just to keep an eye on Garrett, I guess. So that he wouldn’t do something incredibly stupid. He’s liable to do stupid things on the best of days. But… I don’t want to lose the last person I have left.” 

Sebastian nodded, just letting Carver speak. He sounded like he needed it, and he had few friends who knew of his brother’s status as a mage. It made sense Sebastian was one of the few he could speak with, without worrying about accidentally sharing something he shouldn’t. 

“But I can’t help thinking I was making a mistake, letting Anders of all people watch over Brother,” Carver finished, shrugging. “He’s crazy. I have no idea why Garrett’s so attached to him.” 

“...Anders is…. Unstable, at times, but he is a healer,” Sebastian tried. “He likely knows how to console people over the deaths of loved ones.

“I suppose,” Carver murmured. “I just worry. I don’t want my brother to get dragged down with Anders when the Templars finally decide to go after him.” 

Sebastian hummed in agreement, thinking back to the conversation he had with Hawke months ago over why he was not in the Circle.

“But Garrett’s always been… he’s always been obsessed with people liking him, you know?” Carver said. Despite it being rhetorical, Sebastian did know; he had been like that too, once, desperate for affection wherever he could get it, no matter how fleeting or deprived. Then he had found solace instead in the Maker. He hoped Hawke could find the same one day; he was already closer than Sebastian had been ten years ago.

“Because of that he just… does the daftest things to make people like him, and failing that, he’ll just try to make them hate him instead,” Carver spoke. “He’s always been desperate for attention, even when we were young. Which made the whole you-know-what thing pretty hard growing up. So I can’t help but worry that’s why he’s even putting up with Anders because…”

“...because Anders himself has always had an obvious fixation on Hawke?” Sebastian finished. “I am glad I am not the only one to notice. It’s been like that even before they began to court one another.”

Carver grunted in agreement. “I want to be happy for Brother, but he’s… he frustrates me to no end, and Anders just pisses me off.” He rolled his shoulders, his platemail clanking. “Mother wanted us to get along, but I keep worrying that with her gone, Garrett’s going to cut me out completely and Anders will only encourage it. And part of me worries that I’ll be okay with that.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t think you will, if you are worrying as you are. Give it time; I know you two began to talk a bit after the last time I gave you advice, yes?” Sebastian said. He paused, thinking for a moment. “And… Anders went to you out of concern for Hawke, so perhaps he doesn’t want you gone as much as you think.” He was no fan of Anders, but there was no point in making Carver worry unnecessarily. 

“I hope so, Sebastian, I really do,” Carver muttered. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve been a good friend to my brother.”

“And to you, I hope,” Sebastian said, smiling a little.

Carver smiled back, eyes still wet with unshed tears.

   Now.

    “Hawke,” Sebastian greeted as he strode into the cell. He looked sad. Hawke wanted to punch the pitying look right off his face. “We will be in Starkhaven in two days. Prepare yourself. The details of your trial will be etched out while we wait for Anders to come, assuming he is not already on our tail.” The prince hesitated, his voice soft as he continued, “I wish… it did not have to be this way. I really do wish you would have agreed to join the Circle.”

Hawke blinked sleep out of his eyes. He had been spending most of this time doing that—sleeping. There was little else to do in solitary and he didn’t want to swallow his pride enough to ask Sebastian for a book. Being denied would only make his mood worse.

He hadn’t eaten yet that day, and combined with the sleep, his mind felt clearer, nausea at bearable levels. He could feel just a wisp of mana. It was not enough to do anything other than summon a magelight—for a few fleeting moments.

“Right,” Hawke said, mostly reassuring himself he could still speak. Sebastian’s visits since their last argument had been brief, and too far apart. Being alone with just his thoughts was unbearable. He understood Anders more and more; it was a miracle a year of solitary confinement hadn’t destroyed his mind. He wondered if that was what the Templars had wanted; to break Anders' will. To keep him from ever trying to escape again. It hadn’t worked, and that made Hawke appreciate Anders' strength all the more.

Or, perhaps, Hawke was just really unused to being alone. Having grown up in a tightly knit household and then living with Anders always at his side hadn’t prepared Hawke much for solitude.

Sebastian moved towards the bed, opening his mouth. Whatever he said was drowned out by yelling down the hall. The cell door was kicked open with a loud crack. Sebastian whipped his head around, eyes wide—just as a blood soaked woman came lunging at him through the doorway. 

The cabin was too small for Sebastian’s bow to be of any use. He struggled to get his knife out of its sheath as the woman, dressed in a captain’s coat and hat that contrasted with her low cut courtesan top and thigh high boots, slashed at him with wicked-looking twin daggers.  The archer managed to back away, but his stance in the confined area was weak. Sebastian could only gasp as she kicked him square in the chest. Sebastian hit the far wall, head snapping back against the wood. He slumped down, trying to catch his breath, one of her blades aimed at his throat.

While the prince tried to recover, the woman edged towards Hawke, who was sitting on the bed still, mouth slack in shock. She hoisted him onto unsteady feet with a wink. “Hey, handsome,” she drawled, golden piercings twinkling under the candlelight, her skin a warm, deep brown, just like her eyes, just like her dark curly hair.

“Isabela?” 

[5lazarus]

Love and Red Ink

Varric tries his hand at a more literary Bildungsroman about his youth as a Kirkwall bohemian. Bianca tears it apart, editing for his own good. Sometimes love is in the margins, your almost ex-girlfriend telling you--I wasn't that pretty, when I was that young. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Varric slips out of bed, sheets rustling, and puts his pants back on. He sneaks a quick glance at Bianca, who’s still sleeping. Her mouth is slightly agape, her hair dark with sweat. She looks old in the gray morning light, but they are old now. He’s turning forty in two months; she’ll be forty-two.

The inn she picked in Val Royeaux is adjacent to the alienage, and so accustomed to strange couplings. The clerks and the maids do not speak, and to those elves, every dwarf is interchangeable anyway. Her husband only gets angry when it’s too blatant, after all. The occasional assignation does no harm. It’s when they wander into the garden at Kirkwall parties, or spend whole Merchant Guild meetings giggling to each other, that he gets upset. Varric can’t blame him. He’d be upset too, if his wife were so obviously in love with another man.

Raggedly he drags his hand through his lank hair. He can’t think like this, let alone write. He finds a spare ribbon, borrowed from Daisy, in his coat pocket. Easier now he pulls back his hair, thinking he might have to order a bath, and perhaps Bianca can be coaxed to join him, she’s not due to meet the Comtesse ’til noon—and the words come marching orderly in their lines.

She snores gently, like a pampered house cat that still has its claws. The years have kept her svelte, her mouth as seductive as the first time he ever sank his teeth in, and Captain Donnen wipes the vestiges of plum lip-paint from his face. He leaves the mark on his collarbone; his shirt hides it, but he can feel it burning in his skin.

Varric grabs the leather-bound journal Hawke gave him for his birthday last year and throws himself onto his chair. He gropes about the desk, looking for a quill, but none the inn left have been sharpened. He’s got a new project going on, and he likes it, it’s easier to write than his detective stories, though he doesn’t think they’ll sell as well. He’s writing about love, real love for once, and he’s writing about youth. He’s writing about getting old. He’s writing about lovers who shouldn’t have been star-crossed, because the wedding was set, and he’s writing maybe about what could have happened if she showed up. He takes the quill and finds his penknife in his trouser pocket, almost ready to tack it down.

Then the words are gone, and he sees them for what they are: tawdry, tired, dull. Sighing, he gets up and opens the shutters. The morning flutters in, cracking the wheels of the wagons, the high voices of the sellers, the promise of spring. Varric turns around to look at Bianca, to see how the sunlight has transformed her, but she’s already up, half-dressed, her breasts swinging slightly as she laces herself into her boots first. He smiles. He’s never understood what she does that: put her trousers and shoes on first.

Bianca inquires, “Like the view?”

He gets behind her, rubbing himself against her as an answer, and traces his hands up her sides and onto her breasts. She laughs, leaning into him, and presses his hands onto her breasts.

“You don’t need to leave, not yet,” he says. She grinds into him as encouragement. This is why she puts her boots on first, he thinks. So they can do this.

“Babe,” Bianca says, “yes I do.” Now she pulls his arms away, gently. Varric sighs. She puts on her shirt but leaves it unbuttoned for now. She sits in the chair by the bed, but not on the bed, and grins up at him. “Besides, I don’t want to disturb you while you’re writing. You looked like you had a good idea.”

Varric waves a hand. “It’s crap. Most of the time, it’s always crap.”

Bianca shrugs. “Your readers say different.”

“Yeah, well, my readers aren’t that smart.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” Bianca crosses her legs and begins doing up her shirt. “But at least you’re making people happy.”

Varric says, “You want to read what I’m working on now?”

“No.” It’s annoying how sexy she looks, saying that, staring up at him flatly.

Varric says, “Oh, come on, you never read my books. Why not just this once? I think you’d like this once.”

Bianca says, “I’m not your editor or your wife, Varric.” Varric flinches, and Bianca looks away. Grudgingly, she relents. “What’s it about?”

Varric offers her the notebook. He’s easy with letting people see first drafts, half the fun of writing is seeing how his friends like it. Hawke encourages his worst metaphor. Isabela, out of all people, makes him cut them back. Bianca’s never liked reading much, it’s something he’s learned to accept about her, but if it’s about them, perhaps it will be better this time.

He says, simply, “Us.”

Bianca’s eyebrows raise. She stares at the journal in his hand. “I don’t want to read that.”

Varric says, “We weren’t that dumb, when we were young. I changed the name. It’s not that autobiographical. No one would recognize it, besides you. Or Bartrand. And it’s not like he’s capable of reading anything right now.”

“Who wants to read about two rich kids deciding to listen to their parents?” Bianca says. “Who wants to read about getting old? You’re a good storyteller, Varric. Stick to your stories. You don’t need to tell truth.”

Varric grins. “Who said I didn’t exaggerate?”

“I’m certain you described my breasts as much bigger than they actually are,” Bianca says flatly. He waves the book around her, and her expression tightens. “Stop that.”

“Nah,” Varric says. “Make me.”

Her eyes narrow. She likes a challenge. She leaps from the chair, snatching it from his hand so fast he flinches. He forgets, sometimes, how much stronger she is than him. She keeps in better shape than him, she has to, being that involved in the Merchant’s Guild. The stakes are so high, when you’re trying to bribe your way back into Orzammar.

She flips the notebook open, turning to a random page, and reads aloud, “She was the flame in that dark garden, and we were all drawn to her, turned to little insects in her radiant light. It was cold that night in Kirkwall, and I remember stamping my feet to keep off the chill as I smoked, listening to the revelry in the ballroom. Then she stumbled past, brilliant in red velvet, and said, ‘Quick, hide me—I just poisoned Eldric’s lover. Oh, is that elfroot? I’ll take that too.’ Her chest heaved as she panted to catch her breath—Varric, what the fuck is this?” She’s laughing now. “You’re making me sound a lot more—edgy than I ever was.”

“You were edgy,” Varric says helplessly. “You were the first dwarven woman I met who didn’t give a damn for the rules.”

“My mom told me to poison Amara,” Bianca giggles. “And I was the one who had the elfroot.”

Stonyfaced he watches her attempt and fail to suppress her laughter. She turns to another page, throwing herself back into the chair. Varric watches impassively. He’s remembering why he stopped pressing her to read his writing. She’s always such a bitch about it.

Bianca says, “Oh, Varric. I was never that pretty, not even when I was young.”

“You’re beautiful,” Varric almost croaks.

Bianca says, “You’re sweet, but I’m not. And I’ve never tried to be. If you were going to write about me, that should’ve been it. About a girl who says she’s not going to be a noble-hunter and wins an apprenticeship to a mechanic instead. About the first surfacer paragon. Or the first surfacer who they said should be a paragon, and how I built my clan back up.”

“Which you’ve done,” Varric says, “beautifully.”

She rolls her eyes. “And what’s this? Really, Varric, your prose is purple but this is a bit much. How many times are you going to compare me to a flame? I thought you hated the heat. Is that the point? Is it a metaphor, for how I burned you?”

Varric takes the notebook from her, scowling. “Alright, alright. That’s enough, you don’t need to go on about it. I just…I just wanted to try something different, that’s all. Sorry I didn’t write when we first me the way you liked it. I always thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d laid eyes on. Brilliant. That’s what I was trying to say.”

Bianca softens, and she pushes herself up and into him. Stiffly, he lets her maneuver around him. She pats the side of his face twice, like a slap without heat—or the way you dismiss a child. “Then just say it. You don’t need to write it. You always get me wrong, that’s why we never worked.”

“We still work,” Varric says. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

Bianca says, “Stick to your crime novels, babe. That’s the sort of shit people want to leave.” Gently Varric disentangles him from her. He grabs his shirt and finishes dressing. He can hear her behind him, getting ready. He needs a bath, he needs a shave, he needs to wash his hair.

Bianca opens the door. “Don’t take it too personally. I hate romance. Sorry I was so harsh. Anyway, I have to get to work.”

Varric says, “Yeah.” He leans against the desk, away from the window. Despite the sun the room feels inexorably dim, or maybe it’s his heart. He wants a drink. He’ll get a bath instead.

“I’ll see you when I see you?” Bianca flashes a smile and lets the door shut. He closes his eyes and listens for her heavy footsteps down the hall, then onto the staircase, each step creaking as she launches herself out of the inn and into the next step of her career.

He thinks, I shouldn’t write about something that never fucking ends.

[roachzrivia]

It's An Elf Thing

A series of events where the party (mainly Dorian) reacts to the Inquisitor doing weird things. Basically, if video game things actually happened. Supposed to be at least a little bit amusing.

Maybe it's just me who always forgets my horse and walks across the entire Hinterlands before remembering. Idk. I thought of this idea after jumping down a cliff and losing almost all my health because I couldn't be bothered to walk the long way round. Also, the trellis climbing at the winter palace makes zero sense, I'm sorry.How have I put 422 hours into this game? Where did my life go?

Gen, implied Dorian/Lavellan, brief implied Iron Bull/Dorian

Also on AO3 (link in my bio)

“Maker’s breath, can you slow down for a moment?” said Dorian, bending over to catch his breath. “It isn’t as if we’re short of time. Any normal person would allow for travelling time, you know.”

“I am allowing for travelling time,” Lavellan’s voice came floating back to him. “My pace just happens to be faster than yours.” But he slowed down, allowing time for Dorian to catch up.

“Couldn’t we have sent someone else on this task?” Dorian settled himself on the ground. It was damp, but he was tired enough not to care. “There have to be some perks that come with being the Inquisitor.”

“Aside from the castle, the army, and every noble in Thedas wanting to be my friend?” Lavellan sat down beside him, folding his long limbs gracefully beneath him.

“Aside from all that,” said Dorian, waving his hand dismissively.

“Nope, can’t think of anything,” said Lavellan, laughing. He leaped to his feet. “Come on, if we take a shortcut, we can make it by nightfall.” He held out a hand to Dorian, who grasped it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Shortcut? There isn’t a shortcut around here,” he said, as he watched Lavellan disappear over the edge of the cliff. “Wait!” He ran over to the edge, heart pounding as he scanned the ground below, hoping desperately not to see Lavellan’s broken body on the ground.

“Ow!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” muttered Dorian, as he watched Lavellan skid down the side of the mountain, rocks and dirt kicking loose as he went.

“Come on!” Lavellan sprang to his feet. Even from a distance, Dorian could see the cuts and scrapes from the tumble.

“I think I’ll pass on the shortcut,” he said, as he headed along the edge of the cliff, searching for a proper path down.

“Oh, for the love of…” Dorian watched as Lavellan tumbled down yet another cliff, feet sliding on the rocky ground, pebbles and dirt shifting beneath his feet. He took a tumble, somersaulting head over heels, his head bouncing off a rock. He collapsed at the foot of the cliff, body limp and bleeding. “You are going to be the death of me,” muttered Dorian. “You brought this upon yourself. You don’t deserve my magic.” He sighed. “But if I leave you here, Cassandra will probably convince everyone that I pushed you. Very well.” He brandished his staff, reached for the magic, and raised Lavellan back to consciousness with a blaze of green light. “Please,” he called out, as he began to tentatively pick his way down the mountainside. “No more shortcuts.”

Lavellan was already racing away from him, grabbing handfuls of elfroot as he went.

-

“We’ve been walking for absolutely ages,” Sera whined, as she dragged her feet along the path, kicking stones at Lavellan. “When do we get to shoot something? I signed up for more shooting, less walking walking walking!”

The party had been walking for hours. The weather was hot, the road dusty, and no one was feeling particularly cheerful.

“I can’t help feeling as if I’ve forgotten something,” Lavellan mumbled under his breath, chewing on his lip as he gazed around at the small group. “Got my daggers.” He patted the sheaths strapped to his hips, just to make sure. “I’m fully dressed…” He scanned the group. “You’re all fully dressed. Sera has her bow. Dorian has his staff. Bull has… whatever that is,” he said, gesturing at the massive axe strapped to the qunari’s back.

“If I may interject,” said Dorian. “I take umbrage at the comment that we are all fully dressed. What Bull is wearing hardly counts.”

Bull grinned at him. “Would you really have it any other way?”

“I would, actually.”

“Hush, both of you. I’m thinking.”

“Do you perhaps think,” Dorian said carefully, “that you’ve forgotten the horses?”

“What?”

“The horses. You know, the beasts of burden which we spent an awful lot of time and effort securing for the Inquisition, which are, right at this very moment, standing ready for us back at the base camp, half a day’s walk behind us.”

“You mean we could have been riding this whole time?” exclaimed Sera.

“Fuck,” said Lavellan softly, looking back the way they had come. “Horses. I knew I had forgotten something.”

-

“Are we done here?” Dorian watched as Lavellan waded into the lake. The water reached up to his thighs, and whilst Dorian had to admit that the elf did look rather striking in a rustic sort of way, he had been watching this activity for long enough that he was beginning to feel bored. “I would rather we reached camp before nightfall,” he called out.

Lavellan raised a hand in response, and then returned to bending low over the water. He reached down, plucking yet another handful of blood lotus from the water.

Dorian sighed and waited for the Inquisitor to finish.

Finally, Lavellan walked out of the lake, his soaking wet breeches clinging to his legs.

“Ready to go?” Dorian looked pointedly up at the sky, and the sun sinking low.

“Just need to grab a few more herbs,” said Lavellan, darting away to grab at a nearby stalk of elfroot. “And did you bring the pickaxe? There’s an outcropping of obsidian that’s calling my name.”

“Surely the Inquisition could spare someone other than the Inquisitor for this job,” muttered Dorian, as he followed after Lavellan.

-

The party arrived back at camp in good time. The Storm Coast had been wet and grey, as usual, but the rain had finally eased, and everyone was looking forward to a warm meal before crawling into their bedrolls for the night.

“Just a moment,” said Lavellan, stopping in front of the requisitions officer. “Just got a few bits and pieces I picked up enroute that I figured might help the cause.”

“Thank you, sir. Every little bit will help out men in the field.”

Lavellan began opening his pockets. First, out came handfuls of herbs, which he handed directly to the officer. She took them, her arms quickly overflowing as Lavellan laid more and more picked plants into her arms.

“Is this why you fell so far behind us?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on quitting being the Inquisitor and becoming a gardener instead?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Lavellan, pulling off his boot and tupping the contents out onto the requisition table. A handful of gemstones tumbled onto the table.

“Now that surely can’t have been comfortable.”

The requisitions officer watched on, eyes wide, as Lavellan opened his coat to reveal reams of fabrics tucked up in his belt and braces.

“For the boats,” he explained, as he laid them on the table.

“And here I thought you had just been eating more than your share at mealtimes,” Dorian quipped.

“Thank you-” began the officer.

“And the metal,” Lavellan said, turning to his horse to empty the saddle bags.

“By Andraste’s sweet arse, how did you manage to carry all of that without collapsing?” asked Dorian.

Lavellan just grinned and continued loading resources onto the requisitions table.

-

“So, the plan is to be as inconspicuous as possible?” asked Dorian.

“That is correct,” said Cassandra.

“To infiltrate the palace without any of the numerous political functions noticing us, and without disturbing the other guests?”

“Yes…” said Cassandra slowly.

“That what in Andraste’s name is the Inquisitor doing?” Dorian jerked his head at the scene behind him. Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“Inquisitor…?”

Dressed in all his finery, and in front of hundreds of guests, Lavellan was scaling the trellis up the side of the palace wall. People were pointing and tittering behind their hands.

“Might want to rethink that plan, Cassandra,” said Dorian, smirking as he watched Lavellan climb up and over the top, disappearing into the depths of the palace.

Later, when Lavellan reappeared, Dorian pulled him to one side.

“I have to ask,” he said. “All of this climbing. Is it another elf thing?”

“An elf thing?”

“You know, because of living out in nature, with all of those… trees.”

Lavellan laughed. “Dorian, darling, not everything I do is an ‘elf’ thing. Sometimes, it’s just a ‘me’ thing. Now, are you saving a dance for me?”

“Of course. If you don’t get yourself arrested or assassinated before the end of the night, it might even be the most scandalous event of the entire ball.”

-

“What is that?” The horror in Dorian’s voice was palpable.

“New horse,” said Lavellan, climbing up into the saddle. “There’s one for you as well.”

“I am not riding that monstrosity. I don’t know who told you it was a horse, but whoever it was has clearly been indulging in too much wine.”

“You’re scared!”

“I am not scared,” said Dorian, eyeing the creature with distaste. “There is a different between scared and sensible and I assure you, right now I am the latter.”

The creature stared back at him; its black, soulless eyes boring into him. It shook its head, and Dorian leapt back to avoid being impaled on the massive horn rising from its forehead.

“Come on,” said Lavellan, voice wheedling.

“Can’t I just ride a normal horse?”

“But we need to match.”

Dorian looked at the second beast, the one which he was expected to ride. It was so thin that its ribcage was visible beneath its black fur.

“I would rather walk.”

“All the way to Crestwood? It’s only a bog unicorn, Dorian.”

“You are an infuriating man,” said Dorian, scowling. “Very well. But next time, please can we use the Fereldan horses? They don’t smell as bad.”

[your-shield-of-love]

Best Inquisition Quotes:

"Let's just say, I don't quite have the reach. She lacks a certain flexibility." (It's a reference to Garrus and Shep)

"Your knife is big"

"*laughs* It's a sword."

"It's bigger than mine."

"And now you've made it awkward."

"If you're on edge, I should alert the entire Inquisition."

"Or increase my hazard pay. That's an option."

"Heh, are things that bad? ... Oh."

"I wouldn't want life in the hold to become...unbearable."

"Ugh."

"Hey, Solas, you ever do your fade thing and pretend you can fly? Just flap your arms and zip around in there? Then maybe bang some hot fade ladies?"

"No. Such behaviour attracts the attention of demons."

"Aww. Demons shit up everything."

"Hey, Viv! Vivvy! Look at this! I got something for you!"

"Darling, it's your bottom. Again. As bony and sad as it was the last dozen times you displayed it."

"It's my butt!"

"Maker, however shall I endure this horror? Someone fetch me a fainting couch."

"I like the way she thinks. We should keep her around. For mayhem."

"Yes! Mayhem!"

"Alright. Get it out of your system."

"Maaaaayhem."

"Maaaaayhem."

"Huh. Never thought I'd use the word 'adorable' and 'Cassandra' in the same sentence."

"I love tiny cakes! And there are so many! Which should I try first?"

"Human sweat smells like pork that's been sitting in the sun. Just saying."

"No, arse. When you're mad. Pish-anty cough-ass. You're swearing. I know it."

"Vishante Kaffas. It's Tevene, relics of the old tongue. We still use the colourful phrases."

"And it means what?"

"Literally? 'You shit on my tongue.'"

"*laughs* Why not just say that?"

"Plus I've never done it with a mage before. One time, he got so excited he set the curtains on fire! *laughs*"

"You're never more alive than when you're about to lose your pants, my friend."

"And they certainly don't know about your strange fixation with elfroot."

"My feelings for elfroot are classified, Scout Harding."

"*Laughs* I'll carry your secret to my pyre."

"Well, this area's low on dancing girls, sadly."

"Kings pawn to E4."

"You're shitting me. We don't even have a board!"

"Too complicated for a savage tal-vashoth?"

"*grumbles* Smug little asshole. Pawn to E5."

"Pawn to F4. Kings Gambit."

"Accepted. Pawn takes pawn. Give me a bit to get the pieces set in my head. Then we'll see what you've got."

"Bunch of moaners, this! Drag out the sad shit? 'Yes please' But hang on to a good bit? 'Oh can't have that' Frigging daft!"

"So where were we? Ah, yes. Mage to C4."

"Little aggressive. Arishok to H4. Check."

"Speaking of aggressive. I assume Arishok is your term for the Queen? King to F1."

"Pawn to B5."

"All right, you have my curiosity. Mage takes pawn."

"You call your Tamassrans Mages? Ben-Hassrath to F6."

"You call your knights Ben-Hassrath? Incidentally, Knight to F3."

"Ben-Hassrath makes more sense than horses. They're sneaky, and they can move through enemy lines. Arishok to H6."

"Pawn to D3."

"Ben-Hassrath to H5. Hah! All right, take some time, think about your life choices."

"This is home, if you'll have it."

"*laughs* Shut it, you. I cry, I'm punching everyone."

"Everyone remember not look down."

"I... may have already looked."

"Just try not to think about it. Or fall. Falling would be worse. Nobody wants to be the one to tell the world the Inquisitor fell off a log into an abyss."

~~☆

That's me done for now haha. Just really liked these ones. Let me know or quote your favourites!

I'd love to see conversations your OCS have had ^^ <3 Whether they're joining in on existing ones or if they're completely new ones.

[lvllns]

rare is this love

open hand or closed fist would be fine | zevran arainai X isseya mahariel. chapter 1 of 20 (complete). ~2.5k words, ~102k words total.

so because i didn’t post chapters here as i wrote them, i’m going to post them to this blog now sporadically as i remember because i really do want this on my blog. it’s......i’m very proud of it.

[read on ao3 instead]

—

“You are too trusting da’len. The world will not be kind to you and you should not be so eager to help everyone who needs it.”

Ashalle’s words play on a loop in Isseya’s head as she looses arrows at bandits and curses her mother for being right. Again. Despite the warnings, she never did learn and she doubts she ever will. That just isn’t her.

Another elf materializes out of the shadows, twin daggers in his hands and she quickly spins around to catch his attempted blow with the wood of her bow. A twist of her weapon, simple and sharp, curls his wrist the wrong way and he darts back to avoid dropping his blade. Her free hand reaches down, draws her own dagger, and she barely ducks out of the way when he slashes at her.

He is fast. Faster than her. Quick and agile with keen eyes that have already figured out her horrible tendency to step back and away instead of forward. He crowds her, changes his strategy from long, sweeping slashes to short, staccato thrusts that poke at her armor.

“Oh you are good,” she grits out, jaw clenching.

He winks at her, the bastard, and she barely resists sticking her tongue out. Really, she thinks the only reason she doesn’t is because he just...disappears. Melts into the shadows and she takes the reprieve to shoulder her bow, draw the Warden longsword from her hip and try to catch a bit of her breath.

She scans the battlefield. Finds it littered with bodies and arrows and Alistair renders one of the last men standing headless with an easy swing of his arm.

An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. “Where did you go?” She mumbles, eyes flicking from high point to high point and —  there. She catches sight of him, a mere ripple in the shadows beneath a tree, and when he charges, she is ready.

Isseya catches him in the temple with the pommel of her longsword and there’s a brief moment of something that flashes across his face before he crumples to the ground in a heap. Unconscious. His dagger manages to catch her in the side as he goes down, right above her hip bone and her face scrunches up. Wynne is going to have something to say about that back at camp but for now, she sheaths her blades.

“Alright?” She yells.

“Alive,” Leliana chirps back happily, her own bow held loosely in her hands.

Alistair grunts as he walks over. “What in the Maker’s name was that?” His eyes catch on the blood dripping from her side. “We need to get you back to camp.”

Isseya shrugs. Reaches down and covers the wound with her hand. “It will keep, I’m more curious about trying to figure out who sent him,” she jerks her chin in the direction of the man curled up on the ground.

“He isn’t dead?” Alistair blinks. Looks from the other elf to Isseya and back again, head tilting.

“If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead.”

The warrior hums, hand resting on the handle of his sword. Leliana bends down and scoops up the daggers that were dropped and moves them out of reach.

Isseya lifts her foot and nudges the back of the man’s thigh. When she gets no response, she moves higher and pushes hard enough that he rolls onto his back with a pained groan.

“See?” She grins up at Alistair. “Perfectly fine.”

“I humbly beg to differ,” he reaches up and scrubs a hand over his face. “Maker but you hit hard,” he touches at his temple and winces.

There’s a small puddle of blood under him and his skin is split where she caught his head. Really, he’s pretty bloody and if his expression is anything to go by, he’s in quite a bit of pain.

Isseya moves to rummage through her pack and pulls out an elfroot potion. Cracks it open as she kneels next to him. He looks at her warily, amber eyes bright, and she sighs.

“Elfroot, I promise,” she says.

His brows furrow, like he doesn’t understand why she’s doing this and honestly, she doesn’t either. She may not enjoy the suffering of others but he did try to kill her so really, him bleeding while she questions him shouldn’t matter that much.

But it does.

For some reason.

Isseya wiggles the flask back and forth until he reaches up and takes it slowly. His eyes never leave her face as he knocks it back. His nose wrinkles. She stands up and stretches until her back cracks.

“Was that truly necessary?” Alistair grumbles from behind her.

She shrugs. Looks down and catches the eyes of the other man who is looking at her so curiously. “I have questions, they’re most easily answered with him alive,” a look over her shoulder and Alistair snorts.

“Questions, hm?” The elf rolls onto his side with a gasp and takes a deep breath. “Let me save you some time and get right to the point,” with a grunt he pushes himself into a sitting position, legs out in front of him and palms on his thighs. “My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends,” he winks at her again and Isseya rolls her eyes even as the corners of her mouth twitch. “I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any remaining Grey Wardens,” his eyes move from her to Alistair and back again. “Which I have failed at, quite obviously.”

“I find myself rather glad you failed,” Isseya says, voice dry and flat.

Zevran laughs. “Were I in your shoes, I would be quite glad as well. For myself, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, no?” He tips his head back to meet her gaze. “Getting captured by your target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.”

She points at him, eyes wide. “I thought I recognized that one move with your daggers!”

“I — What?”

“You’re just sorely unlucky,” now it’s her turn to grin and wink at him. “I have assassin training.”

She watches as his head tilts, his eyes dropping to her face and he must be tracing her vallaslin.

“Interesting,” he says.

“What are the Crows?” She folds her arms over her chest.

“Oh, I can tell you that,” Leliana speaks up. “They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Extremely powerful and well known for getting the job done, so to speak. They are pricey,” she turns to Isseya, brows furrowing. “Someone spared no expense to hire this man.”

“I am wounded that you have not heard of the Crows down here,” Isseya drags her gaze back to Zevran only to find him reclining on one elbow while his other hand presses against his chest like he’s terribly affronted. “We are rather infamous back in Antiva.”

Isseya cocks a brow. “Famous for being sub-par assassins?”

He laughs. Zevran actually throws his head back and laughs. “Is this how you Fereldans treat your prisoners? So cruel,” he grins wide, all sharp teeth and something a little bit dangerous.

She grins back, flashes her own canines, and moves to place her hands on her hips. “Who hired you?”

He snorts. “A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I believe his name was.”

“Elgar’nan’s balls, of course,” she rakes a hand through her hair, swearing under her breath as she starts to pace back and forth.

“You were expecting an assassination attempt?”

“Expecting is maybe the wrong word, I guess I’m not surprised. He seems the sort, especially after we let those men in Lothering go,” she groans. Fists her hands in her hair for a moment before sighing and dropping her eyes to the ground. “Fucking Mythal’s tits, why did I send them back with a message for Loghain? The next time I want to annoy a  shem in power someone knock some sense into me.”

“Does this mean you’re loyal to Loghain then?” Alistair speaks up, the leather of his glove creaks as his grip on his sword tightens.

Zevran’s eyes drop to his hand before he looks up. “I have no idea what his issues are with the two of you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?” He shrugs. “Beyond that, no, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted for a service, which he paid for.”

Alistair bristles and Isseya reaches out to lay a hand on his arm before she turns to Zevran. “What now then?”

“Well, that is between Loghain and the Crows,” with a shrug, he sighs. “And myself and the Crows, I suppose.”

“And between you and me?”

“That is what we are establishing now, no?” He quirks a brow. “I wasn’t to see him again. Had I been successful, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed Loghain of the results. In the event of a failure, I would be dead,” he locks eyes with her. “Or, well, I should be dead as far as the Crows are concerned,” a blinding smile now, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What can I say? I am an eternal optimist.”

Isseya pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a good look at the man in front of her. He looks better at least, the bleeding has stopped and the split skin over his temple is healed over without even a mark. Her own wound bleeds sluggishly but she continues to ignore it. Wynne can lecture her about it later if she must.

“So did Loghain pay you then?”

Zevran shakes his head. “No, I was not paid. The Crows were, and rather handsomely from what I understand,” he frowns. “Which...makes me about as poor as a Chantry mouse come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn’t for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.”

“I feel like I’m hallucinating,” Alistair snaps as he rubs his fingers over the knot between his brows. “You were contracted to kill us but you weren’t paid, at all, but you did it anyway? Why even be a Crow if you don’t get paid?”

“Well, aside from my impressive lack of ambition, I was not given much of a choice,” Zevran’s voice takes a hard edge even as he tries to keep it light. Isseya’s brows knit together. “The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, or so I’m led to believe,” she opens her mouth to speak but he keeps talking. “Do not let my sad story influence you, the Crows are not so bad. They do keep you well supplied with wine, women, men,” he winks at Alistair, who blushes and looks away. “Whatever you happen to fancy, really. Although the severance package is horrible. I would strongly recommend thinking twice about joining.”

Isseya snorts. “Thanks ever so much, I’ll take that into consideration.”

“You seem sharp, I’m sure you have other options.”

“I wonder if the Grey Wardens will take me.”

Zevran barks out a laugh as she grins. He inhales sharply, wincing when he twists a little and reaches up to press his hand against his side. Isseya pulls another elfroot potion from her belt and hands it to him. He swallows. Looks from her hand to her face a few times before unsteadily reaching out to take the flask from her.

Alistair makes an annoyed sound from somewhere to her left. Leliana simply clears her throat delicately and when Isseya glances her way, the Chantry sister smiles like she knows something Isseya doesn’t. Her cheeks heat and she twists back in time to watch Zevran chuck the glass off to the side.

“Why tell me all of this?” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and begins to chew on it.

“I was not paid for my silence,” his eyes narrow briefly before he shrugs. “And anyway, why not? Loyalty is an interesting concept.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, here’s the thing,” he crosses his legs and leans back. “I failed to kill you so my life is forfeit. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. However, I find that I am rather fond of living and you are obviously the type to give the Crows pause so let me serve you instead.”

Isseya blanches, ears pulling back against her skull. “I don’t want — Creators, I don’t want you to serve me at all!”

“Oh?”

“If you come with us, you’ll be on equal footing.”

He blinks at her a few times. “That is — Well.”

“Wait, wait,” Alistair steps in, hand on Isseya’s shoulder as he glares down at Zevran. “What’s to stop you from just finishing the job later?”

“Honestly, I was not given a choice about joining the Crows. I was...purchased from the slave market as a child,” Zevran shrugs. “I think I have paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, that I can see, is to join up with someone they cannot touch. Besides, even if I were to kill you now, the Crows might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. I would rather take my chances with you.”

Isseya swallows hard. Closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

“Isseya,” Leliana speaks up. “We are not going to kill him, are we?”

She looks over at the other archer, shoulders slumping before she turns back to Zevran. “Will they come after you?”

“Probably, eventually. But I know their ways and I can protect myself, despite evidence to the contrary. I would say I could protect you as well but, I doubt you need my help.”

“I can offer you a share of whatever coin we come across as well,” she smiles and he snorts.

“Does this mean I am coming with you?”

“Yeah,” she huffs a breath through her nose. “Looks like you are.”

“You do not want to hear about all the...skills, I possess?” He wiggles his eyebrows and she laughs. “They are numerous, I assure you.”

“You cannot be serious,” there’s a clang as Alistair’s shield falls to the ground. He throws his hands up. “Taking the assassin with us? Does that really seem like a good idea?”

Isseya shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, the more the merrier right? We do need all the help we can get, and maybe now Morrigan won’t only pick on you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine, but if there was ever a sign we’re desperate, I think it just knocked on the door.”

She shrugs. Reaches down and offers her hand to the man still on the ground in front of her. He takes it, grip solid and strong, and they get him to his feet. He’s still a little unsteady and he sways for a moment before shaking his head.

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear,” Zevran grins.

“Oh fuck off,” Isseya rolls her eyes and thumps him on the back.

Zevran laughs.

[crqstalite]

34 glancing at lips (dealer’s choice on ship)

yet again, another one that got away from me. focuses a tad bit more on alistair/svenja but there is a few mentions of that prompt near the end! the line is used :,D mostly the rose conversation.

ship: alistair theirin/svenja tabris word count: 3,024

-

shems are such odd creatures -- sure they were closer to being elves than dwarves or qunari were, but they tended to be bulkier, taller, and all around not nearly as bright or dexterous.

that wasn’t to say there weren’t ones that were, (morrigan and leliana specifically) but svenja is concerned (or should she say worried for the state of thedas would them in charge?) she may never fully grasp exactly how one thinks. or what one wants.

well, she tries to at least. from their travels she’s learned they like shiny objects (lots of jewelry for the ‘witch of the wilds’. svenja doesn’t understand that either), books of all shapes and sizes (wynne seems to like them, especially the ones about magic) and religious trinkets (leliana seems to adore andrastian figurines -- as a cloistered sister, svenja thinks she gets that one...except she’s never set foot in a chantry before redcliffe. nor is she sure what a cloister is, she’d have to ask.).

and sometimes, it seemed, was a mix of all three. why alistair liked the statues she found was unclear, that and the two runestones she’d found more recently. the jewelry this time made sense, once she’d taken a moment to think of the significance behind it when she’d found it in redcliffe castle. it meant a lot to him, and instead of the disgust at such an emotional response that she’d usually have, she instead felt some semblance of...happy? feeling like she’d done something good for this odd human when he’d smiled so. svenja had flustered and retreated to her tent as quickly as she could after that.

that kept her up at night as well.

svenja genuinely wondered if all shems were like this -- people who liked all sorts of odd things. that wasn’t to say she wouldn’t jump at the chance to acquire some sword and repurpose it for later usage, but it seemed every little shiny trinket the shems would happily say they’d treasure at a chance to take it. even she didn’t do that when she got better than meager gifts from shianni.

except...she’s not beginning to mind it as much as she used to. with morrigan at least, she’s almost surprised to see such a warm smile cross her expression after she’d found a mirror just like the one she’d lost as a child. and alistair...

alistair’s eyes are still roaming the white runestone that she’d picked up days ago hours later, or so she thinks with his big bulky back turned to her. the fire is still just barely crackling, throwing shadows around the camp while she stokes it. it couldn’t have meant that much to him, could it? really he should’ve just given it to sandal to enchant into his blade if he really liked it so much.

she doesn’t know what persuaded her to stay up for watch alongside him. maybe it’s the fact the darkspawn are starting to get bolder around the borders of the campsite, especially after she assigned at least two of her party to stay awake for watch instead of just one (a rookie mistake, one she wouldn’t make again when they’d all been woken from a pack of blight wolves roaming in the distance, too close for comfort in her book).

for some other reason, one that boggles her mind even now, she wanted the post with alistair.

this shem -- human (if she were to be nice about it, and it’d taken quite a while to get to that point) had piqued her interest long ago by now. how he managed to be just this carefree and humorous in the middle of a blight, she wasn’t sure. she didn’t know how to explain it, and a part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to. all svenja knew was that somehow, he set butterflies in her chest whenever he was around, and that was just one of the things that bothered her most. he had no right acting like they were friends directly after ostagar, and yet he stayed friendly as much as she tried to give him a freezing cold shoulder.

he was not deterred. managed to chip away at her frozen exterior until he had the audacity to call her beautiful of all things.

of all things.

her.

beautiful?

svenja tabris, little more than a city elf with a tendency to stab what she didn’t like instead of talking and spent the rest of the evening beating back the nausea caused by her anxiety with a sword into the tree further on the border of camp.

the only person who’d ever called her beautiful before...well that was her mother. and cyrion on occasion. this? this was new territory right her, someone she didn’t share even a drop of blood with thought she was beautiful.

the word feels weird on her tongue.

they’d spoken more than once before (a lot of the time she spent in camp was by herself in the beginning, but somehow she’d started to gravitate toward alistair), and it has always been pleasant, even the day prior hadn’t been.

how can he even do that?

sighing, she eventually puts the stick she’d been using down next to the fire, dragging her bare feet against the ground as not to spook her watch partner. it’d happened once before, and while mildly amusing, she felt a need not to do it again. her mouth dries when he turns to her, the words dying in her throat. she was going to mention that they needed to switch out with morrigan and sten and some point, right.

at least she thinks so, up until she glances up to his own rattled expression.

“here, look at this. do you know what this is?” he asks, his voice barely loud enough to carry over the crackling of the fire and the other weird sounds of the night. svenja raises an eyebrow, then descends her gaze towards his hand, where he holds out a bloomed rose. a deep, luscious red comparable to that of the lip paint shems liked to wear, nearly blood if she were to guess. and yet...it had a sense of beauty to it.

“is...this a trick question?” she asks, confused, watching his face for any hidden expression of amusement at her expense. did he really think she received such little education in the alienage that she wouldn’t be able to identify a basic flora of fereldan?

(maybe he was half right. wynne had to teach her the difference between elfroot and deathroot. it wasn’t her fault they looked deceptively similar. she wasn’t about to tell him that though.)

“yes, absolutely. i’m trying to trick you. is it working? aw, i just about had you, didn’t i?” he asks, chuckling when a grin spreads across his expression. a beat and then her brain catches up, he was jestering her, pulling her leg. probably made more evident by his tone, as she allows herself to smile -- not without a roll of her eyes, of course.

“oh yes...you’re...a wily one.” she responds, unsure of herself. is her smile weird? she’s never known quite what to do when presented with such a joke.

“nefarious, even.” his smile only grows wider, a genuine laugh following it. except, she doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at her. maybe with her.

damn shem, making her feel all nervous again.

“i picked it in lothering.” he thumbs one of the petals, the corners of his lips quirked upwards as she focuses anywhere else but his eyes, “i remember thinking ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’“

there’s the smallest scar just underneath his lip, she notices.

she’d never had reason to before, but she does now.

“i probably should’ve left it alone, but i couldn’t. the darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. so i’ve had it ever since.” he says, shifting his stance again.

he radiates nervous energy and it’s infecting her in a way that her hands are shaking. eventually she just crosses her arms to keep them from being too obvious.

it’s a an interesting way to look at a rose of all things, she’ll give him that. even if she doesn’t entirely understand why he’s telling her this, nor does she understand how he managed to keep it alive for so long (or maybe it hasn’t been that long and all the days are beginning to blend together, travelling isn’t her favorite thing to do). does he want another hug?  

“that’s a nice sentiment, alistair.” she responds, nearly tripping over her own words.

he takes a breath, biting his bottom lip, “i thought that i might...give it to you actually. in a lot of ways, i think the same thing when i look at you.”

she barely realizes that he’d intended to give it to her.

that and he thought she was beautiful. again. and admitted it out loud.

well, indirectly.

but still...beautiful all over again.

blood rushes to her ears, and she can already feel them gently twitching against her skull. svenja is struggling not to let her true colors show when she eventually gently plucks it out of his hand with her own shaking fingers, careful of the thorns but immediately enamored with the color.

this is odd, no one has ever gifted her something. not since her mother gave her the sword she treasures to this day. and yet, she’s received something else. her father had once given her mother roses, but she doesn’t ever remember them being so...meaningful before. they’d been prickly things to take care of, and rather finnicky considering there wasn’t the necessary water to really garden in the alienage.

she’s still captivated by it’s beauty.

she looks back up at him with a critical eye. the explanation behind the gifting grates on her nerves,  “you...think of me as a delicate flower?”

“a gentle flower? no, i...don’t think i’d put it that way.” he seems sheepish when she brushes a finger over the flower’s center. good to know he didn’t think of her as incapable of protecting herself or otherwise, “i guess it’s a bit silly, isn’t it? I just thought...here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself.

“you’ve had none of the good experiences of being a grey warden since your joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. it’s all been death and fighting and tragedy,” he explains, “i thought maybe i could say something. tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are amidst all this...darkness.”

svenja reads him as a bashful, flustered even just trying to keep from making a fool of himself. she’s not sure what to make of it (as if she isn’t also sure that her own face has been colored red), “so because of all that, you gifted me with a flower?”

“i guess it was, uh, just a stupid impulse,” he pauses again, and she bites her tongue. of course she’d say something to make him feel bad, and it wasn’t even her intention. the gesture was kind, but it’s taking much too long for her brain to catch up that he cares about her enough to give her something so...special.

“i don’t know, was it the wrong one?” svenja finally forces herself to look him in the eye when he asks, so nervous and waiting for her reaction. how does she even respond to that? was it the wrong one? no, she doesn’t think so. in fact she’ll probably treasure this for a long while, at least until it dies inevitably.

she hates this, why does a flower and a single shem able to reduce her to a stuttering mess? damn humans, this one especially. she resists the urge to cover her face with her hands and running.

fighting darkspawn was much less emotionally tolling than this...declaration of admiration. people didn’t usually actually...care about what she thought of them. and they definitely didn’t go out of their way to give her flowers.

why has she suddenly lost every shred of confidence she had?

“no. no it wasn’t.” she’s blunter than she intended, silently reprimanding herself and accidentally pressing her thumb into a thorn, “thank you, alistair. this was very kind of you.”

“i’m glad you like it,” his demeanor changes immediately, a smile sure enough to warm the entire camp if that was it’s intention, “now...if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, i’d appreciate it.”

nothing comes out of her mouth as her face heats, losing just about every active thought that had been racing around her head like a wolf after it’s prey. that, she had not expected. she blusters and her voice cracks, “what?”

he seems just as startled, if not moreso by her reaction, “or not! or not, and we can just have the fluffy bits instead.”

there’s a long pause then, neither of them terribly sure what to say next. she could spend all night staring at this thing without even acknowledging anything else until morning.

it’s pretty.

like...her.

she glances up at his lips, that same small scar she had noticed earlier. she blinks, however no hesitation precedes her question against her better judgement, “can i kiss you?”

this time it’s his turn to stutter, “you...you want to-”

“if you’d rather i not, i wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable alistair,” she hears shifting somewhere out in the woods, in the darkness that the fire’s light can’t touch. her head is spinning -- she’s...genuinely happy for once, but also beyond rather embarrassed she’d suggested such a thing -- and all her senses are calling for her fight or flight response to snap up, mostly flight.

“i--” he’s mulling it over, she can see it in his face as he rubs the back of his neck. maker she didn’t know shems’ faces could even get that red, and if he thinks about it long enough, well, that’ll give her plenty of time to accept she’s about to get rejected.

his voice lowers to a whisper that she can just barely hear over the fire, “if you wish.”

oh.

oh she didn’t expect him to actually accept her foolish request.

one could probably compare her brains pace to both racing along a track and also halting immediately upon acception.

i’ve never actually kissed anyone before.

only now does her hesitation show itself, nearly paralyzing her before she forces herself to take a step forward without a second thought. maker, she’d also happened to forget just how tall he was.

the corners of his lips quirk into a nervous smile. how tightly her body is wound, like the ropes on a ship pulled taut -- except she feels like she’s about to snap. svenja isn’t the most cautious person, only proven by just how much she feels like legs are about to give out as soon as she lifts herself on her toes.

she’s more embarrassed that alistair has to lean down anyways.

she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but it wasn’t that she’d nearly smack her forehead against his. she wasn’t intending to knock him out, but tries to pull on every memory she could in her nineteen very short years of life.

one small tilt of her head.

svenja is not the best with words, nor is she good at describing things. it is terribly short, just a peck of her lips on his but?

but maybe she wants another. at another time, maybe now. so she takes another. nothing about her is relaxed (no, something is about to snap if she doesn’t go back to her bedroll as in now, and her bare hand is clutching that poor rose -- she’d need to put a bandage over it at some point), but she’s also ecstatic.

ecstatic was too strong a word. content? maybe even merry.

she does pull away only a moment later, trying to ignore the glee that’s written itself all over alistair’s face. she doesn’t hear a word he says while he’s looking out towards the rest of the small camp, and she’s has to ask for clarification after she gently touches her lips.

she.

had just kissed someone.

“i was saying that it’s getting sort of late, morrigan and sten should be woken to watch over the camp, right?” he’s tripping over his words all over again, as if a representation of how she feels inside. a hurricane of emotions ripping around her, all of which boil down to nervous energy.

“i...yes. we should. i’ll wake her,” she doesn’t particularly want to leave, but realizes she’d long left the fire to die down to a few flames, “alistair?”

“yes?” he asks, just a tad startled.

she glances first down to the rose (yep, punctured in a few places), and then up at him. for whatever reason, her eyes drop to his lips again.

she wonders -- no.

oh no.

“thank you. for the rose,” she whispers, “and...the kiss.”

“oh! of course, i--uh don’t...be afraid to ask?” his tone turns it into a question.

svenja is only able to nod before she makes more of a fool of herself than she already had, scurrying off towards morrigan’s small alcove further out on the edges of the clearing. she’s only able to mumble off a few words (three of which being ‘sten. watch. now.’) before sliding herself back into her own tent, heart throbbing like a drum beneath her chest.

what was wrong with her? no self-respecting city elf would’ve fallen in love with a shem, there’s no way.

(but? alistair was different. she thinks. wait. his ears are slightly pointed, maybe he’s a different kind of shem.)

placing the rose down carefully next to her bedroll, she pulls her makeshift pillow off the bed and screams into it.

(she makes it off to a begrudging sleep)

shems may not have been the brightest or most dexterous, but they were okay at giving gifts. a little too okay in her opinion.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus x Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 13: A Better Place

Where Dorian and Tristan share a few drinks and Tristan opens up about his past. Nothing like strong whisky to loosen the tongue, so to speak.

Read here or on AO3!

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

The narrow cobbled streets were bustling with activity at that time of day. People walking aimlessly about, laughing and drinking, the merry music of street musicians in each corner mingling with the lively talk and drifting through the warm, humid air. It was only a little after evening tea, but the celebrations in Ostwick’s Merchant District started from late in the afternoon on Fridays.

Tristan reluctantly made his way through the throngs of people. His head still throbbed from his drinking the previous night -he didn’t even remember falling asleep on that pub’s counter, but when he did wake up, he sorely regretted that decision, and more besides. How he would have loved to get back home, sink in a tub of hot water and let that elfroot and ginger concoction that Nelly, their aging housekeeper, always made for him work its magic. That should have soothed his splitting headache.

Yet, there was no avoiding what he had to do. His mother had been strict in her instructions -7 o clock at the Cardew Estate, sharp!- and a quick look at his pocket watch let him know that he was already running ten minutes late. He took out his comb as he walked on, smoothing his short fringe in place, and ran his palms over his doublet. It was terribly wrinkled and reeked of ale and smoke, but it would have to do.

A laughing brunette girl wearing a dress with a dangerously low neckline and an entire bottle’s worth of perfume grabbed his hand.

“Now, where do you think you’re going?” she said with a bright smile. “The party hasn’t even started!”

Melody, or Abbie, as was her real name, was one the girls that worked at “The Silver Tankard”, a bar by the shorefront that Tristan visited often enough. She had approached him more than a year back, offering him the night of his life for the right amount of coin, then proceeded to laugh in his face when he had told her, blushing, that he wasn’t in the least interested.

“Let go, Abbie,” Tristan grumbled, trying to get away from her grasp. “I have to go. I’m late.”

“Late? Late for what? A good whipping from your lady mother?” She giggled, pulling him closer to her. Perfect, Tristan thought. Now he would reek of booze, smoke, and cheap perfume. “Come, you can spare one moment to have a drink with an old friend, can’t you?”

Tristan shot a glance at his watch. He was a little late, but surely the hors d’oeuvres wouldn’t have been served yet, and if he was quick…

He rolled his eyes and pushed himself off her. “Fine. But I can’t stay long. And none of those horrible rum shots you ordered last time.”

She flashed him a wide smile.

Forty-five minutes and several glasses of rum later, Tristan was staggering up the slope towards Ostwick’s Upper District, where the Cardew estate was. The sun was already starting to set and from what he could gather from the carriage by the mansion’s entrance, his mother and Tilly would have arrived long before.

The guard at the door twisted his mouth as soon as he saw him, no doubt preparing to send him away for a drunkard, but a quick look at his doublet stopped him. Surely, there weren’t many drunkards that could afford purple Nevarran silk, with thread of silver embroidery on the lapels. The name “Trevelyan”, uttered through tight lips, had the poor man widening his eyes and bowing, muttering excuses and scrambling to open the doors for him.

Tristan sauntered up the wide marble steps to the main entrance. The servants ran to open the doors for him. With faint interest, Tristan noted that none of their servants were elves. At least not the ones that greeted guests. Now, there was a house that tried particularly hard to climb up the social ladder. It was a point of pride for many noble houses in Ostwick not to have elven servants, as they were considered of lower standing than human servants, who, naturally, charged more for their services. Tristan scowled at their deep bows as he walked. What a ridiculous way for someone to flaunt their wealth. And, most importantly, what an utter load of horse crap.

The butler, a tall man, Antivan by the looks of him, with his curly black hair combed in neat waves and set with shiny wax and his thin moustache perfectly groomed, stepped out to greet him with a reverent nod. He paled only a little as soon as his eyes glided discreetly over his wrinkled doublet and the no doubt very obvious dark circles under his eyes, not to mention the smell of rum and ale all over him, but said nothing as he smiled tightly and showed him inside. The gilded doors and furniture were glittering in the light of an elaborate crystal chandelier, and all the door knobs seemed to have been polished to such a degree, that he was sure he would be able to see his own reflection in them. All that glimmer made Tristan’s headache just that little bit worse.

His mother, Tilly, the Lady Cardew and a short girl were sitting in the tea room, no doubt the one reserved for distinguished guests. The girl was quite lovely, admittedly. She had large blue eyes and a plump mouth, and her dark brown waves were pinned up in an elaborate updo. She seemed demure and reserved, her manners impeccable. His mother had made it a point to choose only heirs from the most distinguished houses and of the finest breeding for him to marry. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to disappointing the poor girl, but his mother was a whole different affair.

A young man, no doubt her brother, judging by the similarity in their looks, was sitting next to her, nodding at something Tilly was animatedly saying. The man glanced at him curiously under furrowed brows as soon as he walked in. Tristan could swear that he remembered kissing him, or a bloke that looked just like him, a few months back during the Satinalia celebrations. He might have been mistaken though. He had been so drunk that day, he barely remembered his own name.

Well. Not that it mattered too much at that point.

The butler prepared to announce him to the small company, but Tristan took a step forward and gave them all a sweeping, somewhat comical bow, then straightened up and cleared his throat. “My ladies. Sir. Apologies for my tardiness. I am Tristan Trevelyan, of House Trevelyan, and I bid you a pleasant evening.”

His mother's eyes widened, then narrowed to a thin slit when she saw him. Her lips were pinched so tightly, all the blood was sapped from them. Tilly almost snorted out a laugh, but promptly clapped her hand over her mouth. Lady Cardew and her daughter simply stared at him, their mouths fallen open in a gasp.

The young man was gaping at him now, his eyes wide as saucers as recognition and utter horror flashed in them. “What the-“

**

A sharp knock on the door woke him bolt upright. A few weak rays of sunshine slithered in through the thin window blinds, illuminating the humble room. His boots were laying where he had kicked them off the previous night before flopping on the bed, too tired and drunk to do anything else. His head was splitting and his eyes took several moments to focus. For a moment, he couldn’t rightly say whether he was in Redcliffe or in one of the rooms at The Silver Tankard in Ostwick.

Another insistent knock made him jolt again. He pressed his palm on his forehead to stabilise his vision, and stood up. Walking to the door, he opened it just a crack and peeked outside.

Dorian’s smiling face greeted him.

“Morning, Inquisitor.”

Shit.

He must have looked an absolute mess. He ran a hand through his tangled heap of hair and opened the door a little wider. Dorian was put together, as always, impeccably dressed and his hair combed to perfection.

“What, uh… what time is it?” Tristan asked. He didn’t even try to smooth his shirt down. He knew it was hopeless.

“Just a little before noon. I thought we could start our journey to Skyhold early. It won’t do us any good to travel after sunset.”

“Oh,” Tristan breathed, then nodded. He was in no mood to travel, but saying no to Dorian was becoming increasingly difficult as of late. “Yes, of course. As you wish.”

Dorian smiled again and turned to leave. “I took the liberty of ordering some breakfast for you. It’s waiting for you downstairs. Be quick about getting ready, or it will get cold.”

Tristan nodded reluctantly, and watched as Dorian sauntered down the corridor and the stairs to the common room. He let the door close softly and leaned on it for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

His mind drifted to that dream before Dorian had knocked on his door. Or rather, a memory disguised as a dream. It had been unusually vivid, and still seemed to linger behind his eyelids.

He wondered how he could have forgotten that disaster of a day. After his mother had dragged him out of the Cardew estate shortly after his appearance, Tilly had laughed and laughed the entire way back to their estate until she was as red in the face as he was. His mother, on the other hand, had gone on an endless tirade, vowing to disinherit him the next time he so much as thought about doing anything that shameful.

What had she called him, again? A debauched and insolent knave, was it?

The memory hurt like a kick in the stomach. He had tried his best to forget moments like these, but somehow they always managed to slither to the surface when he least expected them. All those icy glances and hurtful words, all the blunt reminders that he would never be quite good enough, no matter what he did. If Tilly hadn’t been there, standing up for him and brushing their mother’s insults away, or outright laughing at them, he would have almost believed them. Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t.

With a sigh, he pushed himself off the door. The last thing he needed at that moment was food, but Dorian wouldn’t give him peace until he finished his plate. In some odd ways, he reminded him of Nelly, his old housekeeper. She would always fuss over him too if he wasn’t eating.

He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it carelessly on the bed. A basin with fresh water, a soap bar and a towel was left just next to it. He washed his face hastily, the cold water making him shiver and restoring some of his vigour. He would need lots of it if he were to travel back to Skyhold that day.

**

They rode out as soon as Tristan had unenthusiastically finished his bowl of porridge, despite the nasty headache that threatened to split his head in two and almost retching a couple times. Horse-riding was not his activity of choice after a night of heavy drinking, but Dorian insisted that he had had enough of the place, and was ready to return to Skyhold.

Dorian had almost returned to his normal self. It was only the dark circles under his eyes and the tightness in his face that betrayed his haggardness. From his cheerful disposition, one would have thought that they were both just returning from a night out in town.

Tristan was much less cheerful. His allergies had returned in full blast as soon as he had stepped foot in the cursed Hinterlands. He didn’t know what it was about the place that made him sneeze and cough like a sick mabari, but thankfully he had remembered to bring his allergy potions. The journey would have been nigh on unbearable without them.

The sun reflected pink and golden on the still waters of Lake Callenhad when they decided to stop and set camp for the night.

Their humble supper was prepared in relative silence. After that, Dorian took a book out of his bag and was soon too absorbed in his reading to mind Tristan very much.

Tristan watched the flames in the campfire absently for a long while, twisting the ring on his finger. A heavy mist had settled around their camp, covering the ground like a thick blanket. It stuck on his skin and dampened his clothes, making him shiver. He retreated deeper into his dense woollen coat, already missing the warm, comfortable beds at the Gull and Lantern. Biting back most of the grumbling complaints that came to his mind, he fed some more logs into the fire, hoping they weren’t as damp as they looked.

His mood was not much better than it was that morning. That dream he had had still lingered in his memory. It was odd, how much it had affected him that time. Sometimes, he still thought he could hear Tilly’s voice in his ears, her barking laugh or one of her many witty comebacks, coming as if from a great distance. He wondered idly whether he had finally started going mad.

With a sigh that was far too loaded, he glanced inside his satchel and pulled out one of the books he had brought with him. The History of The Chantry, by Brother Genitivi. No better way to take your mind off something unpleasant than thinking about something else, equally as unpleasant or maybe even more. Or so he told himself.

It was with significant reluctance that he started reading the faded letters on the worn parchment. The time for him to make a declaration about the mages was fast approaching and, admittedly, Tristan wasn’t looking forward to it. After reading a library’s worth of books on the subject, he was nowhere closer to making a decision about the mage’s future than he was before starting.

He read for a while, but it wasn’t long before his mind veered off, like it normally did. He glanced at Dorian next to him, the side of his face painted amber by the fire, his eyes that swiftly followed the letters on the page. He seemed entirely engrossed in it, as if everything else around him had stopped existing. Tristan couldn’t help but feel the usual fascination and affection blooming in his chest. If there was a mind sharper than Dorian’s, he truly didn’t know of it.

Dorian’s eyes suddenly left his book to fix themselves on him. “A copper for your thoughts?”

Tristan jolted, only then realising he had been staring. “Nothing.” He glanced about him, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “I… was just wondering what you were reading.”

“Essays on Functional Pyromancy, by Consus Aurelius. A very interesting read, if rather outdated,” he replied, letting the book fall closed. He eyed the book in Tristan’s lap. “The mage issue still troubling you, I take it?”

Tristan sighed and nodded. “I don’t seem to think of much else these days.”

Dorian nodded. “I’m not surprised. There’s talk all over Thedas about what your decision will be. I can’t imagine what sort of pressure you must be under.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tristan replied with a frown.

Dorian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You might actually be right about that.”

Tristan blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Well,” he said with a small smile, “I think we can both agree that by now, you probably know all my deepest, darkest secrets, but I don’t actually know that much about you.”

A wave of unease rushed through him. Tristan straightened up where he sat and shot him a sidelong glance. “What would you like to know?”

“Let’s see…” Dorian mused. He tapped his chin as if in thought. “What’s your fondest childhood memory? That usually gets people talking.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s all you want to know?”

“Why, we’re only getting started, Inquisitor. I’d prefer to get the rather innocent questions out of the way before we move on to… spicier ones. Unless you want to jump right to those. I certainly wouldn’t mind,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, and Tristan could not stop the laughter that bubbled from his lips.

“If you want to know the name of the first person I kissed, you’d be better off just asking something else. Varric seems bent on getting that out of me whenever he sees me being just a little more talkative than usual. Apparently he’s decided to write a book about my life before the Inquisition, and details like these are very popular with his readers.”

Dorian scoffed. “The first person you kissed? Please. I was going to ask about the colour of your underwear.”

Tristan gaped at him, feeling the heat rising up his cheeks. Dorian suddenly seemed to find the look on his face incredibly funny, laughing until there were tears in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, wiping his eye, just as Tristan frowned at him. “Alright, alright. I withdraw the question. Asking what colour knickers the Herald Inquisitor likes to wear would be rather unseemly of me.” His gaze drifted slowly from Tristan’s face to his neck and chest, until they stopped at his hands. He gestured lightly towards it. “Why don’t you tell me the story behind that ring, then? You seem to be very fond of it. In fact, I’ve never seen you without it.” A sly smile curled his full lips. “Is it a family heirloom? Or a gift from a long lost lover?”

The question made him bristle. He gaped at Dorian for a long moment, fumbling for words.

“It’s… a long story,” he finally mumbled, looking away.

Dorian didn’t seem to have caught his unease. “We have all night,” he said smoothly. “There’s even a couple swigs of that whisky left.” He took the bottle out of his bag and handed it to Tristan.

Reluctantly, Tristan pulled out the cork and took a long draught. He winced as the strong liquor burned his throat, and gave the bottle back to Dorian. He glanced at the ring on his finger, tracing his thumb over it. It always calmed him to do that. Such a small movement, silly even, but it always brought him peace.

“It was my twin sister’s,” he said softly.

It could have been the drink. It could have been the allergy potions, that always made him woozy. It could have been the dream he had that morning and that had followed him all the way there, or the way the shadows shifted on Dorian's face with the flames' trembling movement. Whatever it was, it made Tristan’s heart thump in his chest and his tongue suddenly too loose in his mouth.

Dorian looked at him, his smile fading from his lips. “’Was?’”

Tristan nodded quietly. The lump that had lodged itself in his throat made it hard to speak. Accepting the bottle from Dorian, he drank a good mouthful of the whisky, hoping it would go away.

Dorian looked regretful, and deeply unsettled. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, I shouldn’t have pried. I do have a way of running my mouth at the most inopportune times-”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Tristan let out a soft sigh. “My sister… she was very dear to me. Ottilie Trevelyan was her name. Tilly for short.” He chuckled under his breath. “Mother hated it when I called her that. She said it sounded rustic and uncouth. Naturally, I never called her anything else.”

Dorian chuckled breathily and accepted the bottle from Tristan’s hand, taking an eager sip. The silence stretched between them, before Dorian spoke again.

“May I ask… how she passed?”

Tristan stared at the fire for a long moment, trying to get his thoughts in order. There was no reason why he should tell him. There was no reason why he should tell anyone. Yet, he couldn’t ignore the impossible weight that had suddenly settled itself upon his chest.

He glanced at Dorian, who was watching him expectantly. Surely there could be no harm in telling him. Not everything, perhaps, but at least enough to get some of that burden off him. If only for a moment.

Giving the ring on his finger a small twist, he let out a soft sigh.

“It’s a rather grim story, I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “It was… discovered that she could use magic when we were eighteen. Quite old, by many accounts. No one really expected it. There had been no mages in the Trevelyan bloodline for decades. She was taken to the Ostwick circle, and had been there for almost five years before the Mage-Templar war broke out. Some mages revolted. The Templars decided to purge those they believed were involved in the uprising. My sister was one of them.”

Dorian’s expression darkened. “Maker…” He took a sip of whisky. “I hardly know what to say. It must have been… very hard for you.”

Tristan’s lips tightened. He didn’t quite remember how long it was since he had spoken about Tilly to anyone. In fact, he didn’t think he ever had. His instincts screamed for him to stop talking, but something inside him snapped. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out of him in waves.

“After her funeral, I left home. There was nothing there for me anymore. My mother sent her retainers out to drag me back, but I managed to evade them. I roamed aimlessly for months, drinking and gambling everything I had. I didn’t really know what else to do. I felt…hollow. An empty shell of who I used to be.”

He paused to run his fingers through his hair. His face felt incredibly flushed, as if he had run a mile. “I felt… responsible for her death. Like I had failed her. I still do.”

Dorian’s voice was soft and comforting when he spoke. “You didn’t fail her. The Circle and the Templars did. They are the ones responsible for all the chaos.”

Tristan nodded absently, but he was barely listening. Memories rushed to him, half choking him. He still remembered that day when she was taken away, as if it were only yesterday. Standing at the tall arched doorway of the Trevelyan mansion, her face ashen and sunken, her eyes red from crying. He held her tightly, trying his best not to look at the Templars by the gates, their plate armour glinting in the morning sun.

“I’ll get you out,” Tristan whispered in her ear, voice thick with the effort of biting back tears. “I swear. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

She lifted her face and gazed long at him, her expression unreadable in the harsh, grey light of morning. Then, without a word, she slipped her everite ring off her finger and pressed it against his palm.

“Keep it safe,” she muttered under her breath before turning to leave. The Templars towered over her as they led her away to the carriage, the painted red sign of the Circle of Magi glinting like fresh blood against its dark surface.

Tristan’s eyes burned. He rubbed at them angrily, clenching his jaw so hard it hurt. He would not cry in front of Dorian. He would not.

The whisky bottle felt heavy in his hand. He tipped its mouth over his lips and took a long draught. Then another. He could almost feel his head swimming as he gave the bottle back to Dorian.

Dorian took it. He was eyeing him wonderingly, as if seeing him for the first time. “No wonder you hate the Chantry so much,” he said quietly. “I would too, if I were you.”

“I used to hate them a lot more than I do now,” Tristan replied simply. ‘Hate’, of course, was an understatement compared to his actual feelings at the time. What he used to feel was something that he didn’t think there were enough words in any language to describe; blazing hot and all consuming, at the same time that it was bleak and empty and colder than an icy desert. Some days, it had been the only thing capable of getting him out of bed in the mornings, wherever that bed happened to be. In many ways, it was what had kept him alive, all this while.

A small, sad smile widened his lips as he glanced at him. “I’ve never even told you how I found myself at the Conclave.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed in the night. “I admit that it has been a question I’ve been dying to ask. From what I’ve heard, not even Sister Leliana knows exactly how you found yourself there. It is said that you wouldn’t answer no matter how many times she would ask.”

“It might have to do with the fact that it’s one of the more embarrassing stories I have about myself,” Tristan said. “A year or so after what happened to my sister, I got it in my head that I should avenge her somehow. I was so angry with the world, I could set in on fire and laugh while it burned to cinders. I wanted to make those responsible pay. Or perhaps I was struggling to find some sort of meaning in my life. I’m still not entirely sure where I was going with all those revenge fantasies, if I’m being honest.”

He paused to accept the bottle from Dorian and took a large swig. “The Ostwick Circle had been disbanded, but I found out where some of its Templars had gone. One of them told me, after some persuasion, of course, that she had been executed by the Knight Commander of the Circle, even though she had never officially been proven guilty. He also told me that he was going to be at the Conclave.”

Dorian’s eyes widened considerably as he listened to Tristan’s words. “Is that why you travelled all the way to the Temple? T-to find that man?”

Tristan sighed. “Yes. I resolved to go there myself, and unveil his crime in front of Divine Justinia, for all the world to know. Or, if that didn’t work, I would kill him with my own hands, and then fling myself off a cliff or something. And before you ask,” he added, noticing Dorian’s incredulous stare, “yes, I was very, very drunk when I came up with that plan. Honestly, I didn’t think I had very much to live for at that point. But you know the rest of the story. Corypheus ultimately swooped in and killed the bastard for me. I should thank him for that when I next see him, I guess.”

“At least he managed to do something right,” Dorian replied with a warm smile, downing the last of the whisky. A brief silence passed between them, the crackling of the fire being the only sound as they both stared at it, absorbed in their own thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, his smooth voice dispelling the quiet and iciness of the night, “I’m glad you didn’t go through with your original plan. The world is a decidedly better place with you in it.”

Tristan gaped at Dorian, too lost for words. Dorian returned his look with one of utter earnestness, as if he had just said the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, Tristan’s first instinct was to scoff and glance away. In all his time as the Herald of Andraste and then as the Inquisitor, he had been used to people flattering him, giving him outrageous compliments, telling him what he wanted to hear. But this, here, the way Dorian looked at him, the way his lips curled ever so slightly upwards, the unmistakeable warmth in his gaze… he seemed like he truly meant it.

Could he, though? Could he truly believe that a world with him was… better?

“I…” he muttered, then paused. All words seemed futile and empty to him. He took a deep breath, hoping that his voice wasn’t trembling.

“Tristan,” he whispered, gazing into Dorian’s eyes, at the amber flames shifting inside them. “Just call me Tristan.”

[lostinfantasies38]

Sun Touched Ch. 3  A Broken Beginning

Alistair/Sirra Brosca 

Rating: Explicit for language, violence, and eventual smut

Alistair was still sore after flying across the tower and then barreling into the ogre, as he discovered when he rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out.   He glanced furtively at Sirra as she rifled through the various crates and barrels scattered around the walls of the chamber and some of his soreness faded. He knew she could have killed the ogre without his help, yet an irrational need to help her flared within him when he saw her scaling the darkspawn like a mountain while it flailed, attempting to fling her off it.

Maker, that is so inconvenient, he mused as he rubbed his forehead wearily. That’s when he felt it – the tell-tale oiliness of darkspawn crawling like ants in his head; but he was too slow to respond. Too slow to warn Sirra whose back faced the door as she walked towards him with a teasing smile. Darkspawn burst into the tower and Alistair watched the surprise and pain twist her features as she took three arrows. He reached for her, her name half-formed on his lips, when he was struck in the side and his breath whooshed out of him, replaced by agonizing pain where the barbed head ripped through skin and muscle. He hit the ground and his body screamed in protest, his eyes squeezing shut with a strangled hiss.

Rolling in and out of consciousness, at one point he became aware enough to find the darkspawn were gone. Alistair cast his eyes frantically to find her with his darkening vision. Relief bloomed through his broken body when he located her. Crawling towards her, panting and sweating as his flesh tore further with every movement, Alistair kept going – determined to reach her. He had to know. He had to be sure. Tears pricked his eyes when he finally made it to her side.

There was an arrow in her shoulder, one in her side, and one deep in her thigh. He took her chin and gently turned her to face him, indulging himself with the opportunity to run his thumb across her ‘s’ tattoo. The pulse in her neck was weak, but he could see it was still thumping and hope sparked in his chest. Laying his arm protectively over her form, Alistair succumbed to the blackness pounding on the door of his consciousness and accepted his end with resignation.

*~*

Alistair blinked against the light, bringing his arm up to shield his sensitive eyes from the sudden onslaught of brightness with a groan. Sitting up he was startled to discover that he was practically naked, covered with a threadbare blanket on a straw filled mattress, if the stabbing of the ticking was any indication. He was in a small single room hut and it smelled faintly of elfroot and sage – antiseptic, medicinal. Was this a healer’s house? Where was everyone else? Maker, where was Sirra?

He shot out of the bed and searched wildly for her, yet he already knew the room was empty aside from him. Raking his hands through his hair in distress, Alistair snagged his breeches and undertunic from his piled-up armor in the corner, slamming his feet into his boots and rushed out of the building in a panic.

The sun nearly blinded him pulling him up short in his harried search. An aggravated huff emanated on his left and he risked peeking through his fingers, immediately bristling. “You! Where is she? What have you done with her, Chasind?”

Morrigan deposited the stack of firewood she was carrying and brushed the bark bits from her hands with an imperious roll of her strange yellow eyes. “Calm yourself, Warden. Your fellow lady Warden is being tended to.”

Alistair glared and threw his arms up in frustration. “Where?! We’re the only ones here and there is only one hut here!” The apostate refused to answer his question, only pulling fresh herbs from a satchel that was slung over her shoulder and adding them to a pot of boiling water hanging over a nearby fire.

Patience gone, Alistair growled darkly. “Are you going to tell me, witch? Where…is…she?”

Another voice he recognized answered him. “She is here, Grey Warden. You worry too much.”

He spun to see Morrigan’s mother dragging a small litter behind her with a familiar body strapped to it. Alistair gasped at the gray tinge to her skin, the lackluster quality to her normally shiny hair, and the deep bruises under her eyes.

“Maker’s breath…is she –“

“Alive? Yes. Only just, however, so I need you to calm yourself, young man. I’m taking her inside so I can finish tending her and you are going to wait out here. Do you understand?”

Alistair nodded mutely as the women unstrapped Sirra from the litter, but he brushed them aside to pick her up and waited for them to argue. They all knew that while she might look small, dwarves were stocky and therefore, not light. “I’ll help you get her inside and then leave you to your work.” The old woman cocked her head at him curiously, but did not reply as she led the way inside the hut.

Morrigan stripped the bed of the blanket, leaving only the crisp white sheet covering the mattress and Alistair swallowed hard as he laid her carefully on the bed, trying not to imagine her blood staining the stark bedding. The women shooed him out the door, Morrigan slamming the wooden barrier in his face when he turned around, leaving him outside fretfully wringing his hands.

He wandered over to the edge of the small pond and sat down on the flattest rock he could find, snagging a cattail to fiddle with. Maker, what a disaster – he hadn’t even asked about the army yet, but he knew if they were here, hidden in the wilds that it probably wasn’t good news. Flashes of the battle danced through his mind: darkspawn everywhere, blood drenched floors, fiery blades casting odd shadows on her face, killing the ogre, light dimming in her dark brown eyes when the arrows hit her, pain lancing through his chest even though that’s not where he’d been struck.

Tossing aside the shredded remains of the cattail, Alistair buried his face in his hands and dug his palms into his eyes, sucking in one ragged breath after another. He hadn’t done enough to protect her – as the senior of the two of them he should have been paying attention, instead the darkspawn got the jump on them. Maker! If she died, then he would be responsible for her death and he didn’t think he could live with the guilt. He was too distracted by Sirra and he hadn’t been doing his job. His job of making sure they survived the battle and being her mentor, not the drooling lecher that he was turning into.

His mind unwittingly recalled the softness of her body when she aided him in the field. There were callouses on her hands and strength in her legs, but there was a layer of padding covering her muscles that he found irresistible. He could imagine his large hands kneading her generous curves, his lips pressed against her full mouth, while her fingers tangled in his hair – Maker’s breath! He stood up angrily, running a hand across his face.

He couldn’t keep doing this. She was his Sister Warden, newly arrived to the surface and not even a full day past her Joining where they lost two good men. If Duncan knew what lewd thoughts crossed his mind, he would skin him alive.

Anxiety rolled through his gut at the thought of his noticeably absent Commander. Where was the army? Where were the other Wardens? Duncan? The King?

The door of the hut creaked open.  The older woman stepped out and wrapped a folded towel around the handle of the pot with the steeping herbs. Alistair moved closer and whispered, afraid of speaking the words aloud, but needing to know.

“What of the army?” The woman stared at him, her face neutral and giving nothing away, yet the pointed silence was answer enough. He stumbled back a few paces in shock.

“I am sorry, young man. I can explain all when your friend is stable.” Alistair nodded, watching forlornly as she stepped back in the hut and left him alone. It seemed he was fated to be alone forever.

*~*

Sirra woke up slowly. Her nose was assailed with a strange fragrance and she realized she was laying on something lumpy and scratchy with twigs poking her tender flesh. Sitting up with a moan, she pressed a hand to her forehead and tried to get her bearings.

“Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother will be pleased.” She recognized the voice. Glancing across the room she found Morrigan adding chopped vegetables to a stew bubbling over the hearth. What was it with humans and stew?

“Morrigan? Where am I? What happened?” The witch studied her thoughtfully and moved closer.

“What do you remember?”

Sirra closed her eyes as flashes of the battle in the tower filled her mind. Overrun with darkspawn, black blood running in rivers across the stone floor, hazel eyes full of worry, strong jaw clenched with dread, taking down the wounded ogre, horror on his face when the arrows hit her, and then darkness.

She shook her head. “Not much. I remember being overtaken by darkspawn.”

“Mother rescued you from the tower. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. The army was massacred.”

Sirra’s head spun with the information. The cunning side of her brain wanted to ask how the witch’s mother knew where they were and why she rescued them, but it was too hard to focus when a larger question loomed in her mind.

“Where is Alistair?”

Morrigan tilted her head slightly at her and responded, “The suspicious, dim witted one that was with you at the ruins?” She waved a hand airily at Sirra’s glare. “He is outside with Mother. He is not taking the news well.”

Sirra recalled Duncan’s timely rescue in Orzammar; his belief that she was worth something and his easy companionship on the road. The warm welcome of the King when she arrived at Ostagar, not caring that she was branded, shaking her hand like a friend. Daveth’s flirtatious teasing about watching her back after the wolf encounter in the woods, Ser Jory’s praise of her skills in battle – and now they were all gone. Her heart ached at the loss, regretting that she would never be able to meet the other Grey Wardens, and she felt guilty to be secretly thankful Alistair survived.

Trailing her fingers over the new star-shaped scar on her shoulder, Sirra carefully slid off the bed to get dressed. Morrigan returned to stirring the stew while she pulled on her leggings and tunic. Sirra paused and stared at her armor for a heartbeat. “Who cleaned my armor?”

“Your Warden friend. Oh, Mother asked to see you when you awoke, by the way.”

Remembering how coated with gore her armor had been clenched her gut. She knew they must have taken a long time to clean. A full day, at least. Her hoarse voice was quiet when she spoke again. “How long have I been out?”

The dark-haired woman stopped stirring and slowly raised her unusual eyes to meet her hard stare. “Three days. Your injuries nearly took your life on multiple occasions. Mother only declared you safe from death’s grasp last night.” Sirra nodded absently as she quickly donned her leathers and strapped her polished daggers to her back.

Halting at the door of the hut, Sirra slowly turned to face the standoffish woman by the hearth. “Thank you, Morrigan.”

The witch was momentarily speechless, but managed to find her tongue and stammer. “I…you are welcome.”

Sirra yanked open the wooden barrier and stepped out into the dusky light of preeminent sunset. It surprised her that after such a short time on the surface she was able to recognize the time of day by the light. Maybe because it was her favorite time of day, when the world was washed in coppery orange and blushing pink – soft and warm. Similar to the flickering torches and lava river underground. Not the same colors, but the same feeling, helping her feel more grounded topside.

Of all the stories she heard growing up about the dreaded surface, the fact that the light changed colors during the day was never mentioned. Nor that it warmed her skin like a gentle hug, but could burn her pale complexion with too much exposure. There was so much the dwarves had wrong about the surface and the people who lived under its open sky.

Alistair stood ramrod straight, staring over the small body of water that she didn’t have a word for yet. He reminded her of the carvings of the Paragons in the entryway to Orzammar she passed when she left. Stoic, proud, lifeless – not like himself at all and it made her skin crawl. They were all that was left of the Grey Wardens. All that remained of Ostagar. She worried that this blow would change him – change them and this weird friendship they were building. Sirra needed something good on the surface; it was her home now and she had no one else. Tearing her gaze from his chiseled profile, her eyes narrowed at the bemused expression of the old woman studying her.

“Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.” The old woman smirked when Alistair whirled around. Shock etched his face and he moved haltingly toward her; arms extended as though he intended to hug her. Catching himself, Alistair shook his head and patted her shoulder instead. A pang of regret burned bright in her gut. Looking up at him, she saw the unspoken pain swirling in his normally warm eyes, cooled to embers in mourning. Without thinking, Sirra brought her hand up to cover his own that still rested on her shoulder.

With a sad smile he stepped back and dropped his arm listlessly. “You’re alive. I thought…” He swallowed hard, flicking his gaze from her face with a blush and crossed his arms abruptly. “This doesn’t seem real, you know? They’re…dead. All dead – Duncan, the Wardens, even the King.” His expression pinched at the mention of the king and Sirra wondered what it must be like to have an allegiance to nobility. She had been barely invested in her alliance with Beraht – only for Rica’s sake and the protection the Carta afforded them did she work for the scumbag.

“I’m sorry, Alistair. I know I’m a poor consolation prize.” Sirra dropped her gaze, suddenly unsure of her footing with him, though she couldn’t say why. He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth and tilted her head up revealing a heavy frown marring his golden features.  

“Don’t say that, please. Don’t even think it. I am so glad you are here with me. I-I can’t do this alone.” Alistair paused and then closed his mouth, leaving Sirra wondering what else he wanted to say, but accepting his statement all the same.

“I’m sorry. So…what do we do now?”

Curling his lip into a sneer, Alistair stepped back and began pacing furiously. “We bring Loghain to justice! Why would he do this?!” Sirra could have told him why – power, money, fame, glory. Those were simply the first reasons that came to mind when she remembered others from her past life that strove for more than what they felt they deserved.

The old woman was of the same mind and did not hesitate to tell him such. “Don’t be naïve, boy. He would not be the first king to come into the throne through murder.”

Alistair turned on her with a growl, fists clenched as his entire body shook with barely checked fury. “Shut. Up. Just because you may be right, doesn’t mean that everyone wants to be reminded all the damn time.”

Sirra studied her companion. She wouldn’t have guessed that he was capable of such anger, but she would remember for later. The woman merely nodded at him, her mouth quirked slightly at the edges and Sirra idly wondered what sort of woman would be amused by a giant of a man bellowing in her face. Obviously, someone who was not entirely who they claimed. Her Carta instincts kicked in and she stepped closer to Alistair with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Who are you,” Sirra demanded authoritatively.

Alistair snapped his head down to glance at her, his expression softening into curiosity as his gaze returned to the old woman. The woman chuckled and waved her hand dismissively. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind call me Flemeth – I suppose it will do.”

Alistair reeled beside her. “The Flemeth? Daveth was right…you’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

Flemth scoffed. “So, I know a bit of magic. It has served you both well, but now we have bigger things to contend with. What do you plan to do about Loghain? You are Grey Wardens, aren’t you?”

Alistair raked his fingers roughly through his hair. “I don’t know! What can we do? We don’t have an army and all the Grey Wardens in the entire nation were on the front lines! I suspect that the reinforcements Duncan sent for from Orlais will be handled by Loghain…one way or another.”

Sirra blew out a frustrated breath. “There must be other allies the Wardens can call on?”

Alistair shrugged. “I suppose.” Snapping his fingers, he smiled unexpectedly. “Of course! Arl Eamon wasn’t at the battle – he still has all his men. We could go to him and appeal for aid!”

Sirra raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Would he help us?”

The man flashed a strained smile. “Yes. I know him. He’s a good man, respected at the Landsmeet and he was Cailan’s uncle. So, he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for his treachery.”

She nodded, but then sighed. “It’s still not enough, though, is it? We’ll need more than one man’s army to back us against the darkspawn.”

Alistair smacked his forehead lightly with his palm. “The treaties! Duncan gave them to me for safekeeping. They require dwarves, elves, and mages to help us when we call for aid!”

Flemeth smirked. “Well, that certainly sounds more like an army. So, are you all set then?”

Alistair nodded enthusiastically, but Sirra felt the weight of anxiety settle in her gut. Could they do this? There were only two of them in all of Ferelden and she was technically new to the country, having lived underground her whole life, and now she would be expected to scour the nation for allies because a stupid human decided to let the King and his entire army die? And Orzammar – really? She had been hoping she would never have to set foot there again. She was just getting used to the idea of the surface being a better option for her – a place to call home.

Yet, she knew this was the only way. This was just like the ogre in the tower – the only way to their goal was forward and this was the path they needed to tread.

 Stone guide my steps.

Extending her arm, Alistair grinned broadly and clasped her forearm like she had the first time they met, shaking once – firm, strong, sure. Sirra smiled back and answered Flemeth’s question though she looked at the handsome human when she spoke.

“Yes, we’re set. It’s what Grey Wardens do; build armies and stop Blights.” His fingers squeezed meaningfully into her flesh before he released her. Sirra turned to Flemeth. “Thank you for saving us and getting us on our feet again.”

Flemeth smiled, her sharp eyes appraising the shorter woman with interest. “Well, we can’t have the last of the Grey Wardens dying, now can we? Before you go, there is one thing I can yet offer you.”

Morrigan exited the hut and sauntered over to them. “The stew is ready, Mother. Shall we have two guests for dinner or none?” Sirra’s back straightened and she eyed the older woman askance, her Carta instincts buzzed in warning and she had a feeling what Flemeth was about to offer them was not a ‘thing,’ so much as a ‘who.’

Flemeth snorted in derision. “The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will go with them.”

“What?!” Alistair and Morrigan both screeched, while Sirra stared hard at the older woman. She knew in her duster bones honed by years of backstabbing Carta politics that there was an ulterior motive for thrusting Morrigan upon them. But she knew, and Flemeth did too, that there were only two of them. They desperately needed allies and a mage would certainly come in handy, as their time in the Tower of Ishal attested. Fireballs were excellent friends when fighting large groups.

Alistair dipped his head to her level, whispering harshly in her ear, “Do you really want to take her because her mother says so?”

Sirra covered her mouth with her hand and murmured back. “No, I don’t and I don’t trust them, but we need allies. We need a mage to cover our backs. We’ll keep an eye on her, but we can’t afford to say no, Alistair.”

He sighed despondently and rubbed his forehead in agitation. “Shit. I know, I know. Fine. I agree only because you don’t trust her any more than I do.”

“We accept,” Sirra replied to Flemeth. The older woman smiled almost hungrily and Sirra heard Alistair’s loud gulp above her.

Morrigan threw up her hands and squawked. “Have I no say in this?”

“You’ve been wanting the leave the Wilds for years. Here is your chance,” Flemeth snapped.

“But –“ Morrigan’s words died on her lips at the warning scowl on the older witch’s face and she sighed. “Yes, Mother. I have to…gather my things.”

Flemeth rocked back and forth on her heels delightedly. “You should eat before you go. Morrigan will be able to get you safely through the woods, but it will take a close to a week, especially with all the darkspawn in the area. However, you should be able to find a safe place to bed down for the night. She will know of the place, I mean. It is not far, but it will get you some distance from the hut, in case you need to shake off pursuit.” The woman bustled inside to presumably fill a couple of bowls with stew for them.

Alistair sighed and ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I hope this doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass.”

“Me, too,” she murmured and he snorted in response. Shooting him a sideways glance, Sirra asked in a light tone. “So, you said you know this Arl?”

He stammered and rubbed the back of his neck. “Did I say that? Hmm, how strange. Oh, look! Food!” Alistair hurried away when Flemeth emerged from the hut with bowls of steaming stew. Shaking her head at her companion and the weird food preferences of humans, Sirra walked over and gratefully accepted the offering. By the time they were finished eating and had collected their bags, Morrigan was packed and ready to go. Thanking Flemeth again, the Wardens followed the witch’s daughter into the woods with equal parts uncertainty and grim determination.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970717/chapters/52890505#workskin

[typhonserpent]

Pause

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Rating: Explicit, MAJOR trigger warnings for depictions of suicide, self harm, and death. Genre: Drama Pairing: Fenris/Anders Summary: Fenris catches on early to Anders’ suicidal plan. He’s seen so many slaves commit suicide before. He recognizes all the signs. Finally when Varric mentions Anders trying to give him his pillow, Fenris knows that there is little time left. He and Anders might not get on like the greatest of friends, but ten years does change people, and Fenris is set on rescuing Anders from himself.

It’s finally finished! Here’s my entry for Fill-a-Thon 2019. You can find the original prompt here.

✦ My Writing Tag ✦

✦ AO3 Link - Please leave me a comment! ✦

Fenris was 16 the first time he'd heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

On hotter days, Danarius liked to dress him in a chain harness which looped around his chest several times and came together in a large emerald positioned over his heart. Danarius was, in fact, quite proud of the outfit, because the gem was enchanted to provide a barrier that made his usual chest plate unnecessary. Of course, the chest plate carried the added bonus of ensuring nobody thought Fenris was an easy target, and therefore was more practical to wear day-to-day. Nevertheless, private events sometimes called for different attire, preferably one that showed off the tattoos burned into Fenris' body. His best work of art, as he put it.

Fenris had been wearing that harness. The sweat dripping down his neck made his leather collar stick to his skin. Danarius was on the balcony, overlooking the Minrathos skyline. Sunlight bounced off of polished statues and brass roofs. Fenris poured more wine into his glass.

Pairian stepped out, and cleared his throat. He was an old elf, his hair all salt, no pepper. His collar was notably threadbare compared to Fenris', the leather's finish flaked and chipping along the edges. "Master?" Pairian said, stopping behind Danarius' chair, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must inform you that we have lost Jamael."

Danarius heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and slammed his wine glass onto the table so hard that the base of it broke. Expensive liquid sloshed out as the body of the glass toppled and shattered on the balcony floor.

"How?" He growled without looking in Pairian's direction.

"We found him in the pantry when we realized he hadn't cleaned the banisters. He ..." Pairian paused with all the care of a man walking on eggshells. He knew the next words he spoke could be met with a whip, "He appears to have suffocated."

"Has the pantry been dug deeper? How in blazes did he suffocate?"

"The ... rope around his neck may have been the culprit. Master."

Danarius rolled his eyes again and stood, kicking aside some of the broken glass on the ground. "Fenris, fetch me another glass."

"Yes, Master." And without further ado, the obedient little wolf set down the wine bottle and bolted for the kitchen.

It had been only a few months since the lyrium ritual gave him his markings and stole his memories. He didn't know if he'd known Jamael before then. Perhaps they'd been friends. After all, Jamael had been friendly enough towards him. Sunlight bled through the windows and illuminated every other stride he took as he ran, barefoot, down the halls of Danarius' huge manor.

He reached the kitchen to be greeted by a small crowd at the entrance. A stretcher had been fashioned out of two poles and an old sheet, and two of the larger elven slaves carried away a man barely recognizable from the last Fenris had seen of him.

Fenris strained to remember the last time he'd seen Jamael.

They'd passed in the hall way. Jamael had smiled and said, "Hey, how are you feeling? Still itchy?"

Fenris shook his head. Jamael had seen the physical results of the lyrium ritual. The pain, the blood, the ache that lasted for weeks, and then the itch that persisted as the wounds healed.

"If you need more, don't be shy. If you can get away from the Master for five minutes, anyway. I can sweet talk Seri into more elfroot anytime you need it." Then, he'd grinned. He was always smiling. Always helping. A personality as bright as his red hair.

That smile was gone now. His tongue swollen and sticking out, cheeks and eyes puffy. His entire head was discolored dark shades of purple and blue, sharply cutting off where the rope was wrapped tightly around his neck. The end of the rope dangled off the stretcher.

"Never thought he was the type." Someone in the crowd muttered.

"He seemed so happy yesterday." Another whispered, "I almost thought he was turning around."

"That's how it starts." A nearby voice replied, "You remember Sheera? Same thing. Months of silence, three days of calm, and then her corpse gets dragged out of the wash room. Wrists all cut up."

"Such a shame."

Fenris moved his hands to his ears, fingers tangling with his hair. Why didn't anyone try to stop him? If they knew the signs they could have at least tried!

He had to push his way through the crowd to reach the kitchen, muttering apologies all along the way. He waited a few extra minutes with the glass in his hand and his back to the door, just to ensure that he wouldn’t see the corpse again when he left.

Danarius liked Fenris to sleep at the foot of his bed. After all, a body guard should be there to guard the master at all times. Fenris told himself he didn't mind it so much. It was comfier than the slaves cots, and warmer too. Danarius always afforded him a blanket and pillow. Sometimes they'd even share the same one.

Later that night, Fenris was curled up at the foot of Danarius' bed, blanket wrapped tight around him. Water trickled and splashed in the next room while Danarius washed himself, and eventually he returned to the bedroom, hair damp, body wrapped in a silk robe.

"I'm sorry in such a state as earlier, my pet. I despise slaves like Jamael. I thought I had rid myself of most of them."

The question danced on the tip of his tongue. After all, a slave who asked a question out of turn could very easily be answered with a whip. As Danarius sat on the bed and toed off his slippers, Fenris mulled over the question in his mind, and finally decided he could ask if only to find out what not to do in the future.

"Master," He whispered, his voice as small as a mouse, "What did Jamael do?"

"He committed suicide, Fenris. He killed himself."

Suicide.

Fenris turned the word over in his head. He'd never heard it before. Just hearing it made him want to squirm. It sounded sad. It sounded wrong.

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker." Danarius continued, "You know that, don't you my pet?"

Fenris nodded, because despite his shattered memories, the words did sound familiar. The idea of killing himself had never even crossed his mind.

Danarius smiled, sending a wave of relief washing over him. He wasn't in trouble for asking the question. He wasn't going to be punished.

"Good boy," Danarius purred, "Now shed your armor and come here. I think I'd like to hold you tonight."

x - X - x

Danarius kept two whips in his office. One was a cat o'nine, a fairly standard punishment tool. A worn wood rod wrapped in leather that knotted at the end and then was sliced into several smaller strips. It stung the same no matter how worn it was, though it was occasionally replaced with one that bore stiff, fresh leather.

The other was a bullwhip, and it would be easy to assume that the whip with only one tail was kinder, but that would be a foolish assumption. At the end of the tail was a gold claw. Well, the slaves assumed it was gold. Nobody was ever facing it when it was out. It was as though he had cut off an eagle's toe at the first knuckle. It tore through flesh like a blade through paper, leaving deep gashes in it's wake.

It also made an unearthly hissing sound when it struck flesh, leaving Fenris to assume that Danarius dipped it in something before he used it.

Fenris, of course, had never even seen it. Danarius sent him to wait in the hallway when he had to use it, and he was left with the screams and cries of whatever poor soul was in there with him.

A year had passed since Jamael's death. Sometimes the image of the swollen, discolored face still made Fenris wake up in a cold sweat. If possible, he grew further away from the other slaves since then. Danarius no longer allowed him to dine in the servant's wing. He was to stay by Danarius' side at all times, even if it meant eating on the floor while guests were over. The few occasions where Fenris was sent away included especially confidential meetings (usually with other Magisters), evenings when he and his wife tried to consummate, and moments like these.

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss, and in the center of it all an ear-splitting cry that echoed through the hallways while the hiss gradually fizzled out.

"I said COUNT!" Came Danarius' voice, echoing in the same voice.

The slave girl sniffled, and in a weak, shaky voice, choked, "O-one."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Fenris flinched. She didn't cry out this time.

"Two."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Her cry was broken. Barely a sound audible above the whip's contact.

"... three."

Fenris closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He pressed his back against the wall. He counted the seconds in his head.

one ... two ... three ... four ...

If enough time passed that meant it was over.

five ... six ... seven

Whoosh-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK

Fenris put his hand over his mouth, listening to the stretched-out hiss so intently that he nearly missed Danarius' footsteps approaching. Danarius burst through the door and Fenris immediately straightened his stance, eyes open and forward. Icy eyes glanced at Fenris, then at the whip in his hands. He ran his fingers along the thinnest portion of the letter, sighing when he came back with a streak of blood on his hand.

"Get her out of my office." He commanded, "I'll find you when I need you again."

He was gone without another word, leaving the door open behind him. Fenris dared a glance inside, where the elven slave was crumpled in a limp heap on the floor. Six wicked, bleeding marks shone boldly on her upturned back.

Her face was pale. Wide eyes stared into space. She didn't move when Fenris knelt beside her. She was shaking, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Can you walk?" Fenris asked.

She didn't respond. Fenris shook her shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you out of here." He continued.

She shook her head and turned her face towards the floor.

"If you don't leave he'll whip you again when he returns."

"Let him. Let me die." She choked, squeezing her eyes shut and letting her tears drip onto the marble tiles.

"You don't mean that."

"I do!" She was sobbing now, a hiccup on every breath. With a sigh, Fenris lifted her up by her shoulders.

He managed to hoist her over one shoulder so that her back was in the air, her arm wrapped across his other shoulder. In the kitchens, Seri was rifling through cupboards and emerged as soon as he entered, her face dropping.

"Maker, she must be bad if he sent you." Seri sighed, "Set her on the cot. I'll put the water on."

Unlike the other slaves, Seri had a tiny corner of the pantry to herself. All the better to wake up early to start breakfast, or to tend to the master's whims should he find himself hungry at night. It served double duty as the closest things the slaves had to a sick room.

As gently as possible, Fenris lowered her onto the cot, careful to lay her on her side. She winced as her weight left his shoulder.

"I apologize." He pulled up a crate and sat next to her.

Her eye were bloodshot. She replied with a sniffle, "Should've left me to die."

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker."

"I don't care!" She shouted, shakily propping herself up on one elbow, "I want out of this mess! I wanna be free! I don't care how I do it!"

Fenris felt the color drain from his cheeks. If ever there was a word that earned a slave six lashings, that was it. If anything that was generous. Some slaves had fingers and toes cut off for less.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and chose his next words very carefully, "If you say things like that ... you'll be punished again."

"Oh what do you care? You don't even know me." She sniffled and flopped onto her stomach, chin buried in the pillow.

"What is your name then?"

Hugging the pillow close to her, she looked at him over the fabric. He held out his hand.

She wiped off her eyes, and shook his hand.

"M'name's Deveri." She said, her voice muffled, "I've heard Master call you Fenris."

"Yes."

"I wasn't always a slave, y'know. M'parents sold me to get out of debt. I don't care 'bout them, but I hate our Master."

Seri's voice popped in along with a pot of water in her arms, "As slaves go, we're actually quite lucky. We could be serving one of those magisters who cuts up every slave for experiments. At least under Master Danarius we get three hots and a cot. Decent food, too. Not rotten leftovers or table scraps."

She pressed a damp rag into Deveri's back, earning a hiss in response.

Fenris opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something left unsaid between them, and he couldn’t put his finger on what. Seri poked his arm.

“You’d best get back to the master before he misses you.” She said.

Fenris never hesitated on an order. He immediately stood and left, barely catching Seri snapping, “Hush” while Deveri quietly sobbed.

Two weeks later he was fetching a bottle of wine from the cellar when he ran into Seri again. Burn-striped hands threw a glob of bread dough on the counter and started kneading deep caverns into it.

“Seri,” He began, pausing at the door to the cellar.

“Hm? What you need? You hurt?”

“No, I was ...” He shuffled his feet, eyes on the ground, “I was just wondering how Deveri was doing.”

“Heard the news, eh? I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

His heart jumped to his throat. He looked up to see her kneading the bread as though she’d said nothing.

“What?” He breathed, “The whipping was harsh but … did her back get infected?”

Seri wiped her hands on her apron, “Her back was healing fine, she cut her wrists. That’s what did her in. Sorry I thought you heard.”

His jaw hung slack. He could feel the jolt from his heart spreading through his whole chest. He didn’t move until Seri set her hand on his arm and squeezed.

“Sorry, dear.” She said, “She did ask me to give you this.”

She pressed a purple ribbon into his hand.

“She says it’s from before she was a slave.” She continued, “Now you’d best get the master his wine. You know which one he likes.”

She went back to kneading the dough, and Fenris was still staring at the ribbon in his hand.

“To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker.” he muttered.

“I don’t think that helped her much, dear. It’s good if it works for you, but it ain’t for everyone.”

x – X – x

The sun rose through the fog in Par Vollen and cast a gradient smear of blue, pink, orange, and purple every morning.  It probably rose like this every morning, but few were so special as this one.

Fenris was bundled up in a knitted sweater and a scarf, both borrowed from the Fog Warriors. “Borrowed” was a loose term here, as they had thrust the items into his hands the first night they saw him shivering. Danarius never cared if he was cold. He was used to toughing it out.

A lot had been happening that he wasn’t used to.

When Danarius had been forced to evacuate Par Vollen, there wasn’t enough room for his beloved bodyguard. Fenris was left behind, alone for the first time he could ever remember, and was immediately taken by the very same soldiers who’d attacked and forced the evacuation in the first place.

He thought he’d be killed. Then he thought he’d be taken prisoner. More and more, though, it seemed like he was just staying here, and he liked it well enough he supposed. One morning he awoke in a panic, seeing that the sun was already set low in the sky and the others were already working. Oversleeping was not a luxury he was allowed in Danarius’ house.

Waking up early was nice, too. Never before had he perched on a hillside to watch the sunrise, simply because he wanted to. The Fog Warriors’ tents were to his back, and a few were already rising to greet the morning.

Gundat was a tal vashoth who had stripes of scars on both arms and short, curled horns. His jaw was crooked and so was his smile as he walked past Fenris while hiking up the hill.

“What are you doing up so early?” He asked.

Fenris shrank back, and Gundat knelt, signaling him to stop, “Hey, hey, don’t be like that, you’re not in trouble. I was just curious is all.”

Fenris didn’t look up, and muttered, “Watching the sunrise.”

Gundat gave him a tired smile and patted his shoulder, “That’s good, Fenris. That’s good. You should enjoy that stuff if you can.”

Gundat’s eyes were sunken in, dark circles lining them and an underlying exhaustion that he’d seen so many times before, in slaves worked to the bone for days without rest. Words got stuck in his throat while Gundat rose. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t permitted.

Except Danarius wasn’t here, and nobody here ever stopped him from speaking. He watched Gundat walk away, and realized that he didn’t have to stay on the hill. There were a lot of sunrises, but there was only one Gundat.

He stood up, and asked, “Are you alright?”

Gundat stopped, “I’m fine. Just tired. I don’t really sleep at night, that’s why I take the night patrol.”

“You look so ...” Tired? Lifeless? Too calm to be normal?

"Fenris," Gundat set a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch, "You're on your own since your master left you here, right? You seem happy. You get to be happy. Treasure that. Not everyone has it."

Gundar turned again. Fenris watched him until he reached the top of the hill. His horns had just started to disappear over the curve when Fenris sprinted.

"Gundar!"

The tal-vashoth in question met Fenris as right as he caught up to him.

"I get to choose what I do every day, right?"

"Of course."

"Then I want to spend today with you."

Gundar huffed a laugh, "Why? You have better things to do. Watch the sunrise more. Be happy."

"I'll be happier watch...if you...I'll be happy..." Fenris stammered.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe through his nose. He felt a teardrop run down his cheek, and sniffled.

Gundar brushed the tear away with his thumb.

Fenris knew what was happening. The Fog Warriors were masters of patience. Gundar was waiting for Fenris to continue, and would wait until the sun rose tomorrow if need be.

Finally, he whispered, "To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker."

Gundar shrugged, "Sorry, I don't believe in the Maker. It's fine if that works for you, though."

"I...I don't want you to hurt yourself..." He choked, wiping his eyes with the sweaters' sleeve, "Please...if it helps...can I spend the day with you? Please...that would make me happy."

Gundar smiled, and although it was an exhausted, heavy smile, there was still a genuine sparkle behind his eyes.

"Alright, Fenris. If it makes you happy."

Fortunately, Gundar wasn't with Fenris when Danarius gave him the order to kill.

Unfortunately, Fenris would never be able to face Gundar again.

x - X - x

It was ten years before Fenris again heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

He was in the hanged man like he had been so many other nights, though this time perhaps he'd had a bit too much to drink. He was finding a lot of amusement in teasing the others about how easy it was to read their tells. He'd attended enough high-class Tevinter parties as Danarius' bodyguard, after all. When you're not allowed to talk, you spend a lot of time listening.

"Looks like I have all of Hawkes coins~" He hummed, dropping a handful into a stack and delighting in the clink clink clink they made as they fell.

"Oh, I'm not out of this game yet. Ante up." Hawke pulled a coin purse out of her pocket and dropped it on the table. She gained a spark to her eye, one which Fenris had seen so many times. It meant she'd been taunted enough to push forward no matter how stupid it made her.

Not that it was hard to get her to that point.

"What's it mean when all the cards are different, again?" Merril asked.

Isabella answered, "It means Anders should have given me his hand back by now."

The mage in question had his head resting on his fist, cards lazily propped up with a limp hand. Isabella reached over and snatched them from him. Anders startled awake with a yelp that drew every eye at the table in his direction.

"You alright, Blondie?" Varric asked.

Anders rubbed his eyes and yawned, "Must have been one of Isabella's anecdotes. I think you should stick to the storytelling, Varric."

Isabella leafed the cards together, rolled her eyes, and passed the deck to Merril to cut. "Ha ha, very funny. Are you in this hand or are you going to doze off again?"

"Well as much as I love losing my life savings to Fenris, I can't be much fun when I'm like this." Anders pushed away from the table, leaving right as Isabella started dealing cards.

"What's gotten into him?" Hawke asked, jerking her head at the door.

Merril arranged the cards in her hand as she answered, "Maybe there's another outbreak in Dark Town. You know how he doesn't let himself sleep when the clinic is full."

Varric shook his head, "Nah, Hawke's right. He's been weird lately. Well, weirder than usual. You know the other day he tried to give me this pillow that his mom made. He said something about wanting me to have it. Don't get me wrong, we're close. He's a good friend. It just seems like the kind of thing you'd save for your brother or something, you know?"

Fenris felt a familiar jolt in his chest, the kind that made him want to stand up and follow Anders. He looked at his cards and couldn't focus on them. They were all red, which meant something, but words escaped him. He didn't want to be here. Hawke said something, and he didn't hear a word of it.

"I fold." He said, setting his cards down.

"Come on, don't be like that. You haven't even discarded anything yet." Isabella whined.

Fenris was already shoveling coins into his coinpurse, "Apologies. I remembered there was something I have to do." There wasn't a lot of time. Anders could already be out of sight by now. He'd only dug a trench into the pile of coins.

"Keep the rest for drinks." He added, straitening up. With a quick wave, he was out of the Hanged Man and into the seaside air.

Most of Kirkwall was protected from the wind by its own walls and buildings, so the chill was there but the moisture from the water's surface didn't settle in until early morning. Fenris could see his breath in the air. It was cold but not unbearably chilly, though it would be in a few hours. He looked left and right and was met only with empty streets.

His feet flew down the stairs that led to dark town. The clinic was the only place he could think to look. To his surprise the door was unlocked. He burst into an empty room. Looking wildly around revealed only empty beds and medicine shelves, with Anders' desk shoved off to one side.

"Shit." Fenris mumbled.

At the desk, there were piles and piles of papers all bearing Anders' handwriting. Perhaps he could have looked for a sign, a plan, a hint, anything if not for the fact that his reading lessons with Hawke had barely finished covering the alphabet. He was cursing - both mentally and literally - the fact that slaves weren't permitted to read, when the door by the desk creaked and Anders stepped out of his bedroom.

"Fenris?" Anders said. His hair hung loose and framed his face. His eyes were wide open, red, and shaded with dark circles underneath. "What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

That was an excellent question, and it made Fenris freeze. Because really, what was he doing here?

For a brief second, he considered breaking his own arm. Then he’d have a reason to be here.

No, that would be silly.

Fenris cleared his throat, "You seemed troubled. I thought you could use some company."

"It's late. I'm surprised you care. I thought you hated me."

Fenris sighed. Maker, why was he making this so hard?

"No I don't hate you," He groaned, "I just think you're a misguided fool."

"And? If you're here to argue in favor of the Templar order imprisoning mages for the crime of being-"

"Maker, can we not talk about mages and Templars for one night?" Fenris snapped, "We can talk about something else! Literally anything else!"

Anders blinked, taken aback. There was silence for a second while the gears turned in Anders' head.

"Alright," Anders concluded, "What do you want to talk about?"

Which was another excellent question.

"Walk with me." Fenris decided. Because if they were walking, at the very least, he had something to do while he was thinking of what to say. And thankfully without question or comment, Anders took his staff and followed Fenris.

They left dark town, largely because dark town was a bad place to be when it was dark. Low town wasn't much better, and as they passed the Hanged Man they could hear Hawke loudly demanding another round of drinks. Their friends were great company, but crowds weren't needed right now.

"The sky's clear tonight." Anders said, "If it weren't for the buildings you could see the stars."

Which gave Fenris an excellent idea.

"Do you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"See the stars?"

"... I guess?"

They cut through high town to get to the abandoned manor Fenris claimed as his own. On the top floor in one of the guest bedrooms, a portion of the roof had collapsed and the accompanying chimney had crumbled into a slope of broken cobblestone. Moonlight was shining in beams through the hole when they entered. Fenris climbed up first, and offered his hand to help Anders up.

It was a sight to behold.

Kirwall stretched for miles from one end to the other, but as high up as they were, they could see the ocean in the distance as well as the gallows and every side of the wall that surrounded the city. Above them was a velvet blanket coated with dots of light that drew the eyes heaven bound. The ground and the sky fought for attention here. One a feat of man, the other a feat of the divine.

"It's beautiful." Anders breathed, "How long have you known about this spot?"

"I found it not long after I moved into the mansion." Fenris sat down next to a handful of empty wine bottles and dirty plates, "Sometimes I come up here to think."

"That's a laughable thought. Most nights I'd prefer to stay out of my own head." Anders sat down next to Fenris, "So, what was it you wanted to talk about."

"I don't know. Something. Anything. The stars?"

So they talked about the stars.

The constellations were different between the Marches and Tevinter, though they found a small handful had the same names. They both had a hobby of stargazing, it seemed. And when they grew bored of the stars, they watched the town below, and found they both enjoyed people watching as well. It seemed they had a lot in common, so long as they weren't talking about mages or Templars. They watched drunks stumble home and graveyard workers shuffle around on the streets. They swatted bugs and talked about how annoying mosquitoes and flies were. They talked about bugs that they didn't find annoying. They talked until the sky grew pale with morning twilight.

Anders had his arms crossed to hold in his warmth, his legs drawn up to his chest. They'd been silent the past few minutes, occupied with watching a gray-haired human man. He was on a long walk that started at the docks and went to low town, through through the market place, and stopped for a rest on the chantry steps, completely unaware that he was being watched. "Thank you, Fenris." He said, "I suppose I did need some company."

Fenris nodded, and a long silence stretched between them.

"You know ..." Anders continued, "I was considering doing something incredibly stupid tonight, and I'm glad I didn't do it now."

"I know."

Anders wouldn't meet Fenris' face. Instead his cheeks flushed, and he looked to the ground.

"'To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker'." Fenris continued, "But you already knew that, and the Maker isn't going to stop you. I am. Because nobody ever says the word 'suicide' until it's already a regret. And if I had to choose I'd rather abolish that sin than the sin of being a mage."

Anders drew his knees closer to his chest and buried his chin in them. A breeze sent a chill all the way to his bones. He flinched when Fenris' hands brushed his skin. Gentle, patient hands pulled his bangs back into their usual ponytail.

When Fenris moved away and returned to his seat, Anders dared to look up again, and glimpsed a flash of purple fabric behind him. A ribbon.

"Slaves don't have any possessions, strictly speaking." Fenris said, "I've had that in my pocket for more than 15 years. I expect it back. Not from Varric, not from Hawke, but from you. So if you find no other reason to live, you can know I'll be expecting to get that ribbon back. It means a lot to me."

Anders wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled. Fenris returned to watching the skyline. Scooting a little closer, Anders leaned on him, and they watched the sunrise together.

[ranawaytothedas]

Candy

Rating - Teen

Word count -  3115

AO3 - TBA (tomorrow)

Ships -

Solas/Tamaris

Dorian/Mathras

Mentions Merrill/Carver 

Summery: A Modern AU! Halloween Solavellan family fluff fest, to celebrate 60 followers on my DA Blog!!

A/N: I set this around the bustling urban metropolis of “Kirkwall” just so I could include Merrill because I love her… I guess some important stuff… Varric is Governor of the City State of Kirkwall after being a successful comic book writer who wrote politically fuel comics satirizing the events that led to great Mage Rebellion… in an odd write in situation that started as Twitter hashtag, Varric was elected Ruler of Kirkwall…<.<. The Hawk, is a superhero from Varric’s comics made famous by the actor and personal friend of Mayor Tethras, Garrett Hawke, who is also a friend of Tamaris’s from College. Solas is a professor of Ancient Elven Studies at the College of Kirkwall, Merrill is his assistant professor… Dorian and Mathras are podcast/youtube darlings and visiting from Minrathous .. Tamaris is a stay at home mom, to her and Solas’s 3 year old Shivana… 

The shrieks and giggles of a toddler echoed through a modest home just outside of the sprawling urban landscape of Kirkwall. Tamaris Lavellan, stood in her kitchen over a boiling pot craning her neck to try to see where her toddler had run off to. “Mathras! Can you please just contain her in one room!” Tamaris shouted as she dumped a box of pasta in the boiling pot, giving it a quick stir before trying to go track down her poor brother who she last saw chasing after her three year old daughter whom, while not being watched for just a moment, had gotten in the large bowl of Halloween candy that had been on the kitchen table. The results being a very hyper child covered in chocolate. 

As Tamaris walked into the family room, Mathras’s partner Dorian sat on the couch scrolling through instagram. Walking up behind him Tamaris ran her hand along the back of his shoulders and put on her best smile. Dorian looked up from his phone, locking the screen and putting it in his lap. “Yes, my dear?” He beamed up at her. Dorian had been one of the most charming men she had ever met when they were seated next to each other in Arcane Studies class nearly a decade previous. Tamaris had even tried to ask him out, only to find out his interests lay elsewhere. It was her, who ultimately set him and Mathras up. Though if you listened to their podcast. “It’s the Tea from Tiventer with Dorian and Mathras” a daily gossip podcast and youtube channel, they would tell their love story very differently. 

With a weary sigh Tamaris pointed to the kitchen. “Could you please make sure the pasta doesn’t stick. If I serve Solas one more clump of pasta I think he will divorce me for cruelty and malnourishment.” Trying not to laugh Dorian nodded as Tamaris let out a thankful sigh. “I have to go save Mathras from Shivana…” 

Waving his hand Dorian laugh, “Please, go… save my husband from your terribly behaved sugar fuel child…” With a laugh as he stood to go do as he was asked in the kitchen. 

Tamaris made her way into the formal living where her twin brother was in a stalemate with her three year old daughter, who had shed her purple dress and now had Mathras’s cellphone in her hands, which were still covered in chocolate. She was racing around the room as Mathras, who had her dress clasped in his right hand tried to catch her. For a high school and college athlete her brother was having quite the time trying to catch her. Tamaris saw the direction that her daughter was headed in and knew her trickster ways, she was able to cut the toddler off and scoop her up just as Shivana was about to open Mathras’s photo gallery. “That’s not yours Shivana!” Tamaris scolded as she snatched the phone from her now screaming daughter’s hands and held it out for her brother to take. 

“Thank you,” Mathras breathed as he took the phone, slightly out of breath. “My word… like how do you do it?” He asked rather seriously. 

Which just caused Tamaris to laugh softly as she took Shivana’s dress from her brother. “Coffee, Coffee, Coffee, Elfroot, Wine, Elfroot, Wine… repeat…” Tamaris smirked.

Her brother laughed softly as he nodded. “I mean, it sounds like a solid routine.” He reached out and patted his sister on the arm. “Can I do anything to help?” He asked sweetly, a gesture that Tamaris would not have expected from him. She made a mental note that Dorian must be domesticating her former party animal brother. 

With a blissful sigh Tamaris nodded towards the kitchen. “Help Dorian with dinner so I can toss her into a bath, Solas should be home soon and we have to eat right when he gets home. No mucking about… I am not having Shivana miss Trick or Treating again this year.” Tamaris was not living up to her dreams of domestic goddesshood. Though her husband never asked for such feats, Tamaris still tried to be that perfect Pinterest mom. Yet most of her projects lay half finished and she was walking mess, far from the woman she was when she was one of the hosts of The Tea during her brush with fame.

Mathras smiled warmly at his sister as he patted her shoulder.“There was a bloody war last year, Tamaris! Geeze I think we can forgive you for that one.” He kissed her cheek as he went to leave. “I am assuming you keep everything in the most logical places… you aren’t keeping pots in the stove again?” 

“Whats wrong with that?” Tamaris asked confused. 

Mathras chuckled as he shook his head. “Nevermind, you are just like Mamae… go get her in the bath before you are the one that makes us late!” He teased gesturing for her to go. 

Tamaris was getting Shivana dressed after her bath when she heard her front door open and a chorus of ‘Hellos’ from her brother, Dorian, her husband and a female voice. Tamaris pursed her lips as she pulled Shivana’s costume on over her head head. “Oh I guess he just decided that sure let’s bring Merrill home… let’s not even ask the wife…” Tamaris gumbled not thinking that her daughter was actually listing. 

“I like Merrill, she is funny and nice.” Shivana pointed out softly as she stuck her head through the top of the costume. The little auburn haired girl smiled up at her mother. “You say ‘be nice’ to me…” She pointed out using Tamaris’s own words against her. 

Looking down at her daughter Tamaris scowled. “Stop sounding like your father and put on the bottoms to your costume.” There was an edge of jokingness in her voice but Tamaris still noted how harsh she sounded as she knelt down. “I mean, we gotta get moving sweetheart, you don’t want to miss the Trick or Treating, right?” This time her voice was much softer as pulled up the bottom half ‘The Hawk’ costume and handed her the mask to carry before standing back up. “Only put on the mask after dinner, do not eat with the mask on… understood?” 

“Yes Mamae…” The little girl said nodding her head. The glint of mischief in her bright blue eyes told Tamaris otherwise. “Can I do say hi to Bae now?” 

Tamaris nodded with soft smile. “Sure, let’s go…” The little girl took her mother’s hand and started to almost drag her back down the stairs. Tamaris had felt like she hadn’t sat down for more than two minutes all day between picking up her brother and Dorian from the airport, to running back to the store when she realized that she had eaten more the good candy they had bought. It wasn’t till she saw the look her husband gave her did she realize what was her biggest mistake of the day. “Shite.” She muttered as Shivana dropped her hand and raced over to her father’s waiting arms. 

Solas had not been expecting Tamaris’s brother, so he was rather shocked to see him and Dorian Pavus in his kitchen making spaghetti just a few moments before. As he lent down pick up his daughter who was wearing a ridiculous costume and not the one he had thought they agreed on several weeks early in the store. “Hello, sweetheart.” He greeted Shivana kissing her on the cheek once she was settled in her his arms. 

“Look! I am Uncle Garett! See!” The child exclaimed excitedly pulling at her costume as if her father had no idea what she was talking about. 

Solas forced a smile for his daughter as he nodded. “I see, da’ean… why don’t go show you actual Uncle in the kitchen.” He kissed her cheek again before setting her down on the wood floor of the hall. Shivana raced down the hall and into the kitchen trying to make a dramatic entrance. There was a roar of laughter from the kitchen yet Shivana’s parents stood in the hall looking at each other. 

Tamaris’s eyes were cast at her bright green socks not wanting to look at her husband as she started to mutter. “I know… I know...  you don’t even have to say anything Solas.” Tamaris mumbled shaking her head. “I really thought I told you days ago they were coming…” 

“No, no you did not.” Solas began as he reached out and took his wife’s hand. Tamaris’s gaze lifted as tried to read his face. From the way his brow was tense she could tell he was still annoyed, but as warm smile crept across his lips her fears eased. “It will be fine, I mean I forgot to text you to tell you they push trick or treating back till tomorrow because of the weather..” Tamaris’s eyes grew wide at the last part of his statement. Her head snapped around to look out the window, while it was slightly overcast it didn’t look like rain. 

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as she pulled her hand away from her husband to gesture towards the window. “Did they like look outside?” Solas shrugged and gave her a weak smile. He knew how much doing the silly tradition meant to Tamaris. Shivana had been born during such a turbulent time in Kirkwall that so many of the simple things like birthday parties and trick or treating got pushed aside for the sake of survival. Solas reached out and took Tamaris’s hand trying to get her to look back at him. 

“Vhenan, listen.” He started finally getting her attention. “We will just do it tomorrow… it’s really not that much of an issue.” Solas was trying his best to reassure her. His hand moved to caress her arm. “I am sure Shivana will understand…” Tamaris rolled eyes knowing full well their daughter had talked of nothing else since she had woken up that morning. 

“Yeah, sure…” Tamaris muttered before leaning forward finally giving Solas a peck on the lips and asking him, “So, how was work?” She asked trying to get back to their normal routine, even if it was just for a moment. 

Solas laughed dismissively as he waved his hand not wanting to discuss it. “It was a day,” He took Tamaris’s hand once more, “Let’s go see what our child is subjecting those poor adults too..” 

Tamaris laughed softly as they began to walk down the hall. “She already made Dorian sing baby shark with her…” 

Solas chuckled as he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “See, that is why you should have told me they were coming, I could have taken off work. I can't believe I missed that.” They both laughed as they walked into the kitchen to find Merrill and Dorian, with Shivana sitting in his lap at the kitchen table while Mathras was dumping the cooked pasta in the strainer. 

“Go sit, I will bring the food..” Mathras said cheerfully with a bright smile. 

Tamaris stood in shock for a second before letting go of Solas’s hand and walking over to her brother. She placed her hand on his forehead like she was checking for a temperature. She then grabbed his face and looked into his deep dark violet eyes. “What have you done with my brother…” She continued to hold his face as she turned back to Solas. “I think his possessed…by like a friendly spirit or something.” 

Mathras took as step back, pulling his head away from his sister’s grasp. “Shut up and go sit down before I change my mind and become an asshole again.” Tamaris took a step back as Solas walked up behind her and placed his hands on her waist, gently guiding her towards the kitchen table where the others were seated. Shivana was laughing up at Dorian as he held out his phone taking a video. 

“Say it again, Shivana…” Dorain instructed as he hit record. 

The little girl giggled behind her hands as she looked up into the camera. “But, Mae says…” Shivana started to question him. 

“I’ll take the blame just say it…” Dorian urged again as he kissed her cheek. 

With a impish giggle Shivana looked straight into the camera and said “Vishante kaffas..” before for falling to to a fit of laughter, which was not being helped by Merril giggling behind her hands, trying to hide her amusement.

“That’s such a horrible thing to teach a child..” Merrill started trying her best to sound serious once she noticed the child’s parents taking their seats across the table from her. “She is very impressionable..” She added when she saw the not so amused look on Solas’s face.

“Yes, I agree…” Solas added as he glared at Dorian. “I do not appreciate you teaching my daughter Tevene, let alone curses…” He turned to his wife some back up but Tamaris was fighting the urge to chuckle herself. 

“It was a little funny to hear it sound so sweet..” Tamaris muttered as she glanced over her shoulder to see her brother carrying a large bowl with the pasta in one hand and another bowl in his other that held the sauce. “Do you go it Mathras?” 

“All good..” He strained as he round around Dorian and set the past down first and then the sauce. “You wanna get the salad out of the fridge though.” Tamaris nodded before retrieving the salad rather impressed by the spread that her brother and Dorian hand manged to throw together. 

They enjoyed their quite meal, Shivana spending the majority of it sitting in Dorian’s lap listening to him tell her all about what things were like in Tevinter. It was a conversation none of them had expected the child to be interested in but Shivana was curious little girl and fairly bright for her age. When their meal was finished Merril helped Mathras clear the plates as Tamaris and Solas glanced at each other signalling they had put off telling Shivana long enough. 

“Dorian why don’t you finish helping them, we need to talk to Shivana a moment.” Tamaris suggested. Dorian gave her brief smile before Shivana climbed down from his lap and walked over to her mother’s chair. Her small hands gripped the arm of the chair, her chin resting on them and two large blue eyes staring up at Tamaris questioning what she had done. Tamaris smiled down at her daughter and ran her hand over her auburn locks. “So, Bae told me something when he got home that I think is going to make you a little sad…” The toddler scowled, her eyes narrowing in on her father’s face behind Tamaris. “It’s not his fault, but Trick-or-Treating has been put off till tomorrow.” 

“No candy?” The little girl quickly questioned sternly. 

Solas leaned forward to look at his daughter, “Not tonight, tomorrow… it’s supposed to rain, da’ean. It would be no fun.” 

Shivana looked back at the other adults as they were rinsing dishes. “No Candy!” She exclaimed again drawing the attention of the others. A pout grew across her lips as she sunk to the floor with disappointment. “No Candy!” She declared again, looking up at her mother as if she was about to cry. 

Pushing his chair back, Solas stood up and went over his daughter, picking her up. Shivana’s arms wrapped around his neck as she buried her face against the fabric of his suit jacket. “It’s just candy, da’ean… we have candy…” For a moment he glanced back at his wife to make sure he wasn’t making promises that he couldn’t keep. Tamaris smiled and nodded. “So you don’t even have to leave the house, we can do trick or treat right here…” He then glanced over at the other adults who were all nodding. “How does that sound?” Shivana nodded against his shoulder before peering up her father. 

“My own trick or treat?” She asked softly. “Just for me…” Solas nodded and suddenly all the sadness that had been in the child’s eyes disappeared as she lifted her head looked back at her uncles and Merrill. “You gotta give me candy!” She giggled. 

After dinner was put away, the adults gathered in the living room with the large bowl of candy. They passed the bowl around as Shivana stopped at each adult as they sat around the room. With a bright smile she would say “Trick or Treat” and wait for the large handful of sweets to fall into her bright orange plastic pumpkin. She made several rounds before deciding when half the contents of bowl ended up in her bucket was she satisfied with her bounty and crawled up on the couch between her parents as she started to dig through. Merrill left soon after, siting a date or something with Carver. Dorian and Mathras had settled on the loveseat across from Tamaris and her little family having a hushed conversation amongst themselves as the evening wound down.

They settled into a pleasant silence as Shivana sat carefully picking through her candy to find the ones she wanted the most. Solas leaned over Shivana’s shoulder and plucked one of the chocolate from the top of her bucket as a smirk played on his lips watching the litter gir glare up at him. “What?” He asked softly at the child’s glare. Shivana turned her nose up at him as she protectively covered the bucket protectively. “Oh can’t share with your father?” He asked softly.

The toddler scowled, “You didn’t ask… Mamae always gets made if I don’t ask.” She declared and Tamaris smirked on the other side of her as she looked up from her book. 

“She has a point, Solas…” Tamaris noted with a sly smirk. 

“See Bae…” Shivana said with a smug little smile that reminded Solas far too much of his own. 

“You…” He teased as he leaned over and started tickling his daughter. Her laughter caused Dorian and Mathras to pause their conversation for a moment and look over with broad smiles on their faces and Shivana dumped the bucket of candy onto the floor as Solas grabbed ahold of her placing a kiss on her cheek as he laughed. “When did you get so clever? Huh?” He teased and little girl squealed with glee. Laughter filled the house that night, despite the threat of rain ruining the planned events. 

Tamaris smiled broadly as she watched her happy little family enjoy the holiday in their own way, because some traditions are made out the need to calm a toddler’s tantrum over candy. 

[shannaraisles]

In Marcher Fields - Chapter 18

Poppy Hawke was never the daughter her mother wanted, the sister her twin preferred, the hero Kirkwall desired. They do not see the woman who stands between them and the chaos that threatens. No one takes the time to look, until she crosses the path of a certain Knight-Captain with demons of his own to battle …

[Read on AO3]

9:41 Dragon, Firstfall

"You're doing it again."

Poppy blinked, dragging her gaze from the table across the hall to stare at her brother, mildly uncomprehending. Alex was smirking at her over a forkful of Antivan cherry pie.

"Doing what?" she asked innocently.

"Come to bed eyes at your dreamy commander," he teased, and yelped as her foot made contact sharply with his ankle. He laughed, reaching down to rub it. "All right, all right. Just try not to lay him out on a table in public, would you? I love you, but not that much."

Poppy smirked back at him, ignoring the snickering rising from Varric on her other side to let her gaze return whence it had come. Cullen was apparently deep in discussion with the Inquisitor on the far table, his own dessert hardly touched. Xena was animatedly talking about something that was clearly important to her, and the sheer force of his attention was endearing to see. It was good to know that he had learned to make friends of his colleagues in these past years, that he wasn't as alone as he could so easily have been. As she watched, his eyes flickered toward her, meeting her gaze with a warmth that blossomed deep inside, in her heart and in her belly, casting her face into a gentle glow of a smile that made her brother snort with laughter again.

"Oh, shut up," she managed, rolling her eyes away from Cullen as warmth grew in her cheeks. "This is all your doing, you can't complain about it."

"Am I complaining?" Alex defended himself. "I thought I'd earned the right to be smug."

"Not until it's a done deal," Varric interjected across Poppy. "Half an hour of grabby kisses does not mean they're back for good."

"Gosh, aren't you the little ray of sunshine?" Poppy drawled to her friend, unable to keep her smile in check as he guffawed with laughter. "Easy there, short-arse. You're already halfway to the done deal with Xena, you know."

Varric's laughter abruptly stopped, and Poppy had the privilege of seeing her friend look totally disconcerted. He glanced across at the Inquisitor's table himself, his own gaze lingering as Xena let out a raucous laugh of her own. She knew that look - she'd seen it in Cullen's eyes too many times not to know it - but Varric seemed hell-bent on not admitting his heart was already lost.

"Not gonna happen, Hawke," he told her quietly, dragging his eyes away.

"Bianca?" she murmured, concerned when he blanched and nodded. "One of these days, you're going to have to tell me this story."

"When it's over, maybe." He sighed, shaking his head. "But enough about me. Can I write your epic love story now?"

Poppy let out a burst of cackling laughter, quick to quiet herself when noble heads turned toward her, burning with curiosity.

"When the adventurous part is over, maybe," she allowed, knowing it had to be killing Varric to be sitting on romance he wouldn't have to make up to get it written down. "I'll tell you when that is."

"I'm going to be an old man before you say yes to that, aren't I?"

"It's a distinct possibility, yes."

Varric sighed exaggeratedly, throwing a grin her way as he poured more ale into his tankard. With a quiet giggle to herself, Poppy made a valiant attempt to finish her pie, but her eyes rose yet again to the opposite table.

To Cullen, gazing back at her with a fiendishly secretive smile glimmering in his gaze, raising one eyebrow at the turn of her blush. All she could do was smile in return, her mind's eye lingering on the kisses they had shared not so very long again, on the newfound certainty that he still loved her. Work and duty had got in the way of a proper reunion ... but now the night had come, and the meal was over. Varric had said Cullen worked long into the night, every night, but she didn't think that would be the case tonight. She hoped it wouldn't be. There was still so much that hadn't been said, so much they needed to renew together. One night would not be enough. A lifetime ... well, that might be time enough.

"Just go to bed, would you?" she heard Alex sigh exaggeratedly. "This is getting nauseating."

She kicked him again for good measure, laughing as he whimpered just for her benefit, and finally rose from her seat, locking eyes with Cullen once more. He nodded to her, slowly rising from his own seat as she turned away to head for the door into the walled garden, ignoring the hopeful attempts by various nobles to get her attention as she passed them by. She had no time for them anymore, and certainly not tonight.

The sound of the gathering in the hall faded as the door swung shut behind her. Poppy breathed in the fragrant air of the little garden, smiling faintly as she recognized the scents of elfroot, embrium, Crystal Grace, even the dank tang of deep mushroom. Xena's little herb garden was coming along very well, it seemed. She stepped across the cloister, resting her temple against the cool stone of the uprights, one arm wrapped about the narrow column. Nerves flickered in her belly - would she be all he remembered? Was she good enough? Would he even bother to follow her out here?

The noise from the hall swelled for a moment at her back - she started to turn - and Cullen was there, arms reaching for her, mouth hungry for more of the kisses they had been denied for far too long. She couldn't help giggling into the first of those kisses, feeling his lips curve in an answering smile lost in the heady rush of knowing that this was what she had been missing all these years. The safety, the warmth, the love that Cullen could envelop her in with just a kiss filled a hole in her heart she had been nursing since the last time he had been able to touch her.

Bare hands skimmed her sides, kneading, holding, one smoothing down over her hip to pull her ever closer, the other diving into the fall of her hair, cradling her head in his palm as her hands passed restlessly up and down his back. No armor tonight, for either of them - simple jerkin and shirt for the Commander of the Inquisition, never before seen without his plate and mantle by the eager nobles until this night. But he wasn't the Commander of the Inquisition, not here, not now. He was Cullen, her Cullen, and the woman in his arms wasn't Lady Hawke, wasn't the Champion, wasn't even the consultant helping the Inquisition with the Warden problem - she was Poppy. For the first time in a very long time, she was simply Poppy.

Stone pressed against her back as he surged forward, pinning her there quite literally between rock and a hard place, filling her mouth with his soft groan at the gentle rake of her nails through his hair. She was vaguely aware of the rise in sound behind him, and an embarrassed female voice stuttering out an apology for interrupting as he drew back from her in frustration. She caught a glimpse of Chantry robes disappearing back into the Great Hall, unable to keep herself from snorting with laughter at being interrupted again.

Cullen's frown smoothed away as he looked at her, slowly relaxing into a smile of his own as they leaned into each other in the moonslight.

"I think it's time we found a little privacy, don't you?" she murmured, tracing a fingertip along the stubbled line of his jaw.

"Maker, yes," was his fervent reply, drawing another laugh from her as she pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

She pushed him back, claimed his hand in her own, guiding him quickly away from that access way toward a door set into the outer wall of the castle. Skyhold was enormous, there was no doubting that - plenty of space for visitors and inhabitants alike - but she had been given a room beneath the Inquisitor's rooms in the tower, with a wide window that overlooked the bailey of the keep. It was a great honor, of course, to be quartered all but with the Inquisitor, but right now, Poppy was more frustrated with the sheer number of stairs required to reach the appropriate level. It was very difficult to force herself to keep going with Cullen walking close to her back, the hand she hadn't claimed brushing hungrily over her side and hip as though he couldn't bear to stop touching.

In the darkness of the hallway, she fumbled with the door handle, loosing a breathless whimper as his lips found her throat, seeking out the sensitive dip behind her jaw that he knew would turn her to water in his grasp. The door came open, and she stumbled forward, released from his arms to turn back and watch as he closed and locked the door, turning to her with predatory tenderness in his gaze. And she didn't care. For the first time in a long time, she was glad to be the prey, glad to be caught and kissed and touched, reminded all over again that this was where she should be, this was where she should have stayed. She loved him.

It could have been hours later, it could have been moments, but the moons soon shone through the window on rumpled sheets and bare skin, on limbs tangled together without any wish to separate. Poppy lay on her side, facing Cullen, her fingertip teasing gently up and down a new scar on his chest; his fingers pushing through her hair to trail down her back as he brushed kiss after soft kiss to her lips.

"You look good," she murmured to him in the darkness. "Not so haggard. Not so driven. Apart from this -"

Her hand rose, gently touching the pad of her thumb to the groove between his brows, proof that a frown lived there more often than not. He, predictably enough, frowned at the touch, eyes tilting upward for a brief moment before returning to her own.

"I have headaches," he admitted quietly.

"I thought you had good supply lines here," Poppy queried in a soft voice. "Surely you're not low on lyrium?"

Cullen grimaced, a flicker of that old awkwardness touching his expression as he sighed. His hand covered her, drawing her palm to his mouth to press a hot kiss there.

"No, Poppy, I ... we have good supplies," he promised her. "I simply ... I haven't taken lyrium for over a year now, not since I left Kirkwall."

Horror flashed through her for a long moment - memories of Samson's hungry addiction, of Cullen's own descriptions of the templars in the infirmary at the Gallows when their reliance on lyrium had become too much. But no ... he wasn't raving. He wasn't haggard or grasping for something he couldn't have. He had made the decision himself. And she couldn't deny that it had done him so much good already. His flesh was warmer, pinker; his eyes, brighter; his mind just as sharp as it had been. He had not lost anything through this decision of his. Perhaps he could teach others to do the same, and finally break the Chantry's leash entirely.

"I wish I had been there to help you," she whispered tenderly, drawing her fingers along his cheek as his hand returned to her back, encircling her in his embrace once again. "I'm so proud of the man you've become, Cullen."

He shook his head, a deprecating smile touching his lips - lopsided, thanks to the scar Alex had branded him with years ago.

"You made me the man I am, Poppy," he murmured back to her. "Even without you there to hold me to account, I have spent years wondering what you would do. I have tried to live my life the way you would want me to. I turned a blind eye to too much in Kirkwall; I allowed too many abuses, too much misery, to fester and bloom under my hand, just because I refused to let go of my own anger. I'm still angry, Poppy. But I won't let it blind me again."

She smiled sadly, knowing he had been through too much to ever let some of it go, shifting closer to touch her lips to his brow as his hands tightened on her once more, gathering his cheek to her breast, lowering her head, curling to wrap him close and stroke his hair, letting him listen to the beat of her heart as he had done so many times before.

"I will never leave you again," she whispered into the darkness. "Let the world find another Champion. I've found where I belong."

[daihell]

For the Best Chapter 9

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The Venatori was dead. That knowledge should have been more satisfying than it was. In the end, however, it still left them here, with Elden still wounded, shivering violently and fading fast with no guarantee of survival and all Dorian could do was wrap him protectively in his arms. He just hoped that Elden could find some measure of peace, knowing that the person who had done this to him was dead and could never harm him again, for whatever that was worth.

For Dorian’s part, he wouldn’t find peace until they were back at Skyhold with Elden on the mend and he wouldn’t accept anything less. He would not lose Elden, not now, not when they were so close. And if death was inevitable, Dorian wasn’t going to give in without a fight. He could feel Elden going slack in his arms, still trembling, so he picked him up as gently as he could and carried him back to the stretcher. He laid him down, pulling off his own cloak to drape over Elden before checking his pulse. It was there, if faint, thank the Maker.

The battle wasn’t over yet, more red templars were already arriving and Dorian knew they had to get out of there. Every second they were held up might be Elden’s last. As he surveyed the scene, Cassandra suddenly appeared as his side, taking the rope tied to the litter. With her dragging Elden, Dorian was free to blaze a trail, quite literally as he let loose a fireball into a cluster of red templars. They broke through the line as they charged ahead, Dorian feeling a pang of guilt as the majority of their little group remained behind to cover their retreat.

It wasn’t enough though. The templars just kept coming, breaking through the ranks of their allies and giving chase. Dorian paused long enough to get a shot off, causing spikes of ice to shoot up out of the ground, skewering a few templars. But then the sound of rustling branches in the tree above startled him and he spun around, hand already wreathed in fire, barely stopping himself in time when Sera dropped to the ground beside him.

“Maker, Sera, you’re going to give me a heart attack. Maybe this isn’t the best time to sneak up on me.”

“Yeah, good to see you too, where’ve you been?”

“We got a bit held up,” Dorian said.

“Tell us when we’re back at Skyhold,” Bull shouted as he and the others that had been separated from them since rescuing Elden ran past him and Dorian was fairly certain he’d never been so relieved to see them all.

As they positioned themselves on the path, ready to receive the templars, Dorian turned and sprinted after Cassandra and Elden and the scouts still with them. When he caught up, Elden looked so pale. Dorian felt like he couldn’t breath as he begged the Maker and anyone else who might be listening not to take him, not now, not yet. And when Skyhold finally came into view, Dorian couldn’t even bring himself to feel relief, knowing that he could still lose Elden even without the threat of templars.

Skyhold erupted into chaos the moment they crossed the gate, confusion and fear at the sight of the Inquisitor, but Dorian hardly paid them any mind. He was vaguely aware of Cassandra yelling commands, preparing to go back out there to assist their friends.The rest of them didn’t even stop, several soldiers simply heaving the makeshift litter up onto their shoulders so they could carry Elden inside. Dorian followed close behind. No one tried to turn him away and he wasn’t sure if his determination showed or if they were all simply in too much of a hurry to even notice his presence.

-

To Dorian, it felt like he had been sitting there in the corner of Elden’s room for hours and still nothing was certain. Someone had come by at some point to see to his own wounds, and while he had tried to wave them away, he hadn’t had the energy to really put up a fight. He let them do their job, as pointless as it was. He only had a few cuts, some patches of skin on his face and arm that had been exposed to the elements too long, burned red and blistering from the cold. It would have healed on its own given time.

Dorian’s eyes never left Elden’s bed. He could barely see him through the cluster of healers around him but he kept straining to catch a glimpse. He wasn’t sure if he expected to see Elden lying there, ashen, no longer breathing, or completely well, smiling at him as if nothing had happened.

Vivienne arrived at some point, taking charge of the healers who came and went despite how drained she looked. No doubt the others who had stayed behind to fight were back as well but Dorian couldn’t leave as much as he wanted to assure himself that they were alive. He couldn’t leave Elden.

It took Dorian by surprise when the healers filed out, leaving him and Vivienne alone with Elden. He stood and approached slowly, his breath catching in his throat, terrified of what he might see. Elden was alive, lying shirtless on his bed, nothing evident externally to indicate the trauma he had been through. And yet he was so still, his chest barely rising and falling with his shallow breaths.

Was this it? After everything Elden had suffered, would he truly die here, slipping away in complete silence? He’d always known that not everyone would be getting out of this war alive, but not like this, not consumed from the inside, mind and body, left empty and still until he simply wasted away. It was too cruel. Elden was so full of life, he was good and kind and never deserved so much better than this.

“There was more damage than expected,” she said. “We’ve done all we can, all that’s left is to wait.”

Dorian nodded, feeling numb. “Go rest, I’ll watch him for a time.”

Perhaps Vivienne knew arguing was pointless or she was simply too tired because she left him there, staring down at Elden. The door had barely closed when the tears began to fall. It wasn’t fair. Life never was, though. It kept taking the good out of the world, first Felix and now possibly even Elden. And once again Dorian was left to helplessly watch as the people he cared for most, that deserved life and happiness more than anyone, slowly wasted away. There was fury and rage, but it gave way to a hopeless emptiness as he took Elden’s hand, holding it tightly as he curled in on himself, shaking in silent sobs.

-

Dorian never left Elden’s side if he could help it. The inner circle stopped by to see Elden from time to time, for whatever good that would do, and the healers had scheduled visits throughout the day and night so he wasn’t exactly needed there, but he didn’t care. Servants brought him food that Dorian often forgot to eat and Varric brought him his documents containing everything he knew about red lyrium, everything he’d learned trying to cure his brother. It wasn’t even certain that the notes would be relevant since Elden was human, not dwarven, but at least it was something for Dorian to do.

The healers were keeping him stable, but there was no guarantee he’d ever regain consciousness, that his mind and body could ever properly recover from the damage the corruption had caused. A week had past when Elden’s eyes finally opened. Dorian hadn’t even noticed at first, so intent on the book he was reading, but slight movement caught his attention and his heart felt like it might stop, feeling relief and apprehension in equal measure.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, trying to hide the urgency and desperation in his voice as Elden turned to look at him.

“Dorian?” Elden said in confusion and Dorian wasn’t entirely sure if that was due to uncertainty of the answer or simply a reaction to the odd question.

“Do you know where we are?” Dorian asked next, feeling hopeful despite himself. He could speak, he was aware, surely these were good signs. He sat forward and took Elden’s hand, book forgotten as it fell to the floor.

Elden glanced at the room before answering. “Skyhold. We made it.” He closed his eyes with a relieved sigh before his eyes shot open again and he looked to Dorian again in concern. “What about the others? Are they--”

“All fine,” Dorian soothed.

It was just like Elden to worry about others despite the state he was in and honestly that did wonders to reassure Dorian. The relief he felt was profound and he sighed, letting out a breath he felt like he had been holding for years, silently whispering a prayer of thanks as he lowered his head suddenly feeling exhausted, bringing a hand up to wipe at his aching eyes.

Dorian had imagined so many different scenarios of how this could have played out; Elden trapped in a nightmare forever, seeing friends as demons, or perhaps he would simply be empty, no spark behind those bright green eyes, unable to speak or function on his own. But he was awake and aware and Dorian couldn’t be more overjoyed. No doubt Elden was thirsty as well. He helped him sit up enough to press a potion to his lips before laying him down again.

“I imagine, by the end of this, we’re all going to be sick of the taste of elfroot,” Dorian joked, the silence getting to him. Elden looked completely exhausted, the simple movement leaving him wrecked, so Dorian pulled the blanks up and tucked him back in. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake next.”

It looked as though Elden might say something, but he was simply too tired and quickly fell asleep. Dorian was left with his thoughts, which he was growing increasingly tired of. Now that he felt hopeful for Elden’s condition, he couldn’t help but think of other things. Like whether or not he had any right to be here now, to see Elden like this. They weren’t in a relationship any longer, did he have any right to stay at his side? Would Elden even want him nearby?

Although Dorian supposed he would gladly accept Elden figuratively casting him out of his room if it meant he was well enough to do so. Not that Elden ever would. He was much too kind. And right now, he was still weak and Dorian had no plans to leave him alone. Elden had wanted him there before and Dorian wouldn’t go as long as that still might be the case. And someone needed to keep an eye on him.

-

A cold breeze prickled at Dorian’s skin, rousing him where he had fallen asleep in the chair at the inquisitor’s bedside. He shivered, trying to remember if he’d left a window open, but as he sat up, his gaze fell on the empty bed and he froze. Panicked, he was on his feet in an instant, looking wildly around. He spotted Elden standing there on the balcony which was a relief, but he was so still it was unsettling.

Dorian was at his side in mere moments, gently taking Elden’s arm and leading him back into the room, closing and locking the balcony just to be safe. Elden hadn't looked as though he’d planned to jump, but Dorian had no intention of risking it, not with memories of Elden standing on the cliff’s edge so fresh in his mind. Besides, Elden’s skin was cold to the touch, a startling contrast to the burning fever he’d had so far.

“Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?” Dorian suggested. Elden looked dazed and barely seemed to comprehend what he was saying. “You really shouldn’t be out for a stroll, you know. I’ve never seen a patient so determined to tear their stitches. You best be careful or Vivienne might not sew you up next time.”

“Is this real?” Elden asked, looking more through him than at him. “Did I really get away?”

“Yes,” Dorian said as soothingly as he could. “She’s dead, remember? She can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I thought— I thought I was back there. I don’t—“

He looked so lost and confused. All Dorian could do was put an arm around him and guide him into bed. “It’ll be alright, you’re safe, you just need to rest.”

“And you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, before second guessing himself, worrying that that might not have been the answer he’d wanted. “If you want me to be, that is?”

“Please,” Elden whispered, his eyes already sliding closed as if they were far too heavy to remain open a second longer. “I’m scared, what if this is the dream?”

“Shh, I know,” Dorian said, bundling Elden in blankets, using his magic to warn the room again. He took Elden’s hand and held it tightly between both of his. “You’re safe now. No one can hurt you now. Just rest.”

-

In the morning, when the healers arrived, Elden was in good health, seeming alert and present to all of their relief. After so long terrified and on edge, Dorian felt like he could collapse. When had he last gotten a full night’s sleep? He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all truly fine, however. What if there was some other complication? What if the red lyrium had taken hold after all and suddenly reappeared?

But despite everything, Elden was looking healthier and gone was the confusion from last night. Perhaps it had simply been nightmares confusing him. Up until now, Dorian had been at the edge of the bed, holding Elden’s hand tightly in his own, but now he sat back farther, giving Elden space despite the way he desperately wanted to reach out to him, touch him. That wasn’t his place any longer. It took him some time but eventually, once they were left alone again, he finally brought himself to speak.

“Can I stay?” Dorian asked, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain even to his own ears.

“Do you want to stay?” Elden asked, his expression frustratingly hard to read.

“It’s a simple question,” Dorian said, irritably getting the better of him. “Surely you can answer with a yes or a no instead of turning it back on me.”

“Of course I do, but not if you don’t want to be here.” Elden said, his expression earnest and how could Dorian be annoyed with him for that? “Won’t you tell me what you want? Do you want to stay?”

The careful mask Dorian always wore broke and Elden could see all of the fear and desperation and sadness he had tried so hard to keep hidden all this time.

“Yes,” Dorian whispered. Elden reached out to him and he took his hand and Dorian felt guilty for it. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

“What? How could any of this possibly be your fault?” Elden asked looking genuinely confused.

“Our conversation, before you left,” Dorian said, unable to look him in the eye. “You wouldn’t have been distracted if it wasn’t for my poor timing.”

“My, you do think highly of yourself,” Elden said, but it was a joke and he was smiling fondly at him.

“Have you met me? I assure you I have good reason,” Dorian said, but it was his usual deflection and he knew it wouldn’t fool Elden for a moment. “If not that, then would you care to tell me what happened?”

“It was a foolish mistake. We were actually planning on traveling that way anyway to investigate the red templar sightings. But I found tracks and foolishly followed them. I may have been too preoccupied to realize how dangerous that was, but that’s hardly your fault. I had plenty to fret over with the endless stream of meetings with the advisors. And perhaps I was trying to prove to myself that I could handle it alone.”

Elden looked away guiltily and Dorian remembered everything he had said while injured, so terrified of failure, of letting the Inquisition down, so sure he had no right to lead them. Dorian hated that there was so little he could do to help, but he could at least keep Elden from dwelling.

“Honestly, you have nothing to prove, but I must admit, now that I know the truth I’m a touch disappointed this isn’t about me after all,” Dorian joked, pleased when Elden pushed him playfully and Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So what do we do now?” Elden asked.

“I’m not sure. I expected you to be more angry than you seem,” Dorian admitted.

Elden was silent for a moment, staring at their hands linked together. “Would you tell me why?”

They needed to have that conversation sooner or later, might as well get it out of the way.

“For that I definitely owe you an apology,” Dorian said with a sign. “The truth is, I lied. I was afraid the rumors were growing out of control.”

“I told you, I don’t care about them.”

“But I do. I’d never be able to forgive myself if it ruined your reputation.”

“They’re going to find a reason to hate me matter what I do.” Elden said. Dorian knew it was true but it was just so infuriating. Elden was good and kind and did more than anyone in this war and yet still people were looking for any reason to turn on him. “Maybe what we should have done was put out our own rumors, about how the Inquisitor is incredibly weak and the only reason the Inquisition has made it this far is because of his friends, especially a certain Tevinter mage who keeps helping him pick himself up every time he falls apart.”

“No need to depreciate yourself on my account,” Dorian said with a sad smile.

“It’s the truth, though. I-- I just wish you’d talked to me about it.”

“I know, I should have.” Dorian said quietly.

“And I understand why. I might have felt the same if our positions had been reversed and I can’t fault you for that. I just miss you. Just do me a favor, even if you don’t want this, don’t push me away. Your friendship means a lot to me.”

Dorian laughed weakly. “I didn’t realize any of that was still an option.”

“As long as you talk to me about what’s bothering you,” Elden said. “You’ve been there every step of the way for me, but I want to be there for you as well.”

“You already have been. Too much, I fear. That’s the problem here after all.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Elden said with a little laugh.

“Says the Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian said but he sighed, looking at Elden seriously. “I just don’t understand. How can this be so simple for you? How can I possibly deserve any sort of second chance?”

“Dorian, I’m anxious all the time, everything in my life is complicated. But when I’m with you? All of that is quieter. I can finally hear myself think for once and all I want to think about is you. I like being around you, I like making you laugh and seeing you smile. If you don’t— if you don’t feel the same, I won’t fault you for it. we can end things here, go back to being friends. But if you do, then I want to try. I want to be at your side and I want to see where this goes, you and I. I know the journey won’t be easy, it never is, we will both have to work hard at it, but I think it could be worth it. But more than anything I want you to be happy, and if walking away will do that then it’s what I’ll do. But making yourself do something that will make you unhappy will only leave us both miserable.”

Dorian had to cover his face, to try to compose himself. How could he possibly deserve this man? He always did have a habit of sabotaging himself. Rebelling back in school, against his father. Then there was his inevitable fight with Alexius, pushing his mentor and subsequently Felix, his only friend, out of his life.

When he’d come south, he’d promised himself he would do the right thing, he’d be better and he’d make a difference. But once again, when happiness was within his grasp, he’d pushed Elden away, ruining the only relationship that had ever felt like this, that had ever been so real. Elden was much too good to offer him a second chance. Dorian could simply hurt them both all over again.

“I’m certainly not blameless here either,” Elden continued. “I should have insisted we talk, I knew something had been bothering you, but I was afraid. So I left without a word.”

“No,” Dorian said, hating the idea that Elden might blame himself for this. “I didn’t exactly leave things open for a conversation.”

“We’re supposed to be in this together, remember?” Elden said too earnestly. “We’re on the same side.”

“You are right, of course,” Dorian said, rubbing at his face. “I fear I’m at a loss, because as selfish as it is, I don’t want to walk away again. Where do we go from here?”

“How about you come up here and get some rest,” Elden said with a fond smile. “We can talk more after we’ve both rested.”

With his urging, Dorian crawled onto the bed. Elden curled against him, keeping his hand held tightly in his own. Having Elden’s familiar warm weight against him was such a relief. He knew things weren’t back to normal, they still had a long way to go, but the fact that Elden didn’t hate him was more than he had hoped for. He knew he’d made a mess of things, he knew he had hurt Elden and betrayed his confidence. He would make it up to him, he would do what he should have from the beginning, stay by his side through all of this and make sure he could still smile by the end of it. And he’d make sure Elden was never hurt again.

“Maybe I’ll have Leliana see what she can do about the rumors. And I’ll have her send you a list of everything she’s heard about you too.” Elden said suddenly, taking him by surprise.

“Why exactly would I want that?” Dorian asked.

“It’s not all bad. In fact, it’s mostly positive. The majority seem to find our relationship sweet.”

“Me? The evil Tevinter Magister? Sweet? That’s certainly a new one.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Elden said with a sleepy yawn. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

“Of course,” Dorian said, kissing the back of Elden’s hand and threading his fingers through his hair.

He paused, contemplating the weight of his words. There was so much to be said, so much to do. There was regret and affection and reassurances, but how could he ever put it all into words? How could he convey his sincerity? It would never be enough, would it? Instead, he would do everything in his power to show him all he felt until there was no doubt left in Elden’s mind that he was treasured. As Elden’s breathing slowed in sleep, Dorian whispered a single word, hoping desperately to convey at least a fraction of everything he felt.

“Amatus.”

The corner of Elden’s lips twitched up into a slight smile. He knew the significance of the word, all it represented to Dorian. It was terrifying how well Elden knew him, to be honest. But then, Dorian wouldn’t have it any other way. It was comforting, in a way. Regardless, Dorian would call him his beloved until the end of time if possible. There were still doubts and fears, things in his past that couldn’t so easily be banished and this horrible certainty that they weren’t all getting out of this alive. But they were in this together. And Dorian never wanted to let him go again.

[alittlestarling]

Welcome Home, Good Hunter

Their quest into the Hinterlands to meet with the rebel mages doesn’t go as planned and an upsetting discovery brings Roz and Vincent closer.

Read on Ao3

Part 1

Part 2: The Hinterlands

“Can you hear that?” Roz pulled gently on the reins of her mare as they crested over the final few hills, dipping lower into the valley.

“Hear what?” Vincent asked, her ever-constant companion in the last week as they made their way from the mountain pass and into the heart of Ferelden. Where Roz was uncertain in her riding, Vincent was a natural, murmuring gently in a foreign tongue that she didn’t know to soothe his steed as they trekked onward. The mere fact that he was there, that this wasn’t a fever dream, was still hard for Roz to believe. Staring was hard as well and she had tried to keep her gaze from lingering too long on him.

Instead, she smiled as she gazed out along the vast expanse before them. “Quiet,” she replied after a moment, relishing the sounds of nature instead of fighting that had so often surrounded them in these hills. With the encampments gone for both warring sides, the survivors in the Crossroads could enjoy a little peace before they rebuilt their lives in the hills.

Patting her mare along the side of her neck, Roz couldn’t stop herself from giving what might have been a far-too-early sigh of relief. Fewer fires to put out, less time placing themselves into the crosshairs of danger and more opportunities to see exactly what the people needed here.

What they truly needed.

Leading the way, Roz glanced over her shoulder as they trekked down the steep incline their horses seemed to take with greater ease and confidence than she would have. Vincent had, of course, come along, but he wasn’t the only one. Iron Bull held up the end of the group, shooting the breeze easily with Varric and, right in the middle, Vincent’s older brother, Rolfe, had been flirting with Cassandra at a steady clip since they left Haven.

Though they had only just begun to grow closer, Roz could tell that, despite the rebuffs and irritated sighs, Cassandra wasn’t completely indifferent to the lighthearted teasing and flirting Rolfe offered. Resistant, stubborn to admit it, but Roz didn’t think anything with Cassandra came particularly easily. Especially when it came to close relationships, not just romance.

“Do you think your brother will tire of flirting with Cassandra?” Roz leaned in conspiratorially, glancing back a moment to let her gaze linger over Rolfe riding alongside Cassandra.

“I doubt it,” Vincent had leaned in close, the warm scent of cedar and salt making her dizzy a moment. She tried not to think too hard as the pair of them shared a moment; his laugh was low, rumbling from his chest while Roz stifled a giggling snort before straightening along her saddle again.

“He has his work cut out for him,” Roz shook her head with a little laugh. “She’s a tough one to crack.”

“And my brother isn’t so easily dissuaded, so long as she hasn’t outright rejected him.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” Roz snickered lightly but leaned back away from him, straightening once more. “I wouldn’t discount his chances just yet.” Besides, despite her tough exterior, Roz had caught a glimpse of what she had discovered was a rather delightfully dirty romance novel during their first night on the road to Redcliffe, sworn to secrecy once Cassandra realized her secret was out.

Without the threat of attack looming over them, the people of the Crossroads looked a little less world-worn, the weariness gone from their postures. Tents had been set-up for those still transitioning and efforts to rebuild homes that had burned in the fires were underway.

Even with their need to reach the rebels in the village, Roz couldn’t just leave without making sure things were doing alright.

“Rosalind,” Cassandra gently interjected as Roz finished dropping herbs off with a healer that had finally taken up residence in the small camp (with a quick chat about some tinctures that could be brewed with spindleweed that grew in abundance along the creek nearby), “we should make our way towards Redcliffe.”

“I know, I know,” Roz blew a small strand of red that had strayed from her usual braid, the small wispy hair refusing to stay put, “I just have a few more things to look into.” The caches had been marked, food was being distributed and the land may have been safer to hunt on now, but Roz felt the itch to simply do more. Their worlds had been torn apart, flipped off their axis, and if she couldn’t help with the smaller things, how could anyone trust her to help with some of the larger, more overwhelming tasks that stretched before her?

As if to counter her thoughts, her mark sparked and she curled her palm tightly into a fist to extinguish the green light that constantly haunted her.

Her mood soured slightly as she passed along a letter from a templar; despite her own, personal feelings towards the establishment, she wasn’t about to let anyone’s last words to someone they loved go without remark. Vincent noticed, stepping into stride behind her after she’d finished recruiting Ellandra to their cause.

“You seem troubled.” It was a statement rather than a question, an opening for Roz to speak her mind if she decided to. Finding the words, however, were hard, especially when her own feelings were a mixed bag these days.

“I don’t understand how anyone in the Circle could have a romance with a Templar,” she began, dropping her voice low, pausing to pluck fresh elfroot from standing water beside them. “All the Templars I knew were…well, no, let me start again.” Frowning, she started over, trying to find any shred of tact she had left for the order.

“Not all Templars were terrible, but enough of them knew how to abuse and use their powers to benefit themselves. I’ve seen too many of them remain passive while others held the leash over mages tighter than necessary.” An image unbidden came to mind, those last moments before Alderis was dragged away playing before her. She shook her head, as though she might be rid of them if she tried hard enough. “Perhaps she was lucky. I just can’t understand it.”

“The more I hear about the Circle, the less I like it,” Vincent commented gruffly. “I can’t imagine spending my life living in fear of my gifts.” He glanced to her, holding her gaze a long moment as he added, “And neither should you have gone through such a thing.”

“I survived it. Not everyone did.” Perhaps it was easier in the long-run to lie about her involvement with the rebellion, especially when it helped gain allies to continue to help them seek to bring peace to the regions once more. But it still stuck to her tongue, the bitter pill she had to swallow after lying to Ellandra about exactly where she stood with the rebellion. It was the one thing she didn’t say aloud in those moments, glancing about the Crossroads once more.

Peace, relative quiet and stability. They’d be alright for now. “Come on,” She turned, Vincent falling easily into step with her again, “Cassandra’s been eager to get to Redcliffe. As am I.”

As they mounted back onto their horses, Roz sent a quick prayer to the Maker, her own quiet hope a burning ember in her chest.

Maker, please, please, please, let me find friends among them.

“Something’s not right,” Varric was the first to comment once they’d made their way down to the docks along the lake. Roz’s mind was reeling, piecing together information that didn’t quite make sense. From the first moment they set foot in the village, Roz could feel the unease rolling off the villagers. They whispered behind their hands, eyes wide with uncertainty but that was expected, especially when she considered that they hadn’t anticipated the Inquisition to arrive there at all.

“I don’t understand it,” Roz murmured, playing with the folds of her tunic, pacing back and forth along the shoreline. “We saw Grand Enchanter Fiona in Val Royeaux,” She shot a quick glance to Cassandra and Varric. “I’m not imagining that, right?”

“No,” Cassandra agrees, her own expression grim, sitting on a nearby rock. “I saw her, too. There is something afoul here.”

“If we believe the ‘Vint,” Bull interjected with a dissatisfied grumble, “magic’s to blame.”

Roz closed her eyes tightly, lips pressed together in a thin line as she let out a huffing breath. “Perhaps,” she murmured after a moment, allowing herself to catch her temper in time. Bull, she was realizing the longer they traveled together, didn’t have a high opinion of magic. While she couldn’t discount his suspicion towards the Tevinter mage who had just happened to be there with a far-fetched explanation, she knew better than to write it off completely.

Nothing felt right here. Tevinter was on their doorstep, had indentured the Grand Enchanter herself and, if she believed that time had been altered? Well, the implications were too vast for her to name. She felt a headache coming on, pressing the bridge of her nose with a muted sigh.

“I don’t think you’re going to like my decision, Cassandra,” Roz turned to face the Seeker, pulling her into private conversation as the others peeled away from them.

“Oh?” Perhaps she was gruff and a little too blunt, but at least Roz knew she could be honest with Cassandra, regardless if they shared the same viewpoint on the situation. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t think we have time to seek out the Templars.” It was a relief, in a way, knowing that she wouldn’t be walking into the viper’s nest. Even with support, Roz couldn’t shake the fears that rested in her bones, the knowledge that she had often known through her life with the Order. “With everything we’ve seen today, we have to act, and soon, before things spiral out of control here.” If things fell apart here, it would spread; all the good they had done would be destroyed and the people they had helped would have to flee for their lives once more.

“I can see where you’re coming from,” Cassandra tilted her head, pausing as though to parse out a thought, “but I do not think we should act without the facts. And we do not have any facts from the Templars that abandoned their post in Orlais.”

“But how can they possibly help us close the breach?” Roz snapped back, “Shall we go chase down Lord Seeker Lucius, who I might remind you isn’t our biggest fan, and convince them to, what? Wave a sword at the breach? Compel it to close itself with the power of smite?” The comments clawed from her throat before she could stop them, pacing once again before the Seeker.

“I know what people say, how they view me and all others like me. They did in Orlais and they will do so again if I try to reach them. I know,” she held a hand out as Cassandra made a move to interrupt, stopping for Roz to continue, “not all of them, but enough of them seem against us. To them, we’re a danger that needs containing, a threat that needs to be brought to heel again.” Enough of them wanted to stop the Inquisition before Roz had found herself in the middle of it, never mind now that a mage had the gall to be “chosen” by Andraste.

“You should not judge the Order too harshly.” Cassandra added softly once Roz had finished rambling off all the reasons not to seek out the organization that did not want them.

“And yet that’s exactly what they do to me.” Roz offered a sad sort of smile, the truth of her words seeming to sink slowly into the Seeker. “I do not see that changing anytime soon, Cassandra, do you?”

Tense silence followed and, had they been given a moment longer, perhaps Cassandra would have come up with a different opinion, a new way of looking at things despite what Roz felt in her gut was true. The Templars weren’t the way to go and she just knew that it was a waste to leave things precariously as they were here.

Varric’s voice, however, broke the spell, calling out from down the shoreline. “Seeker, Rosebud, you two might want to see this.” Roz felt her own guard go up at the apprehension in his tone, taking careful strides away from the spot she’d been pacing to approach what she had assumed was an abandoned home along the water’s edge.

The moment she stepped inside, the very air seemed to change. Her breath caught in her throat at the sheer wrongness of it all. Magic rippled from the shelves, the strange whispering echoing in her ears that accompanied any discovery of the strange skulls in the countryside.

What she saw before her were those exact skulls. Dozens of them lining the walls, a few piled along the ground. A bundle of cracked and shattered skulls lay in the corner, abandoned in their lack of usefulness. A shiver ran down her spine, stuck in the doorway a moment longer before she dared to reach out. Her fingertips grazed across the nearby skull, snapping her fingers back quickly at a tingle that slithered down her hand upon contact.

Vincent wasn’t far, his own eyes gazing warily at the skulls before him. “Magic,” he muttered, their gazes meeting for a brief moment; Roz nodded in agreement, struggling to take another full breath as she turned.

“You’re right,” It was Rolfe, however, who found the answer, papers held firmly in his grip. “What do they mean by ‘tranquil’ in these papers?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Roz was dizzy, her stomach coiled and knotted, nausea rising up hard and fast along with horror and grief hot in pursuit. “No,” She whispered, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch the nearest skull. “Oh no, no, no, no.” Faces of those she had known flashed before her eyes, the unspeakable horror of this acting as a sinking pit in her stomach.

“Rosalind?” Vincent had a hand on her elbow as she swayed a moment. His touch was warm, grounding a moment as she turned to him, her mouth opening to try and find her words.

“Poor sods,” Varric murmured.

“Not like the Tranquil were doing much with ‘em.” Bull’s comment cut through the air and Roz felt all the breath leave her lungs with a sharp hiss. The grief, the sorrow, the anguish all burned swiftly into anger that she’d felt mounting since they arrived in the region. There was nothing gentle in her as she abruptly pulled away from Vincent and his comforting grasp on her. Instead, she whirled on Iron Bull with a snarl.

“You have no right to say those things,” Roz growled, heat rolling off her in waves. Despite their height difference, she walked to him, one finger against his chest, blue eyes hard as steel. “They were people. Their lives should have been their own. You do not get to judge them.” Her teeth gnashed together as she let out an angry huff, adding, “You are not better than them.”

Still shaking, she continued, “I’d think over my next words carefully, The Iron Bull.”

Tense silence followed and, had she been in a better mood, Roz would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. She was no match in height to him, aware that she barely came up to his chest. But he met her gaze levelly, his own expression hard (and, if she were right, a hint of surprise), neither of them moving from their spot.

“Boss.” He rumbled and the moment broke. Roz pulled away swiftly, turning on her heel.

“I’ve seen enough here. I’m done.” But there were words still unspoken, caught in her throat as she stepped back out into the open air. I don’t want to be here anymore.

For the first time in a long while, Roz let herself slump by the fire, the weight of the world pressing hard against her shoulders. Guilt and grief were warring internally as she wrapped her blanket tighter around her body. It didn’t fit all the way, made for a slim cot and not a plush body, but there was still something comforting in the act itself. As though she could make a cocoon of it, keeping the world at bay a moment longer instead of letting the chaos and the anger eat her from the inside out.

Exhaustion was a constant companion but sleep hadn’t come. Instead, Roz had pulled herself from her cot, slipping to sit by the fire. The sounds of Lake Luthias were almost comforting, the waterfall and chirping of crickets making the world seem a little softer and perhaps more peaceful than it felt in her mind.

Every single one of the skulls they had come across, each ocularum, was from a tranquil that had been killed. The thought made her sick, her stomach continuing to knot and roil in her gut. How many of them had they seen? How many had been lost when the Circles fell? Was he-

It was the one question she didn’t want to answer, squeezing her eyes shut to will the thought away. Spots blinked before her vision when she opened them again, disoriented for a brief moment. Any answer to her own lingering doubts would only add more guilt to her already troubled mind; no answer was better than the alternatives that were far more likely than the idea that he may have survived it all.

“May I join you?” Vincent’s voice murmured quietly from her side, causing Roz to jump. The blanket slipped a bit from her shoulders as she attempted to wrap it closer around her body again.

“If you like.” Running a hand across her face, letting the blanket slip again, she frowned into the fire. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing me on my best day,” Roz sighed apologetically, unable to lift her gaze from the fire. Everything felt like a constant fight the last few weeks, growing more and more apparent the last few days as the time to make a choice loomed ever closer on the horizon.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about it all, Roz,” Vincent reached out, a hand gently resting upon hers, “you’re only human.” The contact was brief, but she felt it again: a soft shiver rolled down her spine, but this was a pleasant sensation, as though stepping into a warm bath. It was gone as quickly as it came, her own expression confused before she shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s what they want from me.”

“Aye, but what do you want? It can’t just be about them and their needs. You’re the one they call Herald and you have more power than you think you have.”

Roz snorted, a ghost of a smile tracing her lips. “Don’t tell them that. I think the idea of a mage in power scares them, even if they don’t admit to it aloud.” She twisted, reaching for the blanket edge that kept slipping. Vincent reached for it instead, lifting it to her shoulder. The action paused in his hands, a frown shifting his features.

“They have you sleep with these scratchy things?” He questioned, experimentally rubbing the fabric between his fingers in obvious distaste. “How can you get comfortable with this scratchin’ and itchin’ at you all night long?”

“I’m certain they’re made to be more utilitarian than comfortable,” Roz commented dryly. “Honestly, I think the fact that we even have supplies really shows just how far we’ve- wait, where are you going?” Right in the middle of her sentence, Vincent stood abruptly. She watched with a strange curiosity as he moved away from the fire, all but stalking back towards the tent he had set up with Rolfe earlier in their evening.

Vanishing into his tent, he reappeared looking a little ruffled in the firelight, carrying something she couldn’t discern in his hands. “Here, this should be better.” He was careful with his movements, gently placing a sleek, soft pelt across her shoulders. Not before, he course, he helped pull the other blanket off of her.

“Oh.” Roz felt a sigh bubble up from her lips, marveling at the softness and the warmth that encompassed her effortlessly. “Maker, this is lovely.” She paused, adding softly, “Thank you. You didn’t have to-”

“Aye, I didn’t, but I wanted to.”

It was the earnestness that caught her off-guard; cynicism followed her every step when it came to anyone getting closer with her. The members of the Inquisition she was learning to trust, but part of her always wondered how much they wanted from her.

Roz pressed her cheek against the softness of the fur, closing her eyes again. “Still, thank you.”

The silence was interrupted only by the flowing water and crackling fire. Then, so softly, Vincent asked the question that had Roz’s stomach coiled in knots once again. “What does it mean to be made Tranquil?”

She didn’t speak for a few, long moments, eyes opened again as she stared into the fire. Her frown deepened as she tried to think of a way to explain it easily, but she knew there was no easy way to do that.

“If a mage is a danger to themselves or others, Templars have the choice to use the Rite of Tranquility upon them,” Roz murmured, bitterness lacing her words as she lifted her gaze from the fire, meeting his. “It means they are cut-off from the Fade. They become shells of themselves: docile, able to enchant, but unable to be who they once were.” She swallowed hard, adding softly, “Not all who are made Tranquil are dangerous. I’ve seen it used as punishment as well.”

“So those skulls belonged to-”

“Mages who had been made Tranquil, yes.” Roz paused, her face screwed up in an attempt not to weep at the fresh onslaught of emotion that welled up in her throat. It was a wound that she didn’t know would heal, a scar that kept opening every time she thought it was closed.

Vincent met the statement with horrified silence, his own expression darkening in the glow of the fire. He muttered what Roz could only assume was a curse in his native tongue. “To be cut-off from your true self,” he muttered, “must certainly be a fate worse than death.”

“Yes,” Roz murmured, her voice thick as she pulled the pelt tighter around her shoulders, “it is. And to see them and know that they’re not truly there, all of their light just…gone.” She swallowed hard again, letting out a shaky breath.

“You’ve known those made Tranquil.” Another statement of fact came gently from his lips and Roz swore she could feel his gaze on her as she stared directly into the fire.

“Yes,” She whispered, blinking back tears unsuccessfully. “Some I didn’t know very well, but others…” She trailed off a moment, brushing a hand across her cheek with a sniffle. “Someone I loved was made Tranquil.” It was the one story she had never truly told amongst her new companions, uncertain how to even begin. But Vincent reached out, tentatively, his hand resting over hers.

“You don’t have to tell me,” He reassured her gently, “if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Roz gave him a watery smile, “but I think I want to.” The truth was a hard burden to bear alone and, even though she knew this changed nothing of what had happened, there was a small part that needed to simply speak the words into existence.

“His name was Alderis, and I loved him desperately.” And so she spoke, weaving the story in soft tones about her mentor who had turned into her dear friend and then lover. How smart he had been, how passionate about their freedoms, how kind he had been to her and others.

“He wanted our freedom as much as anyone in the Circle,” Roz confided, “and perhaps not all of his methods would have been viewed upon with kindness from the Chantry.” Blood magic never was, but that was part of her story that she kept tucked away. “Suspicions were flying and everyone was tense in the Circle in the weeks leading up to it. In the end, I think it was easiest to make Alderis an example, if not to stop him from preaching of just what we might gain from autonomy and life outside the Circle.”

Those last moments Roz knew she’d never forget. The classroom where they were working with a few of the newly Harrowed students before the door was shoved open. Alderis had been smiling a moment before they grabbed him, the Templars showing no mercy as Roz surged forwards. She’d been stopped and charges were laid at their feet.

“I don’t know why I was spared yet he was not.” Her voice dropped so softly, shaking her head as a few errant tears slipped down her cheeks. “None of it made sense.” She had her suspicions that her mentor, Lydia, had kept her from the same fate, but that had meant little when faced with the results of the rite done on Alderis. Blank eyes, a monotone voice and the mark on his forehead for everyone to see.

Taking up his mantle in the search for their freedoms had seemed easy comparably. Her grief had turned to rage and resolution in the face of rebellion.

“I heard few survived the uprising at Ostwick. I don’t know if he or the others found their way out.” Roz had planted the seeds, pulled away to the Conclave when her friends and comrades in arms rose up against the Templars. The story had been spun to sound peaceful, as though a compromise had been sought by both sides. It was an effort to keep the peace; Roz knew the truth, though, clutching tight the hope that her students and friends had made their way from that place in one piece.

His hand squeezed hers, fingers gently lacing between hers to hold tightly to her. “That sounds like it’s been a heavy burden to carry, Rosalind.” And that was the truth, murmured to her by the campfire, thousands of miles from the only place she had known as home. She let out a sharp, soft laugh, bitter and sorrowful as she sniffed hard again against more tears.

“Sometimes I prefer to think he died that day when they cut him from the fade,” Roz admitted, her features twisted again in grief as she continued in a broken whisper, “It was kinder to me, as selfish as it sounds. I’d rather remember him with life and passion. I can cherish his memory of what was rather than what they made him.”

“If you found him tomorrow, would you still care for him the same way as before?” He asked her and the question had her pause, deep in thought as she stared at the fire.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Or maybe not?” There were too many factors at place in her mind, wondering exactly how she might react to finding him again after all that had happened. “In the end, I feel he was a dear friend to me, a companion to share ideas with. If he were alive, if I found him, I would want to make sure he was safe and cared for, not left to the whims of the world and those who would exploit him.” She swallowed hard, adding softly, “I’d owe him that much.”

Alderis had given her hope, a spark that had grown into a fire that burned inside her. There would always be an ache for what could have been or what she could have done, but nothing could change that. And, while she wouldn’t say it aloud, Roz had long since come to peace that nothing could sway her from the path she walked now. She had been willing to die for the rebellion, yet she had been offered the chance to live and see parts of it some to fruition.

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but it was a start.

They sat in quiet, his hand still intertwined with hers. His thumb rubbed soft, soothing circles along the back of her hand, a gentle comfort that left her with feelings she couldn’t quite put to words. And maybe now wasn’t the time to do it, not with her emotions raw as they were.

There was relief in having shared though, a wave of it washing over her with a suddenness. There were tears again as she leaned against Vincent’s shoulder, her cheek pressed against him, but there was no sorrow in them this time. His hand slipped free and Roz nearly pulled back, afraid she’d overstepped, but instead he tucked her close, an arm resting gently at her shoulder.

“Thank you for listening,” Roz murmured thickly against his shirt.

“Of course, Rosalind,” He whispered against the crown of her head, “of course.”

Roz didn’t remember going back to bed, but she woke with the pelt still tucked gently around her. She pressed her nose against it, breathing it in, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months. The sounds of the camp waking up and the scent of rashers being cooked on the fire were enough to draw her from the tent at last. An idea had struck her late in the night that wouldn’t leave her alone, swiftly rubbing the last winks of sleep from her eyes as she exited her tent.

“Iron Bull,” Roz called, arms wrapped tightly around herself, “can you come with me?”

They walked in slightly awkward silence; it wasn’t a long trek back to the ledge, but the moment seemed to linger on and on. Roz knew she didn’t want to apologize for getting mad, but she didn’t want to leave things as they were. Instead, she had a different idea.

The skull sat upon the strangely carved pedestal at the edge, the faint whisperings of magic brushing against her ears.

“What do you need, Boss?”

Roz tilted her head a moment, gesturing to the skull. “I need you to help me get this unstuck.” She blew a strand of hair from her face, adding quietly, “I don’t think I’m strong enough physically to get it to move without a little help.” When she used them, they only rotated so far and never had she been able to shift and adjust it. With her smaller hands to pry it a bit and Bull’s strength, she assumed they might make a go of it.

The request seemed to surprise Bull, who raised a brow and then nodded. “Sure.”

As she had predicted, the effort took both pairs of hands to remove it. Roz whispered some ice magic into her fingertips, turning the base brittle in an attempt to get it off without completely shattering the skull. There was a small crunch before Bull had it in his hands, finally, after a few minutes of their work.

Bull held the skull aloft a moment, the light filtering through it a moment, magic slowly dissipating from it once it had been removed from its place. Only when it dulled again did he hold it to her, letting her gently lift the skull from his palms. Roz wished she knew how to describe how she felt to him, the hurt that came with the discovery, the pain at knowing that she may have known these people. She swallowed hard though, cradling it close to her.

“You told me about Seheron,” she began softly, meeting his gaze with misty eyes, “and the people you lost. Know the pain that you felt, the kind that led you to the Re-educators, is the same pain I’m feeling right now. I wish I didn’t know this, but I do and I have to live with it.” There was no turning back from this new information, no pretending it didn’t exist or changing how they discovered the cabin. Now she knew and she could try to do something good with it.

“I get it, Boss,” Bull rubbed the back of his shaved head. But even the spy didn’t have the right words to truly encompass everything Roz was feeling or to untangle the complications that surrounded her heart in that moment.

“What’s done is done,” Roz intoned gently, “and now we can move forward.” She gazed back out to the expanse of the land that stretched out before them from the spot. “I don’t want their deaths to be in vain. We continue to pull the shards from the field, but after we’ve marked their locations we take the skulls and give them a proper burial. They deserve that.” She didn’t know how or where, but they would be laid to rest.

Bull had a hand resting between her shoulder blades, a weight that pulled her from the depths of her emotions. There was a moment, soft and quiet as she smiled at him sadly. “Some of our brightest were made this way. I hope something like this doesn’t have to happen again. I hope to change it.” Perhaps the pair of them would never see eye-to-eye, but an understanding passed between them as she walked back into the camp, finding a spot for the skull and a map marked with the locations of the others in the region.

“I’ll only be a few moments,” Roz argued with Cassandra as the pair of them trekked up the sloping incline to the top of the lake, “I don’t need an escort to gather spindleweed and blood lotus.” They’d be leaving the region soon enough and Roz already knew the Adan would appreciate more stocks to add to his stores back in Haven. She had her own concoctions to test out, but first she needed ingredients to work with beyond what they’d already gathered.

“It’s no trouble,” Cassandra followed dutifully behind Roz as they crested the hill. The banks of the lake were teeming with plant life and Roz was careful each time she stepped further to the water’s edge to gather what she needed.

Lost in her own thoughts, Roz hummed gently to herself as she plucked and picked and moved closer to the edge of the waterfall. Their camp was well within sight and there was a soft swell of encouragement to see most of their party relaxing in the late morning sunlight.  And then her gaze drifted to the lake below.

“Oh.” Nearly dropping her satchel, Roz felt all the breathe leave her lungs, eyes wide as she caught sight of the brothers below. The mist and water kept much shrouded from her eyes, but there was quite a lot for her to see. And, Maker, it was a sight that she couldn’t help but drink in.

Both brothers, swimming and splashing in the lake below. Completely and utterly naked.

“Roz, what have you-” Cassandra began but Roz grabbed the Seeker’s arm to tug her down and out of sight before they could be spotted in their peeking.

“Shh!” Roz jerked her head down, unable to stop the rising heat in her cheeks as she glanced back down at the bare forms of Vincent and Rolfe in the water.

To her surprise, Roz caught Cassandra blushing when she realized exactly what they were watching. “Oh!”

“Yes.” Roz let out a slow, shaky breath, her eyes tracing the whorls and tattoos that decorated Vincent’s chest and shoulder. She had seen some peeking out from under his clothing, but nothing with quite so much detail as she saw in the moment. Water dripped down Vincent’s shoulders, flexing and stretching as he swam away from Rolfe’s splashing. It was innocent, playful as the brothers sent water flying at one another, Rolfe’s baritone laugh and an undignified squawk from Vincent when he was dunked under.

She swore softly, swallowing hard. “I…Andraste’s frilly knickers, we shouldn’t be doing this, should we?”

“Probably not,” Cassandra muttered, though she made no move to leave just then. Despite her own apparent indifference towards Rolfe when they were together, the Seeker was very quiet now, her eyes fixed on Rolfe below. Roz glanced to Cassandra and then back down to the lake below.

There wasn’t any harm in this. It wasn’t like they planned to do it again. She cleared her throat, settling down, allowing herself a few moments longer to enjoy the view and the wild workings of her imagination. Cassandra broke the silence with a gruff murmur.

“We’ll never speak of this to anyone.”

“You have my word.”

[pb1138]

Masonry and Wood Working

Apparently I am physically incapable of writing anything less than 5 pages anymore. Word of caution, this is like 4k words. 

Blackwall overhears a conversation and is crushed by what he hears. Iron Bull X Cadash, Blackwall X Cadash. Fluff, some minor angst, drinking mention. SFW. 

I’m not even halfway through the main storyline, and I’ve only managed to flirt with either Lis so I’m winging a few things. 

The bath was almost a little too hot, turning Gemma’s skin as pink as a Nug’s ass, but she didn’t mind. The elfroot leaves she put in the water were soothing her aches and pains. At first she had been a little peeved the Inquisition couldn’t find a Dwarf-sized tub (although, given the circumstances of an entire city burning to the ground, she sure as shit didn’t bring it up,) but the extra room had quickly grown on her. It was like a little pool, and she loved it. She and her traveling companions had returned earlier that day from Storm Coast, and the coldness from the rain had yet to leave her bones. 

She reached for her tea, took a long sip, and sighed, wiggling her toes. The setting sun was shining in through the high windows of her quarters. The light warmed her eyelids, until suddenly darkness overwhelmed her. She frowned and opened her eyes and let out a small squeak.

“Dammit, Cole, we’ve talked about this. You have to knock.”

She could see his eyes flicking to her face under his hat. “I need help.”

Leaning up so she was sitting, she gestured towards the chair in the corner. He dragged it over to her side and sat down, his elbows on his knees. “I…wish to know more about the nature of love. What it’s like.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Surely, Cole, you of all people should know best the answer to that question.” He shook his head and looked straight at her, unnerving her a little. She cleared her throat before she nodded. “Alright. Well. It’s different for everybody, I suppose. There are no two instances of love that are exactly the same. They’re as unique and individual as the people who feel it.”

“And for you?”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Really, Cole?” Upon his insistent stare she nodded and continued. “For me, it’s never been the same twice. If I’ve ever even really been in love. There’s no way to know for sure, all you can know is whether or not what you’re feeling is pleasant, if it’s worth it or if it’s just a passing fancy. Sometimes, it can be difficult to know.”

Blackwall was ascending the stairs leading to the Inquisitor’s chambers, a small wooden flower in his hand, its petals lined with teal and filled with fuschia, like her eyes. He paused halfway up the marble steps, hearing her voice. Normally, Blackwall would never dream of eavesdropping on her. He respected her far too much to invade her privacy like that, but he couldn’t help the intrigue that filled him upon hearing her words.  

“I mean, for me, at first it was an attraction.”

“Sexual.” Nobody was sure whether Cole’s words were a question, statement, or an accusation.

Gemma sighed and sipped her tea. “Yes, dear, sexual. Though, that’s not how it starts for everyone, not always. And then, it’s gradual from there. Friendship. Flirting. And then. Well.” She lingered, implication in her voice.

Cole just stared at her.

“I’m not about to explain sex to you, Cole, I’m sure you can divine its mysteries for yourself.”

Blackwall smirked to himself, leaning against the wall.

“But, honestly, when I think of love it’s like building a wall.”

“A wall?”

Blackwall could hear the soft smile in her voice. “Yeah. You start out excited, imagining what it could be, and then gradually you get the foundation laid, the walls strengthened, some cracks come through, you fix it. And then, finally, when you know it’s true, it’s like the last brick has been fallen into place and everything is perfect, even with all the caked over cracks, with the mismatched bricks. It’s still perfect. And suddenly the world gets a little brighter.” She was smiling wider now, and he could hear the clinking of a teacup being set down. “Although I realize the irony of saying the world is brighter when you just built a wall. But it’s all I got right now. And, like I said, no walls are built exactly the same, some don’t get completed, some aren’t built well enough to last forever.”

There was a sloshing of water followed by the soft padding of her feet across the room, then a shuffling of drawers. “And, your wall, do you feel it will be completed to satisfaction?”

Blackwall perked up, tempted to look over the floor to see her reaction. Was this it? Should he even be here for this, to hear that she loved him before she told him? He decided that no, he shouldn’t, and he turned to leave, but the next words out of her mouth filled his veins with ice. 

“I think that Iron Bull and I have an ok foundation, yeah.”

Blackwall’s ears filled with the pounding of his own heart and his breath hitched. It took him a few moments to make his feet move, to make himself slip silently out of the room. He paused before the doorway to the main hall and looked down at the flower in his hand. He closed his eyes and gripped it tightly before he let out a soft sigh. ‘I should’ve known,’ he thought forlornly. He set the carving onto the railing just next to the door and left, each step harder than the last.

A few weeks passed, and it hadn’t escaped Gemma’s attention that something was up Blackwall’s ass. He wasn’t being rude or anything like that, but he was far more distant than usual. He had stopped meeting her eyes, and the smiles he gave her felt forced. And though she tried not to admit it, it tore her apart. In truth, she cared a great deal for the warden. He was not only a trusted advisor, an ally, but also a dear friend. It didn’t help that the tension between him and Iron Bull had also increased, and not only that but Gemma and Iron Bull’s relationship had begun to turn strained.

They had had a difficult few days. They’d traversed into the Deep Roads to aid the Legion of the Dead, and found themselves horribly under prepared. Honestly, it was a miracle that the three of them had survived what with their lack of potions and the absolutely ridiculous onslaught of enemies in the lower levels. But, survive they did, and now they were sat in a tavern drowning out their aches and pains.

Dorian had gone off “galavanting” as he put it ages ago, and Gemma and Iron Bull had retired to their shared room for the evening, leaving Blackwall to sit and fester on his own. At some point, her Holiness had wandered back down for another drink and by the time she found him, Blackwall was absolutely smashed. His face was flushed and splotched, and somehow even though he was sat against the wall, he was swaying.

Gemma raised an eyebrow and folded her arms as she approached the Warden. “You don’t look so good, Blackwall.”

“ANd you look…” he wanted to spit something bitter out, to tell her everything, to let her know how absolutely broken he was and how hard it was to see her with him. That goddamn Qunari. But, upon looking at her, at her softened expression, her slightly ruffled dark red hair set about her face with the fire behind her, a night dress hanging off one tattooed shoulder and reaching almost to the floor, he couldn’t bring himself to bear any malice against her. If he were to be truthful, he could pretend to be happy for her, because he needed to be happy for her, to want her to be happy. That’s the noble thing innit? It took him a long moment and a deep stare into his ale to finish his sentence. “Damn beautiful this evening, Your Worship.”

Gemma wasn’t sure what to make of that, of that shift in tone. She walked over and sat herself in the chair across from him, her feet dangling off the ground. She put her hands on the table and took a deep breath. “Blackwall, what’s been troubling you? Truthfully. Don’t give me any of that ‘old sparring injury acting up’ shit. I can see that something is troubling you. Let me help.”

Her voice was soft, floating over him like dew in the morning light. It helped that the tavern had long ago died down, no sounds left but the crackling of the fire and the occasional snore from the poor bastards passed out in their porridge. He refused to meet her eyes, to let her see the pain in them. It would be cruel and unethical to let her see how deeply in love with her he was, especially when she seemed so happy with the Qunari. He cleared his throat and took a swig from the now-stale ale and leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I’ve just had word from Cumberland. My sister has passed.” It was a lie, one he was sure he’d kick himself for in the morning. After all, this woman was the most well connected person in the entirety of Thedas. It wouldn’t take much for her to find Liddy alive and well with her family in their childhood home. Hopefully, anyways. Come to think of it, it had been a while since he heard from or of her.

“Oh, Blackwall, I’m so sorry.” She reached across the table and grasped his hand with both of hers. He looked down at them and marveled at how remarkably soft they were given the circumstances. The mark upon her hand seemed to swirl under the skin like a softly glowing green snake. He cleared his throat and nodded in thanks, and she released him. “Is this what the past few weeks have been about?” she asked.

Past few weeks? Shit. She was more observant than he’d given her credit for. He recovered quickly and nodded again. “The crow came the day we got back from that mess in the Fallow Mire.” Another lie. He couldn’t believe his own gall. He should just tell her. It would be so much easier if she just knew. But no.

He finished off his ale and set the mug down a little too hard. She seemed to notice but said nothing of it, instead drawing her hands into her lap. “If you’d rather, you are more than welcome to go home, take some time to grieve.”

He shook his head and flashed her a fake smile, but even he wasn’t convinced by it. “Nah. I’ll be fine, Your Worship. I’d better retire, though, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Unfortunately for him, Blackwall hadn’t properly anticipated the strength of this tavern’s ale, and he took a few stumbling steps before he felt an arm about his waist and a hand guiding his to a shoulder. He looked down at his Inquisitor and was about to protest her helping him, but she gave him that look, the look that sent shivers of both excitement and fear down his spine. They walked to his quarters in silence, and she released him at the door. He stepped inside and paused with the door half shut. He looked her up and down before meeting her multi-colored gaze. “You really are beautiful, Gemma. Iron Bull is a lucky man.” His voice was soft, and both were surprised at his use of her name. Neither could recall a time he had done so before, and before she could remark on it he had shut the door.

Gemma stood there in the hall for a moment longer, partly listening to make sure he didn’t fall and hurt himself, but also to absorb what just happened. A small pit formed in her stomach as she ran over their conversation, and before she could bring herself to cry, Dorian burst through the doors downstairs, startling more than a few drunks. He was chatting loudly, a rather pretty man on his arm, and she sighed softly, shaking her head. She retired to her quarters and settled in bed beside her mercenary, not touching him. She watched the fire die out, and then spent a few hours more listening to the beginnings of dawn start stirring. Before she let herself fall asleep, she reached under her pillow and gripped the carved flower, the one the same colors as her eyes, and held it to her heart.

Another few weeks passed before another incident occurred. Unfortunately for her, the incident in question was a breakup. She wasn’t sure what exactly happened between her and Iron Bull to end things as violently as they did, but it was over. For sure, this time.

The entire castle had heard them yelling at one another, had heard the throwing of objects. The Inquisitor and the Qunari were known to break a few things every now and then, but never due to a fight. In fact, nobody in memory could recall a time when the two even so much as squabbled. Yet here they were.

After what seemed like an eternity, IB burst out of the door to her quarters and everyone who had gathered to eavesdrop had scrambled. After a few minutes of shock, Solas and Dorian set off on a quest to find Cole, to ask him to “help” the Inquisitor. Meanwhile, Varric, ever the observant one, set off for the stables.

The Grey Warden was sat by the fire, legs propped up, a relatively new hunk of wood and a knife in his hands. He was silent as he whittled away at it, but sat up upon hearing the Dwarf’s footfalls. He turned to look at him and smiled. “Varric, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Varric walked over to stand in front of Blackwall, his expression grim. “She needs you.”

Blackwall quirked an eyebrow and set his hands down. “Who?”

Varric rolled his eyes and crossed his hands across his chest. He nodded towards the castle. “Her. She and the big one had a fight, a bad one. You gotta go to her.”

Blackwall stared at him for a moment before turning back to his carving. “Not my place.”

“The hell it isn’t.” He looked back at the Dwarf who had dropped his hands in anger. He was pointing now, towards her tower. “That woman up there adores you. Out of all of us, you are her closest friend. Nevermind the fact you’re both so damn in love with each other you can’t even see it, but you need to be there for her. So put your warrior ego aside, march your ass up those steps, and take care of the woman you love.” Varric’s words had turned towards anger and frustration at Blackwall’s unwillingness to see the truth, but even he knew he meant no real malice towards the other man.

Blackwall stopped for a moment, staring down at his hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“What? That you love her? Oh, no, you’ve done a bang up job hiding it, really buddy none of us had any idea.” Sarcasm filled Varric’s words to the brim. “I mean, after all, pals go ‘round carving and painting flowers for their gal pal friends all the time, and then those gal pals carry it with them everywhere they go. Obviously, there’s no love there, just platonic adoration. I mean, are you serious right now? Of course it’s obvious. We’ve all known for months. Hell, we have a pool going on how long it’ll take you to woo her. I’ve got my money on two weeks from now, not that it matters, but I called it the moment the two of you met and you stopped that arrow. I did, ask Cassandra, all I would talk about for weeks.”

Blackwall looked back at him forlornly before he nodded and stood. “As usual, you’re right. At least about me. Alright. I’ll go talk to her.” He stood and as he passed, he patted the Dwarf on the shoulder and gave him a slight smile.

Varric watched him go before shaking his head. “What an idiot.”

As he climbed the steps to her chambers, he was reminded of the last time he did this, and he prayed against all hope it had a better ending this time.

He paused at the beginning of the marble stairs and cleared his throat, knocking on the wood of the archway before he started up. He poked his head up over the floor and called out, “Your Worship?”

At first he couldn’t see beyond the mess. Her clothes had been strewn, a chair smashed to bits in the corner, covers of her bed thrown out onto the balcony. It looked like a war zone, save a lack of blood. He finished the climb to the top of the stairs and he called out again, “Inquisitor?”

There was a stirring on the other side of the bed, and her hand waved over the top. “Go away.”

“Fat chance.” He crossed over to her and his heart ached. She was sat on the floor, knees about her chest, her hair a mess, makeup mussed from crying, almost obscuring her tattooing. He sighed softly and went to her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

She wiped her eyes furiously before she looked away. “We’ve broken up.”

“What, you and Iron Bull?” She nodded in response. “What happened? I thought your wall was coming along swimmingly.”  He wanted to reach out, to touch her shoulder, pull her hair back from her face, anything, but he daren’t. Instead, he leaned with his arms on his legs so he was closer to her level.

It was a long moment before she responded, but when she did she opened her palm. In it lay the flower that he had made her, a petal missing, the core cracked. She wiped her eyes again and sniffled. “I knew you must’ve heard all that. When I found this, I wondered why you’d leave it on the stair instead of bringing it to me and then I realized you must’ve heard me talking to Cole. I’m sorry.” He waved his hand dismissively but let her continue. “Bull and I got into a disagreement about the Qun and he threw the first thing he could grab. And after you worked so hard on it.”

Blackwall blinked at her before taking it from her palm, skin brushing hers. “Oh, it’s alright. I can fix it no worries.”

She shook her head and climbed to her feet. “That’s not the point.” She crossed over to her balcony and leaned against the railing, staring out over the mountains.

He set the flower down and followed. “What is the point then?”

She was silent for a while, the cold mountain air whipping her hair and tunic about. Blackwall came and leaned beside her, their arms almost touching. Her voice was quiet when she finally did speak. “I don’t love him.” Relief flooded every inch of his body, but he didn’t let it show. He let her continue. “I mean. It was fun, for a while, but it’s not… He’s not what I want. And then he broke the flower and I realized that what I want has been beside me this whole time.”

She turned to look at him, the afternoon sun shining in her eyes like mage fire. He turned towards her, still leaning, unsure if he was misinterpreting her or not. He didn’t have to wonder long before her fists found his shirt and she pulled her small frame into him, stretched up on the very tips of her toes to kiss him.

‘Maker above, is this really happening?’

He was quick to reciprocate, his arms wrapping around her. He lifted her up and set her on the railing, holding her tightly so she couldn’t fall. After a few moments, she broke the kiss, her cheeks flushed bright pink beneath her green markings. They were both a little out of breath, but she put a hand against his chest and another on his cheek. Her eyes flicked between his and she smiled, a smile full of love. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it, to see you.”

He brushed his thumb against her cheek and stroked her hair back from her face. “For this moment, I’d have waited til this planet turned to dust. And probably even beyond then.”

She grinned and pulled his face back down to hers, her arms around his neck.

Dorian and Solas were clambering up the stairs, Cole in tow, before they stopped dead in their tracks. Dorian put a hand to his chest and looked at Solas with an open mouthed grin and pointed at them. “Do you see this?” he whispered.

Solas rolled his eyes but turned towards Cole and was surprised to find him smiling.

“The wrong wall.”

“What?” Dorian turned to look at the spirit.

“She was too busy trying to build her wall with Iron Bull over quicksand to notice the wall building itself upon stone behind her.”

“Have you any idea about what he’s talking?”

Dorian shrugged. “Not the faintest.”

The mages turned back to their Inquisitor, Dorian practically on the verge of tears.

Blackwall leaned back and let Gemma hop down from the railing. He looked down at her before he kneeled and took her hands in his. “I made a vow to fight by your side until all this was over. But, if you’d have me, I’d like to fight by your side until my dying breath.”

She smiled at him and nodded. “I’d like nothing more.”

Dorian couldn’t contain himself an let out a deep, “Awww,” causing both the Inquisitor and Warden to jump.

Gemma’s face grew a bright red and she glowered at them. “Doesn’t anybody in this damn keep knock anymore?!”

It took Blackwall months to gain the courage to propose. Between the fighting, the plotting, the recuperating, it just never seemed a good time. Not to mention that Gemma Cadash is the single most intimidating and powerful woman in all of Thedas. But when he did, it was as they both sat atop a boulder, overlooking a sun setting on a lake. They’d had a small picnic away from Dorian and Cole who were both in deep conversation back at camp.

“Your Worship…”

Gemma turned to look at him, an eyebrow quirked. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

He smiled slightly but nodded. “Gemma. I’ve something to give you.”

“Oh?” Turning to face him completely, she smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve not gotten you anything.”

“You can give me an answer.” He fished around in his pockets before finding it—a small wooden box. He placed it in her palm and looked away bashfully. “I. Er. Well.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Your Worship, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste.” His tone softened and he met her gaze again, opening the box. “Gemma. This life I lead…it’s not luxurious, not rich in anything but friendship. It’s certainly not peaceful. Hell I’ll be lucky to be alive this time next week. But, I wanted to ask if you would consider doing me the honor of marrying me.”

Gemma’s eyes went wide and she looked down before tears filled her eyes. Inside the box was a flower, smaller and more detailed than the last and breathtakingly beautiful. She looked back at him before she grinned and nodded. “Of course I would.”

He let out a breathy laugh and beamed, pulling her in to kiss her.

Back at camp, Cole stopped mid-sentence and smiled slightly. “The final brick,” he whispered.

Dorian quirked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Cole shook his head and smiled knowingly.

[captainderyn]

Telanadas

Title: Telanadas

Summary: Clan Lavellan may be alive, but the Inquisition’s forces arrived too late to avoid all casualties. Tucdela mourns the loss of family, making the journey to the sacred burial site of Var Bellanaris, laying their spirits to rest in their ancient homeland.

Notes: Tucdela’s actions here are all based on three lines regarding burial traditions on the wiki. I made up a lot of it. Just roll with it. Just roll with the elvish to. 

Cross Posted to AO3

Var Bellanaris. 

The gates of the ancient, sacred burial ground rise in front of Tucdela, nothing more than crumbling stone pillars flanking an overgrown dirt path. Evening shadows stretch beneath the looming ruins surrounding her as she urges Spook through the pillars, the fall of his hooves sending small puffs of dust into the air to catch the fading sunlight as it filters through the stone and trees, filtering through the leaves, dappling on the ground. 

When Tucdela slides from Spook’s back--without saddle just as her people work with the halla, she slips the simple halter and lead that had been used in place of a bridle from his head and runs her hand across his flank as she slides the pack from across his back. She leaves him to nibble at the lush grass by the walls, turning deeper into Var Bellanaris, shoulders heavy with the weight of an oaken staff and the pack, her heart growing more leaden with each quiet step she takes across the dirt. 

With her bare feet and the light leather of her Dalish-made armor making little noise, she may as well be one of the ghosts whispering through the trees, stirring branches and crying for a time long lost. The forest around her is silent, despite the plains filled with birds, wolves and halla behind her all life seems to stop inside these stone ruins, a mournful silence blanketing across the burial sites. 

The sites rise around her, mounds of dirt with grass growing over them in a thick carpet. For some, the trees planted over them have grown sturdy and old, wide enough that she would not be able to wrap her arms fully around them, tall enough that she has to crane her neck to see their leaves. Some may be the Vallasdahlen, life trees for the ancient heroes of the Dalish. Humble trees grow over the rest, modest sized oaks, fumbling towards the sky for enough sunlight under the canopy of their larger counterparts. Stone markers, a small, inscribed stone guarded on either side by stout pillars stand at the very edge of the mounds, names, and prayers long since lost to the elements. 

Tucdela keeps walking, mouth set in a determined line, dark lines of cracked paint made from elfroot and other herbs pulling at her skin. They overlay her own vallaslin, crossing over in the markings of the god Falon’Din, friend of the head, a last plea for the safe passage of a soul. 

She has been here before, once, to clear nesting demons away. Then she was with Varric, Dorian and Sera, friends. Now she is alone, shadowed only by her duty and her own grief. 

As the path tapers away to grass again the mounds disappear fully into flat ground, an open space of grass and other flora, wild and without significance. She follows the rays of sunlight to where they pool off to her left, in the wide space between two ancient and gnarled oak trees. She shrugs her pack off her shoulders, breath shaking as it falls from her lips, letting it drop at her feet. The twisted oaken staff that had been slung across her shoulders feels strange in her hands, its surface rough and bumpy with bark, foreign to her hands that were familiar with the smooth curve of a bow. Around its tip two feathers are tied, a hawk’s feather, an eagle’s. 

Sinking to her knees, Tucdela lets the staff lay across her lap and reaches for the pack, unlatching the top and pulling the colorful feather of a jay, bold blue and black against speckled browns and whites. Her hands shake as she tries to thread the thin cord around the feather, the trembling making it near impossible for her to knot it around the staff. One feather from each member of the family, a reminder of each. When she finally does she closes her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out again, trembling nearly as much as her hands. 

The evening light is warm on her shoulders and neck, but chills run down her body as she lays the staff to the side. She reaches again for the pack, gently removing a cedar branch, long limbs covered in delicate needles, and two canine leather pouches. Each she lays carefully to the side, lined up next to the staff. Seconds pass by as she stares at the objects, eyes welling only for the tears to catch on her lashes. She sniffs, ears twitching as she reaches for the first pouch, pulling from it a leather cord, decorated only with a carving of interlocking branches--a simple nod of respect and worship to the goddess Sylaise. 

The dirt is cool against her fingers as she begins to dig. The dirt is loose when she strips the first layer of grass and roots from it and she can scoop handful out, piling it at the edge of the deepening hole. The sunlight wanes as she works, fading to a twilight lit in cool blues and purples, the sun’s dying rays a brilliant orange. 

She doesn’t speak until she’s able to lay the amulet into the dirt. “Theoduin, isa’ma’lin.” 

Theoduin, my brother.

The words come slowly, the language of her people sticking in her throat after months without fluent use. Her voice wavers, folding in on itself in the growing night, pressed on by the silence. 

“Ir abelas, isa’ma’lin.”

I’m sorry, I am filled with sorrow. 

Her elder brother, kind and brave, always taking care of her even when her scrapes came from the silliest antics with the other hunters. With a roll of his eyes and a scolding tone he was always there for her. Always. 

And she hadn’t been there for him. 

She hadn’t been there for her clan when they were attacked by bandits, seeking refuge in Wycome. Hadn’t sent her forces fast enough to avoid any casualties. Theoduin, loyal and protective healer of Clan Lavellan, had been slaughtered by the shemlen bandits alongside the few sick and those injured by the demons flowing from the rifts.

What good was her position as Inquisitor if she couldn’t protect her clan? What good was the mark on her hand if she couldn’t seal the rifts that had killed her brother before the demons got the chance? What--

With a raw sob, unmuffled in the coming darkness, heard by only her ears, she closes her fingers around the oak staff, lifting it from its bed of grass to nestle it in the dark, damp dirt above the amulet. A staff to aid the spirit along the path to the afterlife. 

“Telanadas, na melana sahlin.” 

Your time has come. 

Her Clan, unable to take her brother hear, to the sacred burial sites of their ancestors, sending her here with only the amulet her brother had worn until he had fallen in their place.

“La ir u na abelas.” 

And I am left alone. 

She lays the cedar branch across both, smoothing the needs out until it lays even, the wood bowing ever so slightly in the middle. A branch of cedar to ward off Dirthamen’s ravens of Fear and Deceit that would wish to confuse and lead a spirit astray.

Would it even matter, coming hear to rest part of him here, at Var Bellanaris? Would these tools, laid to rest here, aid him at all? Or would it be those properly laid with his body, in some foreign land where their people were unwated travelers?

“Din’tel telsila, ar jus’solas.”

Do not worry for me, I will stand tall. 

Theoduin always worried for her, it was in his nature. Each time she set off on a hunt, each time she left to scout. When she had left for the Conclave, making her promise that she would return safely. 

She drags the back of her hand across her cheek, wiping away tears and smearing dirt and fading paint across her skin. Slowly she begins to scoop dirt from the pile back across the hole, bowing her head as it covers the objects, returning them to the earth that they were made from. The Anchor on her hand pulses a soft, glowing green, a constant reminder of the path that had led her from her Clan. 

Maybe if she had never gone to the Conclave...

Maybe if she had never accepted the role of Inquisitor...

The moonlight casts a silver waterfall in place of the gold of the sun’s rays as the last of the dirt falls on the grave. Tucdela palms the last pouch, running her thumbs over the supple leather. The final step...she’ll have to let go. From within the pouch, she pulls a small maple sapling, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. 

It doesn’t take her long to set the roots of the sapling into the ground, patting the last of the soil around its base. From there hopefully, it will continue to grow, rising for eternity in remembrance of her brother. 

She should have another, another hole, another part of a soul, another branch, stave, and sapling. She should have more words to say, spoken into the silently listening air for a fallen friend, another brother, this in the hunt. Lost to the demons that her mark hadn’t banished. 

She had had only the ability to carry one set. And it had to be a solitary mission or one of the Dalish people. She was the sole representative of her people among the Inquisition, it was her duty to take the journey alone. 

But still...

“Falon’din enasal enaste.” 

The word fell like rocks to the ground, her head bowed and fingers interlocked on her lap. A last prayer for the dead, both the one laid to rest at her knees, and those that she brought with her only in memory. 

By moonlight she gathers her pack and forages for elfroot across the plains, settling by the softly lapping lake to crush the herbs to a fine paste and lays it across her cheeks and forehead again, taking on the mask of Falon’Din once more. There it will remain until she returns to Skyhold, where she will receive pitying looks as she strips away all the makes her Dalish again except for her vallaslin.

Dareth shiral. 

She looked over her shoulder one last time as she led Spook from the ruins, halting by a rock so that she could swing herself up onto his back. Dawn was just rising over the eastern hills, not yet touching the ancient trees and crumbling walls.

Farewell.