#14dalovers2023

[14daysdalovers]

Welcome to the Fourth Annual ‘14 Days of Dragon Age Lovers’ Prompts Event!

I am so excited to be back to host this event for the fourth year in a row. I have a fun new list of prompts to get into the spirit of Valentine’s Day with some of our favorite Thedosian characters, and I cannot wait to see what this years list sparks for all of you!

As always, please make sure that you read through the events rules page (which is outlined below the cut) before you decide if this event is for you.

Let’s start with the basics!

How does the event work?

It’s pretty simple!

Step 1: Post your content

Step 2: Make sure to tag the event page (@14daysdalovers)

Step 3: Add the tag #14DALovers (don’t forget to add the prompt and pair tags)

It’s that easy! I will reblog all contributions to the event page for everyone to enjoy in one easy to find location.

I am hosting this event solo, so please be patient with me for reblogs. If I have missed your post and it hasn’t been posted on the blog page by the following day, don’t hesitate to DM me here with a link to your post. I will do my very best to make sure any content contributed is added in a timely manner so it can be viewed + enjoyed by the other participants!

Who can participate?

Anyone over 18 years old can participate! This event will allow adult themes and NSFW content, so unfortunately minors are asked to kindly please not to participate. Please make sure your posts are tagged as NSFW (lemons, etc) if they fall into that category, and tag anything potentially triggering.

How long does the event run?

The event will run for the month of February. Even though the prompts list only has 14 prompts, I want it to be a fun and relaxed event, so I am not putting deadlines on content submissions. Don’t have a piece of fan art/fanfiction finished on the 1st for the first prompt? No big deal! Just submit your content when you finish it and I will reblog it regardless of the date. The last day to submit your pieces for the event will be the 28th so make sure you post them before the end of the day to have them added to the event page.

Which fandoms & pairings will the event cover?

The event will be open to pairings from any of the Dragon Age games, novels, etc. Any pairing from the fandom as a whole, including rare pairs, are allowed and encouraged as long they are respectful to the character. Please make sure you tag your posts with your ship pairing!

What kind of content is allowed?

The event is open for original works of fanfiction, fan art, 2D and 3D rendered pieces. No mood boards or playlists please for copyright purposes. NSFW content is allowed as long as it is between two consenting characters. This is supposed to be an uplifting feel good event, but I understand the need for conflict, angst and drama in certain pieces to build a mood. However it should go without saying that any ‘dark’ content will be frowned upon and will not be added to the event page. 

Here is a list of content that will absolutely NOT be permitted for the event;

• Content that changes a queer character to a straight character.

• Graphic violence/torture or angst for the sake of torturing a character.

• Any content that is racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, ageist, etc.

• Incest

• Underage

• Non-con/rape

• Kink-shaming

• Basically if it’s not respectful don’t submit it!

The purpose of the event is to most importantly have fun and uplift your fellow content creators! Comments and reblogs are encouraged, but please keep them respectful. Anyone leaving negative comments or tags on content posts will have their content removed from the event page and be blocked from participating in the event further.

That about sums it up! My ask box and inbox are open for any questions or concerns you might have so don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any.

I can’t wait to see all the wonderful romantic Dragon Age content!

[shivunin]

A Fool and His Gold

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 1,932 Words | CW: references to alcohol)

It was mid-afternoon, and Fenris was certain he was an unwitting part of some elaborate practical joke. 

He’d gone between the market and Hawke’s manor three times now, all three at her behest, and all three times she’d thanked him brightly, taken the package from his hand, and asked him for something else she’d forgotten. 

Fenris was no fool; he knew something was going on. He’d told her as much after the second errand, his grip on the brown paper packet too tight for her to take. 

“Why, I’ve no idea what you mean,” Hawke had told him, her eyes wide and wounded in that way she had, tears beginning to gather along the lower lid, “I’m—I’m hurt, Fenris, that you would accuse your dearest friend of such a—”

“Stop,” he said, letting go of the package at last and rolling his eyes, “No theatrics. If you don’t want to explain yourself, then don’t.”

“There is,” she said, “One more thing.”

Fenris stared at her. Hawke stared back, her expression back to her base expression of neutral geniality. Something shattered in the room behind her and she squeezed the door even more tightly closed along her side, smiling broadly. 

“What—”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, “But if you wouldn’t mind doing me one teeny tiny favor…”

Fenris’s armored hand tapped a rhythm along his thigh while he thought, but at last he rolled his eyes again. 

“I’ll save us both the trouble of the story you’ll concoct to convince me. What is it?” 

“Oh, Fenris, thank you!” she cried, bouncing onto the balls of her feet just enough that all of her jiggled faintly. He averted his eyes, clearing his throat. 

“Don’t. If you’re going to send me on some other fool’s errand, there’d better be something good at the end of it.”

“I promise there is,” Hawke said, taking a half-step forward and lifting her arm. 

She caught herself just in time—and he hated that even after all these years he could still watch her decide not to try to embrace him anymore. She changed the motion at the last minute, awkwardly fumbling a note from her pocket. 

“Last one, I swear it,” she said, pressing a hand over her chest. Fenris didn’t answer. He just took the page from her hand, rolling his eyes again, and walked away. 

But he was back now, nearly an hour later, and he swore if she asked him to fetch her one more thing he was going home to work on his reading. Anything would be better than climbing all the steps to Lowtown one more time. 

He lifted his armored hand, knocking on the door and noting the slight scratches in the paint precisely at the height he always knocked. Lovely. He supposed he’d have to account for that at some point. Or—perhaps he could start knocking with the other hand instead. Would she even notice if—

The door swung open, revealing the highly decorated room beyond and Hawke, wrapped in a red dress that was downright cruel to look at so close. Why would she—

“Surprise!” a room full of people whisper-yelled. 

“I—” Fenris began, the heavy bag still hanging from one hand, “What…is this?”

“It’s our birthday!” she said cheerfully, snatching the bag from his hand and walking away, “Or, well—it’s the sixth anniversary of the day you arrived in Kirkwall, best I can tell. I’m pretty sure you were the last of us to get here, which means this is the day we were all in one place!”

“What…?” Fenris stepped inside hurriedly, shutting the door behind him and grimacing at the living room beyond. 

“Well,” she said, handing off the bag to Isabela, who extracted three bottles of wine from inside and wandered off again, “None of the rest of you ever do the fancy parties with me at the Viscount’s Keep—”

“I seem to remember differently, Hawke,” Varric said, walking past with several glasses in each hand, “Have you forgotten that disaster of a Summersend party?”

“Varric, why do you think I’m wearing this dress again? It deserves better than the Summersend party to remember it by, doesn’t it? Now shoo, the table still isn’t ready.”

The dwarf sighed, walking away again, and she went on. 

“Save Varric and Sebastian, none of the rest of you ever get to go up there. I know you’ve a taste for the finer things, so I thought you’d enjoy a more sedate version. It’s just for fun, really. Window dressing. I mostly wanted to get everyone together and…well. It can be whatever you want, really. I planned for us to play cards somewhere that smells better than the Hanged Man, but if you prefer something else I can arrange that. ”

Indeed, all of them were dressed more finely than was normal for them, even when they weren’t planning on hauling themselves to some horrible fight or another. Isabela was in a dress that nearly matched her usual things, save the delicacy of the cloth and the addition of blue embroidery around the hem. Donnic wore a dress uniform, Varric and Sebastian were in tailored doublets, and…

Hawke in her scarlet gown, the lace hardly a barrier to the decolletage below. She had gold along her ears, hanging in drops from the lobe, and in the pins that barely held her curls in place. When she waved Varric off, it shone lustrous along her fingers, in the bracelet clasped around one wrist. Fancy, she’d said; it seemed an understatement to him, if not an outright lie. She seemed made of finer stuff than fancy could possibly describe.

“Don’t worry,” Hawke whispered, leaning close enough that Fenris could smell the faint hint of that perfume she always wore, “I got you something, too.”

“Is this not the gift?” Fenris asked, frowning at the room. 

He’d expected some kind of joke, but nothing like…well. This. 

“Oh,” she said brightly, “Yes and no! I meant that I found you some clothes, too, if you like. I laid them out in my room—not that you have to wear them. I mean you look—”

“No, I’ll…look,” he said, to prevent her from saying whatever it was she’d been about to say, and for a moment they stood and looked at each other. 

Foolish. Dangerous. Best to get moving. 

Fenris cleared his throat and walked away, heading for the stairs and her bedroom beyond. He hadn’t been in here since…since she’d recovered from her battle with the Arishok, he supposed. She’d been in a bad way then, and the room had been thick with the smell of sickness and blood. 

Now, it was lit by the sunset and the fire in the hearth, the room smelling of sage and anise, as she often did. The bed was made—a product of her maid, he assumed, because Hawke was steadfastly messy—and her clothes were neatly shut in her armoire. There was, in fact, a length of black cloth laid out on the trunk at the foot of her bed and Fenris crossed to it, his feet silent over the rug covering the hardwood. 

The fabric was soft in his hands, though sturdy enough. Parts of the lapels were stiff with silver embroidery that glimmered faintly when he angled it to and fro. He considered it for a moment, ignoring that part of him, deep but tenacious, that still flinched at touching fine things. 

Well—even if he hated it, he owed it to her to at least try the things on. 

They fit shockingly well, just slightly loose over his inner bicep as he preferred, for the lyrium was most tender there. Even the leggings, woven of some faintly stretchy fabric, looped just so under the arch of his foot. He’d truly intended to try them and then put his armor back on, but now…it seemed a shame to waste something so comfortable.

Even if he hadn’t asked for it. 

Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Fenris turned, still fastening the last of the silver toggles along the front of the surcoat. 

“Yes?” Fenris said, and the door cracked open. It was Hawke—of course it was—and one brown eye gleamed through the doorway, lit by the last of the sunset through the window. 

“Does it fit?” she asked. He spread his arms—not sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been for her to open the door, slide through, and shut it behind her. 

The fabric of her scarlet gown rustled when she crossed to him, the lace over the top of the bodice stark in contrast to her skin and the red of the silk velvet. Foolish, that he’d immediately recognized the exact shade of red; he wore it around his wrist every day, but that was no excuse. Hawke certainly hadn’t bought the thing to match that. 

“You look very…” she began and, uncharacteristically, stumbled over the next word. He should’ve said something, perhaps, and left—but Fenris waited instead. 

“Handsome,” she said finally, in a whisper, and reached up to touch the embroidery along his shoulder, “Black suits you.”

“Does it?” he asked, looking down. He didn’t move away from the touch, for all that he could barely feel it through the various layers of fabric. 

“Yes,” she said, and, with some of her more usual brightness, “But you know that, of course.” 

She’d moved too close. There were boundaries; there were lines they couldn’t—shouldn’t—cross now. They always kept a careful distance, always several steps away unless one of them was wounded, and they were never, ever in a closed room alone together. Not anymore—not for years now. 

But here they were now; and after everything with Danarius, with Varania…it did not feel as dangerous, as tight in his chest, to be alone with her now. There were words that they owed each other, explanations and apologies, but for the moment he could almost convince himself that such things had already happened at some distant point in the past, that she still felt the same for him as she had three years ago before he’d left her alone in this very room. 

Maria—Hawke—cleared her throat and tilted her round chin up. 

“Happy birthday,” she said, and Fenris scoffed. 

“Don’t laugh,” she said sternly, the corner of her mouth twitching, “Or I won’t give you any of the fancy wine I had smuggled in from Antiva.”

Fenris shook his head at her, but caught her hand when she began to turn away. It was warm against his, callused and scarred and wonderfully hers. He hadn’t felt her without the barrier of armor between them since…well. 

“Hawke,” he said, and she turned to look at him, her face limned golden with firelight, soft and half-laughing. It took effort, but he managed to clear his throat and go on. 

“Thank you,” he said, and he’d meant to say more: thank you for the clothes. Thank you for the party. Thank you for allowing me to stay. But he did not; he let the words fall without specificity instead, and Hawke smiled. 

“My pleasure,” she said, and, “Come on, before Isabela eats all the cake.” 

He didn’t untangle his fingers from his until he had to; just let her tow him on, down the stairs and into the noise and light of the room beyond. 

In the end, especially after tasting the wine, even Fenris had to admit: the party was worth the annoyance of the tasks that’d come before. Her obvious pleasure in his enjoyment was worth even more—not that he would admit so aloud. 

Not yet, anyway.

(For day 4 of @14daysdalovers: A Fool's Errand.)

[coryfirelion]

Day 1: Hart :3

Am I the only one that used to read Hart as Heart? (non native english speaker issues :v) Anyways, this picture is available for download for phone wallpaper :3

@14daysdalovers :3

[wickedwitchofthewilds]

14DA Lovers

@14daysdalovers​ Prompt: Hart

Fandom: Dragon Age:Inquisition Pairing: Diana/Solas

Read on AO3

The hart looked at Solas balefully, his mouth moving as he mashed grass between his teeth. Full antlers sprouted from his head. Red fur gleamed in the sunlight, rippling like flames. The hart shook his head, dropping his gaze as he dropped his head to pull more grass free, dirt clinging to roots while he chewed.

“She was a gift,” Dennet said, jerking his chin towards the hart. “A clan wanted to honor the Inquisition. Think our Inquisitor is a bit too hefty for this one though.”

Solas hummed, not really agreeing or disagreeing. Their were only so many breeds of horse that could carry a Qunari on its back. A hart might be able to for a short while, but it wasn’t a reasonable mount for long term travel for Ash Adaar. He held out his hand. The hart cautiously sniffed Solas’ fingers.

“I asked Sera, but I’m sure you can imagine her response,” Dennet grunted. 

“I can.”

“He seems to like you,” Dennet said, watching the hart press his nose into Solas’ palm.

“He is curious,” Solas remarked. 

“He’s yours if you’d like him.”

Not true. Nothing here was truly Solas’. There would come a time where he would leave with nothing but the clothes on his back. But for now…

“I would be honored.”

“Good.” Dennet shuffled away to deal with other mounts in the growing stables.

Solas stroked his fingers down the hart’s snout as the animal snuffed in pleasure. A worthy mount. The Dalish had their failings, but this hart had excellent caretakers. Solas wondered if it was saddened by the loss of its previous master.

“She’s beautiful,” a soft voice drawled behind him.

“He,” Solas gently corrected. “Females do not have antlers.”

“Oh.”

He turned to face Diana, meeting her wide, dark eyes. Soft brown hair was twisted away from her face and tied together with a cord of leather. Soft lips curved into a gentle smile as she regarded the hart. 

Solas held out his hand. “Here.”

Diana stared at his hand as if it might bite her before she placed her hand in his. With his fingers over hers, he pressed her palm to the soft fur between the hart’s eyes, and together they stroked the snout. 

“Is he yours?” she asked.

“For now.”

Her eyebrows drew together and she frowned. Sadness clouded her eyes and he didn’t understand why. Could she tell that he did not intend to stay? She was perceptive. Knowing things that others should not be able. Did she know about him? He would have to find out.

Her thumb brushed his knuckles, callouses rough against his skin. In her time with the Inquisition, she had become a formidable warrior. She trained often with Adaar and Iron Bull. Both determined to make sure she could defend herself should the need arise. The scent of elfroot and embrium curled around his nose. The rest of her time was spent with the healers, helping and learning, and she had been invaluable help after the fall of Haven.

“Are you prepared for Adamant?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure why the Inquisitor asked me to go. I’m not the kind of fighter she needs.”

“Is she taking you to fight? Or is she taking you because you are useful in other ways?”

Diana sighed. “One day, I’m not going to know something and that day terrifies me.”

“You are afraid they will turn on you?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Perhaps.” Solas was no stranger to betrayal. “I do not think you have to worry. Your lovers care for you a great deal.”

The loveliest shade of pink crept up her neck and cheeks. More of it lingered below her collar and he ensnared his curiosity and shoved it down. Diana was still unknown variable, her secrets only shared to those she trusted most, and despite her growing comfort around Solas, he was not considered one of them. She was not for him and he would not fool either of them by currying fondness between them when he knew he could not uphold his end. 

Diana stepped away, carefully pull her hand from Solas’ grasp. “I should go. I promised I’d meet Josephine for tea.” She gestured to the hart. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

He watched her retreat, waving to Dennet before leaving the stables. He fought the urge to follow. To question. To pick at her mind and find his answers. But he stayed still. Controlled himself.

Solas was nothing if not patient.

[shivunin]

To the Last Drop

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 1,682 Words | No warnings)

It wasn’t that Fenris had never seen liquid lyrium in use. 

Obviously, that wasn’t the case. The mages of the Imperium had always made sure it was in reach, of course, and Hawke and the other two kept it on hand whenever they expected a brawl. He’d seen empty vials of it tossed aside mid-fight, seen it sipped from the finest gold goblets, passed from mouth to mouth in intimate moments—yes, Fenris had seen plenty of lyrium in use. 

He wished it weren’t the case, though. Because if he was unfamiliar with it, that might explain the way he couldn’t seem to help watching Hawke when she drank it down. 

Unfortunately, it was not novelty but something else entirely that kept his eyes on her lips, pressed to the glass, on the long line of her throat when she tipped her head back to finish the draught. 

On…on her tongue, when she traced it over her full lower lip to gather up any loose drops. 

“Ready?” Isabela asked, twirling a dagger in one hand absently, “I’ve an itch I need to scratch.”

“Oh?” Hawke said, laughing, her head still half-back. She was all but a silhouette to him, standing near the top of a hill while he leaned against a boulder at the bottom. 

“Again?” Merrill asked, peering at the Rivaini, “Is it the one under your shoulder blade that you can never reach? D’you want me to try—”

“No, no,” Isabela laughed, slinging an arm over the elf’s shoulders, “Not that kind of itch, Kitten.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, as the two began to wander back toward the road, “I thought…” 

Fenris had already stopped paying attention to them. Hawke was looking at him, one arm stretched across her bountiful chest, her head angled to the side. Fenris pushed off of the boulder and made his way very deliberately up the last rise. He stopped a decent distance away—he knew because he was measuring the space between them very carefully in his mind—and went on looking at her. 

He’d intended to say something. He knew he’d intended to stay something. 

Hawke eyed him carefully, then stretched the other arm across her chest, wincing faintly. She only ever did that when he was the sole observer—and yes, he only knew this because he was so often watching her—but Fenris could find no reason for it. 

Under other circumstances, he might think she was trying to get something from him. For anyone else, he would be right. But this: that he was the only one she allowed to bind her wounds, aside from the healer; that he was the one she balanced herself with when she was limping or woozy from blood loss. Fenris could not understand it, and he dare not ask. The obvious explanation—that she still trusted him after everything else that had happened—was simply beyond consideration. 

There had to be a reason. If she were anyone else, he thought with a sense of dissatisfaction, he would almost certainly ask.

“Stiff?” he asked gruffly, tapping the fingers of one hand against his thigh. 

Maria—her given name, not that anyone ever used it; Fenris only thought of her thus because she’d gasped it into his ear that night three years ago, told him not to call her Hawke while—

Nevermind. 

Hawke sighed and her mouth turned down at the corners in an exaggerated pout.

“I’m getting old, Fenris,” she said, so woefully that he almost believed her for a moment, “I feel it in my bones. Soon, I’ll only ever talk about…oh, gout and how young folk these days never know how to treat their elders.”

“You could have just said no,” he told her sternly, but the corner of his mouth lifted faintly. She must have seen it, for her lips curled up in answer, even as she lifted her eyes dolefully to the sky. 

“No, Fenris, you don’t understand,” she said, and set the back of her hand against her forehead, “Who will chase mercenaries all over these hills when I can’t hobble after them? Soon I shall be all wrinkles and white hair and—”

“And still look just as—” 

Fenris bit the end of the sentence off before he could make the fatal mistake of speaking it aloud, but both of them froze anyway. 

And still look just as lovely as you do now. 

The words hovered on his tongue for a moment, kept caged behind his teeth, and it was a force of will not to say the words aloud. 

They’d only made it this far by pretending it—that night—had never happened. Three years, nearly, and they were both still here together. That first night at cards in the Hanged Man, Fenris had hesitated at the door, abruptly itchy everywhere, as if the air itself were anathema to him. He’d thought to leave, to prevent the inevitable discomfort, but she….

She’d met his eyes and scooted over, nudging Isabela with her, clearing room at the other end of the table. So…so he’d know he still had a place there, even if it wasn’t at her side. Fenris thought he might be grateful to her for that forever, no matter what else happened between the two of them. How strange, not to realize how much having a place of one’s own meant until one faced down the possibility of losing it permanently.

“Well,” Hawke said after a moment, blinking first and lowering her eyes, “In any case, maybe I’ll be lucky and go bald. I cannot believe I forgot to tie all this up before I left the manor this morning. The wind is wreaking absolute havoc.”

“I can—” Fenris began, then winced inwardly. 

He could, in fact, help with that; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tied someone else’s hair up, nor the first time he’d done it for her—but those had been simpler times. 

“If you have a bit of leather, or…anything, I can manage,” she said. 

Fenris’s fingers touched her token, still tied around his wrist, but he would not part with it—not even for the sake of her comfort. He reached into his pocket instead and retrieved a loose bit of leather he’d intended to tame his own hair with in case the weather turned. He despised the way wet hair stuck to one’s skin, and he’d endured it several times too many on these outings to the coast. The leather ought to be long enough for her hair, too, if he plaited it first.

“Turn,” he told her, his voice thicker than he would have liked, and she turned without a word. 

Fenris gathered the bounty of her hair in his hands, untangling several knots as carefully as possible. It seemed to cling to his fingers, twining around the joints, black against the pale blue lyrium that lined his skin. It had looked like that three years ago, too, had tangled around him just so when he’d tilted her head back over his hand to kiss down the length of her neck. It had felt like this draped over his chest when he’d combed his fingers through it after, and—

“Are you coming down from there anytime soon?” Isabela demanded from the bottom of the hill, and Fenris realized he’d been combing his fingers through Maria’s hair without moving onto the next step. For how long? Her chest rose and fell too quickly, as if she’d just climbed a very steep hill, but that was…probably just exertion. 

Fenris let his eyes focus again on her dark curls, pulling them into a simple plait down the middle while she answered Isabela. They were laughing about something—not him; it sounded different when Hawke was laughing about him—so all must be well enough. He finished the braid, tied it off as intended, and then he just…stood there, holding the end of her thick hair. 

It was soft as silk between his fingers, shiny as a raven’s wing and dark against the brown of his hands, against the pale blue of the lyrium that thrummed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. Hawke was underneath his skin, too, in her way; and it was all the worse for knowing it had all been his choice. That having and leaving her had been his choice. And for all the times Fenris had wished he could forget what her skin had felt like, how she’d sounded when—

Well.

For all he’d wished he could forget, he was deeply, deeply grateful that he could still remember every second of it. What would he be if this, too, had been taken from him? He did not wish to consider it.

“Finished?” Hawke asked, turning her head. 

There was a faint quiver to her bottom lip that made him want to press his thumb to it, but he did not. He hadn’t the right. 

Fenris didn’t move at all. He just stood, and looked, and wished. 

Finished, she’d asked.

“I am…not certain,” Fenris told her. 

Hawke’s fingers found the end of the braid, tested the leather tie, but her attention was on him. He could tell; one could always tell when Hawke’s full attention was fixed on them. 

“Are you?” he finished, the words nearly carried off by the wind. She opened her mouth to answer and—

“Let’s go,” Isabela called from the other side of the hill, “I have plans for tonight that don’t include murder!”

Hawke turned, shaking her head at the words, but for a moment—just a moment—her hand brushed against Fenris’s, the warmth of her fingers barely felt between the joints of his armor. As she set off down the hill, the hand she’d touched curled into a fist, tight enough to dig into his palm, and flexed loose again. 

Fenris set off after her, eyes carefully on the steep ground ahead, but a careful observer might have been able to note the color in his cheeks, and the matching red that spilled over Hawke’s. 

It was unfortunate, then, that Varric had not come with them that day—for there was nobody present who would notice such things at all.

(For @14daysdalovers, Day 5: Lyrium. In case anyone is keeping track, this was about a week before the party ficlet I posted yesterday c: )

[shivunin]

Lock and Key

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran | 2,298 Words | Hurt/Comfort | CW: Blood, brief references to torture and broken bones)

The torture, Zevran thought cynically, truly left something to be desired. 

Rather, he seemed to recall—when he’d been a young Crow, there’d been racks, burning oil, things hammered between one’s toes…But this? Breaking his fingers? Slapping him around?

It lacked  forethought.

It lacked…panache.

“I do not mean to complain,” Zevran told his torturer, spitting out a mouthful of blood, “But have you done this before?”

“What?” the hooded figure snarled, only their mouth and jaw visible beyond the hood and fabric they were swathed in. 

“Mmm,” Zevran said, peering up at them through one swollen eye, “It is only that you are…how shall I say it? Trying too hard, you understand? Most torturers—they adopt a certain style, a way of getting things done, and you seem—”

The figure reared back and kicked him in the chest. His lungs struggled to inflate for a moment, and when they did Zevran coughed convulsively. 

“Like that,” he wheezed, while the torturer stomped over to a small table of metal implements, “There is no sense of precision. You might have just stopped my heart, friend, and then where would you be? Luckily for you, I am made of sterner stuff than that.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

The voice came not from the figure to his left, but from above. It echoed against the far ceiling and the stone walls, spreading until it was almost impossible to tell where it had come from. 

Zevran, beaten and breathless, stretched his bloodied mouth into a crooked smile. 

“Ah,” he told the hooded figure, “I am terribly sorry for what is about to happen to you.”

The torturer, alarmed, snatched a blade from the table and hurled it into the darkness above the rafters. There was no sound; not the thud of the blade in flesh or wood, nor the sound of metal clattering to the ground. Half a second later, the blade whistled back down, thudding into the flesh of the cloaked figure’s arm. 

“Your aim is lacking,” the voice from above said.

“I said precisely the same thing, mi vida,” Zevran said, at long last allowing his head to fall back against the wooden back of the chair he was tied to, “I am sorry to say it, but there is a certain lack of professionalism at play here.”

“You shut up,” she said, and Zevran smiled, “I mean it. The smile, too. Flames, I could kill you.”

“It would not take much doing at the moment,” he told her. 

As they spoke, the torturer ripped the blade from their shoulder with a grunt of pain (a bad idea, that; anyone could have told them that it was wiser to leave the thing in place until a healer could take a look at it). 

“Show yourself, coward,” the torturer snarled, taking several more blades from the table and staring up at the ceiling. They turned slowly, as if trying to spot the shape of their assailant against the darkness of the ceiling.

If he’d been in a more charitable mood, Zevran might have told them it was pointless. 

Indeed, as he thought so, a low laugh came from above, and there was a clatter in the far corner, almost directly behind the torturer. The torturer spun, already throwing a blade toward the source of the noise. As soon as they turned, a cloaked figure dropped from the rafters soundlessly, thrust a dagger into the place where the torturer’s kidney ought to be, and vaulted back up into the ceiling again. 

“You know,” she said above him, “I think it’s more cowardly to beat a bound man. But that’s just me.”

A ring of keys fell from the ceiling and into Zevran’s lap. Of course; that was why she hadn’t killed his tormentor outright. She meant for him to do it instead. Balance, retribution; in her way, his Arianwen was all about balance. If he’d had the energy, Zevran would have thanked her for the effort and explained why he wouldn’t be doing that. It was hard to turn a key, after all, when most of one’s fingers were broken. 

He didn’t hear her move; he supposed the torturer didn’t, either, because Wen swung down, kicked the large human into the table, and vanished again before the fallen figure could get their bearings again. 

Something soft touched his wrist, bound behind him, and Zevran felt a quiet, shuddering breath at his back. She was going to be very cross with him as soon as she took care of their present company; Zevran winced at the thought, then hissed between his teeth when the motion reopened the slice over his eyebrow. 

This time, when Arianwen moved away from him, Zevran could hear her; that could only be on purpose. The torturer heard it too, and turned to face her as she cast off the deep blue cloak, variegated with grey and black around the hem. Arianwen stood before him revealed at last, her long braid hanging down her back, her armor blue and silver and gleaming in the light of the brazier. Zevran smiled; it was a fool’s smile, punch-drunk and high from his own relief, but…well. It was just so good to see her. It’d been too long. Too many days without feeling her at in his arms, too many days fighting himself to keep from returning to her side. 

“I was going to let him have you,” she said, “Or, if he allowed it, I was going to take my time. Fortunately for you, you’ve made me very, very angry. This’ll be quick.”

The torturer didn’t answer; they bent their head and ran, aiming right for her. Wen didn’t move for a long time—almost too long—and stepped aside at the last moment, exerting precisely as much effort as she needed to get out of the way. It looked, Zevran thought, turning his head as best he could to watch, like she simply floated away from him, like a feather in the breeze. The torturer rammed their injured shoulder into a column and let out a strangled shout. 

“Don’t worry,” Wen said to Zevran as she passed, “The building’s empty.”

“There were at least thirty—” he began, and interrupted himself with a cough. 

“As I said,” the Warden answered, casually lifting an iron from the fire and striding past, “The building is empty. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

There were sounds that followed her statement, but he could not see their source. He didn’t need to know what she was doing, and he had the sense that not every time he closed his eyes lasted as long as a blink. Likely, that was not a good sign

“Zevran. Look at me, you fool.”

His eye fluttered open—the other seemed stuck shut—and Wen bent before him, her face beatific in its joy. Blood dripped from her ears and clumped in her hair, but she’d wiped her face clean, if the smears along her jaw were any clue. Zevran tried to smile up at her and was mostly successful. 

“I knew you would come.”

“You’re an idiot. I don’t know why I put up with you. That letter was—” she wound up the sentence with a sharp click of the teeth instead of any descriptors, but after a moment the blissful look crept back into her eyes. 

“Take your health potion like a good boy, hm? And I’ll haul you back to the safe house.”

Zevran might have made a crack about her wording, but as soon as he opened his mouth she pressed the cold glass rim of a vial in between his teeth and tipped it upside-down. The liquid was bitter and cold. Though there was a faint aftertaste of elfroot it was most certainly not a health potion.

“Wen—?” he gasped, and the room faded to black. 

|

Arianwen had been angry very often in her life. She enjoyed it, actually. There was a clarity of purpose to rage that most of the rest of life really seemed to lack. It was like…like crossing rooftops on a wire. Rage gave one a single clear path, and if one had the means to follow it things usually turned out alright in the end. 

But now—now her old friend turned on her, hounded her steps. 

Killing so many had been good enough in the moment, of course, but Zevran had needed to be unconscious for what came next, and she hadn’t wanted to give him the chance to talk her out of it. Now, all she could do was wait; there was nobody left to kill, and Zevran was not awake to argue with. As she paced the room, rage paced with her, shadowing her steps and clouding her concentration.

She crossed the room to open the window now, for the room was more or less empty of personality and furniture save an end table, a bed, and a chair. Zevran slept in the bed, his chest rising and falling easily. Few of his wounds would scar, not that he’d care about such things. He’d gained tattoos since she’d last seen him some…oh, had it been five months already? It felt like years. 

This waiting. 

Wen braced her hands on the windowsill, her fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm, and then she turned back to the bed. 

Maker damn him, she loved the man. She’d kill a dozen times as many for him with pleasure, but seeing him hurt like this was—it was—

“Mi vida,” he murmured to her left, and Wen spun on her heel to look at him, “And here I had thought you were some sort of dream.”

She crossed to the side of the bed, her heart in her throat. She ought to say…she ought to tell him what an idiot he was. She ought to tell him off; she’d certainly thought of doing so enough times. But words escaped her now, and when he lifted his hand from the bed it was to wipe the moisture from her cheek. 

“Ah,” he said, wincing when he lifted himself onto one elbow, “No, my Arianwen, no; do not cry for me. I cannot—”

“Why are you trying to get yourself killed?” she asked, and rage took her hand again, gave her the focus to keep talking. 

“I am not—” he began, frowning, but she interrupted him. 

“When will it be enough, Zev? Do you want to lead the Crows? Kill everyone who hurt you, who bought other kids like you? Do you want to be the King of Antiva? What? Because I can’t keep—can’t keep seeing you like this. If you need help, I will help; if you want me out of your life, then tell me to leave. But I can’t—”

She was crying again—so stupid. She hadn’t cried in years, and certainly never over him. He was staring at her with a sort of stunned horror that she might, if she’d had any sort of composure, have recognized better. It was the same face she was making, after all. 

Don’t leave me, she wanted to tell him; as she wanted to tell him every time he disappeared onto a boat. But she’d been too proud to force him into a cage when he wanted the sky, so she’d always turned away instead.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked. 

The hand wet with her tears fell away to the sheets of the bed. 

For one dizzy, breathless moment, she wished he’d stayed asleep a little longer, given her more time to find the right words. But she…she….

“I want you to marry me,” she said, and it was already too late to take back. His mouth fell open, lips moving as if to speak, but nothing came out. 

“Marry me,” she said again, grasping his hand in both of hers, “Tell me you want to live, and you want to live with me. Travel if you have to, but come home again. Live with me; be mine and let me be yours. I want a life, Zevran. I want a life for both of us.”

She searched his face, her heart racing harder than it had killing an entire house full of Crows on her way to her captured lover. Zevran stared at her, and slowly, slowly, a smile wrinkled the space on either side of his eyes. 

“Yes.”

Wen blinked and squeezed his hand. 

“Yes? You mean that? You’re not just—you aren’t going to take it back?”

“Maker’s pierced navel,” he said, struggling into a sitting position, “You do not believe me? And you were so persuasive, too.”

“No, I—” She clamped her mouth shut again and shook her head, “Yes, Zev?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, of course, you beautiful murderess.” 

She didn’t mean to lunge for him; would’ve thought better of it if she’d had the wherewithal. But all at once she was in his arms, her own wrapped tight around his neck, and both of them rocked back with the force of it. 

“I love you,” she said into the salty skin of his neck, and kissed him there for good measure, “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he murmured back, and inhaled sharply, “Ah—I should have known you would say something first.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want to force me,” she told him, but without any heat behind it. Her anger had faded away between one step and the next, gone in a breath and only a memory now. 

“If you’d died,” she told him, eyes squeezed shut, breathing him in, “I would’ve killed you.”

His laugh was uneven, a little breathless, and likely that meant she’d need to let go of him soon. But when his words came, they were certain. 

“Yes, I know,” Zevran said, “I love you for that, too.”

(For @14daysdalovers day 10: Captured)

[shivunin]

At the Dead Drop

A letter in an elegant, curling hand which seems to have met with some incident in its sending; it is dotted with water spots and features several crossed-out sections:

16 Guardian, 9:37 Dragon

Carver, 

Checking in, as always. Will leave this letter in the usual manner; let me know if this is no longer the acceptable way to pass messages on. Or—flames—let me know anything at all. It’s been months since I’ve heard from you. Your big sister worries. 

The manor is fine. It’s held up against the snow after the repairs, and there was minor damage, really. None of your things were ruined, and Mother’s room remains in the same state. As for my own bedroom—a little water damage means little. All the important things are downstairs, after all. We did find an unused corner of the wine cellar, though—sold off the really fine stuff after I let the others peruse it for their choices. I’ve plenty of ideas for what to do with the money. 

I suppose there is one thing that I needed   that you should   Flames, I’ll just say it. Fenris and I are together. For good this time.

I am not seeking your approval. I know what you’re going to say. I know how many letters I sent you three years ago, and I know how much of a mess I was then. But—stop making that face right now—this is different. 

I’m not looking for your approval. But—I would like to have it anyway, Carver. You’re my only family left except for—Andraste’s elbow, I haven’t told you—Gamlen and his daughter. Yes; Charade is her name, if you can believe it. Entirely beside the point. I know you hardly ever get these letters, and then it’s all at once, so I’ll write another letter about that when I’m done with this one. 

Things are bad in Kirkwall at the moment. I know you can tell already from other things I’ve said. But Fenris is…he is the only good thing I can count on without reservation. Everyone else has other concerns and other loves. They aren’t wrong to—of course they aren’t. But I need someone who wants me, and not what I can do for them and who will choose me first.

Perhaps that’s selfish of me, or unfair to say. I cannot say I don’t know that. But Carver, maybe it’s time for me to be a little bit selfish. Selflessness didn’t save Bethany, and it didn’t save Mother either. I can carry them with me forever, along with the whole of Kirkwall, or I can live. I know now that I can’t do both.

Maker, how maudlin this is. Oh, well. I’ve heard that you Wardens love a good melodrama, or—maybe just the Ferelden ones. I hope this finds you well, regardless. 

Write back soon. I mean it. 

Your beloved, clever, self-absorbed sister, 

—Maria

A scrap of paper torn from a larger piece; there is writing on one side and what appears to be a section of schematics on the other:

M—

Since when have I given two figs about your relationship drama? You want my approval, you have it. Do what you want, M, you're a big girl and you don't owe anyone shit. Just don’t come crying to me if it goes tits-up again. I’m busy. 

—Carver

P.S. Charade? Say you’re joking.

Another scrap of paper; the drawing on the other side lines up with the schematic on the first:

Fenris, 

If you break my sister’s heart again, I’ll kill you myself. Fair warning.

—Carver

A crisp-edged and carefully folded square of parchment, sealed thickly with charcoal-colored wax. The handwriting is meticulously neat:

Carver:

If I break your sister’s heart, I will let you.

—Fenris

(For day 8 of @14daysdalovers: Approval.)

[shivunin]

The Fire at the Center

(Salshira Lavellan/Cullen | 556 Words | No warnings)

“—Creator, judge me whole,” Cullen murmured, kneeling before the candle on his trunk, “Find me well within—”

He could hear Salshira shifting on the bed behind him. His focus broke at once, turned to the soft sound of her rolling over in the sheets. 

“Go on,” she murmured, and her hand trailed through his hair, “Don’t let me stop you.”

Cullen huffed in irritation. It wasn’t that she was stopping him, necessarily, or even that she was distracting him on purpose. Lavellan was steadfastly quiet when he prayed every night, always respectful of this time. Yet somehow, every single time she was in his bed while he got on his knees, Cullen could think of nothing but climbing back under the blankets with her. 

“Find me well within your grace,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek and shifting away again. 

He shouldn’t have needed the prompt. 

Cullen shook himself inwardly and began the verse of the Chant again. 

“My Creator, judge me whole. Find me well within your grace. Touch me with…fire that I…”

More fabric sounds. She couldn’t be undressing; last he’d checked, she hadn’t been wearing anything to take off. So what was she doing? 

Salshira padded past,  clothed only in his tunic, draped low over one shoulder. She went to the pitcher on the table, poured herself a cup of water, and turned again, sipping. 

She didn’t need to say it. She need only arch one brow before Cullen was sighing again. 

“Touch me with fire that I be cleansed…”

Maker, this felt like his boyhood, reciting verses in the Chantry when he got himself in trouble. Though—he couldn’t say he’d ever seen the Chantry Mothers in quite the light that he was seeing his current companion.

“Tell me—”

Lavellan edged the hem of the tunic higher, examining a fresh scar on her thigh with a frown. She prodded it with one finger, and the new skin went white, then red again, both colors stark against the soft brown of her skin. 

Cullen cleared his throat. 

“Tell me I have sung to…”

From the corner of his eye, he could see her tugging the hem back down again before climbing onto the bed. Unfortunately, this caused the sleeve to slip the rest of the way from her shoulder, revealing the upper curve of her—

No. Focus. He could focus. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Tell me I have sung to your approval.”

There; only one more verse and then he could…

The soft noise of the bed creaking as she shifted again. 

No; he could do this. He could…

The quiet intake of breath, the soft exhalation that followed.

Cullen stood all at once, pivoting and climbing onto the bed. 

“You weren’t finished,” she said, a smile curving the corner of her mouth, the candlelight glittering in her eyes, “‘For you are…’”

“For you are the fire at the center of the world,” he finished in a rush, his mouth skimming her cheekbone, “and comfort is only yours to give.” 

His palms cupped her cheeks on either side, his lips pressed to hers. This—he may feel shame over his lack of determination in the morning. But now, he could not bring himself to regret the chance to touch her—even though it had disrupted his plans. 

She was well worth the change.

(Day 3 for @14daysdalovers "Chant." I couldn't not do Cullen for this one. It was basically tailor-made for him c: )

[shivunin]

The Heart Grown Fonder

A single letter folded into the cover of a book on Ferelden tax law in Vigil’s Keep: 

My dear Warden, queen of my heart, rarest and most beautiful of women, 

I trust this letter will find you, because I will have hidden it in a crate of supplies bound for your Vigil’s Keep. If someone else is reading this, I will retrieve it from you soon enough and you will not like the manner I use to do so. 

Mi vida, life is dull and grey without you by my side in Antiva. Fighting is tragically bereft of people shouting things like “desperation is an ugly perfume.” Such things always gave me something to ponder while we cut down our foes, and in their absence I find combat less than stimulating. What does that mean, by the way? And why did you say it so often? This is not a criticism, you understand; if you were to appear at my side tomorrow and say such things again, perhaps while eviscerating someone twice your size, I would be delighted beyond words. 

Can you believe that the Crows have not given up on me after all that? Such a shame, when you cannot trust a man at his word anymore. I have dispatched perhaps half of those who continue to pursue. If matters remain on track, I should be able to stroll back over to your side of the sea sometime in the next few months. 

Stay strong, my steel; I know that you are simply wilting without my tender care to nourish you. Please, permit me a moment to remind you of what I might do if I were there with you now: 

First, I would unbind your hair and loosen it over my fingers. I am certain it has grown even longer in my absence, and you know how I enjoy feeling it trail along my skin. Then, I would kiss you as you deserve—slowly and with feeling, for as long as you can stand it without—

The message continues at some length, ending several pages later:

It is my wish that my words will offer some stimulation until I may return to your side once more. Take heart, mi vida, my steel; you are always in my thoughts even though you are not in my arms. 

Trust that we will see each other soon. 

—Your Zevran

A series of letters bound together with a dark blue ribbon:

Zevran,

Did you read a naughty broadsheet and decide to stuff all the endearments you could manage into one letter? Words don’t warm my bed, Zev. 

I’m fine. Everything here is fine. 

Take care of yourself. Let me know when you’re planning to come back. I’ll be here.

Ser Grr misses you.

—Arianwen

Zev, 

Scratch the last letter, if you get yourself killed, I’m stuffing Justice in your body and killing you again. Consider it a threat and a promise.

—Wen

Zevran, 

I’m told that these are meant to be longer. I’ll try that this time. 

Justice says that the letters Kristoff received from his wife had descriptions of her day and hopes for the future. I don’t know what that means. I spent most of the day trying to vet candidates for the Calling. It’s not the Blight anymore; it’s important that the people we choose are able to stick it out and hold their own. The Wardens must have a stronghold in Ferelden or what happened to us will happen again, with no guarantee of success next time. 

So—that’s just about every day now. The rest varies, I suppose. Mostly annoying administrative nonsense. Nobles love their paperwork, it turns out. You don’t want to hear about that.

I’ve made friends with the chef. You were right: it’s important to know the person who is most likely to poison your food. She’s nice. Made it out of Highever before Howe destroyed it, which is good for her and us. Makes a damn good stew. Reminds me of the days on the road when we all had to tolerate each other’s cooking. I haven’t gotten any better at it, for the record, but I can peel a potato very quickly now, when called upon. 

Speaking of friends, Isabela stopped by on her way across the sea yesterday. I understand she came to Amaranthine to meet a smuggler contact, but unfortunately I already killed them. Anyway—it was nice to have dinner and catch up. We talked about you. Good things, not that you’d think otherwise.

I meant to say earlier—Justice doesn’t talk about Kristoff much, but he told me a little about what his life was like. Being a Warden and married and all, I mean. It sounded nice. Except for the part where he’s dead, I mean. That’s…not great. I’m glad I didn’t know him before everything else. It’s easier that way. 

Anyway. I hope this was better. I still don’t get the point of these. Why not just wait until you come back to talk about all this? 

You’d better come back. 

Not now, I mean. Eventually. When you’re ready. 

Whichever.

—Arianwen Tabris, Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferel

Ignore all that. I’m getting too used to signing formal reports.

Zev, 

Did you know that ship captains can perform marriages? Isabela told me yesterday, but I thought she was joking. Nate agreed, but he could also just be fucking with me. I wouldn’t put it past him. I hesitate to ask, but do you know if this is true?

I think about that last trip back from Antiva very often. Maybe if I’d known Nevermind. I miss you. That’s it.

—Wen

Zevran, 

I tried to track down the messenger who took that letter before he could get on a boat, but he made it out of the country first. I’m told I am not allowed to go after him. 

So ignore all that instead. Just pretend you didn’t read it and I sent you a sketch of my chest or something.

—Arianwen

Zevran, 

If you’re getting these letters, please reply. I know I’m not very good at this, but I need to hear from you. 

Just—please.

—Arian Your Arianwen

And finally, tucked into a stack of neatly folded underthings in an armoire in Vigil’s Keep:

My Arianwen, 

If you find this before I find you, I owe you something special. If not—well, you will have me here, either way. 

I am only sorry it took so long. I am certain we will find a way to make up for the long absence.

—Zevran

P.S. Your sentries never even bothered to check the wall they stand on. You should correct this, or instruct your stoneworkers to make the bricks more difficult to climb. I would hate for someone less well-intentioned than I to take advantage.

(For @14daysdalovers day 9: Longing.)

[shivunin]

A Red, Red Rose

Title: "A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns

CW: Needles/tattooing

“Are you quite certain?” Zevran asked, the needle poised in his right hand. Arianwen didn’t need to think about her answer. 

“Of course I am,” she said, as she’d said many times already, “Are you?”

It didn’t bother her that he needed to think for a moment; she’d been thinking about this for far longer than he had. Of the two of them, only one had experienced a disastrous first attempt. She knew what it meant to dread the idea of a ring, to dread a lifetime yoked to someone who did not care about her at all. Because she’d already known that panic, she knew now that this day was nothing like that one. The way she felt about Zevran, about this, could not be further away from the way she’d felt then, only twenty-two and convinced that her life was over. 

She had no idea what Zevran was thinking. Had she convinced him to do this in a vulnerable moment? Had she forced him into something he didn’t want? 

Oh, anything but that; it had felt like she was dying that morning so many years ago, when she’d been meant to wed Nelaros at her father’s behest and—

“Hmm?” Zevran said after a moment, and glanced up at her, “Did you say something?”

Arianwen’s mouth fell open, but then she caught the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, the glimmer in his eyes, and knew she’d been had. 

“You ass,” she said, and swatted the hand not holding the needle, “I cannot believe—”

“Do you really think,” Zevran interrupted, “That I would have any doubts now? After everything we have seen and done, mi vida, I do not think I can imagine wanting any other person in all of Thedas. There is only one like you, after all.”

“Ah,” Wen said, her hand curling around his, “Oh.”

“And,” he went on, tapping the needle into the little pot of crimson ink, “Whomever we decide to share our bed with, of course.”

“Of course,” Wen said, “About that. I did have a thought—”

“Maker, do you have to do this while I’m standing right here?” Alistair complained loudly to the side, and the two of them looked up at him. 

“I don’t need to know that!” he said, spreading his hands, “I don’t need to know any of that! I came to perform the wedding, not—”

“Yes, yes, your majesty,” Zevran said, raising an eyebrow, “Of course we are both very sorry.”

“I’m not,” Wen said, “Alright, then. Get to it.”

It might not show on her face, but she felt a thrill in her heart as soon as the metal touched her skin, as soon as he tapped it into the skin around her ring finger. The thought of an actual ring had made her nauseous, so a tattoo had been the obvious solution. Obvious, because she’d been telling Zevran she wanted him to ink her for years, and obvious because it would be easier to fight without jewelry in the way. They would do only a little while Alistair was in the room, primarily because she had no idea what she was doing and she’d little interest in marring the otherwise lovely arcs of color over his hands. She’d rather take her time—and Zevran had implied he had other reasons for wanting to be alone with her when she did it. 

The needle stung; she’d expected that. But Zevran’s hands were warm and gentle on hers, careful when he manipulated her finger, and he wiped off the excess ink with the utmost tenderness. 

“Are you not meant to be saying words right now?” Zev asked absently, turning her hand over and beginning on the underside. Alistair, who’d been looming over the table, frowned and straightened. 

“Right. I suppose you did kidnap me from my bedroom in the middle of the night for a reason.”

“That,” Wen said, casting him a sardonic look, “Is an exaggeration.”

Alistair scoffed, but briefly rested a hand on her shoulder. Wen pulled her attention away from the sting around her finger and focused on her friend instead. 

“I am happy for you,” Alistair said, his face uncharacteristically solemn, “Really.”

Wen patted his hand, then let it rest there for a moment. She looked up at him. He looked down at her. 

It was clear that if one of them was going to be emotional over this, it wasn’t going to be her. 

“Thank you,” she told him, “Really. You’re…you’re family. It had to be you.”

Alistair made a little noise, which might have been called a squeak, and leaned down to sweep her into his arms in one swift motion. The sting along her finger stopped at once.

“Tscha!” Zevran said, a sharp noise from his tongue against his teeth, “Give some warning.” 

“Sorry,” Alistair said, his voice muffled in her hair, “I didn’t think—but you—”

Carefully, Wen wound her free arm around his back and held him in return. Alistair was shockingly good at hugging, despite his lack of experience. He hugged like he meant it, she supposed, not that she spent her time embracing a large number of people herself. 

Arianwen had seen him in the Fade with the sister he’d wished for; she’d seen him with the sister he’d actually gotten. She knew all too well what it was to be untethered, to be without a family. 

To make one for yourself instead. 

After a moment, she cleared her throat and patted his back. 

“You’re certainly annoying enough to be my little brother,” she told him, eyes trailing back to Zevran, who was carefully holding the needle away from the exchange. He smiled at her crookedly. 

“You would say that,” Alistair said, sniffing once and drawing back again. Wen and Zevran pretended not to see the tears on his cheeks. 

“Alright then,” he cleared his throat, “Alright. Um—there’s a proper ceremony. I brought the book along. Do you want the Chantry—”

“No,” Wen and Zevran said in unison, and Arianwen went on:

“I think just the important bits are fine. Doesn’t need to be the whole thing. Not like we invited guests or anything.”

“Oh,” Alistair said, and looked faintly disappointed, “Alright, then. I suppose I probably ought to get back to the castle faster anyway. Probably already sent someone looking for me.” 

Zevran pressed her middle finger in and began to work on the more sensitive skin between the two fingers. His hands blocked the pattern of the ink, and Wen craned her neck to look. She liked the way he looked when he was concentrating, a little frown on his brow, his tongue barely visible and pressed against his front teeth. It was…cute. Yes. Cute. 

“Zevran,” Alistair said, “Do you intend to be married to this woman today?”

“Mmm? Yes,” Zevran said, tapping the needle into the ink again, “I do.” 

“Arianwen,” Alistair said, turning to her again, “Do you intend to be married to this man?”

“I do,” she said, “Zevran, what is that you’re—”

“I’m doing the ceremony,” Alistair said, crossing his arms and straightening, “No interruptions.” 

Wen rolled her eyes, but subsided. 

“Zevran Arainai,” Alistair said, in his King Voice, “Do you pledge to be loyal—”

“I already have, no?” Zevran murmured, briefly looking up at her through his golden eyelashes before returning his attention to her hand. Alistair ignored this. 

“—to the woman before you, to act in her best interest and render aid whenever you can? Do you vow to offer care and comfort when she has the need, to give shelter when she has none, to honor your words and her own?”

Zevran waited, the needle poised in his hand, and met her eyes. 

“This I swear,” he said, “Until you release me, or until death divides us both.”

Alistair repeated the words. Arianwen did not interrupt him, but she didn’t look away from Zevran, either. He was bent over her hand again, brow furrowed, and she loved him. It was an inextricable part of her, loving him; she’d known that for a very long time. But to have it put down in words and ink, to have it set inside her skin and made as much a part of her body as it was a part of her heart—something about that was different from simply knowing. 

“What?” Alistair said suddenly, interrupting himself, his voice wary. 

“Hmm?” Wen said, turning her attention from Zevran. 

“You smiled,” Alistair said, frowning, “You aren’t going to kill one of us, are you? I don’t recommend it, if so.”

“Oh,” Wen blinked, then looked back at Zevran, who’d cocked an eyebrow but otherwise remained focused on her hand. 

“I…I suppose I was just happy,” she said. 

Silence. 

“Ah—alright, then. Um,” Alistair cleared his throat, “Then—Do you vow to honor his words and your own?”

“Yes,” she said at once, and Zev lifted his head to watch her, “Yes, I vow it.”

She paused, tilting her chin up. 

“I…vow, also, to hold this bond above all others.” 

Alistair took a breath. 

Wen didn’t look at him. Instead, she looked at Zevran, who’d tightened his grip on her hand. 

“Are you quite certain?” Zev said, and she might have been imagining things, but it seemed like the needle shook in his hand for a split second before it steadied. 

“You do not have to—” he began to add, but she shook her head. 

“I’m sure,” she said, “I mean it. I hold this vow above all others I have taken. Until you release me from my oath, or until death divides us both.”

A moment of silence. Zevran opened his mouth, then closed it again and ducked his head. The hand that held hers tightened, maneuvered her fingers aside to finish the last centimeters of the band. 

“Allll right then,” Alistair said after a moment, “Well. By the power vested in me by…me, I state now before the eyes of the Maker and…the legal system of Ferelden, I suppose, that you are husband and wife.”

Wen sighed slightly, her shoulders loosening. Nobody said anything for a moment, then Zevran straightened and held the needle aside. 

“It is finished,” he said, and she lifted her hand to look. 

It was red; she’d known that much going in. The back, which would be visible when she made a fist, was a simple band perhaps a few centimeters wide. But the inside, which would be hidden in the curl of her palm…

“My mother’s….how did you remember?” 

“How could I forget anything about you?” Zevran asked, carefully setting the needle aside and standing, “I remember all of it, mi vida. Of course I do.”

“But,” she swallowed hard, peering down at the pattern. It matched the repeating pattern along either side of her mother’s boots, almost a sharp-petaled flower, almost a twining vine. 

“I’m…going to go get the paperwork,” Alistair said, and strode from the room, shutting the door behind him. The inn beyond was loud, but the door was thick; they could almost pretend they were entirely alone. 

“It’s beautiful,” she told her husband, and stood to lean back against the table. He took her hand, examining it critically in the brighter light from the window. 

“You know this will fade,” Zevran said, his fingers light on her palm. 

Arianwen shrugged, looking down at the crimson band. 

“Good,” she said, “You’ll give me more, then. Every time you renew it, we’ll remember this day.”

He stepped forward abruptly, wrapping a hand around the base of her skull and kissing her fiercely. 

“Come,” she said at last, her breath uneven, “Are you ready for yours?”

“More than you know, my dear Warden,” Zevran said, and set his hand in hers.

(For @14daysdalovers day 12: Crimson. Arianwen ends up with a full sleeve eventually, of course, and Zev has a grand time designing them all. c: )

[shivunin]

Flow Gently

(Title: "Afton Water" by Robert Burns)

(Maria Hawke/ Fenris | 1,036 Words | Fluff | No warnings)

The idea of being touched had, for so long, been anathema to Fenris. 

There were reasons, of course. Decades of them. But none of that seemed to apply to Hawke. 

Maria lay in bed beside him now, his palm held above her face, cradled in both of her hands. She studied it with rapt attention, as if she’d never seen one before, and her fingertips explored each crease and scar, traced the swells and bones beneath the skin. Carver had once told him she’d been the smart one in Lothering; Nose always in a book, he’d said over an ale, as if it was a fatal character flaw, ‘til she discovered other people existed, anyway. 

There was something of the studious girl in the way she looked at him now, though she never examined his tattoos the way she examined the lines of his palm, the curve of his calf, the hollow under his ear. One evening, in the haze of afterglow, Fenris had asked her why. Hawke had laughed, draped herself over his chest, and asked him how she was meant to know where and how he liked to be touched if she didn’t know her options. 

He hadn’t known what to say to that.

What he’d feared of her touch, Fenris knew, was possession; so much of his life had been defined by it. He knew it at a glance; saw it in the way folk touched their beaus in the Hanged Man or their dancers in the Rose. He knew that such things were sometimes welcomed, that some lovers even intentionally elicited such a reaction.

Hawke only ever seemed to look at him like she was surprised and pleased to see him still standing beside her, as if she usually expected to turn and find him gone instead. Fenris had told her he was hers over and over again (there were other words he might say in their place; he could imagine nothing more foreign to his lips than those. I am yours would have to suffice, at least for now). She only ever touched him like she was fascinated by the very existence of his flesh and bones, and she explored his body with an intent that had absolutely nothing to do with the lyrium under his skin.

The idea of possessing him would horrify her. He knew this, or he would not be in bed at her side now.

“Tell me again,” she murmured, half asleep, “About Seheron. The island itself.”

“What about Seheron?” Fenris asked. 

He turned his hand over when she seemed done with the palm. Instead of peering at the back of his hand as she had his palm, Hawke curled his fingers into a loose fist and pressed his knuckles to her lips one at a time.

“I hear the water is warm and blue as a robin’s egg,” she said, and stifled a yawn against his knuckles, “I’ve heard that the trees are at least three stories tall, and they only have branches at the top. Is that true?”

“Ah,” Fenris said, and took back his hand to turn onto his side instead.

The sheets must have been changed recently; they were crisp and soft against his bare skin, soothing in the places where the lyrium tattoos had grown irritated. Hawke lifted a hand so Fenris would rest his right hand in hers, and he obliged wordlessly. She twined their fingers together and rested them, joined, against her cheek. 

“Well?” she said, and he felt the creak in her jaw when she yawned again.

“Yes,” Fenris told her, “The ocean is warm. Away from people, the beaches are not rocky. There were trees as you have here, with vines twining up the trunks. There were also others as you say, narrow and tall. On a clear morning, you could see the high canopies. They did not have lower branches to climb, and so those who wished to reach the top would use shoes with spikes on them and loop a cloth around the trunk for their hands.”

“Hmm,” Maria said, her eyes drooping slightly, “Why?”

“Why?” Fenris repeated. The blankets had slipped down to her hips, and the skin of her arms had pebbled with the cold. He tugged them higher, the cost of not seeing the wealth of her body outweighed by the need to ensure that she was comfortable. 

“Why climb them? What’s…at the top?” 

Fenris considered this for a moment, while she turned her cheek against the back of his hand and nestled into the touch. 

“I…cannot say,” he said after a moment, “Some sort of fruit. Something important, presumably. I did not think to ask.”

Hawke said nothing. She’d bound up her curls for the night, but already several had escaped the coif to wave over her forehead instead. There was a little frown between her eyebrows, as if she was trying to will herself to wakefulness again. Fenris extracted his hand from hers and smoothed the covers higher over her chest. She murmured something he couldn’t make sense of, then shifted beneath the sheets until she rested more firmly against him. 

“Hawke?” Fenris murmured. She sighed, but said nothing. 

Done for the night; he ought to have known. It had been a long day, and they’d made it longer once they’d reached the manor. Fenris tucked a stray curl behind her ear, lest its touch rouse her again, and settled more comfortably on the mattress at her back. 

The fire banked in the hearth shone gold over the bare curve of her shoulder. She didn’t move at all when he pressed a kiss to it, nor when he curled himself around her and rested his hips against hers. 

“Maria?” he said softly. Her breath was even, her shoulders rising and falling in time. Fenris swallowed and looked at the golden line of her shoulder, the generous swell of her hip beneath the blanket. 

“I am yours,” Fenris murmured into the night, for her ears and nobody’s at all. 

The next words came so quietly that it would have been difficult for her to hear him even if she had been properly awake: 

“As long as you’ll have me—I am always yours.”

(For @14daysdalovers day 11: Murmurs. Thought I'd give them a little softness in addition to the yearning for once c: )

[shivunin]

And Eat It, Too

Arianwen had plenty to do; there was no reason to be stopping outside the bakery in Denerim. It was just that—well, she remembered standing here with her mother once. They hadn’t been able to afford such fine pastries then, but now…now she had a belt pouch jingling with the money of dead men and little to buy with it. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to…to buy just a little something? She could even share. Yes; it could be like team building. Or—

“Something you need?” Wynne asked beside her and Arianwen straightened abruptly. 

“No. Nothing. Nevermind.”

“What—” the mage began, but as she spoke a lean girl erupted from the shop, quick as a fox in the woods. The baker was right on her heels, his face red, a cloth waving from one hand. 

“Come back here you—!” he shouted, but it was too late. The little elven girl, blonde pigtails uneven on either side of her head, had already darted around a corner and vanished. 

“Agh!” the man shouted, drawing up short and propping one fist on his hip, “Wretch of a girl.”

He noticed the four of them then, and his eyes narrowed. 

“Something I can help you with?” he asked, his tone suggesting that there was nothing he could help them with. All at once, Wen felt dusty and small again, as small as the girl running away. What was it about Denerim that took away every ounce of her strength? What was it about being home that forced her to remember how she’d been before she left?

“No,” she told the baker coldly, eyeing him in the way most tended to find unnerving, and turned away. The others were exchanging a look; she could tell even without looking. That was not her problem. Let them look however they wanted; she wasn’t going to explain herself.  

It had been a foolish idea anyway. 

|

Arianwen had a headache, she wanted to go to bed, and she hadn’t seen Zevran in hours. 

How annoying that she’d gotten used to finding him before she went to bed. When had that happened? How had it crept up on her? She scowled at the fire now, aware that everyone else could see her mood very plainly, and abruptly stood. 

“Night,” she spat at the fire, and Alistair, who’d been sharpening his sword on the other side of the fire, winced. 

“Ah—g’night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the—ow! What was that for, I was only…”

His voice trailed off as she walked away, but she’d already stopped paying attention anyway. 

What was the use of a paramour, she wondered sourly, if he wasn’t going to be around when she needed to work out her frustrations?

She thrust the flap of her tent open, ducked inside, and paused. Her tent ought to have been empty. She hadn’t seen anyone go inside. And yet…

Zevran lay over her bedroll, propped on one elbow. He looked entirely too satisfied with himself, his teeth gleaming in the firelight that shone through the open tent flap, one leg propped up at an angle. 

“Good evening, mi vida,” he said, “I expected you a bit earlier, but do not worry; I will not hold your lateness against you.”

Wen stared at him, outraged, and in her shock it took her a moment to realize that the dim thing set in front of him was, in fact, a platter full of tiny, frilly cakes. 

The precise ones she’d been staring at earlier, to be precise. 

“You…? How—But you weren’t even there!” Wen said, eyes skipping between his smug expression and the pile of pink and white cakes. 

“I know,” he said mournfully, “Can you believe that the giant had to tell me about them?”

“Sten?” she said, perhaps a touch louder than necessary because a deep voice answered her. 

“Yes? What is it?”

“Nothing—nevermind,” she called over her shoulder and stepped the rest of the way into the tent. 

“But why?” she said, reaching out to touch the uppermost cake and thinking better of it at the last moment. 

“Because you wanted them,” Zevran said, sitting up and pushing himself back on the mat, “And you did not have them.” 

Wen shrugged off her leather armor, leaving her in only her leggings and tunic, and then she sat across from him with her legs crossed. 

“That’s not an answer,” she told him, frowning. 

In the shadows, it was harder to tell what he was thinking. That was annoying, but not unexpected. She might’ve fetched a lantern from outside—only Leliana had quietly told her that lighting the tent from within meant that everyone else could see their silhouettes quite clearly. The rest of them hearing she and Zevran was one thing—it could hardly be avoided, given the close quarters—but seeing was one step too far. 

That it left her in the dark now, literally and figuratively, was…unfortunate. 

“Of course it is,” he told her, and he moved in the shadows. 

A moment later, something pressed softly to her bottom lip. 

“Try,” he told her, “I ate one on my way back and I feel they were quite worth the trouble of stealing them.”

Wen breathed in through her nose. The cake smelled of berries, of honey and sugar and summertime. It smelled like all the things she’d never had as a child, all the things she’d never thought to seek for herself as an adult. 

Zevran held steady when she opened her mouth and took a bite, her upper lip brushing against his thumb as she did so. It was sweet; almost too sweet, save the burst of tartness from the berries. She made a soft noise, which might, to the lascivious, be called a moan, and heard his answering laugh in the dark. 

“Good, yes?” he asked, “I took an assortment while the man was chasing some elf-child down the street. Any shopkeep in Antiva would tell him the foolishness of such a thing. Why, it used to be my job to annoy the—”

��Hush,” she said, and leaned over the platter to kiss him, her lips still tasting of sugar and berries. After a moment, she felt the slide of his tongue over her lower lip, licking the rest of the sweetness from her skin. 

“Thank you,” she told him, “No—don’t tell me another story. Thank you; you didn’t have to do this, and you did. That means something.”

“I—” he sighed, and his breath brushed lightly over her chin, “Yes. You are…welcome.”

“Mmm,” she said in acknowledgement, and trailed her fingers down his arm to his wrist, lifting the rest of the cake to her mouth. 

“One kiss for every bite,” she told him once she’d swallowed, and felt his cheek curve under her fingers. 

“Is that the price for such things in Ferelden?” he said, his nose nudging hers, “Hmm. Perhaps I might have waited for the baker to come back, then. He was not so bad-looking, after all.”

Wen snorted faintly and pressed her mouth to his again, her fingertips tracing the smile she couldn’t see on his face. It was a good kiss, a long kiss, one or the other tilting their head to go on touching whenever it might have ended naturally instead. When she finally broke away and both of them were breathing a little harder, she felt him shift. 

“You know,” he said, “there are plenty more right here if you would like to do that again.”

Arianwen snorted, but turned to taste the next—and he was right. 

They were delicious.

(For day 2 of @14daysdalovers: Frilly Cakes (prompts here). I want you to know that Zev stole an assortment of flavors, and that when she was done she put them outside the tent for the others to eat....somewhere else. On the other side of camp. c: )

[shivunin]

Through the Window

CW: Near death experience

(Here is the song Hawke is singing in the second scene c:)

Healing Hawke had taken several hours and what seemed like years off of Anders’ life. 

As far as Fenris was concerned, they were years better spent, but he wisely kept that opinion to himself. The mage had staggered off to sleep in a spare bedroom perhaps an hour ago, and the others, for various reasons, had also gone away one by one. Varric had left to ensure the nobility wouldn’t be a problem for Hawke until she was ready to face them; Merrill had said something vague about herbs and gone away soon after. Aveline had never shown up, not that anyone was surprised given the state of Kirkwall, and Sebastian had gone to the Chantry for a change of clothing—as his things were still covered in Hawke’s blood. 

And Isabela—Isabela had managed perhaps an hour in this room, the shortest of all of them. Fenris could not blame her for leaving. Every single time Hawke had woken, her first words had been “Bela? Did they take her?” as if she remained stuck in the moment of the Arishok’s death, certain the other Qunari would take her friend regardless of what Hawke did. 

Isabela had managed a joke each time, but the jokes had become more wooden, then more quiet, and at last she’d retreated to the sitting room below with a bottle of strong rum. 

Fenris had told the rest that he would watch over her; that he could manage well enough by himself. This was true, but he was not watching her at the moment. Instead, he sat before the window, looking out at the destruction in the city. Dawn was rising now, lighting the clouds of smoke in bands of pink and lilac. How strange, that something so horrible should be remade into something beautiful. 

How strange that the morning should dawn as it always had after such pain and death.

“Fen…ris?” Hawke said from the bed behind him. 

Fenris did not turn at once. He stayed slumped in the chair, looking down at the city. If he was going to speak to her, he would need to school his expression first—and he knew he could not yet manage to do that. 

“Ah,” she said, very quietly, “As…leep.”

Her breath sounded like it hurt; there was a faint whistle to it, high-pitched and strained. Fenris closed his eyes and clamped his lips together. He would need to stand in just a moment; stand and tend to her. As soon as he could keep himself in check. As soon as he could—

“I’m…glad…it was…you,” she said, and her sigh crackled through the air, “I…loved you��you know.”

Fenris’s hands curled hard around the arms of the chair, knuckles standing out paler than his tattoos. She thought him asleep; she would not say such a thing to him waking. He could not stand now; could not show her he’d heard. It would be…would be…

“I’m…glad…you stayed…” this time, her breath dragged in her throat, as if she couldn’t quite manage it, and Fenris sat up in alarm. 

“...can...be…happy…someday…” she said, and didn’t seem to notice that he’d scraped the chair back from the window, nor that he was gripping her hand and bending over the bed. 

“Hawke,” he said urgently, “Hawke. Look at me.” 

The corner of her mouth curled faintly, but she was looking past him at the corner of the room. When she took a breath, her chest hardly moved. 

“Maria,” Fenris said, squeezing her hand, “Hawke!” 

It was no use; he knew that already, and turned for the door. 

“Anders!” he bellowed, “ANDERS!”

Thundering footsteps on the stairs; Fenris bent lower over her, cupping her cheek in his hand. She was so cold—yet her pulse still beat in her neck, however thready and weak. 

“You stay here,” he ordered her, bending low over her body, “Stay here, do you hear me? Hawke!” 

“Move, move,” Anders said, jostling him out of the way. Fenris moved as quickly as he could manage, feeling the tingling of magic already unfurling from the mage’s body. 

He could do nothing; only stand here and—

Fenris’s hand, the one he’d used to touch her cheek, curled into a fist at his side. The other reached for the neat bottles of lyrium on the bedside table, shoved one toward the mage. 

“Drink,” he said, but he didn’t need to; as soon as he held it out, Anders was taking it, popping out the cork and downing it in one swallow. 

Fenris focused past him, where Hawke still lay. Her eyes were open, her mouth still fixed in that horrible half-smile. Breathe, he willed her, moving to the footboard and curling one hand around the post there, Breathe. 

Hawke closed her eyes—and gasped. 

|

Six Years Later

Hawke has gone to Weisshaupt now, Varric’s letter had said, and she’s still in one piece. Maybe you’ll catch her on the road. Won’t be too far from Tevinter, right? 

Perhaps the dwarf had even believed it—but Fenris had known better. 

He stood on the path now, peering past hedges and trees to the cottage tucked inside. When they’d chosen this place, he hadn’t understood why. If she wanted to be in Ferelden, why not closer to Lothering or one of the cities? Why here, of all places? Hawke had just shrugged and gone on nailing a board back in place on the wall.

Because it looks like home, she’d said after a moment. That had been the last time she’d spoken of it. 

Fenris took a breath, his hand on the cold iron of the gate, and swung it open.

Hawke—or someone—had kept up with the garden. He’d expected it to be overgrown, as it had been the last time he’d been here. Instead, the flowerbeds had been weeded and the bushes beside the path were neatly trimmed back. He ran a hand along one as he walked and then, by force of habit, turned to the right and walked around the house instead of using the front door. 

If there had been any doubt in Fenris’s mind that Hawke was here and not somewhere in the mountains, it would have been dispelled as soon as he rounded the corner and heard her voice.

“Ay, quién pudiera/Besarlos más,” her voice sang, trailing from the open kitchen window. Fenris braced a hand on the side of the house beneath and just—listened, for a moment. Her voice was sweet—he’d heard it before, more here than he’d ever heard it in Kirkwall—but she’d never sung this song for him. 

And—how long had it been since he’d heard her voice? Six months, a year? How long since he’d seen her face? 

It was too much all of a sudden; the sunlight, the birdsong, the buzz of insects in the garden. Her voice, so near and yet still distant. Fenris discarded his pack right there and headed for the back door, his feet speeding up as he went. He moved silently, now, used to staying quiet until he wanted to be heard, but her song cut off when the back door slammed shut behind him. 

“Hello?” Hawke called warily, and Fenris stepped into the kitchen. 

They stared at each other for a moment, Fenris breathing hard, Hawke holding a spoon with some sort of batter slowly falling into the bowl below. 

“Fenris,” she said, his name all but a gasp, and dropped the spoon. It splattered something onto her dress—white, embroidered around the neckline—though she did not seem to notice it. She took one step out from behind the counter, then another, and one hand moved to her chest. 

“Are you really here?” she said. Fenris could see her pulse racing at the base of her neck, the way she braced herself on the counter as if she didn’t trust her own legs. 

He nodded once, words momentarily beyond him. She took another step, then another, her eyes wide and wondering. 

He’d thought—the note she left had been terse. He’d thought she had wanted to leave him behind. But the way she was looking at him now—

All at once, Hawke flung herself at him, her arms wrapping tight around his waist. 

“You’re here,” she said, over and over again, “You’re here. You came back; you’re here.”

“I—yes,” Fenris said. He’d lifted his hands when she came close, but he set them on her shoulders now, carefully and slowly. Her curls tickled his neck, loose as they were, and she smelled like bread and herself—anise and sweetness and smoke and how had he forgotten—

“I’m so glad,” she said, pulling away enough to look at him without letting go of his waist, “I’ve missed you. So much, Fenris.”

“But you left,” he said, and his hand rose without his permission, knuckles brushing over the curve of her cheek, “You didn’t tell me where you were going. You left.”

“I didn’t want to…” she sighed, her eyes tracing his face over and over again, lingering on new scars, “Your hair is…different.” 

“Yes,” he said, lifting a hand to touch the shaven side of his head, “and you—it was a bad fight, then?” 

He nodded to her neck, scarred in a strange pattern of whorls and lines. Hawke let go of him to touch the ridged skin, then turned away, back to the table and bowl. 

“Yes,” she said, “It was. Do you…I was just about to bake a cake. Do you…want tea?” 

This was not going as he’d expected. Fenris moved to brush off his armor by force of habit and touched the sticky dough she’d left behind, the smears of flour. 

“...yes,” he said after a moment, “Do—”

He caught the cloth she tossed him, wiped himself clean, and braced his hands against the counter opposite her. Maria avoided his eyes, and she’d moved her hair to cover her neck. A bad wound, then; in that part of the neck, it would have been. 

And she’d left him behind to receive it alone. 

“Where did you go?” he asked. 

Hawke bit her lip and poured the batter into a pan, then tapped it against the counter twice. 

“Lots of places,” she told him, “Everywhere, really. Orlais, Ferelden, the Frostbacks.”

When she walked away to slide the pan into the oven, he saw that she was barefoot. What was it she’d told him back in Kirkwall all those years ago, drifting off to sleep together in her bed? Ah, yes.

I want a home where I can wander around barefoot, she’d said. I want to pick berries right off the bush and eat them till my stomach aches. I want to fill the house with laughter and music and sweetness, and I don’t want to think about death or duty ever again. 

Fenris ignored the clutching feeling at his chest and curled his fingers around the wood of the counter. 

“Hawke,” he said, chiding, as he had a hundred, a hundred hundred times before. 

The scars along her neck were not the only ones; there were more along the side of her calf and around one wrist. There were burns, too, over her back; he could see the shiny edges of them in the sunlight pouring through the open window. 

It wasn’t that Fenris had really wanted to know where she’d gone. All those nights since he’d come back here and found her note, he’d really wondered—

“Why? Why not wait for me?”

“It was urgent,” she said, her back still to him, “Stroud…said it couldn’t wait.”

“Then why not tell me where you’d gone?”

He’d had enough of distance; Fenris strode into the kitchen and stopped before her, standing where she could not help but see him. Maria pursed her lips. 

“Why?” he said again, standing close enough to touch but leaving both hands to hang at his sides. 

“I didn’t want…” she sighed, twining her fingers through the kitchen cloth she held, “It was my problem. I didn’t want you to be forced to follow me into another one of my—”

“Forced?” Fenris interrupted, scowling, “What do you mean?”

She would have looked away from him again, but he set his hand along her cheek and held her gaze. 

“Hawke,” he said, “Tell me.”

Her breath shook when she drew it in, but her fingertips brushed over his. 

“We both made promises,” she said quietly, “I…didn’t want you to think you were bound by them when you had other things, more important things—”

“Bound—Hawke, what are you—” 

Ah. 

Yes. He knew the answer even before he finished asking the question; it was in the angle of her eyes, the tightness at the corners of her mouth. More than that, the answer was in her fingertips and the magic that hummed there sometimes, though it was quiescent now. 

What has magic touched that it does not spoil, he’d said to her once in a moment of pique. She’d always been so careful; never ordered him to do things, always asked, forever cautious not to remind him of the days before they’d known each other. 

Fenris might have told her long ago that Hawke might be a mage, but she was nothing like the magisters he’d known. If he doubted her in the slightest, he would have walked away long ago. Did she think he didn’t know exactly who she was, down to her very bones?

“I didn’t want you to be trapped,” she said, and took another breath, “I…love you, Fenris. I always have. But I won’t hold you here when you don’t want to be held. Explaining what I was doing would have forced you to help; I know you too well to think otherwise. If you thought I was in danger—you would have left what you wanted to do behind. That wasn’t fair. You left because you had to and—I couldn’t make that choice for you. I wouldn’t.” 

The words came too quickly; they collided with each other, trapped in his throat, and trying to clear it had no effect. Fenris held her instead, wrapping one arm around her waist and backing her toward the counter. Hawke moved with him readily, her face tilted up and watching. 

She’d never told him she loved him before; not waking, not in so many words.

Fenris didn’t kiss her—not yet—but his mouth skimmed her cheek, the edge of her ear. He spoke there, where she could not help but hear him, where she could not be distracted by looking for answers in his face. 

“Listen to me,” he told her, “You did make the choice for me—by not allowing me the information to follow you. I do not choose you because I must or because you have forced me to, Hawke. I stay because I cannot imagine wanting to be anywhere else; needing to leave for a time does not change that. Not for a moment.”

Fenris could feel her breath against his ear, uneven and labored. He did kiss her now, on her jaw, her cheekbone, the soft skin over her temple. 

“You,” he said, cradling her face and pulling back to look at her, “I told you I would follow where you lead. I meant it then and I mean it now. Let me choose that for myself.”

Hawke closed her eyes. Fenris kissed the delicate skin of her eyelids and tasted salt. 

“Do you believe me?” he said. 

“You aren’t mad?” she asked, “I thought you would be…If you came back, I thought you would be angry with me.”

“I am,” he said, “There is plenty to say about that later. I never want you to do that again. But now…I find I am grateful just to have you here. I am certain I will find time for anger later.”

Maria laughed, as he’d meant her to, and at least lifted her face to be kissed. 

They stood there in the sunlight for a long, long time, touching and being touched, holding and being held. After a year or more, Fenris was, at last, precisely where he wanted to be.

The badly burned cake, when they finally ate it much later, was covered in fresh berries and honey, and it was very nearly perfect.

(Day Fourteen of @14daysdalovers, which was a free choice. I, of course, chose a little pain and a little sweetness. Thanks to the organizers of the event! I've had a blast and it was really cool to see all the neat stuff others have made. Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!)

[shivunin]

Between Strokes of Night

Title: “Love and Sleep” by Algernon Charles Swinburne (Full fic (explicit) on AO3 here)

CW:  Implied sexual content, brief references to past wounds/blood

(And here is the dress she's wearing c: )

Hawke was at the Viscount’s manor, but she wanted to leave. 

There’d been an invitation. She’d answered yes. At the time, it had seemed awfully important. But a month ago—or had it been two?—she hadn’t had Fenris. Or—well, he’d been there. Right at her side; two steps behind and one to the right, as always. He’d been there with her, but he hadn’t been…

With her. 

Hawke scowled down at her wine and took a sip. What a constant irritation it was, not to have hold of one’s own thoughts. For the last three days, it had been impossible to tear them away from him. It was bad enough when they were together, and far, far worse when they were apart. 

Like—now. When she was at the Viscount’s Keep in her fanciest dress, overheated by wine and velvet, and Fenris was…was probably cozy in his derelict manor, reading a book before the fire. Maybe the fire was soft in his hair, legs slung over the arm of the chair…maybe smirking in that way he had…

And she was here, desperately trying to patch the cracks in Kirkwall’s failing social structure. The Champion could do it if she tried hard enough; perhaps she was the only one who could. With a smile, a gesture, a joke—the Champion had no feelings. She was there to serve, to stand between this city and the abyss it so blithely wished to step off the edge of. 

She stood at the periphery now, looking at the little huddles of people talking and laughing. They had stood here and watched her defeat the Arishok in single combat. They’d watched her with her guts outside of her body. They’d cheered when she turned up to make a pretty speech—wearing this same red dress, in fact; red because she hadn’t known if she would bleed through her bandages and black was too solemn. They’d watched, and they’d cheered—

But Fenris had been the one to carry her home when she collapsed in that side hallway there. Fenris had been the one to tell her what an idiot she was the whole way, and he’d been the one to stay with her until Anders could be roused from the guest room to close her belly up again. 

Fenris had been there, and Fenris had stayed.

It seemed like a good idea now to set her cup aside, so Hawke did so, depositing it on a side table. Nobody was trying to talk to her anymore, so Maria began to slip through the crowds to the door without consciously planning to go. 

Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you, he’d said, just as serious as Fenris always was. It seemed impossible that someone could say such things aloud without a hint of irony; that someone could say them to her and mean it. And—and that it had been him saying so? 

Fenris, whom Hawke had accepted she’d be pining for until she died? 

Fenris, who’d melted away with the dawn like some sort of ghost story? 

Fenris, who’d clutched her to him like a dying man given reprieve when she’d told him she still wanted him, who would’ve—

It had been too much three days ago; she’d been scared, though she hadn’t told him so. To have wanted him for so long and finally have him within reach…She couldn’t. She wouldn’t; not so soon. So they’d kissed, on and on, one or the other reaching out again when they should have parted and gone to sleep. She’d spent the night, and she’d been in his arms, but they hadn’t…not again. Not yet.

“I’m an utter fool,” she muttered to herself, and slid the footman a silver when he gave her a startled look. The man’s mouth made a little “o” and he held out her cloak to her with a flourish. 

“Thank you,” she said, and waited until she was halfway down the front steps to go on.

“A fool, a fool; rubbing elbows with folk you hate while he knocks around that manor like a clapper in a bell? Foolishness.”

After a moment, she slipped off her delicate party slippers, dyed red to match the dress. She picked up the hem of her skirt, as she once had as a child running free through the fields with Bethany and Carver. 

And Hawke ran.

|

There was no reason for it, but Fenris could not seem to make himself comfortable. 

The skin between his shoulder blades itched and no amount of readjustment could dispel the discomfort. He grimaced down at his book, angled himself more fully towards the light, and tried again to focus on the words. 

Fenris had read this book before. He knew what happened. Hawke had given this to him; had, in fact, taught him to read using it. Still, his eyes scanned the words with little comprehension, tracing the familiar shapes again and again even when they refused to resolve themselves into a discernible pattern. 

If he allowed himself—if he tried—he could still smell the faintest hint of Hawke on his pillow. It could be nothing else; she smelled of the anise oil she used in her baths and she haunted him. He could have sworn the scent conjured her into his dreams, for he’d met her there every night since she’d left this room.

Fenris snapped the book shut with a disgruntled little noise and set it on the table with a snap. Outside, the night was quiet for Kirkwall, with only the occasional sound of people wandering past or the guardsmen’s boots on the cobblestone. Inside, the fire crackled in the hearth and the wind blew through the cracks in the windows. Fenris drifted closer to the hearth, since he had little attention for anything else. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him—either at her side or in her bed. He knew that very well. But he had damaged some vital trust three years ago, and wanting or not it was not something that could be patched with words alone. Nothing would fix it, in fact, except time—and he feared they had very little of that left. 

Even less when she had not come to see him. 

“I am a fool,” he told the fireplace. The fire inside crackled merrily. 

He must be far gone indeed, that the happy crackle of flames reminded him of her, too. 

Perhaps he would have dwelled on this thought further, would have berated himself for his lovesick imaginings. He did not have time to try, for at just that moment the front door swung shut with a bang. 

Fenris did not reach for his sword. He didn’t call on the lyrium under his skin. He didn’t reach for armor, or search for a place to hide. He knew those footsteps all too well, and there was only one person in the world who let his door slam like that when she let herself in. Fenris closed his eyes as he heard bare feet on the stair, a quiet oath when she stubbed her toe on the tile she never missed, and then the slower steps when she neared his bedroom. 

“Hawke,” he said a moment before she swung open the door. 

A pause. 

“How do you always know it’s me?” she asked, pushing the door open. 

Fenris’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of her. Her hair might have been twisted into one of those braided crowns Fereldens seemed to enjoy so much, but it had begun to come loose now. Curls had freed themselves from their constraints and several stuck to her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. She held shoes in one hand, and her breath heaved, pressing the upper curves of her chest above the edge of her blood-red bodice. Even as he noted this in one amazed glance, Hawke tossed her shoes toward the corner and advanced. 

“I’m a fool,” she said, and Fenris blinked down at her. 

“I should’ve stayed the other night,” she said. He frowned. 

“You did stay,” he said.

“No, but I—” frustrated, she blew a curl from out of her eyes. 

Just that—the familiar, annoyed mannerism—was enough to break the surprise that had held him in place.

As Fenris set his hands on her shoulders, he remembered dimly that…he was certain that the same gesture, blowing a curl from her forehead, was what had first made him abruptly aware that he was attracted to her. Startled by the memory, Fenris laughed once and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“What?” she said, “I’m—I’m trying to tell you something!”

“What are you saying?” he asked, and pressed a careful kiss to her cheek when she didn’t push him away. 

“That I should’ve—should’ve let you—we should have—” 

Fenris kissed her other cheek, then the tip of her freckled nose. Hawke, startled, stared at him with round eyes. Like a cat who’d been swatted on the nose, he thought with distant amusement. 

“Do you want to?” he said, allowing his hands to slide lower and trace the lace edge of the gown along either shoulder. Maria opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“You aren’t upset?” 

“No.”

“But—but everything you said—and then I just left the next morning like—like—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed her forehead again, “And here you are. Stay, if that’s what you want.”

She took a sharp breath, as if to dispute this, but sighed instead. 

“Do you…want to?” she asked. Fenris drew back and examined her for a moment. She was pink about the cheeks, but her dark eyes held his without any of the worry they’d held several days ago. 

But—though it would be easier to ask her what she wanted, for Hawke was good at letting one know when she wanted something…that was not what she needed now. So he spoke instead. 

“Yes,” Fenris said, and rested his hand along her chin instead, “Yes. I do.”

The kiss was sweet, slow, and—though it was not as long in coming as the last one had been—Fenris savored every second of it. 

To bed or not; the decision did not feel so weighty when he remembered she would be with him all the while. 

“Then,” he said, “I have wanted to take you out of this since that party. May I?” 

“Yes,” she said, and turned in his arms. Her breath caught when he traced the back of the neckline, the draping lace dotted with seed pearls that shone lustrous in the firelight. 

A fortune of a gown, it was; she’d purchased it when she’d been formally named Champion, and every single one of her friends had protested her wearing it. 

Fenris had been especially strenuous in his objections. 

Hawke had been on the verge of death only weeks earlier. She shouldn’t have been on her feet at all, let alone in such a restrictive garment. But she’d wanted to wear it, and she’d wanted to go, so that was precisely what she’d done. Not one of them could stop Hawke from doing precisely what she wanted to do; all of them knew that.

And he’d had to all but carry her home when she’d collapsed in a hallway after the speeches. He’d convinced himself he resented the thing because of that day—and he did—but a large portion of his discomfort with it lay in the way Hawke wore red. 

Like it was meant for her. Like the color had been created for her sake alone

Now, Fenris removed the catches that held the lace on and set it aside. The velvet was almost luminous in the firelight, warm against her skin. There were hidden laces on the back. He undid each of them slowly, fingers nimble on the soft fabric. Each lacing that came undone revealed more of her back, and each empty eyelet saw her breath coming a little faster, the pulse in her neck a little harder. 

When the bodice came loose, he smoothed his hands over her shoulders once. 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Yes,” she murmured, and turned her head to kiss him. 

It was difficult to kiss her like this, over her shoulder, but the position allowed him to untie the skirt, too, much simpler after the complexity of the upper lacings. The rest of the dress fell to the floor in a sigh of fabric and Maria turned at once to put her arms around his neck. It was good to kiss her—it was always good—but it wasn’t enough to feel the ridges of her stays through his loose sleeping shirt. He wanted more. 

Three years; she hadn’t been alone for all of them. He knew that well. But Fenris had been, by his own choice. The thought of someone else touching him had been…It hadn’t appealed. It required a level of trust that he simply couldn’t summon by will or determination alone, and though he hadn’t begrudged her seeking comfort elsewhere he wanted…he wanted. 

A novel experience, desire for desire’s sake. 

Fenris found the laces to her stays and tugged at them until they came loose. She made a soft noise against his mouth as her hands found his hips, the hem of his tunic, the bare skin beneath. Hawke sucked in a breath. 

“Oh,” she said, “Oh. Fenris, I forgot...”

Whatever she’d forgotten, he did not hear it; the sound of his name on her lips in that particular tone was like fantasy made sound. He abandoned her underthings and pulled his tunic off in one swift motion, tossing it away carelessly and setting her hands back on his chest. 

“Touch me,” he told her raggedly, and she obliged at once. There was a knot in the laces; he fumbled with it, his hands unaccountably graceless, and after several minutes she pulled back. 

“You’re going so slow,” she said, “It’s killing me. Is it not killing you?”

Fenris scowled at the laces, undoing the knot at last and tugging several loops free. 

“Hawke,” he said, “If not touching you could kill me, it would have done so years ago.”

She snorted at that, her eyes rolling up at the ceiling, and as she did so he finally loosened the last of the stays. Hawke caught them as they fell, and for a moment they stayed pressed against her chest. 

Fenris met her eyes. Hawke took a breath, then shrugged the underthing off and set it aside on the chair. He gave her space to untie the waistband of her smalls, and when that fell away she was entirely unclothed before him. 

It hadn’t been like this last time. They’d been desperate for each other in a hungry, animal way that night, stripping as quickly as possible before colliding again. He hadn’t even known until later that it had been the first time she’d lain with someone; and that had only been because Isabela had made a ribald joke about Hawke being “recently deflowered” weeks after the fact. There had been little time for exploration, for soft touches, and there certainly hadn’t been time to admire her as she deserved. 

He’d spent the last three years making up for the latter; Fenris could mark her every gesture now even if his attention was divided. It had been very easy to convince himself he did this to make combat easier or safer, but he could admit he’d been wrong now. Perhaps he watched her because he wanted to understand her; perhaps he watched her simply because he wanted to. It mattered little now. 

What mattered was that they were here together now—and Fenris could take his time.

(The full, explicit version of this is here on AO3---I didn't want to post smut on tumblr. This was written for @14daysdalovers Day 13: Ravish.)

[shivunin]

Disarming

(Elowen Lavellan/Cullen | 773 Words | No warnings)

“Good,” Cullen said, his face clear and focused, “That was the right angle. We’re going to try again now, a bit faster. Remember not to bring your elbow up too high on the swing or you’ll leave your right side open. Ready?”

“Ready,” Elowen said, adjusting her footing slightly and calling her spirit blade into existence. 

The addition of properly edged weapons to their practice had worried her at first. Cullen had been teaching her swordwork for months, but it had always been with blunted practice swords, and even when they’d moved on to the swords the Inquisition’s soldiers worked with she’d never used her actual weapon. It was different, fighting with the spirit blade; she could feel its hum in her mind when she swung it, and the more she’d practiced with Cullen the more exact her strikes had gotten. Magic was formed of words and diagrams and practice—as Dorian had told her many times—but it was shaped by intent, too. The clearer her intentions had become, the easier it had been to fight with her new blade. 

So: as she’d haltingly admitted to Cullen that morning, she’d been worried about the blade cutting through his practice tunic and trousers. He always practiced without his armor; it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. In truth, she just…hadn’t wanted to hurt him. 

Cullen had listened to all of this without saying a word, and in the end he’d simply said he could take care of himself. 

Who was she to argue with that?

“Begin,” he told her now, and Lavellan practiced the strike again: a modified thrust that knocked the opponent’s weapon aside and went for the unguarded flank. They tried it again, and again, and at last he nodded to her. 

“Full speed,” he said, “Begin.”

They were moving almost before he finished the word, working through the move at full speed and then moving into the rest of the form she’d been learning: strikes, deflections, blows averted and borne alone the blade, until at last he moved through the end, disarming her and catching her ankle so she would fall. They’d done this what felt like a hundred times—it was crucial for a warrior to know how to fall without hurting themselves, he’d told her very sternly when she’d complained in the beginning—but this time, Cullen caught her instead of letting her fall. 

Both of them were grinning, sweaty and sore in the dawn’s light, and he held her for several breaths longer than was strictly necessary. His thumb stroked a gentle arc along her back, a touch she felt through her whole body. 

“Excellent work,” he told her, “You’ve improved greatly since you began. I hope you see that; I certainly do.”

“Mmm,” Elowen hummed in agreement, her eyes caught on his mouth, on the way the scar along his lip stretched when he smiled, “I…yes.”

“Particularly,” he went on, apparently not noticing her distraction, “In guarding your flank; I don’t think I’ve managed to score a hit on your ribs in weeks. Helaine was telling me just yesterday that she would have passed you on to the final round of training if you’d been under her command.”

“Oh?” Elowen said. She’d stopped listening. Her hand had raised, resting on his shoulder, and Cullen adjusted her in his arms, setting her back on her feet again but leaving his hands in place on her hips. 

“Yes,” he said, then cocked his head, “Though—I did have a thought about your footing. Given your stature, you might consider—”

Elowen rocked up onto her toes and pulled him down to her, silencing the words with the press of her lips. Cullen froze for a moment, then tightened his grip on her hips, one thumb tracing the lower curve of her ribs. 

How does he always feel so good? She wondered, angling her head and deepening the kiss, And how did I go so long without knowing it? 

They held on for a long time, separating only once the keep began to stir around them. When she finally settled onto the flats of her feet, Cullen’s cheeks were faintly pink and his mouth was soft, faintly parted. Elowen smiled up at him, her hands flat on his chest. She could feel his heart hammering below, could feel the answering hum in her own chest as her own raced on. 

“You’re very good at that,” she told him, then bit her lip, “I mean…” 

He huffed, shaking his head. 

“I am…glad you think so,” he told her, the words stilted. After a moment, Cullen cleared his throat and straightened. 

“Now,” he said, “About your footing—”

(For @14daysdalovers day 6: Encourage.)

[shivunin]

Hart of Hearts

Of all the horrid locations she’d visited in Ferelden because of the Blight, the Brecilian Forest was Arianwen’s favorite to date. There were few people wandering around killing at random, nobody seemed to want to talk to her. If it hadn’t been for the werewolves and angry trees, it would almost have been a vacation. She’d even brought the quieter of her companions along. 

With one exception, of course—and she’d ignored Morrigan hissing questions about it because she…well. She had no answers. 

Except—that she couldn’t stop thinking about the way Zevran’s lips had felt on hers, brief as it had been. The memory of it was bad when he was with her, but it was far, far worse when she left him behind at camp. At least when he was with her, she could remind herself of all the reasons she didn’t like his mouth. The innuendos, the deflections, the constant talking—

Wait—

“Down,” she murmured, crouching, a hand outstretched, and the others followed suit. 

There—in the clearing ahead. 

“Oh,” she breathed, a hand pressed to her chest, “Oh, I’ve never seen one up close.”

A hart stood in the clearing, its head bent as it cropped at the grass. Sunlight shone through the leaves, resting on its fur in patches. She’d seen cats in sunlight, the way their fur differed when it was thus lit, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be the same for something so big. 

Arianwen braced one hand on the soft forest floor, inching forward with the utmost care. She didn’t want to scare it off; didn’t want to lose the magic of seeing something so large acting with such grace. It was meant to be here, meant to be doing exactly what it was doing. In all the horror, the blood, the darkness of these past months…she’d forgotten what it looked like just to see a creature as it was supposed to be, doing what it was supposed to do. The world as it was supposed to be. She hadn’t even thought that existed anymore. 

Wen sighed faintly, her eyes fixed on the creature, and felt something brush against her fingers. Brush, and then hold; a hand, covered in fingerless leather gloves. Wen glanced down without moving her head and saw Zevran’s fingers curled over her own. The touch was so light that she might have thought she’d imagined it if she hadn’t looked down at him. 

They only stayed like that for a moment. The hart lifted its head and slowly trotted away seconds later, their group stood to walk away, and the moment was over. 

Except—Wen and Zevran walked side by side, and more than once the backs of their fingers brushed against each other, caught, and held. 

That night, unlike all the others since he’d kissed her, when Zevran settled onto the log beside her near the campfire, Arianwen did not immediately stand up and walk away. She stayed instead, her skin tingling from his proximity, and held herself very still. If anyone else—Zevran included—noticed the color in her cheeks, they kept it to themselves.

(The first of several prompts for @14daysdalovers, a series of romance prompts for February. The prompt for today was "Hart" c:)