#Might change him from Sun Elf to Wood or Green Elf though: makes more sense for Rillifane | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

laurelsofhighever · 3 years

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Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

She tumbled into the light. Her stomach lurched as if in a dream of falling and then her lungs sensed air and instinct overtook her in great, sawing gulps of it, like she was breaching the surface of the ocean after being held under. The flush of panic beneath her skin paused the tally of her other senses, but slowly the scents of rain and earth rose up to meet her, the sigh of wind against her face and the cold of mud under the claw of her fingernails. After so long, the onslaught of sensation bloomed sparks of colour beneath her eyelids. When she tried to open them, the world reeled and fell behind a red haze of too-quick movement, gravity firm against her back and cool earth pressed under her cheek.

“Rest easy, child. It will take some time to adjust to the world again.”

The familiarity of the voice, wry and cracked with age, spurred her into motion. Shivering, she rolled onto her side and turned her head up into the rain. Fat drops prickled her forehead, forcing her to blink, while grass poked at the back of her neck with every heaving gasp she drew for breath. The sky was white. Not green, not dark and swirling with currents of strange energy, but the blank white of a low cloud heavy with water, of a typical miserable day in the waking world that made travellers turn up their collars and drove wildlife to huddle away in whatever shelter they could.

Distracted, she opened her arms wide and laughed until the sound turned into sobbing.

And then a tendril of emerald energy flickered through the air above her head and dread froze her where she lay. The possibility that she was mired in illusion, that this glimpse of freedom might be ripped from her grasp like a curtain pulled back on an empty theatre, churned in her stomach and brought another wave of dizziness crashing down upon her head. It could not be. Without yet knowing if she would stand to face whatever was coming for her this time, she followed the flare of magic back to the rip in the Veil that had allowed her to cross, lifting her head past the ache growing in her bones to see an old woman in the worn, patched clothing of a beggar, her arms raised and wreathed in ropes of blinding bright energy that fed into the slippery green scar of the Fade. It shrank, twisting and snapping like a wild animal trying to free its ropes, until finally with a crack, a flash, and an afterimage that glowed on the back of her eyes, it disappeared entirely.

The roar of it grew stronger by its absence. Trees shivered around the ring of the hill, the susurration of their leaves like an incoming sea. She lay next to Flemeth within a ring of stones patchy with moss, with the acrid odour of a damp fire nearby, too beaten down by the weather to offer either light or warmth.

From neck to foot, her armour clanked with her shivering, even after her saviour barked a command to the flames to leap from their sulking places under the wet logs. As she dragged herself across the sodden ground to the wash of heat over her face, her senses righted still further and nagged her about her surroundings, the familiarity in the stones. She dismissed it. Her hands warmed as she knelt and thrust them towards the fire, but that only sparked another worry; somewhere along the way she had dropped her charm, the pink-petalled rose that had guided her, guarded her, through her wanderings. A bush of the same pale flowers hunkered a little way beyond the circle, but it only held her gaze for a moment before her eye caught on a more distant shape, the solid form of a castle behind the haze of rain, with the dim shadow of a settlement beneath it.

“This is Harrowhill,” she realised, her own voice out loud grating against her ears. Her heart clenched. Two and a half leagues off, her home waited, along with the life she had left behind. She could have walked there within a day, if she pushed herself.

A blanket folded around her shoulders in the same instant that another spoken word to the fire made it leap higher still.

“How do you feel?” Flemeth asked.

Rosslyn looked up into the gleaming yellow eyes. Her body had yet to catalogue the full inventory of hurts that had been done to it, but even in the moment as she pondered the question, more made themselves known. Her throat stung like she had been drinking seawater and the cold shiver in her limbs had turned into full shakes that shot pain through the length of her muscles, while about her, the world spun on more axes than it should. Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned to face straight ahead in the hopes it would quell the nausea, but the pounding in her head only worsened, and it brought into focus the face of a man slumped across the other side of the fire, whom until that moment she had mistaken for a bedroll.

“Who is that?”

Flemeth followed the direction of her gaze. “A criminal. It matters not.”

His eyes stared glassily at nothing from unremarkable, ashen features, mouth agape above a rust-dark line that stretched across the width of his throat.

“You used blood magic.” Sickened, she tried to back away from the corpse, but the effort roiled in her stomach and dimmed her vision at the corners.

“Is that the most of your accusations?” The witch laughed. “This man would have died either way, condemned as he was, but he wished to make amends before his execution, and I needed a source of power. This way, he was of use.”

“You murdered him,” Rosslyn spat. The horizon tilted.

“And rid the world of a murderer to return a champion to it. Are you not glad to be back among the living?”

Still trying to stand, she opened her mouth to respond, but the sway in her ears turned her upside down before the words could form, and in a rush everything slid down into darkness.

When she awoke, it was to a long lance of golden light slanting across the bare beams of a shingle roof above her. Whether it came from a dawning or a westering sun she did not know, and decided did not matter. For a moment she let herself sink back and hover just above unconsciousness as she tried to reconcile the memory of the wet, blustery vision of Harrowhill with the present warm scratch of a wool blanket against her cheek. How Flemeth must have moved her was a mystery for another time; as she collected herself, the images of fevered dreams passed through her mind’s eye, hands pressing her back into a mattress, forcing potions down her throat. Her body ached as if she had been in battle, her breath laboured in her chest, and her blistered mouth screamed for even a drop of water.

Birdsong drifted in through the window. She recognised the trill of a blackbird among the general din, with the distinct purling quality of a late summer boast. Evening, then. The boards above her head were all felled from the same tree, with a collection of whorls in the wood that brought to mind the faces of a dog, and between them spiders had strung webs that now hung thick with dust. She counted them. Every detail was sifted carefully to check for truth, from the bite of her nails into her palms to the tame spit of the hearthfire and the scents of woodsmoke and cooking food.

When she was finally satisfied that the world around her had not been presented as a trick for her mind to follow, she tried to move. Flemeth’s dubious mercy could not be trusted. Someone had taken her armour, her weapons, and stripped her down to a plain shift that rasped against her skin.

Her first attempt failed when the protest in her muscles sent her falling back, panting, but with gritted teeth she changed tack and rolled onto one arm instead of straight up, and from there curled around until her feet planted into the curly strands of a sheepskin rug. Even that taxed her, driving the pulse in her neck and the saw in her breath as if she had already been three rounds in the lists, and it galled to have to settle her hand against her sternum –

Alistair’s necklace had gone. The familiar weight of the chain was not around her neck, the amulet bearing Andraste’s image no longer resting against her collarbone. Panicked, she threw herself upright, already searching the pillow and the floor for a telltale glimpse of silverite, but with barely a wobble of warning, her legs refused to take her weight. She went down hard enough that she had to throw out an arm to stop her skull cracking on the flagstone floor, though it didn’t save the skin of her knees.

“Hang it all,” she snarled, as blood welled from the cuts. Her legs trembled, the muscles atrophied into bare cords beneath the skin.

Before her horrified mind could make sense of the sight, footsteps running from outside marked her time. With another snarl she lunged for a candlestick that had been set on the bedside drawer she had narrowly missed as she went down and held it like a club, though by rights it would barely do more damage than her fists.

The figure who opened the door a moment later stopped on the threshold as she took in Rosslyn’s position crumpled on the floor, her large green eyes wide above the Dalish markings on her cheeks.

“Oh – no! you shouldn’t be out of bed!” She started forward, tucking a bobbed lock of black hair behind one pointed ear.

Rosslyn bared her teeth. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m here to help you,” the elf replied, somewhat hopefully.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? The last thing I remember –”

“If your memory’s coming back, that’s good!” But the optimism faded in the face of Rosslyn’s continued hostility. “My name is Merrill, and you’re safe – I was asked to look after you, by Asha’bellanar herself,” she added proudly.

The name stirred something in Rosslyn’s memory, but she didn’t drop the candlestick. Seeing her hands shake, Merrill put up her hands and made her way over to the hearth in slow movements, unhooking the staff slung across her back to lean it against the wall as she crouched in front of the stewpot.

“You must be hungry, it’s been days since you’ve eaten – or years, really,” she said. “I’m not sure what the best way is to measure time in the Fade when you’re physically there. You must have seen some fascinating sights.”

“Years?” The candlestick clattered to the floor.

There was no telling how many. Their surroundings showed the typical interior of a Fereldan homestead, with a levelled stone foundation and walls made from hand-planed timber, a design that had served well for generations but offered no clues for context about where they were, or the state of the world beyond. Rosslyn could well believe Flemeth able to survive unchanged for decades, but thinking on it drew her mind to the terror that perhaps enough time had passed to wither away everything she had left behind. She had seen such things in the Fade, after all, the works of entire ages that rose and fell in in the space it took to draw a single breath. She pushed her head into her hands. Was Ferelden still the same beyond the walls of her prison as when she left it? Had the war ended? And what of Alistair, with whom she had vowed to stand against all hardship? With her body so weakened, she had a slim chance of escaping and finding her way to him. Even if she were still somewhere within the Teyrnir of Highever, the likelihood of being found by her brother’s men or the king’s was outmatched by the possibility of less savoury characters stumbling across her when she would be unable to defend herself.

She looked up through her fingers and her growing panic as Merrill approached with a rough wooden bowl filled with whatever had been in the stewpot. The elf’s anxious smile seemed genuine, and as she offered the bowl with a chunk of dense, crusty bread, Rosslyn breathed deep and decided to take it as such. After all, if any harm was meant to her, she would have woken up in chains instead of a warm, clean house – if at all. Hating how the weight of it made her hands tremble, she took the offered bowl and the bread with a cautious sniff. The rich yellow soup within was thicker than the fine broths served at high table, more like a puréed sauce, with flecks of green herbs throughout and something pale and crumbly scattered over the surface.

“Asha’bellanar… That’s what the Dalish call Flemeth, isn’t it?” she asked cautiously as she dipped the bread into the mix.

“That’s not something most humans know,” Merrill replied, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards in pleased surprise.

Rosslyn shrugged. “Two Dalish came to the palace on Flemeth’s word that we should go to Ostagar. At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe them.”

“That would have been Ethalas and Tamlen.” The elf shifted into the space next to Rosslyn on the sheepskin. “They were from my clan.”

“You sound sad.”

“I haven’t seen any of them since I agreed to follow Asha’bellanar.”

“Did your Keeper send you like she sent them?” Rosslyn asked.

Merrill shook her head and silence fell between them. Not wanting to pry, Rosslyn turned her attention back to the soup, and with it, the unsettlingly bizarre feeling of having food in her hands. The last she had eaten was a ration of hardtack as she was dressed for battle at Ostagar. Since then, she had dreamed of feasts, and rivers of wine where she could drink her fill, but the Fade contained nothing of substance, and eventually even the memory of flavour had been forgotten in her trudge across that endless, empty plain. If not for the need to regain her strength in order to find Alistair and return to her former life, she might have listened to the nausea prowling through her insides and pushed away even this simple dish. As it was, she closed her eyes and brought the mopped chunk of bread to her lips.

The taste exploded on her tongue, salt and sweet and the aroma of the herbs used to season the other ingredients. She recognised the taste of squash and sage, and a gaminess that was almost like goat’s cheese but more pungent, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut. Her stomach heaved.

“Is it that bad?” Merrill cried clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Hahren Paivel always did despair of my cooking but I tried to make this exactly as Sylissa always did when the children were sick. I’d hoped –”

But Rosslyn ignored her, already devouring the rest of the bowl. The bread was too much work to chew so she set it aside, but the soup warmed her and went down in gulps to quench the wakened fire of her appetite, and though more than half of it still remained when she sat back, she could feel the life seeping into her body, fleshing her out as if before she had only been a wash on a painter’s canvas. Though she fought against the well of fatigue that came with the relief, she could already feel herself nodding.

“Thank you,” she said to Merrill, who was still hovering nervously. “I could not have asked for a finer first meal.”

“I’m rather glad I didn’t poison you,” came the answer. “I was worried humans might not be able to eat elvhen food.”

“City elves eat the same food as humans,” she pointed out.

“That’s true, I suppose – oh!” Placing one hand on Rosslyn’s arm, she reached around with the other to one of the pouches belted at her waist, and with a delicate clink of metal pulled out an engraved disc on a short silverite chain. “It’s special, isn’t it?” she asked. “I had to take it off you while you were recovering so it didn’t break.”

Rosslyn took it in wary, reverent fingers. “My husband gave it to me to keep safe.” For a moment, all she could do was look into the serene face of Andraste and swallow back her tears. The amulet might be all she had left of him. “Where are we?”

“I’m… not supposed to tell you.”

“I need to get to Denerim as soon as possible, I need to get word to the king that –”

Unless she no longer had a place at court. With the aftermath of a civil war to cause instability, she could hardly imagine the Landsmeet would sit by while their ruler left the throne unsecured, and even before Alistair was thrown into Valesh Aeducan’s path she recalled the veritable parade of young noblewomen who had tried to make an impression on him after his title was recognised. And then there was Anora. When they had marched south she had been in the tower awaiting judgement, with her crowd of supporters grumbling but appeased by the stay of punishment for her involvement with her father. What if –

No. Giving space to such thoughts could only end in self-defeat. Once more centring herself with a breath, she turned to Merrill, the amulet held tight in her fist.

“Tell me everything you know,” she commanded.

The days passed slowly as Rosslyn worked to get her strength back, the walls of her prison slowly expanding to include first the yard where the chickens pecked for grubs, and then the rim of the clearing where Flemeth had brought her, in a dell where the trees grew too tall to admit any view of the landscape beyond. The mixed stands of oak and beech that barred her path let her guess they were somewhere in the northern part of the country, but nothing more certain, and though she looked in every direction, the only column of smoke she found was the one rising from her own chimney, so she could not hope for a nearby settlement, either.

It did not hinder her determination. Once she recovered enough to walk from one side of the clearing to the other without needing to rest, she donned a cloak, strapped Talon to her belt, and pushed through the scrub into the forest, keeping the sun to her left. When she emerged into the clearing again less than an hour later, the commiserating look Merrill offered barely helped calm the flare in her temper.

She tried again, and again, until her attempts and the days blurred together. Whichever direction she chose, her path inevitably led her back to the house, and even when she tied string to the branches as she went, she could not find her way. Ostagar was eighteen months gone, with no news of the court, and as reality slowly worked its way back into Rosslyn’s bones, the pain of Alistair’s absence grew like a canker. It felt too much like defeat to stop trying, however, so she took up her sword forms instead, running through them all until her limbs shook from exhaustion and she turned feverish again.

“You were in the Fade in your physical body, you can’t expect to be springing about like a halla fawn right away,” Merrill chided that night as she checked her temperature with the back of one small hand.

She offered a wry smile. “I’m sorry to undo all of your good work.”

“Not all of it,” Merrill allowed. “The rules of this world don’t apply in the Fade, so your body was sort of… stuck, like a fly getting trapped in tree sap, but when you came back, everything you went through caught up all at once. Or at least, that’s my best guess. Nobody’s walked in the Fade like that since the days of Arlathan, and never for so long.”

“And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall,” Rosslyn quoted.

“What’s that?”

“It’s from the Chant of Light.” Unconvinced she might be by the Maker’s Word, but like any good noble child, Rosslyn had been thoroughly schooled in its teachings. “Tevinter magisters lifted the Veil and stormed the Maker’s city, only to be cursed with the Blight for their trouble.”

“Well… you haven’t been tainted.” Merrill smiled. “That’s a good thing. You just have to be patient.”

“I will not be kept here.”

Too many people needed her, too much might happen if she lingered.

And yet, how could she face Alistair looking as she did now? Her hollowed cheeks stared at her corpselike from her reflection in the water bucket every morning, the shadows of her ribs swelled with every breath, and the armour once made for her rattled on her frame as if she were a child dressing up in her parents’ clothes. If he were to see her, what pity would follow his touch as he traced her suffering? Guilt would plague him, and perhaps revulsion, and the thought of either was like a stab through the heart, though as she lay on her cot in the dark of night refusing the pull of sleep, those were not the only fears that kept her from rest.

Merrill helped. Her endless optimism infected even the bleakest of Rosslyn’s moods, and she had a way of guilting a person after a disagreement that reminded her of the artful silences Nan used to employ whenever Cuno got loose in the kitchen. Without any other company but each other, they spent their days swapping stories as they divvied up the chores of the house, and in doing so Rosslyn discovered she wasn’t the only one in Flemeth’s debt, though her new companion always changed the subject when it brushed too close to the nature of her deal with the witch.

“If we’re to be tools for whatever grand scheme she’s plotting, surely we would be more use not left to rust out here in the back end of nowhere,” she groused one evening as they shared their meal. “I could have gotten word – said something – but instead I’m trapped here doing nothing.” Summer was fading from the trees, the days growing shorter as the verdancy of their surroundings turned to shifting hues of bronze and gold. “Are you sure you can’t try to lift the enchantment she’s put on the clearing?”

With a sympathetic look and considerable patience, Merrill shook her head. “The enchantments she added when we were brought here are older magics than I was ever taught. If I try to unravel the spells without knowing where they start, it might make things worse.”

“I need to go home.”

“You’re lucky to have one,” the elf replied. “My clan won’t take me back. This is all I have.”

Rosslyn glanced to her sharply, but she refused to say more, and they spent the rest of the night in bitter silence.

A jingle of harness through the morning mist a few weeks later gave them the first sign of Flemeth’s arrival. A pair of mismatched cobs plodded into the clearing ahead of a closed wagon that should have been too big to make it through the dense underbrush, and at the reins an old woman sat wrapped in a cloak, completely innocuous except for the golden gleam of her eyes. When she halted the wagon in front of the house, she pulled the scarf from around her face to reveal the cold twist of that ever-present smirk.

“I see your convalescence has not doused your fire,” she said to Rosslyn, who had emerged from the house with Talon resting on her hip.

“I do not care to be kept a prisoner,” she growled in return. “You had no right to keep me here.”

“Didn’t I?” One fine eyebrow arched. “You entered a bargain when I came to you in the Fade. You said you wanted to live, and I told you there would be a price. You might have thanked me for it before you started berating me, or do Couslands no longer keep their word?”

She lifted her chin. “If you want my debt paid then let me pay it and have done. I have people waiting for me.”

“And people whose lives you fear go on without you,” Flemeth retorted. She climbed down from the driver’s seat, unhurried, joints cracking. “I told you once of the wars and deaths that would happen without your leave, but it takes living through death to see the truth of it, wouldn’t you say? You need not worry. I have come to take you for what’s needed.”

“I want to see Alistair.”

The amusement in the old witch’s face turned to ice. “You are in no position to make demands of me, girl. What would you do, go to him only to say that you must leave again?”

Before she could answer with more than a scowl, Merrill joined them, dressed in travelling clothes and with the bag where she kept her few belongings slung over her shoulder.

“Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar,” she murmured, bowing low.

“There now,” Flemeth crowed. “Someone with manners. You should ready to leave, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Shutting up the house took less than an hour. They doused the fire and caught the chickens to take with them, loaded Rosslyn’s armour into the back of the wagon with supplies for the road, and when everything was settled, Flemeth climbed back into the driver’s perch without so much as a backward glance.

“Aren’t you going to tie me up, or put me under a Sleep?” Rosslyn asked, suspicious.

“I have no need,” came the airy reply. “Because I will tell you what you are to do, and after that, you will stay of your own volition.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

Flemeth chuckled. “I am an old, old woman, and I have seen your like before. Honour and duty will serve to bind you just as well as magic, as it did your ancestors.”

Still reluctant, Rosslyn climbed up next to Merrill, who beamed and offered her a pocket of warm bread filled with honey and chopped nuts.

“Well, you didn’t want to be left behind, did you?” she asked. “I’m sure this’ll be exciting.”

For the first few days, the journey took them through disorienting countryside along barely visible trackways, but eventually the ground rose and the forest opened ahead of the cart into the sparse pine slopes of the Frostbacks. With such a landmark, Rosslyn could have cut her way across-country to a settlement and from there on to Denerim, even with the dangerous weather closing in with the end of the year, but as the witch had predicted, she did not. She had learned what was needed of her, the consequences if she deserted, and she had not forced the Nightmare back into the Fade only for the world to shatter around her mere months after she fell into it again.

So she stayed. She watched the scenery from the back of the cart as it mellowed from frowning, snow-capped peaks to the gently undulating plains of southern Orlais, and she made no complaint when she and Merrill were once more shut away, this time in townhouse in the noble quarter of Halamshiral. A few weeks, Flemeth promised, and then she could reclaim her life and its petty entrapments.

The witch herself faded into the background of the house, the puppeteer behind the curtain as preparations were made to infiltrate the palace with the opening of the winter season. Dresses were made, and introductions, and if the servants were hollow-eyed and their hostess too vacant to hold a conversation, Rosslyn chose not to concern herself with it. Blood magic was an evil against which she could not win alone, one that so far hadn’t been turned on her only because Flemeth needed her mind intact. Alistair would not have approved of her silence, her compromise, but she shoved that knowledge to the back of her mind along with all the other choices she would rather forget. Compared to the dead at South Reach, the sacrifices at Lothering, the fate of one overwrought Orlesian noblewoman mattered little.

With Merrill’s help, by the time the First Night Ball arrived she had charmed, bribed, and enchanted her way into one of the guest rooms of the palace itself. From there, she joined the nameless throng into the entrance hall in the plain mask of someone too humble too be noticed, and waited for Morrigan to appear.

It was then she caught the first whispers.

“Have you seen him yet?”

“He has not made his entrance.”

“They say he still mourns.”

“I saw him in Kirkwall last year, a man so handsome should have company to match, even if he is a dog lord.”

“You, cherie? He’s the empress’ prize – why else do you think she would bring him here as her personal guest? She means to have Ferelden.”

“His advisors mean him to have someone, no matter who. Any of us might catch his eye.”

The words made her heart bound behind her ribs. Who else could they be talking about, but Alistair? Flemeth’s smile as she left for the palace made more sense now, the repeated order to keep herself unknown. She lost the rest of what was said by her neighbours through the rushing in her ears. He was supposed to be in Denerim, far away. But not waiting for her; she had seen to that herself.

She was grateful for the mask when he appeared a few moments later at the top of the stairs to the royal wing with her brother in tow. Fergus hunched slightly, his once-wide shoulders gaunt and his strong resemblance to their father only increased with the time and distance they had been apart, but it was Alistair who held her eye. His hair had grown long, half to his shoulders, still the same tawny bronze as ever where it curled slightly around his ears, the strong line of his jaw accented by the trim of a beard. He had been unable to grow one when they had been together, the hairs on his chin had been sparse and patchy and he had pouted every time she teased him about it. As he breathed deep, she wondered if the same were true for the hair on his chest.

Her own breath sawed in her throat as he descended into the crowd, the cold marble of the balustrade beneath her palm holding her upright during the interminable moment when he passed within fifteen feet of where she stood, completely unaware of her existence. Of course she followed him. She watched him make smiles at the nobles, yearned towards him like a weed towards the sun, reading the tense line of his shoulders and the way his mirth didn’t quite meet his eyes, the whole time aching with the tear between what she had done and what she still had left to do.

And then he looked at her. The glance was brief, a flash like the sun on a shard of glass as it searched the room, but it stopped her breath nonetheless. Only when he turned away again and moved into the ballroom did the tingle fade from her limbs, and by then her purpose had reasserted itself.

Draw attention to yourself and they will know you for a cuckoo, Flemeth had told her. They will not show mercy, and I will not help you.

Alistair’s presence raised the stakes. Before, she might have been able to stick to her borrowed identity if she were caught, but with the threat of recognition came the knowledge that Ferelden would share in whatever punishment Celene thought up for her if she did not succeed.

She could not allow it.

At least growing up as a reluctant court flower had taught her how to be invisible in a room full of nobles. When the castellan announced her name she crossed the floor in the perfect attitude of courtly grace, unable to entirely quell the hope that he would see her, though the hesitation as she glanced to the dais cost her a stern glance from Celene. Others more worthy remained to be greeted, after all. Alistair did not spare her even that much.

If I had to choose between you and Ferelden… I don’t know if I could make that choice. The words, spoken a lifetime ago as if they were yesterday, reared in her mind as the night wore on, hours passing with Morrigan still absent, with Alistair at the centre of the room twisting like a flame on a dark night on the arm of so many eager women that bile rose in the back of her throat. The touch of his eyes burned her with every accidental glance, but she was just another face in the crowd, as alone as when she had awoken at Ostagar and found the other side of her bed empty. The thought had yet to pass when someone knocked into her.

“Oh! Do excuse me.” The familiarity of the voice shook Rosslyn from the bitter line of her thoughts, but not quickly enough to note the flash of red hair as the stranger rose and caught her by the wrist.

“Consider it forgotten,” she muttered quickly, already turning away.

“No please, I insist. I must –” Leliana’s gasp cut off the rest of the words, the mask in her hand rising in a graceful arc to cover the slip.

Against her better judgement, Rosslyn turned. Sharp blue eyes peered up at her, still wide with shock.

“It is you.”

She reached for Leliana’s arm. “You have mistaken me, my lady,” she said, deliberately. “Please, forget the offence, my mind was distracted and I failed to see where I was going.”

“He has seen you,” the other woman pressed.

Hope – wild hope like the thundering of horses – roared in her ears, but only for an instant. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I would not wish to accuse an old friend of lying, nor indeed a new acquaintance,” Leliana retorted, threatening with a steady look, while around them people with their eyes on the nearby dancers no doubt listened with interest.

“It would be an unfortunate thing to do in the middle of a crowd,” Rosslyn agreed.

They wove through the press of bodies to a darker corner where the heat and sweat of the dancing didn’t reach so strongly, with pleasant smiles on their faces to deflect the attention of anyone looking for court intrigue. Rosslyn took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing server, needing the fortification of the alcohol as much as the cover it provided.

“Now, what shall I tell him?” Leliana asked when they were finally out of earshot.

“Nothing,” she replied, after a casual sip. “He can’t know I’m here.”

“If you knew…”

“Promise me you won’t tell him,” she interrupted.

But Leliana stood her ground, a fierce light of loyalty in her eyes that nevertheless remained hidden from those around them. “Will you?”

“You used to have faith in me,” Rosslyn muttered eventually, after a moment of scrutiny. She received a calculating look before the gaze skittered away to the warmer light in the middle of the room.

“Very well, I promise I will not tell him who you are.”

They parted. The relief that swelled, the sense of betrayal that came with it, followed Rosslyn back into the crowd like a dog at her heels. Any glamour she had seen in the spectacle around her had tarnished, and now only the need to not let the night go wasted kept her from stalking out of the ball entirely. She needed Morrigan to be here, distracted, and then perhaps when she had done what was needed she might seek out Leliana again, and then –

The music died away. The castellan’s staff rapped sharply against the polished floor. She stiffened, breath held as a dark-haired woman glided through the double doors at the far end of the room, and as those around her crowded forward to get a better look at the empress’ favourite curiosity, she edged in the other direction, her eyes darting to the palace guard dotted in alcoves around the walls. But it wasn’t an Orlesian who stepped out in front of her to bar her path.

“My lady, your presence has been requested,” Morrence said.

And now, her plans shattered into ruin at her feet, she stood in the cold night air with Alistair’s hand on her cheek, his breath warm against her skin, and her heart all but thrashing loose of her ribcage to be closer still. Moonlight washed the colour from his eyes but she recognised their intensity, bold as the sun as he drank her in. She should have known better than to think she could have ever hidden from him.

“Rosslyn…” He breathed it, strangled and desperate.

She could not say anything at all, only squeeze her eyes shut and lean into the palm resting against her face, and hold back tears when he brought his forehead down to hers. He smelled of leather and sweat and smoke.

“Rosslyn. I – this isn’t real.” He swallowed. “I’m dreaming.”

“No,” she managed, trembling. “I’m real. It’s me.”

“What –” A helpless, hysterical giggle breached his lips. “How?”

She sighed, shook her head, pressed her hand against the back of his so he wouldn’t stop touching her. “It’s a long story.”

At that, he pulled back to search her face, a line drawn between his brows as he brushed a thumb over the corner of her mouth. Her heart fluttered, but instead of leaning in his gaze drifted back towards the ballroom, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“You can tell me all about it,” he promised, plucking up her hand to place a kiss against her knuckles. “We’ll have all the time in the world.”

“Alistair, what are you –?”

He stepped backwards, still with their fingers linked as if she would follow after him. “You’re alive,” he said, still with that note of disbelief in his voice. “Celene might not be happy about it but that’s no reason not to tell everyone, right?”

The night-time chill sank around her again as she dropped her gaze, pulled her hand away.

“I can’t.”

Tension crept into his shoulders, and through the silence that reached between them was brief, it left a bitter taste on Rosslyn’s tongue.

“Why not?” he asked, too quiet.

“I told you. I was sent here to pay a debt, and until I do nobody can know who I am.”

“But…” And then he stopped, glanced back to the ballroom again, and licked his lips as cconfusion hardened into something worse. “Was that supposed to include me? Would you have told me at all if I hadn’t brought you out here?”

Unable to bear the hurt in his expression and unable to lie, she turned back to the balustrade and laid her hands flat against the frosty stone. “I didn’t know you would be here. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“That’s your excuse?” he demanded.

“Alistair –”

“You’ve been alive all this time and you didn’t think I would want to know? Do you even know why I’m here, why they’re all gathering around me like blightwolves?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just walk up to you and unmask myself in front of everyone!”

“Why not? It’s been two years, Rosslyn.” His voice cracked. “I mourned you. Andraste help me, there was a funeral – your brother sobbed like an infant because the last person he had left in the world died and I couldn’t comfort him because it was my fault for not keeping you safe.” As if of their own accord, his feet took a halting half-step towards her, broken off when he realised what he was doing. “I’ve had to go on and try to rule Ferelden by myself when we promised we’d do it together, and all this time you’ve been – what, swanning about playing hide and seek in Orlais? Has it been fun? Have you enjoyed watching me suffer from across the border?”

She stared at him, refusing to flinch. When they had first met, she might have risen to his anger, snarled back and bitten deep just to have the final word, but facing him now with all the hope for what their reunion might have been crumbling under her feet like a cliff into the sea, she found exhaustion quenching the fire of her battle-blood.

“I was in the Fade,” she told him without inflection. “When I fought the Nightmare the rift closed behind me and I couldn’t get back.” The featureless plain, the shadows of demons hounding her steps, greedy for the life in her veins – she pushed the memories to the back of her mind.

“But you’re here. Now. Which means you must have gotten out somehow – how long ago was that?”

“Three months,” she admitted. “Maybe four.”

“Four months.”

“Don’t you think I would have sent word if I could?” She had passed waystations, merchant caravans, outposts of militia who had all refused to believe her identity or even give her the charity of pen and paper.

“Clearly I don’t – you’ve only told me now because I forced it out of you!”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “I could have let you just walk away and forget about me but I didn’t. Maybe I should have.”

Alistair rocked backwards at the acidity in her tone, his expression tightening in a way that let her know the blow had struck, that it couldn’t be taken back.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he muttered at last. “The Rosslyn Cousland I knew wouldn’t skulk around some foreign ballroom like a Crow, and she wouldn’t have tried to hide from me. I would have liked to know the woman I loved was standing twenty feet from me while I was getting pawed at and drooled over like a butcher’s bone, but I guess that wasn’t her.”

Pride would not let him see her fall. She breathed, steady with one hand on the balustrade, the moonlight on her back and the faint cadence of the orchestra surging in to fill the gap left by the silence. Loved. Past tense. It would not have mattered anyway. Perhaps this had been part of Flemeth’s plan all along, an added spur of cruelty to keep the mind of her pawn on the task at hand and not running loose with the proverbial bit between her teeth.

“You have no right to stand in judgement of me,” she told him. “Believe what you want. It does not change my purpose here.”

Spine straight in the manner of the queen she had once so briefly been, she set the court mask back in place over her eyes and tied the knots so it would not slip again, and then kept beyond the reach of Alistair’s arms as she headed back towards the light of the ballroom, so he could not reach for her. Whatever fairytale she had expected for their reunion, her heart splintered at the reality, a sapling under the blow of an axe. She still had a duty, and she would do it, as she had been taught since childhood as a Cousland born. Beyond that lay a crevasse she could not have imagined would have yawned so far. Alistair had loved her. And then she had died.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #king alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #f!cousland #cousland #the falcon and the rose

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elliemarchetti · 3 years

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An Unfriendly Waste

As someone seems to have appreciated the previous chapter, here is the sixth, in which Elva, the half-elf protagonist who left together with the Fellowship in place of Legolas, and her companions begin to sail south.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Words: 2250

The Fellowship went on their long way down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare wood stalked along either bank, and they couldn’t see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away and the River flowed without a sound, not even the birds’ voices breaking the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl, fading finally into the West, followed by an early dusk and a grey, starless night. Far into the dark quiet hours they floated on, guiding their boats under the overhanging shadows of the western woods. Great trees passed by like ghosts, thrusting their twisted thirsty roots through the mist and down into the dreary, cold water. Elva sat listening to the faint lap and gurgle of the River fretting near the shore, until her head nodded and she fell into an uneasy sleep on Haldir’s shoulder, who carried her ashore and wrapped her in his cloak, as Gimli, who had taken on the task of lightning a small fire, later brough back to her.

"You've been lucky, if it was just my job I don't know if I would’ve managed not to get you into the water, as tall as you are," joked the dwarf. To have elven blood, Elva wasn’t particularly tall, but to dwarves and hobbits they all had to appear equally part of the Tall People. The time for jokes was incredibly short, as they started again before the day was broad, not that most of the Fellowship were eager to hurry southwards: they were content that the decision, which they must make at latest when they came to Rauros and the Tindrock Isle, still lay some days ahead, so they let the River bear them on at its own pace, having no desire to hasten towards the perils that lay beyond, whichever course they took in the end. Haldir let them drift with the stream as they wished, husbanding their strength against weariness to come, but Aragorn insisted that at least they should start early each day and journey on far into the evening, for he felt in his heart that time was pressing, and he feared that the Dark Lord hadn’t been idle while they lingered in Lorien. Nonetheless, they saw no sign of any enemy that day, nor the next. The dull grey hours passed without event, but as the third day of their voyage wore on, the lands changed slowly: the trees thinned and then failed altogether, while on the eastern bank they saw long formless slopes stretching up and away towards the sky, brown and withered, as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green, an unfriendly waste with nothing to relieve the emptiness. They had come to the Brown Lands that lay, vast and desolate, between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of the Emyn Muil. What pestilence or war or evil deed of the Enemy had so blasted all that region, even Haldir couldn’t tell. Upon the west, to their right, the land was also treeless, but flat, and in many places green with wide plains of grass. On this side of the River they passed forests of great reeds, so tall that they shut out all view to the west, as the little boats went rustling by along their fluttering borders. Their dark withered plumes bent and tossed in the light cold airs, hissing softly and sadly. Here and there through openings Elva could catch sudden glimpses of rolling meads, and far beyond them hills in the sunset, and away on the edge of sight a dark line, where marched the southernmost ranks of the Misty Mountains. There was no sign of living moving things, save birds, but they were seldom seen, small fowl whistling and piping in the reeds. Once or twice the travelers heard the rush and whine of swan-wings, and looking up they saw a great, black phalanx streaming along the sky.

“How wide, empty and mournful all this country looks,” said Elva. “When I was younger, I always imagined that as one journeyed south, it got warmer and merrier, until winter was left behind forever.”

“But we haven’t journeyed far south yet,” answered Haldir. “It’s still winter, and we’re far from the sea: here the world is cold until the sudden spring, and we may yet have snow again. Far away down in the Bay of Belfalas it’s warm and merry, or would be but for the Enemy. You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan, and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It’s a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival, but in these evil days, folk don’t dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream, and of late, it’s said they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan.”

Elva looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, as if they harbored secret eyes and lurking dangers; now she wished that the trees were still there, as she felt that the Fellowship was too naked, afloat in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, on a river that was the frontier of war. In the next day or two, as they went on, borne steadily southwards, this feeling of insecurity grew on all the Fellowship, so they took the paddle and hastened forward, the banks sliding by and the River broadening and growing shallower: long stony beaches laid upon the east, and there were gravel-shoals in the water, so that careful steering was needed. Elva shivered, thinking of the lawns and fountains, the clear sun and gentle rains of Lothlorien. There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats for each occupant was busy with his own thoughts: Haldir’s heart was running under the stars of a summer night, Merry and Pippin were ill at ease, for Boromir sat muttering to himself, sometimes biting his nails, as if some restlessness or doubt consumed him, sometimes seizing a paddle and driving the boat close behind Aragorn’s to peer forward, gazing at Frodo. Sam had long ago made up his mind that, though boats were maybe not as dangerous as he had been brought up to believe, they were far more uncomfortable than even he had imagined. He was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the winter-lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use, they didn’t trust him with one. As dusk drew down on the fourth day, he was looking back over Frodo and Aragorn’s bowed heads when something suddenly caught his sight: at first, he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, he couldn’t see it anymore. When they camped for the night, certain that no one was paying attention to him, he decided to talk about it with Elva, sure she was the one who would understand the most.

“A log with eyes?” she asked, partly perplexed, partly for confirmation.

“I saw what I took to be a log floating along in the half-light behind Boromir’s boat, but I didn’t give much heed to it,” he confirmed. “Then it seemed as if the log was slowly catching us up, and that was peculiar, as you might say, seeing as we were all floating on the stream together. Just then I saw the shiny eyes, on a hump at the near end of the log. What’s more, it wasn’t a log, for it had paddle-feet, like a swan’s almost, only they seemed bigger, and kept dipping in and out of the water; that’s when I sat right up and rubbed my eyes, meaning to give a shout, if it was still there when I had rubbed the drowse out of my head, for the whatever-it-was was coming along fast now and getting close behind our friends. but whether those two lamps spotted me moving and staring, or whether I came to my senses, I don’t know: when I looked again, it wasn’t there, yet I think I caught a glimpse, with the tail of my eye, as the saying is, of something dark shooting under the shadow of the bank. I couldn’t see no more eyes, so I said to myself I was dreaming again, but I’ve been thinking since, and now I’m not so sure. What do you make of it?”

“I should make nothing of it but a log, the dusk and sleep in your eyes, if this was the first time that those eyes had been seen, but it isn’t, and Haldir beheld a strange creature with eyes climbing to the flet that night we slept in the woods, and Elves reported something like that too going after the orcs,” replied Elva, thoughtful.

“I don’t like my thoughts, but thinking of one thing and another, and Mr. Bilbo’s stories, I fancy I could put a name on the creature,” replied the hobbit, instilling a certain terror in her. She had only a vague idea of what Bilbo Baggins had been through on his journey with the dwarves, but whatever might’ve followed them from Moria was no good news.

"I'm not going to ask of your suspicions, just if we have to fear for our lives, or for the mission,” Elva said, wondering why her companion spoke of the matter specifically with her.

"According to Gandalf's thought, I believe that nothing in this journey can be considered safe, and for this I cannot be sure that what I have seen isn’t a risk, but as wise as the Lady you are in your words, since I haven’t yet discussed with Mr. Frodo about it, and I'm not sure I can divulge the details of his relative's story,” Sam replied, slightly blushing. Whether it was for the compliment just given, or for having openly admitted that he was keeping a secret from her, Elva never knew, but still advised him to talk about it with his friend, and once they came to a conclusion, to feel free to talk openly with her, since she wouldn't have mentioned anything to anyone if they didn't want to.

"For the moment, I'll just have an extra eye on it," she concluded, and no more was said that night, though Sam’s words still lingered in her mind for a long time. Was Galadriel as wise as everyone assumed and it was just her whom had misjudged her actions? Or was she a ruthless leader, devoted solely to her own lands and willing to sacrifice her people as needed? Certainly power could’ve corrupted her in far worse ways, and since the bearer of the ring was a hobbit, a being who could do nothing against an elf of that kind, if her heart had been moved by the thirst to be a worthy rival for the Enemy, she could’ve stolen it from him, by deception or by force, yet she hadn't. In conclusion, perhaps she had judged her too harshly, thanks to the fear she had towards her own King, his immense power and fickle character. If only Gandalf had still been among them, she could’ve asked for more information, as he had been the one who suggested to go to Lothlorien, certain that its Lady would offer them help and advice. With those dark thoughts lingering in her head, she fell asleep and came out of it only when Haldir shook her gently in the early morning.

“It’s a shame to wake you,” he whispered, “but it’s time.”

Sure, it was time to go, but it was time to start thinking too about when their paths would part, perhaps forever. If sleeping under the same roof and strolling through the streets of Caras Galadhon had united them, those silent journeys and those kindnesses exchanged under a black and starless sky, in a place where beauty and goodness had long been forgotten, had tightened the knot even more strongly, and Elva feared that to untie it, it would be necessary to cut something, which she was afraid, at least on her side, it would never grow back.

"You should discuss what torments your heart," Gimli said one day, when they docked to rest. After the night Sam had talked to her about the log with eyes, they had reversed their schedule, sleeping by day and travelling by night.

“It would be of no use,” she replied, while setting a rudimental camp, “for what troubles my heart is as inevitable as death itself.”

"Unheard of! A half-elf who talks about death! You will still see endless sunrises, and you will explore the world more than my long-lived race can, before reaching the sunset of your time, and yet you are here to worry about the same pains of us all," the dwarf teased, glancing sideways at Haldir. "It’s true that those who have more time don’t know how to use it.”

Elva didn’t reply, but blushed violently, and that was enough for Gloin's son.

#haldir x fem oc #haldir of lothlorien #half elf oc #gimli son of gloin #legolas greenleaf #aragorn #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #gandalf the grey #galadriel #lotr #the fellowship of the ring

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5lazarus · 4 years

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Anders in Autumn, Ch. 14

the last of @cozy-autumn-prompts. :) Ch. 14, “you take my breath away”: Anders and Fenris come home. Read on AO3 here. The song I had running through my head for this chapter is Sam Cooke’s A Change is Gonna Come, and George Winston’s piano cover. Give it a listen, if you feel like it. :)

Leaves litter the streets of Kirkwall when they return. Fenris takes the horses to Hightown with him. They dawdle at first, at the gate down to Lowtown. Anders is afraid for him to leave. Over nearly a decade their relationship has shifted from mutual antipathy to grudging respect and now comradeship and this tender thing, and it is all so fragile he fears a chill wind will ruin it.

He asks, anxious, “When will I see you next?” Anything could happen while he is gone. The guards could come from him. The templars might invade the clinic. The Carta could firebomb it. Merrill could sacrifice him to Xebenkeck. She had wanted to talk to it, when Hawke accidentally summoned it.

Fenris says, “Tomorrow?” Anders’ face falls. He wanted him to say “tonight.” He nods and begins to descend the stairs, but Fenris stops him. They kiss quickly, conscious that they are a sight: a Ferelden human and a Tevene elf, with two very fine horses. They break apart before someone can try to pick their pockets. Fenris says, firmly this time, “Tomorrow.”

Anders trudges down to Lowtown, winding his way through the Foundry District and down into Darktown. The city goes from gold, trees resplendent in the crown of autumn, to dying and dirty too quickly. The old quarry walls block too much of the sun. He keeps his head down and eyes quick. No one seems to be watching him. The new clothes help.

Messere-Pounce-the-Second runs out to greet him, meowing excitedly. He’s visibly thinner--Merrill has actually kept him to his diet. Anders scoops him up and the cat rubs against his face. He’s purring.

“I should leave more often,” Anders tells him, hugging him close as Messere Pounce tucks his head under his chin and presses his cold nose to his neck. Cat in his arms, he walks into the clinic and is shocked. Merrill has whitewashed the place. She has little pots of elfroot and embrium arranged artistically through the front room. He hears a crash and a scream from the back room and sighs. He puts down Messere Pounce and goes to investigate.

Merrill is holding aloft a bottle of something green, lying prone on a heap of sacks. Anders sniffs the air: elfroot, and a lot of it. Truly a ridiculous amount, really. Even Merrill couldn’t smoke all that. He heaves his bag down. Merrill opens her eyes and grins sheepishly.

“Absinthe?” she inquires.

“Now?”

“Later!” she clarifies. “I made it myself. Isabela showed me how. I took a sack of sugar from one of Varric’s friends,” doubtless without permission, “and, well, in Rivain they drink it with rain water, but I didn’t think the water in Kirkwall would be ah, non-toxic enough. So I drew a bottle of water from the Viscount’s well.” Anders looks at her in disbelief. He resents how Hightown has the cleanest water while polluting the rest of the city. He resents that, because of the way the city itself is built, Hightown’s rainwater pours through the dirty gutters of Lowtown and floods Darktown. Every time it rains, he has to prepare for a cholera outbreak from the overflowing sewers. Every summer he prepares for malaria. Even he would not dare steal from the Viscount’s well, at least not just to make a drink. He would rather occupy it. He shakes his head and offers her a hand. She takes it, and he heaves her up.

“Thanks for whitewashing the place,” he says. “What did I miss?”

Athenril brought the elfroot for saving Mahanon’s life, apparently Imladris was a cousin, Hawke had left a bag of flaming dogshit on Varric’s doorstep, Isabela had received a very flirtatious letter from Fenris’ estranged sister, and Meredith had made three mages with connections to the underground Tranquil. Orsino had sent a letter to the Seekers. The spirits were getting restless--the very oldest ones, the ones who remembered the fall of Arlathan. The Veil was fraying. Six children in the alienage were showing signs of mana sensitivity, but Clan Sabrae was refusing to take anyone in until they had a new Keeper, First, and Second.

“But,” Merrill says, “the halla came back. As soon as they buried Marethari. So I’ve heard. So Athenril told Hawke.”

Anders pauses. Merrill fucked up, and he has no sympathy for what she did to her clan. She should have known better to make a deal with a spirit named Audacity, and one that was so obviously a Pride demon. He does pity her, perhaps, watching the convoluted ways her clan goes about ostracizing her but still makes sure she knows that they are thriving as much as they can without her. He decides not to touch it.

“Makes sense,” he says. “They have no one to train them.” Merrill flinches, and he feels a twinge of guilt. It’s like kicking a puppy, but how else will she learn?

“I suppose another clan will take them,” Merrill says, blinking rapidly. “Oh dear. I was never much of a teacher anyway. I should have asked Imladris Ashallin--but she can get so nasty.”

“She was nice enough to me,” Anders shrugs. “Mostly ignored me, to be honest. Spent a lot of time in the woods. Her husband was a lot of fun, though.”

“Ah, Mahanon, he’s the heart and soul,” Merrill smiles. “Good singer, too. Both of them are so intense though, no wonder you all got along. How was it with Fenris? When Hawke found out you were both gone, they were furious. They wanted to go with you. Varric had to talk them down out of tracking you down. Said they’d do more good telling Bran to leave the investigation off than going on the run.”

He smiles. Messere-Pounce-the-Second bats at his face with a paw and purrs insistently. He wants to be fed. Anders thinks about Fenris, the hungry kiss in the kitchen, the cool night in the orchard, and waking up to him throwing the covers off the bed--their bed, for two nights. “It was fine,” he says to the floor, putting the cat down. “Where did you put the food? What have you been feeding him?” He would sing his love to the Golden City and back, but he has to find the words and the rhythm first.

Merrill looks at him oddly. “You’re happy.”

Kirkwall in autumn is a riot of color and gloom, sea salt and rot coming off the docks, and its people taste of the tomb. Still the sun burns them clean. Anders considers the street scene outside the window before answering. There is still daylight, that perfect gold that illuminates even Darktown for an hour before twilight.

“Yes,” he says. His heart feels full, he can’t even snap at her to leave him alone. Merrill leaves anyway, eying him as she goes, and Anders stands in the middle of the bustle of the clinic and enjoys being home. Lirene is ladling out the evening meal. There are less people gathered than last month, since the dockworkers had gotten a raise. Their faces look less pinched. Perhaps it is the sun pooling in the pit of his stomach, keeping him buoyant, but Anders sees hope there too. He gets to work, chatting with his neighbors, hearing about the little ailments, the fears about the leftover Qunari (who still needed a meal, he’d have to ask Fenris to come with him and invite them over), someone was setting up a school in the alienage but the Ferelden children were invited too.

Night falls and most people clear out, and Anders checks on his chronic patients. Samson always has a bed with him, after everything he has done for Kirkwall’s Circle and the Tranquil in particular, and he is struggling with withdrawal. Anders suspects he steals his lyrium, but he would rather him dose safely than risk an impure strain in the sewers. Reduce harm, he thinks: you can’t take it away entirely, but you can wear away at it. He keeps an eye on him while he makes his rounds.

He is taking inventory of what Athenril left--there is a story in this gift, he suspects, that he’ll never know--when Lirene comes in.

“That elf’s at the door again,” she says. “The grumpy one. You want me to turn him away? I’m going to head out for the night.”

His heart stops, and he can’t help a broad grin from spreading across his face. He wasn’t expecting him to come by, Fenris had told him tomorrow, has he missed him that much? Lirene smiles at the sight of him. She’s glad he’s glad, and Anders is elated. “Fenris?” he says. “Oh no, he’s alright. I’ll get him, you have a great night.”

“More than alright, I’d say,” Lirene murmurs, and she grabs her cloak and dagger and leaves quickly. Anders heads back out to the main room. Samson has fallen asleep in the chair in front of the fire, Maddox standing next to him patiently like Andraste’s mabari himself. Oh, Maker: fuck Meredith for ripping him away from himself, his friend, his lover.

“Maddox, you can sit if you want,” Anders says. Tranquil don’t have wants. It is worth a try anyway. Karl managed to break free briefly, that one time. Maybe this would help.

“I am fine,” Maddox says tonelessly. “The fire is acceptable and I do not tire.” He deserves more than that, more than dry bread and a warm fire. He deserves a bed of roses and his lover back, he deserves Samson whole and they both should have gotten a full life, a reliable home, not just a dry spot by the fire in a renegade mage’s clinic where at any moment this could all be shut down. They deserve more. They deserve the world.

He hears a cough, and looks to the door. Fenris is standing awkwardly at the threshold. He has changed back to his usual light armor. He’s cut his hair, too, shaved at the sides and short on top. He looks sharper and older and clearer. Anders loves it. He wants to run his fingers through it.

Fenris says, “I had some unexpected free time and thought you may want some company.” He looks bashful. Anders draws closer, caresses the edge of his jaw. Fenris closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“I like the hair,” Anders murmurs. He thinks wildly, suddenly: but I haven’t shaved since we left Kirkwall. Before he has time to fret Fenris kisses him, and he sighs as Fenris rakes his nails up his back. Maddox and Samson are behind him, he does not want to think about them. Would Fenris take care of him like Samson takes care of Maddox, or would he leave him like a dog in the streets, like so many have left their broken mage partners? The abandoned mabari take care of them, though, and Samson and some of the others do too. He wouldn’t be left entirely bereft.

“What’s the matter?” Fenris says sharply. “You’re not--you’re thinking about something else.”

Anders holds him closer. “Tranquility,” he says. “Common punishment for mages who have lovers outside the Circle. Inside the Circle they just transfer you, if you’re lucky. I’m just…” He exhales, then burrows his nose in Fenris’ hair. “Brooding. Angry. Afraid. Like I always am. Just--let’s stay like this a moment.” A moment may be all he has. Eventually he can make himself let go. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” He tries to remember what he had been doing--taking stock, planning out poultices for the next week, he needs to draw up a kitchen rotation and see what cash Lirene has left, if he has enough to go to the market or if he’ll need to take Hawke with him.

“Are you busy?”

There is always work that needs doing, because if he does not do it, no one will. That is one thing Justice has taught him. If you see something that needs doing, do it, there’s no excuses. Feeling tired already, Anders smiles and says, “I can make time for you.”

They go for a walk, hand in hand, out to the wharves. The lanterns are lit and swinging in the careless breeze. Anders drinks it in. The trees are losing their leaves, but still they shine in the fairy-light. It is cool but not yet cold. Kirkwall is more temperate than Ferelden, and so much less harsh than the Anderfels. Half the city is out and about, everyone has their doors thrown open and there is a card game, a party, a fight at every corner. He waves at his neighbors--Lirene has Thrask of all people on her arm, as they sit outside her house with a few tankards. She toasts them as they walk by. Sketch, an apostate friend from the Mages’ Collective, rushes into them, slipping a piece of paper into his pocket as he goes. No one is chasing him. Sketch is always like that. Fenris looks at him curiously, but Anders shakes his head. He is not sure how much he wants him to know.

They make it to the wharves and it is a shock how clean it all is. He remembers the blood staining the cobbles, Kirkwall’s eternal rain. Fenris’ fingers tighten their grasp. Anders looks down and notices the grotting between the stones is clean. Someone spent time scrubbing the battle away. Two people dead, a few maimed, most recovering from their injuries, to fight another day, because there would be another battle, another day. But they won this one, and they will win the next. Kirkwall had wrested itself from its chains. One day the mages will do the same, and he will live to do it.

Justice walks the streets of Kirkwall, hand-in-hand. Fenris stops at the edge of the docks and they sit down, staring out at the bay. Behind them are those awful Tevinter statues, howling in despair. Before them the usual moon glimmers on the water, the second Satinalia moon starting to glimmer. Anders can feel the Veil trembling on his skin. He leans against Fenris. Fenris puts his arm around his waist.

“I am thinking,” Fenris murmurs, “of all my ancestors who must have died here.” Cheery: but Anders is just as morbid. “How many of them looked on this, and prayed to gods who would not answer to save them. To let them leave. And now I am here. And I am choosing to stay.”

The wind ruffles the feathers sewn into Ander’s shawl. He shivers, and Fenris draws him closer. Justice presses behind his eyes, drawn to the surface as they see the procession of those that made them. A ship creaks, moored for the winter, and they know it groans with the memory of so many families, lost. Anders thinks of the mages locked in the Gallows, restless as the Satinalia moon stirs the spirits up, and sighs.

“You take my breath away,” Fenris says suddenly. “I am not good with my words. This is new to me. This is all so new to me. But--you are breath-taking. Your commitment. How much you care. How much it hurts you, and how you persevere. And I like the beard.”

Anders wonders if it would be too much to just push him onto his back and take him there, or let him take him, whatever Fenris preferred, but Fenris made it clear he needed to pace himself, and besides, knowing his luck, Isabela would amble by, or fucking Cullen, one of those blond templar oafs. He kisses him instead, fiercely, intent on making him breathless. He gets a bit carried away, dragging him on top of him, worn planks digging into his back, but Fenris is laughing, and he draws back, sheepish, saying, “Too much?”

But Fenris says, “Just enough, mage. You’re enough.”

#fenders #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #fenris/anders #anders/fenris #anders #fenris #merrill #maddox #samson #kirkwall #anders in autumn #fanfic #5lazarus #hes5thlazarus #co-zautumn

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lotornomiko · 5 years

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Triumph’s Tribulation Chapter Three (Sorta not safe for work?)

Putting a semi not safe for work warning just in case. There is no sex, but Lezard is giving off this VIBE that might be troubling to some. Trigger warnings for that same vibe, and the dubious nature of the whole thing, At least the Rufus Alicia scene balances out that darker side with some sweetness and what not...even if they are going to be angsting a fair bit in the story. ^^;;

Those eyes of his positively blazed with their emerald hue, the half elf looking so determined, and earnest, and above all ready. He seemed pumped and primed for the lengths needed, Rufus ready to endure just about any type of ordeal in his desire to be of help to her. Alicia might have never loved him more than she did now in this moment, the princess’ eyes welling with tears. That blinding moisture was a mix of her gratitude, and that of her sorrow, the young woman understanding that the man had just made the choice she had already settled upon that much infinitely harder to accept.

His smile was this beaming beacon of all teeth, the half elf ever so happy for her. So excited, and hopeful, and ever so relieved. Alicia hated the thought of dashing it all, of the frustration and sadness and most of all the confusion that would follow. Would she ever be able to make him understand? Would Rufus even make the attempt to try? She was unsure, despite loving him so, the princess understanding that there was an inherently selfish side to the green haired elf who had so permanent a place in her heart.

It was at direct odds with her own self sacrificing nature., Alicia this gentle soul who would gladly take a blow meant for another. She’d shoulder the world’s burdens, uproot the very heavens in an attempt to right a wrong, and yet this choice of hers was the one thing she could not protect Rufus from. Not now, maybe not ever, the information given her, too great a secret for Alicia to ever keep from him.

With those tears welling in her eyes, the young woman briefly closed them as though shutting away the sight of Rufus and his eager smile. It didn’t give her nearly enough strength, Alicia wanting to be swept away by the elf’s excitement and hope. It should, could have been so easy to, but then that was not the kind of woman Silmeria had helped shape her to be. The Valkyrie the voice in her head from before she could truly understand the words, the princess had gone above and beyond any royal duty, to champion this world and its people. Even at the many great costs to herself.

The curse was one of them. The loss of her family another. There was the destruction of the kingdom she had thought had turned its back to her. Even the betrayals at the hands of those she had called friend. She had not only lived through it all, she had survived, becoming a stronger, better person for it. That had all been the fire to forge her, Alicia brave, determined and bold. Doing what was needed, rather than what was always wanted. Selfless to a fault, the young woman had grown to become the kind of hero the Gods themselves would have clamored for.

She wasn’t one of their chosen though. Alicia wasn’t even guaranteed a place in paradise, given the enemies she and Silmeria had made. Both of them had never given much of a damn for their own personal gain, fighting instead to right Odin’s many wrongs. That that tyrant was no more, didn’t seem to much matter, little having changed under the new God’s rule. There was still a world that needed saving, and a villain that needed to be stopped. A sacrifice was again needed. HERS, Alicia snapping open her eyes with a bold determination that belied the gentle touch she did on the hand cupping her face.

Rufus didn’t immediately sense it, too lost in his own desire, that want that was both selfless and selfish, the half elf ready to screw over the world to help one single, solitary soul. That part of him endeared the man to her, even as it made the princess exasperated, a frustration pushing and pulling at her, for the elf had made things so much more difficult than they need be!

A sigh expelled out of her, Alicia leaning into the warmth of Rufus’ hand. It was so inviting, that heat, able to push back all of the cold that she felt. That look in his eyes was like it’s own sun, Alicia wanting nothing more than to bask in it’s radiance. He was everything to her, her rock, her foundation, her friend and her solace, yet also a source of worry, from the reaction she already anticipated, to the beat, beat, beat of his excited heart, the woman growing stiff with the realization that she could hear it, AND the blood coursing through his veins.

It should have been repugnant, should have sent her lurching away. Instead Alicia found herself stepping closer, almost as though she would press up against him. All to better listen to those sounds, to the hypnotic beat of his heart pumping that temptation through him. She then breathed in the scent of him, Alicia’s nostrils flaring, that coarse sandal wood and leather smell unable to disguise the vitality of him. The life and the strength, and what it could do for her.

It wasn’t his blood that she was smelling, but that of his soul’s essence. It was this intoxicating feel, something that Alicia could have easily gotten drunk off of, her eyes slitting half closed in a kind of ecstatic contemplation of how to best drink him down. He was oblivious to the danger, Rufus stroking a solid hand over the length of her honey hued hair. It wasn’t just his hands that were that tangible a presence, all of his flesh was, the elf’s very existence a marvel, the man made real through some miraculous force that even Alicia herself did not understand.

Her arms wound their way around him, Alicia pressing her cheek to his chest, to better listen to the sound of his heart. It beat as though he was still alive, as though he hadn’t been murdered, Rufus a ghost given solid flesh that was maintained through a remnant of Silmeria’s power. That same energy that gave Rufus and Arngrim flesh, was what allowed Alicia to sometimes cast crystals.

That power and the memories were all she had left of the Goddess, the sister that had been literally torn from inside her. She couldn’t abandon them any more than she could the Valkyrie, a deep seated understanding, that purpose, driving her, Silmeria out there somewhere, though in what shape and situation no one could say. Not even Brahms, the undead Lord knowledgeable about a great many things but only to a point, the future something that no one could know without having lived through it first.

She couldn’t help but grow dark, the future something that they were all fighting to still have. Tomorrow no longer guaranteed, there was no point in pressing forward to anything other than the chance that might save them all. No matter the personal cost, and Alicia had let this farce of happiness go on for too long! Abruptly, she pushed back, a pointed step taken away from Rufus. She couldn’t bear to watch his joy dashed by her hand, and yet there was nothing else she could do. No other choice to be made, Alicia bracing herself for the elf’s worst.

He comprehended the change in her immediately, acknowledging it with a question in those bright eyes. Her name was voiced with a desperate edge to the sound, Rufus making a move as though to follow her, and only her voice’s sharp insistence stopped the elf in his tracks.

“Don’t!”

It was both a command and a plea, a strained voiced entreaty that begged for so much. For his patience, for his tolerance and understanding, the princess not wanting to be bombarded further with the doubt and disbelief that was already making her decision hard enough. The bright color of his eyes growing dim, sank that hope with it, Alicia bracing herself against all of the elf’s desperation and anger, and even that of his love.

“Don’t make this any harder.”

His eyes narrowed at that, the green color of them so dark with his upset. “This is too important a decision to be anything but.” He countered. “Not when it’s your life, your very humanity, at stake here!”

“One person doesn’t out weigh the good of the many.” That point was one she firmly believed in, Alicia’s shaking her head with emphasis. “Be they God, human, or other...no one person is more important than that of the countless lives that could be saved.”

He seemed to flinch with that truth of hers, Rufus’ expression a grim glower that almost had the princess stepping back towards him. There was no amount of touch that would soothe him though, no words that could soften that expression, no promise that could be given save one. The one thing Alicia could not do, the young woman refusing to be selfish.

“You and I both know that.” She continued. Her tone was soft, but no less strong, Alicia trying to appeal to his empathy with the reminder. “We both had our entire lives nearly destroyed by the whims of ones who only cared about their own desires.” She had to fight to keep her own expression from darkening, thoughts of those ones, of Lezard and of Odin, springing to the forefront of her mind.

“I lost my entire kingdom, my family, because of one tyrant’s need to oppress all others with his rule.” continued Alicia. “Just as he tried to steal away your freedoms, your worth as a person, even ultimately your very life, all from his own cowardice and refusal to accept that the end comes to ALL.” Bitter was her smile then. “It’s just some of us get that fate meted out to us a lot SOONER than others.”

“Too soon for some.” Rufus grumbled, his expression near deadly with it’s seriousness. “And this is far too soon for YOU!”

“You don’t get to decide that. None of us do.” Alicia countered gently. “If it is my fate to die with this world, or to ultimately become a full fledged undead, so long as I do everything in my power that I am able, I can die secure in the knowledge that I had made every effort that I could to try and stave off the destruction of the nine realms.”

“What of peace?”

“That is one of my greatest wishes. For the people to be free and at peace….” She began, but Rufus interrupted her.

“It’s not that of the people I worry about, it’s YOURS.” Rufus’ eyes flashed with their angry intensity. “Are you able to say you’ll have peace should the worst really happen? Will you perish with a smile on your face with the knowledge you sacrificed everything to help a world that never gave a damn about you? About us?”

He had such a narrow view when it came to other people, the torture and abuse he had suffered at the hands of his eleven captors, coloring his world in such concise black and white. Rufus couldn’t see the gray areas, let alone the color all around them, so sure that people as a whole were either all good, or either all bad. The man tended to believe in the worst of everyone, his heart having been closed up for so long. It had taken time for his walls to come down, for him to stop being so cold and distrustful of others, and Rufus still had a great many steps to take before he could wholly believe the world with it’s all manner of people, worth saving.

“You can’t, can you?” Rufus’ question had made Alicia realize she had hesitated too long on her own private thoughts. “You won’t be at peace, and you won’t be happy...”

“Of course I won’t be!” Alicia snapped. “Few if any go to their deaths HAPPY about it.” Again she shook with her words. “I don’t need that level of happiness, that kind of peace, as long as I know that I TRIED!”

“Alicia!” He looked madder than ever, so frustrated by her heated response. “You...” He faltered as though the anger itself had stolen his voice.

“Rufus...” She still wouldn’t let him get any closer to her, Alicia needing the space to be able to think free of his pressure. “What kind of life do you think we are looking at here if we WERE to go after and actually get the cure?”

There was the rapid blink of his eyes, the question giving him pause. “A...”

“With the world as it is...with the rate of decay and no guarantee of any way to stop it...” She couldn’t finish that thought, closing her eyes briefly, then looking at him once more. “I do not want to spend what might be our last days fighting and angry with each other. Any more than I want to have to count down the time that is left to us of a fragile happiness that is ultimately FALSE! Even if cured, how can we possible live out the world’s last few days with such a delusion, with the people panicked, the land itself withering, Yggdrasil dying a slow death and taking ALL with it?”

Now she did step towards him, though it took every ounce of Alicia’s strength to guard against the effect his pain and misery had on HER. “We can’t.” She said, and moved as though to touch him. “There is NO future for us down this path...”

That look in his eyes gave way to a kind of helplessness, Rufus on some level acknowledging the truth of what the princess had said. “There...there’s no guarantee of a future down the other path either….”

“I know.” She couldn’t help sighing with that admission, that painful uncertainty its own undeniable truth. “There is some sliver of hope though….a chance of some kind, for the world and for US.”

He closed the distance between them, expression far too serious from what Alicia had grown accustomed to expecting from the man that she secretly loved. Gone was the mischievous twinkle, the slight curving of lips, the half elf cupping her cheek with a hand that was coarse and callous from an eternity spent working a bow. Rough though that touch felt, she still leaned into it, eager for the warmth and reverence conveyed in that caress.

“Us.” It was almost fierce, the way he repeated it, and there was a certainty to that as well. Her pulse beat with an excited hope all it’s own, Alicia daring to wonder if the elf had realized even half of what she had, when it came to the heart’s own soft emotions.

“Us...” A third saying to confirm it, Alicia almost shy as she peered up at him through thick lashes. “So long as I am capable of drawing breath….so long as my heart still beats...”

“And even after.” Rufus finished for her, and there it was. That teasing smile whose hint curved his lips upwards. “Arngrim and I are with you…”

She was grateful for the words, even as Alicia was confused by the mention of the warrior. “Arngrim?”

“He and I are the tangible proof that you don’t necessarily need a pulse or breath to try to change fate.”

“Ah….” She was otherwise silent at that explanation, but inside her thoughts were all a flutter at the reminder, none of her companions alive in the strictest sense of the word. They were the einherjar manifested, and there was the Lord of the Undead, and even Alicia soon wouldn’t be able to lay claim to life and humanity as she had known it. The princess was mostly at peace with that fate, but there existed a kernel of doubt inside her. The fear of what the full fledged change would do to her, the people it might make her hurt, and worst of all was the thought of becoming the kind of monster that Rufus might not accept.

Such a thought once borne, would worm its way deep inside her. The doubting voice that whispered in her head, a question she dare not ask out loud. Would Rufus still be able to love her, once Alicia’s transition was complete? And would there be any room inside HER for that soft emotion, for it and all of the good intentions she currently harbored? She didn’t know and that frightened her most of all, Alicia having seen both the good and the bad of the undead, and it was an unfortunate fact that most tended towards the latter. Would she be any different, or was her fate, her very nature already sealed? The princess just didn’t know, and the scared Alicia most of all.

His world continued it’s growth at a steady pace, the environs quick to adapt and evolve forth new challenges in it’s ever changing terrain. An extension of his will, of his whims and his desire, Lezard’s Creation put forth all it’s effort towards not only caging the quarry within, but pushing her to the absolute limits of strength and endurance. She wouldn’t stand a chance then, all hope of defiance lost, Lenneth giving in to the inevitable, to him, Lezard’s love and desire consuming her, setting them both ablaze with that mad passion that had motivated a great many impossibilities.

He had to bite back a laugh then, near giddy with the realization of it, with the power coursing through him, Lezard made God, the absolute ruler of it all. That strength inside him was a restless energy, tempered but not tamed by his world’s continuing evolution. He burned off the worst of it with that expenditure of strength, his creation coming alive as a direct manifestation of all that he desired, a time and a place that solely existed for love, stripped free of all burden and responsibilities of the outside world. This endless outcome a possibility made real through his own genius and manipulations, there was only one final conquest needed to cement his triumph firmly in place.

His world sought to deliver him just that, as though Creation itself was impatient for the joining together of their flesh. As new lands formed, and others shattered apart, those roads all inexplicably led Lenneth back to Lezard. With every step that his beloved Goddess took to distance herself from him, this newly made reality wrought only rounded it’s way back in on itself. So that even now he could hear her armored footfalls, that determined thump of her metal grieves slowing as though Lenneth too had realized the folly of her efforts.

His lips curved with his smile, Lezard having heard the exasperated sounding sigh that the Goddess had let out. The sound of her footsteps then stopped completely, as though Lenneth was contemplating what to do, on whether or not to press forward down the path this world prodded her towards. It was a sign of his patience, that Lezard waited just beyond reach, more curious than anything, over what her decision would settle on. That it took more than an hour for her to again resume moving, was telling, Lenneth ever this much closer to falling completely.

“I don’t mind that you continue to expend all your energy on this useless a pursuit.” He commented almost casually, the confidant cadence of his voice carrying easily to her. Those soft, uncertain footfalls, suddenly became angry, Lenneth doing an about turn, to come charging towards him. He stayed with his back to her, the newly made God counting down every step forward as just another minor victory on his part.

“You may run yourself ragged through the never ending course of my world, the outcome will always end the same.”

He sensed the movement behind him, felt all her tired anger and rage channeled into the swing of her arm. That blow went right through him, Lenneth stumbling forward only to be then caught by flesh that had gone solid. Locked into that embrace, the cobalt blue of her gaze, met the heated intensity of eyes that were colored an unusual shade of amethyst.

Such a dark myriad of emotion was in that gaze, all of his lust, his love and his desire made stronger with the need to dominate and to seduce, to coax forth her every response, willing or otherwise, Lezard ever so hungry for this and this woman alone. Lenneth the reason for his very being, the motivating force that had driven him to ever so new and inventive and ever so desperate lengths, she both empowered him and stripped Lezard of his self control.

He should step back to maintain some illusion of distance, to take back that fragile grip on restraint that had thus far kept the man from throwing the Goddess down. The lust inside him screamed otherwise, conflicting desires waging war at the right and wrong of that one step taken too far, Lezard still hoping, wanting that one bit of willingness given up freely from her. She wasn’t yet ready, he could see that by the anger of her expression, Lenneth tired but not broken, still ready to fight him to the last, bitter breath.

“How you torment me so.” The words practically moaned out of him, the Goddess fitfully struggling against him, only to go still with her disbelief.

“I torment YOU!?” She demanded with a snarled out hiss. “Am I not the one who as you so concisely put it, has been run ragged through this never ending obstacle course you call your twisted Creation!?”

“That all pales in comparison to a desire unrequited, a need gone unfulfilled.” He was maddeningly calm while she was so angry, Lezard casting a longing look at her. It encompassed her whole, touched upon her lips, stroked along her skin, and took note of the bedraggled state of her armor, the blue metal cracked and outright broken in some places, her skirt’s hem made frayed and tattered, the white of it splattered with dried blood and dirt. She was stunning all the same, perhaps made even lovelier with the marks left on her by the trials of his world.

“Then allow me to help put you out of your misery!” She had gotten an arm free of him, her hand slapping hard across his cheek. Powerful was that blow connecting on his skin, and so perverse was he, to have enjoyed it so, an excited moan escaping him, as Lezard urged her to do it again.

For one inexplicable second, the Goddess’ eyes had widened at that request. They then narrowed, his beloved downright haughty, as she refused him that satisfaction too. “Degenerate!”

“No, not that.” He corrected. “Just desperate for any touch of you, no matter how slight, or how angry, it may be.” The God didn’t imagine the fine shiver that went through her at that, no matter his beloved’s attempt to mask it with her fury, the Goddess was afraid. Made tired and vulnerable, and ever so wary, Lenneth a woman first and foremost, and one as prone to a female’s fear as any other.

That vulnerability the one thing all shared, be they mortal, Goddess, elf or any of the other hundred types of sentient beings out there, any woman would know to be on guard against a wolf so near. Especially one that had gone to the lengths that Lezard had, such extreme measures taken, the fantastical having happened, reality itself remade to accommodate his and only his desires.

Such absolute power, it and its undeniable nature, was a heady, potent mix, and made only more so when Lenneth was this near. His arms stayed at gripping her, the angry Goddess held fast against the solid length of him, and so exciting was this woman, with her flashing eyes and silver blue hair, that Lezard found himself moving to capture her lips with his.

For one split second, it seemed as though Lenneth would allow the kiss to happen. Her lips actually trembled, their mouths almost touching together in a most intimate of caress, and then her teeth were snapping at him, the woman ready to savage and bloody him for the attempt.

He just barely avoided the bite, Lezard lurching back. The process gave her leeway to struggle free, a metal booted foot slamming onto one of his, a hand that’s dainty appearance belied the strength contained within it, pushing at his chest. He grabbed at that hand’s wrist, use it to keep her from fleeing any further from him.

“There is a limit to even my patience.” He told her, his own eyes holding just a sliver of threat to them. He caught at her other hand, Lenneth again having tried to slap at the God, Lezard using his grip on her wrists to jerk her off balance against him. “Do tread carefully Lenneth, lest you learn that first hand...”

There it was, another fine tremor had went through her, regardless of the hate filled look that she gave him. It soothed the worst of his anger, Lezard wanting nothing more than to reach out and offer a comfort to her. To caress fingers over that smooth perfection that was her cheek, to feel the silken texture of her hair against his skin. Such things were sheer folly, an invitation to disaster of the worst kind, given how Lenneth was anything but receptive in the moment.

A deep breath expelled out of him, as though he was the one who had every reason to be exasperated here. Cobalt bright eyes glared at him in response, Lenneth so bothered by him and that sound. There was nothing Lezard could say, nor was there anything that he could try, that would make this easier on her. The God understood that, knew that she had to come to him on her own terms when it came to acceptance.

“I know you don’t want to hear it...” His tone was soft and gentle, the words like a whisper on the wind, this world gone quiet in an effort to hear them. “That doesn’t change the fact that I love you...or that everything I’ve done, EVERYTHING, has been for the sake of you.”

“Your idea of love is sick, you’ve twisted everything around, and for what? A woman who despises you? Who will spend the rest of our eternity hating you with her every breath?”

He refused to let Lenneth rile him up that way, Lezard instead giving a slow nod. “What is love, if not a sickness? An affliction of the heart? If my feelings really are an illness, then there is only one cure for this madness.”

“There is no hope for one such as you.” She retorted. “The only solace I can give a sinner like you, is the complete and utter destruction of your soul!”

“That you’ve done and more.” countered Lezard. “You’ve ruined me, Lenneth. From that first moment of awareness, to every encounter after, thoughts of you have consumed me, waking or dreaming, I have lived, breathed, even died for you.”

“Nonsense!”

“Is it? Is it really?” He challenged her. “You drive me, Lenneth. You are the fuel to the fire of the flames inside me, the motivating force that allowed me to achieve so much...I’ve a whole legacy created because of my obsession for you.”

“You’ve a legacy of corpses, whole worlds ruined in the name of your pursuit.” She shook her head almost violently so. “Do not try to pin your misdeeds on me!”

“If I am the miscreant, then you yourself are the very sin that led me down this path of blasphemy.” A crooked smile was then given, Lezard speaking with a certain finality to his thread of thought. “You are the embodiment of everything that has ever mattered...those feelings that you inspire, the very foundation of who I was meant to be. I LOVE you, Lenneth. I have from that first time, and I will throughout all of eternity.”

“No...”

“Yes.” Such a simple sounding word, but it was insistent. “It’s the truth that you don’t want to admit to knowing, the fact you can no more change than you can ultimately deny it. I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I always will…” His grip on her wrists had turned harsh, Lezard leaning in to breathe in her scent, that of her nerves and of the perspiration that had come from all of the Goddess’ endless efforts to escape him.

“You don’t love, you LUST!”

“Lust and love go hand in hand with what I feel for you. My lust may want you for my bed, but my love isn’t satisfied with that alone. I’ll have your body and I’ll have your heart, each and every last bit of you will belong to me as thoroughly as every part of me is YOURS!”

“Never!” She all but spat in his face, Lenneth shaking and jerking free of him. “Never do you hear me?! I’ll never belong to you! Nothing you can say, nothing you can do, will change that! No matter how much you violate me and the laws of nature...”

“What laws!? Odin’s? Yours!?” Lezard scoffed with a rude sound. “Those laws and the God who made them, are no more, the world and its rules rewritten. Those taboos no longer matter, no longer exist, the only will made possible that of the absolute entity, a new world born with a new power to rule it!”

He advanced on her with that, watching as Lenneth made angry but empty fists, that sword of hers having long been lost ages ago. “That strength is mine, this world and it’s creatures at my beck and call, I am the being who bends a knee to no one, NO ONE!”

His tirade had her hit against a marble column, Lenneth giving a startled sound to find the solid surface suddenly behind her, and it was yet another manifestation of HIS will, this world again trying to hand deliver Lenneth to him. It even went so far, as to start growing thick vines of green, the strands creeping steadily toward her, as though intent on binding her in place before him.

She didn’t make it easy. For it or for him, Lenneth kicking and thrashing out her legs and swinging her arms, the vines tearing in the process. Such violence only inspired more to grow, the vines coming faster and made even stronger, all in this world’s attempt to catch at her, until the Goddess was at last so thoroughly tangled up. Caught as she now was, there was little recourse left to her save to glare absolute murder at him.

“Lenneth.” He tried to stroke her cheek with his gloved fingers, but was bit for the attempt. She tore through the leather and the skin, might have bit down to the bone if Lezard hadn’t snatched his hand away.

The wound itself wasn’t of concern, the power contained within him accelerating with a burst of healing ether, the damage undone, not even a sliver of scar to hint at what Lenneth’s teeth had just done.

She was still bound up by the vines, and shaking violent with every squirming attempt to break free. Her eyes maintained the glare, though there was a speck of wary worry contained amid that hate, as though Lenneth herself realized her actions had been a step too far. No flimsy apologies, or feeble attempts at excuses were offered, the Goddess defiant and surely bracing herself for what she thought he’d do.

It was almost admirable, that bold way that she continued to challenge him. The remembered sting of her teeth tearing into his flesh made it less so, Lezard fighting a surge of anger. “It’s all right.” He said out loud, that reassurance as much for his sake as it was for hers. “It’s all right if you’re not ready. For now I can love enough for the both of us...”

To Be Continued….

Hmm….maybe I’ll add more to the end of this chapter. I don’t know. Having one of those moments where I ended on a line simply cause everything else that tried to follow it, didn’t feel right. Maybe it’s just cause I am sleepy at this point...I don’t know.

With thanks to Huntress for talking and giving me feedback on snippets and concerns, even though she hasn’t had time to read the existing chapters yet. You really helped hon, even if you try to deny it. The Rufus Alicia scene would still be stalled, if not for the talks we had about it!

Also special thanks to my friend Paige, who decided to read this, even though she’s never played the VP games. You gave me that extra push of motivation and excitement, to get back to work trying to finish my Rufus Alicia scene...so that I could get to the Lezard Lenneth one!

The RuAli scene mostly tripped me up on dialogue. Had the opening part with Alicia’s internal thoughts done, and then stalled a long while on how to write out the actual dialogue. Didn’t want them fighting too bad about what should be done. Ended up real happy with the scene...even if I sorta forgot Arngrim was trying to sleep during all this, sheepish Ooopsie!

----Michelle

#valkyrie profile #fanfiction #fanfic #Triumph's Tribulations #Rufus #princess alicia #lenneth valkyrie #lezard valeth

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valewyn-quest-blog · 6 years

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Elves

Elves are a magical people of otherworldly grace, living in the world but not entirely part of it. They live in places of ethereal beauty, in the midst of ancient forests or in silvery spires glittering with faerie light, where soft music drifts through the air and gentle fragrances waft on the breeze. Elves love nature and magic, art and artistry, music and poetry, and the good things of the world.

Slender and Graceful

With their unearthly grace and fine features, elves appear hauntingly beautiful to humans and members of many other races. They are slightly shorter than humans on average, ranging from well under 5 feet tall to just over 6 feet. They are more slender than humans, weighing only 100 to 145 pounds. Males and females are about the same height, and males are only marginally heavier than females.

Elves’ coloration encompasses the normal human range and also includes skin in shades of copper, bronze, and almost bluish-white, hair of green or blue, and eyes like pools of liquid gold or silver. Elves have no facial and little body hair. They favor elegant clothing in bright colors, and they enjoy simple yet lovely jewelry.

A Timeless Perspective

Elves can live well over 700 years, giving them a broad perspective on events that might trouble the shorter-lived races more deeply. They are more often amused than excited, and more likely to be curious than greedy. They tend to remain aloof and unfazed by petty happenstance. When pursuing a goal, however, whether adventuring on a mission or learning a new skill or art, elves can be focused and relentless. They are slow to make friends and enemies, and even slower to forget them. They reply to petty insults with disdain and to serious insults with vengeance.

Like the branches of a young tree, elves are flexible in the face of danger. They trust in diplomacy and compromise to resolve differences before they escalate to violence. They have been known to retreat from intrusions into their woodland homes, confident that they can simply wait the invaders out. But when the need arises, elves reveal a stern martial side, demonstrating skill with sword, bow, and strategy.

Hidden Woodlands

Most elves dwell in small forest villages hidden among the trees. Elves hunt game, gather food, and grow vegetables, and their skill and magic allow them to support themselves without the need for clearing and plowing land. They are talented artisans, crafting finely worked clothes and art objects. Their contact with outsiders is usually limited, though a few elves make a good living by trading crafted items for metals (which they have no interest in mining).

Elves encountered outside their own lands are commonly traveling minstrels, artists, or sages. Human nobles compete for the services of elf instructors to teach swordplay or magic to their children.

Adventuring in Valewyn

Elves take up adventuring out of wanderlust. Since they are so long-lived, they can enjoy centuries of exploration and discovery. They dislike the pace of human society, which is regimented from day to day but constantly changing over decades, so they find careers that let them travel freely and set their own pace. Elves also enjoy exercising their martial prowess or gaining greater magical power, and adventuring allows them to do so. Some might join with rebels fighting against oppression, and others might become champions of moral causes.

Subraces

Ancient divides among the elven people resulted in three main subraces: high elves, wood elves, and dark elves, who are commonly called drow. As a high elf, you have a keen mind and a mastery of at least the basics of magic. In Valewyn, there are two kinds of high elves. One type is haughty and reclusive, believing themselves to be superior to non-elves and even other elves. The other type are more common and more friendly, and often encountered among humans and other races. The sun elves of Meadowdale (also called gold elves or sunrise elves) have bronze skin and hair of copper, black, or golden blond. Their eyes are golden, silver, or black. Moon elves of Lunika (also called silver elves or gray elves) are much paler, with alabaster skin sometimes tinged with blue. They often have hair of silver-white, black, or blue, but various shades of blond, brown, and red are not uncommon. Their eyes are blue or green and flecked with gold.

As a wood elf, you have keen senses and intuition, and your fleet feet carry you quickly and stealthily through your native forests. Wood elves of Ashelwood (also called wild elves, green elves, or forest elves) are reclusive and distrusting of non-elves. Wood elves’ skin tends to be copperish in hue, sometimes with traces of green. Their hair tends toward browns and blacks, but it is occasionally blond or copper-colored. Their eyes are green, brown, or hazel.

Were it not for one renowned exception, the race of drow would be universally reviled. To most, they are a race of demon-worshiping marauders dwelling in the subterranean depths of the Undervoid, emerging only on the blackest nights to pillage and slaughter the surface dwellers they despise. Their society is depraved and preoccupied with the favor of Lolth, their spider-goddess, who sanctions murder and the extermination of entire families as noble houses vie for position. Yet one drow, at least, broke the mold. In the world of Valewyn, Drizzt Do’Urden, ranger of the North, has proven his quality as a good-hearted defender of the weak and innocent. Rejecting his heritage and adrift in a world that looks upon him with terror and loathing, Drizzt is a model for those few drow who follow in his footsteps, trying to find a life apart from the evil society of their Underviod homes. Drow grow up believing that surface-dwelling races are inferior, worthless except as slaves. Drow who develop a conscience or find it necessary to cooperate with members of other races find it hard to overcome that prejudice, especially when they are so often on the receiving end of hatred.

Homes

Meadowdale (High Elf - Sun)

Lunika (High Elf - Moon)

Ashelwood (Wood Elf - Wild Elf)

Undervoid (Dark Elf - Drow)

#elves

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idornaseminary · 7 years

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Chapter Twenty-One: Enzo and Mel

The morning sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon now, washing Isle Velum in a brilliant warmth, which was surprising for this time of year - not far off from October now. The leaves of the Gladur forest shone a dim orange-teal, seeming to awaken before most of the students.

Enzo had been awake for some time, just as the rest of the Aquilen Quidditch team was. Being woken up at five o’clock on a Monday morning before classes would sound like torture to most, especially the Monday after fyrsta tunglið, but with the prospect of finally being able to get on a broom again, Enzo couldn’t be more excited.

Now, he hovered high above the pitch, looking down to his teammates below as practice neared its end. He lazily rested on his broom, his chin pressed against the cool wood and metal. His father had bought him this broom, ‘Foudre Mark III’, just after he graduated from Beauxbatons as a ‘well done’ present, partly because he was in Russia at the time of said graduation, and Enzo spent his celebration alone in the estate with Gilly, the House Elf. Still, part of Enzo felt guilty for never visiting his father since he joined Idorna, but still continued to benefit from his wealth.

The thought was knocked loose after a bludger almost knocked his teeth out. Enzo heaved his body left, spiraling around his broom after feeling a ‘knick’ against his right cheekbone, and sitting upright again, the bludger whizzing past.

“Look alive, Bellerose!” he heard a call from below, then a chuckle. “You won’t be for much longer.”

Enzo cleared his throat, rubbing the already forming bruise on his face, and lowered himself to meet the voice of Chantal Williams, the captain of the team. She was one of only four female members of the team, but Enzo was sure that none of the men would be able to best her in a wrestling match. Apart from her blonde locks, she was tall, muscular, and housed a booming voice that could make the trees of the Gladur shudder in fear.

“You okay, Enzo?” she asked as the two slowly descended towards the green.

“Yes,” he said, giving her a tight-lipped smile, the movement stinging his face. “First practice back - just getting used to it again.”

Chantal nodded. “Well, be careful up there. We can’t have our Seeker out of the first match of the year.”

Aqulien vs Cucurrion was to take place next Wednesday, and they only had three practices between the date. Aside from Aqulien, Cucurrion most definitely had the best team at Idorna, and they played dirty. Enzo recalled almost being heaved from his broom last year as one Cucurrion player held his robes, and the other kicked at his room. He was lucky Chantal was around to ward them off.

Once they lowered to the ground, Enzo pressed his feet against the green. It always felt foreign after being in the air for so long, and it took him a moment to regain his footing. Chantal gathered the twenty-three members of the team in a circle, telling this one that he needed more work on his positioning and that one that she needed to be more aggressive when entering the opposing team’s zone.

Once practice was over, Enzo changed back into his uniform in the locker rooms after a quick shower, fastening his Aqulien pin back into place over his heart. He took for the castle, his stomach growling now. There would be a few students awake now, but not enough to crowd the Great Hall. Thank God.

He stepped inside the castle, trying to ignore the bruise on his face as he headed into the hall. Healing salve as soon as I get a moment to myself tonight, he quietly promised.

Mel had risen with the sun that morning, as usual. Most students were still suffering the effects of a two day hangover, but she had awoken Saturday morning feeling fine. Now that Monday had come, she was ready to greet the week with a fresh mind.

But first, breakfast. Her stomach was grumbling the whole way down to the Great Hall. Ella was one of those heathens who couldn’t eat breakfast in the morning, so with a scowl Mel had left her to her own devices. Now, she entered the Great Hall, which was only occupied by a few students here and there. Mel welcomed the peace.

Enzo knew Andre didn’t have classes until noon, so he would not be joining him for breakfast. It wasn’t all bad, though; Enzo would be able to read the papers. Being at Idorna, they weren’t locked out of connection to the outside world. Even though information could to be sent out, they were still given news of what was happening around the world.

He had almost sat himself at the far end of the Aquilen table when he caught a flash of dark hair and dark lips. He looked over, catching the unforgettable sharp features of the woman who had brought him back to the castle Friday night. He tried suppressing the thought of waking up alone his secret paradise, flashes of the night before running through his dehydrated brain. He remembered a good deal of what occurred, and when he woke up, all that had been removed from his body was his shirt. The belt to his jeans was even secured. He prayed for the best… Still, he didn’t want to talk to her… ever. Did I ever catch her name?

His eyes darted around, looking for something of use. His gaze fell on the Gestona table where he saw a figure sit, her blonde hair half raised, half fallen around her shoulders. He caught a glimpse of tattoos and knew, of course, the only person he could align himself with this morning was Mel. Of course.

Grunting, he turned and crossed the six or seven foot gap between the tables. Luckily, Mel was alone, and Enzo took her right side, hunching low as if her small frame could hide him. Maybe another’s presence alone would ward off the succubus from Rodrick’s.

Mel was about halfway through her first plate of eggs when she sensed the movement of someone sitting down beside her. She wasn’t sure who she expected, but when she turned and saw the dark curls, instantly familiar to her, her mouth hung open slightly.

“Ah... Enzo?” She snapped her jaw shut before he turned to look at her, praying she hadn’t looked like some sort of gaping moron.

“Hi,” he simply said, his eyes moving past her as the other woman crossed the Hall.

He watched her intently, making sure she left before exhaling, bowing his head and shaking it slightly. He was never good at speaking with people, even worse at confronting them. Slight curiosities in him wanted to speak with her, but everything else pushed him to remain seated where he was.

“Pardon,” he spoke, the realization of who he was really speaking to now kicking in. “I needed cover.”

Despite the bizarre situation Mel found herself in, a smirk tugged at her lips. Her shock at him actually speaking to her quickly recovered. Her eyes scanned the hall, in the general direction Enzo had been casting guarded glances, but she couldn’t pick out anyone she could imagine Enzo needing cover from.

“Cover, hm?” she said, toying with her eggs with her fork. “Who’s the lucky soul?”

Enzo could leave now, he supposed. The mystery woman was gone, of course. But Mel had always been easy to speak with, even if they disagreed on many subjects. One being the concept of loyalty.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he quipped, almost grinning at her.

He knew she would hardly judge - he supposed many around Idorna knew her twice as well as he did by now. Still, speaking about it with her felt like an act of treason somehow.

“I certainly am curious what kind of person could make the Great Enzo Bellerose cower in fear.” She took a stab at her eggs, giving him a teasing smile. “No offense, of course.”

It was easy, she thought, to fall back into their old pattern. Enzo wasn’t so scary once you got to know him, and she’d always been proud at having been able to crack that stony shell of his. But she’d also learned the hard way that you had to be careful how you handled that ability. It’s why she was grateful to see that the look he gave her now wasn’t dripping in venom like it might have been once upon a time.

Enzo licked his lips, shaking his head with a slight grin. “Not a big deal - just not something I want to deal with now.”

He tried not to look at her face too much, but she did have this nasty habit of making herself the center of attention. It was maddening. At least the face he was forced to look at had a friendly glow to it.

Finally, he spoke again. “How have you been, Melanie?”

She shrugged, her eyelids flitting down to watch as the motion sent hair spilling down her back. Even after everything, she couldn’t help stupid little gestures like that. As insignificant as it was, seeing him smile at her again felt...nice.

“Same as always, I suppose,” she said, returning the smile. “And you? I hear the Aquilen team has a real fighting chance this year.” She felt no shame in saying this - Gestona probably had the worst Quidditch team in the school. She’d long since given up on cheering them on.

The comment caused Enzo to actually laugh now, his shoulders slightly bobbing. “Ah, I think we have always had a fighting chance.” He rested his cheek on his fist, propped up by his elbow, ignoring the stinging sensation. “You should tryout for Gestona’s team… I hear they need all the players they can get.”

He knew well that Mel disliked Quidditch. It took her time to even see Enzo’s matches back when they were together. He had to admit that it felt nice to have someone come out to see him and only him.

Mel snorted. “You always were full of brilliant ideas, Bellerose. Maybe you’ve been slammed in the head by one too many bludgers, hm?”

“Mm, perhaps,” he mused.

His eyes peered up to the grand clock on the west side of the room: 7:30am. Potions would be starting in fifteen minutes, and Enzo didn’t want to be late for the first class of their ‘Reality vs. Illusion’ section of the course.

“I have to go,” Enzo sighed, standing up and looking down to Mel. “Thank you for the cover. It was good to speak with you, Melanie.

Her eyes followed his to the clock, and she let out a sigh. That time already, huh? She was going to have to head outside for Care for Magical Creatures anyway. She smiled at him, doing her best to mask her disappointment.

“Anytime, Enzo. Don’t be a stranger.”

#Script #Enzo #Mel

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