#Thedas has breathing exercises

[emmg]

Aftertaste

Chapter 6: Inter-fucking-lewd

Breakfast with benefits: Emmrich swipes his card, Rook shows gratitude by giving him a thorough tonsil inspection via tongue deployment. The Sugar Daddy AU no one asked for.

I keep forgetting to throw this on here. Lol, skipped a chapter again but we ball.

On ao3 or below the cut

She isn't self-conscious. Not in the usual, pathetic way, at least. People, Rook has decided, come in exactly three flavors: the certain, the hesitant, and the shy. Sure, there are endless subcategories, but at its core, this is the only division that matters. Emmrich, for example, is hesitant. Painfully, excruciatingly hesitant. The kind of person who apologizes when someone steps on his foot. She, on the other hand, is certain.

She used to be sweet. She used to be good. She used to smile at the right moments and say the right things in the right tone, like a perfectly programmed social robot. And what did that get her? Jack shit. So now, she asks for what she wants. Not that it works miracles, but at least when the barista massacres her order and she makes them redo it—once, twice, three times—she eventually walks away with the drink she actually paid for. A small, hard-earned victory. Even if, as she leaves, she can feel the heat of a middle finger aimed at her back.

Life, she has learned, is not a heartwarming fable where kindness wins in the end. It’s a glorified scam, a poorly-run customer service line where the only way to get what you’re owed is to be just annoying enough that someone begrudgingly hands it over.

Which is why she feels absolutely no shame as she rolls out of Emmrich’s bed, tiptoes into his bathroom, and starts rifling through his cabinets like a particularly nosy raccoon. There’s an indent next to where she slept—evidence that he existed at some point—but no Emmrich. She feels a little sad about that. Then she feels stupid for feeling sad. And then, because self-awareness is exhausting, she gets back to the important task of snooping.

The usual offerings greet her: mouthwash, floss, a fresh toothbrush standing at polite attention by the sink, and a towel so pristine it might have been confiscated from an angel. But, as always, the real treasure lies behind the mirror.

"Hm," she murmurs, staring at the neat little lineup.

Three orange prescription bottles, arranged as precisely as toy soldiers, standing at ease beside an inoffensive roll of extra floss. For a fleeting moment, she assumes they’re the famous blue pill, and starts giggling like an idiot. But then she actually reads the labels.

Alprazolam—Take 1 tablet by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery.

Sertraline—Take 1 tablet by mouth once daily. Do not stop abruptly.

Hydroxyzine—Take 1-2 capsules by mouth as needed for anxiety. May cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol.

"Hm," she says again, this time closing the cabinet with a little more care.

She walks away with two invaluable pieces of knowledge.

First, despite floating around in a sea of gold jewelry, clinking and shining like some minor deity of excess (it’s a Nevarran thing, Bellara told her, jewelry is cultural), Emmrich is not, in fact, above the humble embrace of generic pharmaceuticals.

Second, and perhaps more pressing: she is a fucking monster.

She takes a shower; quick in practice, but utterly decadent in spirit. The kind of shower that would make an environmentalist clutch their pearls. Then, still glistening, feeling like some sleek, well-oiled animal, she anoints herself with his undoubtedly overpriced, unreasonably divine-smelling body lotion.

Then she finds the face cream. And oh, bless this man. Bless his fragile little vanities, his meticulous devotion to self-maintenance, his quiet, desperate battle against the inevitable collapse of youth. Because not only does he have a proper moisturizer, no, he has eye cream. A tiny, expensive jar dedicated exclusively to the bags under his precious eyes.

It doesn’t even matter that the label says For Men, as though it’s been engineered with testosterone and car engine grease. She does not give a single shit. She digs in, smearing it on like she’s a prize racehorse in need of maintenance.

There’s a robe, too, a robe that is very much Emmrich-sized. She is tall herself, but Emmrich, in all his spindly glory, has the proportions of a lamppost, so when she wraps it around herself, the hem kisses her heels. Thus swaddled, she shuffles downstairs, following the distant hum of sound.

Humming? No, talking. Muffled, quiet, and decidedly unimpressed. She follows it to the kitchen and, ah, well—would you look at that—it’s an Emmrich, one hand gesturing through the air, the other clutching a phone.

"How about I do precisely the contrary?" he murmurs, taking exquisite care to keep his voice polite. "I have attended an egregious number of administrative functions at the expense of my own sanity. I have published beyond the requisite metrics, despite the institution’s draconian funding model. I have, against my better judgment, served on not one but two outreach committees, despite my well-documented lack of interest in performative bureaucracy. Forgive me, but this time, I will not be participating in the Sisyphean farce of ‘going above and beyond.’" A pause. An exhausted sigh. "Pease do pardon my tone, dear Myrna, none of this frustration is meant for you, of course. You have been, as always, a beacon of patience. I will bring croissants on Monday. Good day."

In academic speak, this translates roughly to: kiss my tenured ass.

She does exactly what she did the night before: shuffles up behind him like some kind of affectionate specter and winds her arms around his waist. Partly because he seemed to like it, partly, more selfishly, because there is something deeply satisfying about watching a distinguished, well-respected professor momentarily short-circuit like a schoolboy handed a love note.

And also because she is still marinating in the deep, briny guilt of being, in every conceivable way, an absolute asshole.

Emmrich tenses for a fraction of a second before his hand settles gently over both of hers, where they are crossed around his middle, as though securing a particularly insistent backpack.

"Good morning, dear," he says at last.

"Mhm," she replies, tilting her head toward the little table. A pot of coffee, a small, unnecessarily delicate vase, and inside it, lavender. Real, fresh lavender.

"Lavender," she observes, brilliantly. "You actually have it."

"I choose my words carefully and I mean what I promise."

"Good to know," she says, finally letting go after inhaling deeply, because his soap smells good, and she is nothing if not indulgent.

She sits, watching as he pours her a cup. In the morning light, with his sleeves rolled up and his reading glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose, he looks strangely soft. As if sensing her scrutiny, Emmrich removes and sets them down, like some small act of self-defense.

"That was hot," she says over the rising steam of her coffee, the heat dampening her cupid’s bow.

"Oh?" He frowns slightly.

"The whole firm but exasperated yet very polite routine. Very sexy."

There is a small shift. A recalibration. "Ah." He glances toward the window, smiling. The color in his cheeks deepens just slightly. "I'm glad you think so."

A strange kind of silence settles as she drinks her coffee and he absently adjusts the edge of the tablecloth. Every now and then, she tries to catch his eye, only for him to suddenly become engrossed in something else entirely. The ceiling. The floor. A rogue tuft of dog hair drifting by with the tragic slowness of a lost soul.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks bluntly, because there is no graceful way to phrase it.

His eyes widen, and she realizes too late that she has startled him.

"No, no," Emmrich says, immediately, with such startling sincerity that it nearly undoes the whole moment. "That is very much not…" He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I had intended to apologize for last night, but regrettably," he gestures vaguely, laughing under his breath, "it appears I have misplaced my usual verbosity, and I am not entirely sure how to proceed."

So that’s what this is about. She hums. Not a tune, not even anything in particular, just an aimless vibration of thought. Then, casually, she says, “Do you want to know what happened the first”—a brief pause for reflection, because, really, what a moment—“time I tried to have sex?”

Emmrich does not flinch, but there is a subtle change in the atmosphere, a flicker of something in his expression that suggests he is considering an immediate escape. “Oh, Rook, you do not have to share—”

“So he started crying, right—”

“—hardly a crime,” Emmrich interrupts, looking to the window, fingers now tapping against the table. “Some people are more sentimental than others.”

“I didn’t say it was. But imagine this: you’re naked, a bright-eyed young woman, about to embark on what should be a delightful new chapter of your life, and suddenly—your partner, the man in this scenario, is sobbing into your tits. And not just a few cute, tortured tears. No. We’re talking full-body convulsions, wet, choking, gasping-for-air ugly crying. Snot on my skin, weird little hiccup noises, the whole fucking show. So obviously, my first thought is what the actual fuck. My second is did I do something? And my third is am I really so fucking ugly that this man took one look at me naked and had a complete emotional breakdown?"

“You are not—”

“Then he starts talking about his sister—”

“His sister?”

“Apparently, I looked like her.”

A long pause. “Oh Maker.”

“So this second coming of Oedipus, this absolute fucking specimen, this... Well, I don’t even know what to call him, and I am usually pretty good at coming up with creative insults—”

"Yes," Emmrich agrees. "You have a rare gift."

“Exactly. So there he is, weeping over his sibling while also, simultaneously, making a very determined attempt at fucking me. He gets about a third of the way in—just enough to make it legally concerning—before something, maybe divine intervention, maybe the ghost of his grandmother, whispers in his ear and suddenly, he stops. Pulls out like I’m cursed, stares down at himself as if he’s seeing a dick for the first time in his life, and then, as the grand finale, has a fight with the condom, rips it off while telling me his sister is so very nice and pretty, and blows his fucking load on my knee.”

Silence.

Emmrich, someone who has likely endured entire week-long academic conferences on molecular chemistry, complete with keynote speakers droning on about enzyme kinetics in excruciating detail, now stares at her as if she has just proposed that gravity is optional. His expression shifts through several stages of intellectual agony—denial, disbelief, reluctant acceptance—before he very, very slowly lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as though hoping that if there is a higher power, now would be an excellent time for a well-placed lightning strike.

Then he starts laughing. Not some polite, measured chuckle, not even the kind of laughter that suggests mild amusement, but the real, undignified kind. The kind that briefly robs a man of whatever intellectual superiority he thinks he has. He buries his face in his hands for a moment, then rubs at his eyes as if trying to wipe the mental image away.

"But do you want to know what the worst part was?" she asks, tilting her cup back to get the last few drops of coffee.

"I would have assumed it was the matter of the sister. But I see now that was wishful thinking. Please, continue to traumatize me."

"Noooo," she drawls. "The worst part was that the fucker ate nothing but red meat. And I don’t mean he had a steak every now and then like a normal person. I mean every fucking meal. Just shoving beef into himself like he was personally keeping the cattle industry afloat. Which, fun fact, turns jizz into the worst-smelling substance known to man: a thick, hot, gamey blast of pure death." She makes a face, shaking her head at the memory. "Like, imagine if a butcher shop and a used sock had a baby. I was practically gagging. The dude nut on my knee, and I swear to the fucking gods, I could smell it before I even registered what happened."

Emmrich props his chin on his fist. His smile is small, a little detached, a little shy. "Well," he says at last, "thankfully, I do not eat meat, darling."

She blinks. Her brain lags a little, just enough for the full meaning of that sentence to settle in and punch her straight in the gut.

"Oh," she says. And then, again, "Oh," as something horrible—something hot and shameful and deeply inappropriate—crawls up her spine and detonates in her cheeks. She is not supposed to be the one blushing.

"Anyway," she blurts, desperate to redirect. "All that to say, you have nothing to apologize for. I'm sure you have your own tricks that will surprise me."

“No tricks, no,” Emmrich muses. “Well, perhaps just the one.”

She narrows her eyes. “One?”

“Indeed. Would you like to see? It tends to be something of a crowd-pleaser.”

"Sure," she allows.

He doesn’t go far. Just turns, retrieves a laptop perched on the kitchen counter, and deposits it in front of himself. His glasses slide back onto his nose as he unlocks it and nudges it across the table toward her.

She eyes it, then him. “What’s this about?”

He tests the warmth of the coffee pot with the back of his hand, seemingly indifferent to her skepticism. Satisfied, he pours himself a cup, takes a careful sip, and only then answers, as if the thought had only just reemerged from some distant place.

“You reminded me last night of something I did not particularly enjoy in graduate school.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

He breathes a soft laugh, shaking his head. "The grind,” he clarifies, wincing a bit as if the word itself is distasteful. “The endless, mind-numbing process of running oneself into the ground for the privilege of standing in the exact same place. It is a special kind of stupidity, I think, to build a system where intelligence is measured by how much exhaustion one can endure. A mouse in a wheel at least gets the benefit of ignorance. People, apparently, have to be aware that they are getting nowhere and keep running anyway.” He tilts his head toward the laptop, urging her on. “Let us pay your tuition.”

She stares.

Emmrich, however, simply takes another sip, and shifts slightly to escape a particularly offensive ray of sunlight. “You mentioned you are working three jobs,” he continues, with a polite sort of incredulity. “Perhaps this will allow you to scale it down to two. Or, dare I say it, one.”

Her fingers move before she has the time to think. “You do realize I’m not going to say no, right?”

A slight, knowing smile. “That is rather the point.”

“I have late fees at the library too.”

He frowns, his mouth pressing into a thin line, followed by a pointed tsk, tsk, tsk. “Universities have a remarkable talent for extortion. They charge a king’s ransom for books, guilt alumni into philanthropy, and still have the audacity to fine students for daring to hold onto a volume for a day too long. You would think an institution allegedly devoted to learning might have more interest in providing knowledge than hoarding it like a miser.”

She is already in the portal, already typing in her password. “You know,” she says, watching the page load, “this is how you get taken advantage of.”

A quiet chuckle. He swirls his coffee. “That is not how I see it.”

Her name, her address, tuition staring her down. Just one step left. “Then how do you?”

A pause. The faintest crease of his brow. He makes a contemplative sound, like someone tasting a dish they can’t quite identify. “Less about being taken advantage of,” he finally decides, “and more about taking care of someone. Right now, for instance, I would very much like to take care of you.”

Now she feels a little sheepish, mumbling, “I need your credit card,” like a grifter who suddenly has to confront the mechanics of grifting.

Because she, much like Emmrich, has a tragic inability to shut the fuck up, she keeps going, determined to personally escort this moment straight into the gutter. “You shouldn’t do that for someone you just met,” she adds, helpfully, like an absolute idiot who has no idea how to accept generosity without immediately trying to light it on fire.

“Allow me the dignity,” he says mildly, “of deciding what I should and should not do.”

He slides the card across the table. No hesitation. No need to fetch his wallet. No moment of deliberation.

Interesting.

This means he had already decided. Before this conversation, before she even woke up. Sometime this morning—perhaps while buttoning his exquisitely pressed shirt, perhaps while staring pensively into his overpriced mirror—he had apparently thought, Ah, yes, let me deepen my commitment to reckless philanthropy. Let me turn my casual acquaintance into a full-fledged tax deduction.

She wonders who in this sordid pas de deux is the greater object of pity: him, solemnly presenting his credit card like some banner of surrender, an apology for what he appears to consider a disastrous campaign in the coital theater (something, something, let me financially compensate you for last night’s tragic case of whiskey dick) or her, contemplating the thing with the twitchy, covetous gaze of a sewer rat glimpsing a discarded éclair.

Well.

Far be it from her to stand in the way of such noble self-destruction. She has, after all, just enough self-awareness to recognize when the universe drops a solid gold horse into her lap and suggests she take it for a leisurely gallop. So, suppressing whatever misguided instinct she has to earn things, she grabs the credit card with the dignity of a pickpocket swiping a wallet in broad daylight—slightly clammy-fingered, vaguely ashamed, but absolutely taking it.

He watches her take it, something unbearably kind in his expression. “Remind me,” he requests, “how did Bellara describe me?”

She doesn’t even look up as she enters the numbers. “Smells good.” Expiration date. “Rich.” Security code. “Lonely.”

“Touché,” he murmurs, setting down his cup with a small, satisfied clink. “But let us be thorough. Add ‘lacking good sense’ to the list.”

The portal flashes an acknowledgment in a smug little strip of green. Payment processed. Accepted. She has, in the eyes of the institution, paid her dues.

She keeps looking at the screen for a moment, then past it, through the window, before her eyes land on his laptop wallpaper: his dog, sitting obediently in front of a flower bed, looking irritatingly photogenic.

She wants to kiss him. To say thank you. To do something appropriately grateful for a moment like this. But, unfortunately, she is not sentimental. Or rather, she isn’t sentimental anymore.

Sentimentality turns you into a dreamer, and she is no longer in the business of dreaming. Because when you’re a dreamer, you dream, and when those dreams don’t materialize—when they give you a wink, steal your wallet, and skip town—you’re left standing there like a dumbass, wondering how you got scammed by your own imagination.

Also, there’s the unfortunate fact that kissing him right now would look alarmingly like she is handing out physical affection in exchange for goods and services. Which—well. Technically. But also, no. She might have questionable motives, a flexible sense of morality, and a general disregard for order, but she likes to think she is at least one step above that. At the very least, if she’s going to kiss him, it should be for the right reasons. Like, for example, the fact that she wants to.

"Thank you," she says, deliberately avoiding his eyes and focusing, instead, on his shoulder, which has suddenly become an object of great fascination. A truly remarkable shoulder. The pinnacle of fine fabric and bone structure. A shoulder so riveting, so compelling, that it is absolutely necessary she study it in detail rather than acknowledge whatever this moment is trying to turn into.

She doesn’t want him to think too much of it. She also wants to do it anyway.

So, with great finality, she shuts the laptop, sealing away the dangerous possibility of sincerity, and tiptoes toward him, suddenly acutely aware of the cold tiles beneath her feet, the way every step lands just a little too carefully, as if she’s trying to sneak past her own mawkishness.

"Thank you," she repeats, and, before her brain can interfere, she takes his face in her hands, tilts it up, and kisses the corner of his mouth, light and quick.

His hands close around her wrists and, of course, he begins to speak.

“As I have already said,” he starts, and oh, here it comes, the intellectual dissection of his own inadequacies, “I am quite aware of my limitations, and I do not imagine myself to be the kind of man you would naturally consider. However…” A pause. A dramatic little inhale. “Perhaps I can offer you stability.”

She needs him to shut up. Immediately.

She does not want to blush, does not want to feel warm and tender and whatever horrible, unacceptable, mushy thing is currently trying to jelly-up her spine. She refuses to be some meek, trembling thing, undone by his ridiculously well-articulated generosity.

So she kisses his cheek, then his lips, and if he insists on continuing, he can do so inside her mouth.

The good thing about kissing someone you just shared coffee with is that you don’t taste it; two equally caffeinated forces canceling each other out. What she does taste, however, is his tongue, which is, inexplicably, soft. Softer than she remembers. Suspiciously soft. The kind of soft that suggests he not only brushes his teeth but also, without a doubt, scrubs his tongue. Just like that, mid-kiss, she is struck with the realization that she should probably be doing the same. 

Eventually, Emmrich stands, and just like that, the dynamic shifts; no longer is she leaning over him, keeping him captive in his chair; now he’s the one towering over her. The kiss drives her back, step by step, until her thighs bump against the table. He gives her a small, wordless tap, a silent suggestion, and she obeys without thinking, hopping onto the surface blindly. The cups protest with a delicate clink-clink-clink as the impact shudders through them.

He pulls away, and she takes in the details: the flush of his lips, the slow blink of his eyes, the way, almost absentmindedly, he lifts a strand of her hair to his nose, breathing her in before tracing a path of kisses up her cheek, to her ear, to the very tip of it. 

"Do you want to pick up where we left off yesterday?" she asks, and for once, for the first time in her sorry life, she wishes she could inject some actual emotion into her voice. 

Normally, sounding like a soulless cunt is a feature, not a bug. Keeps expectations low, deters unnecessary social interaction, and, much like a well-deployed resting bitch face, acts as an industrial-strength shield against men who think a smirk and a you’d be prettier if you smiled counts as flirting.

But right now, she is, tragically, attempting to be sexy. Or something in that general category. And yet, against all odds, she still sounds less like a woman seducing a man and more like a weary call center employee offering him one last chance to extend his car’s warranty. 

Emmrich kisses her cheek again, humming against her skin. Murmurs, ever the gentleman, "If you would be amenable." 

She snorts. "I would be amenable, yes." Who could resist such an old-world proposition?

Her hands find his belt, tugging him closer. He steps between her legs, and she tips her head back, offering up her neck like some sacrificial lamb—one that is, admittedly, rather enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. He takes the invitation immediately, kissing a slow path up and down, his hands wandering from her back to her waist, to the front of the robe, pausing briefly before sneaking inside. Skin meets skin, his palm cups her breast, and when she sighs, he does too; his melting into hers, hers swallowing his. 

He lets out a high, lovely little sound when she grinds against him, half yelp, half moan, entirely pleased, before pulling her toward the edge of the table. Not roughly, not even urgently, just effectively, like adjusting the position of a beaker in a lab. 

"May I?" he asks, absurdly polite, as if requesting permission to adjust the tilt of a painting. His fingers hover near the tie at her waist, patient, careful, prepared to wait an eternity if she so much as hesitates.  

She nods, quick and jerky, because language has officially abandoned her. Heat crawls up her neck, floods her ears, spreads down her chest, pooling low, deep, hot enough that she swears even her knees feel it.  

And now she understands why he wanted her half-hanging off. 

Emmrich sinks down, positioning himself between them until his mouth is at her thigh. His lips press there, just lightly, just once. Chaste, if it weren’t there. His breath is warm, the tip of his nose barely brushing, a ridiculous, insignificant little thing, except that it isn’t.

Inevitably, with no grand announcement, no hesitation, his mouth settles against her cunt. She gasps, a short, humiliating thing, because there is no preparing for it, for the way his lips catch, for the heat of him, for the way he seems entirely undisturbed by the fact that he is currently kneeling on the kitchen floor between her legs while she clutches the wood grain of the table like it’s about to launch her into the fucking stratosphere.  

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, and, with a frankly heroic level of restraint, manages to say, "Oh gods," instead of screaming it, instead of yanking at his hair, instead of shouting, holy shit, this is actually happening, what the fuck, what the fuck.

Then she feels his fingers. A touch up the inside of her thigh. Higher, higher, a little higher still, pressing lightly against her, sliding through her slick and swollen folds, gathering everything, coating themselves completely before pushing inside.  

She claws at his shoulders, wordlessly telling him to come back up, and he does, rises, leans in, smiling, kissing her chin. She tilts her head for him, unable to say anything, just panting into his mouth as he kisses her again, as his fingers stroke, curl, move.

She fucks herself on them the way she did last night, except this time she doesn’t have to be quiet. This time there’s no one to hear them. But she doesn’t know how to be loud, how to moan and sigh and keen in a way that’s attractive, so she just moves, just shivers, just thrusts against his hand, presses her face into his neck when he shifts his wrist, and—  

Oh gods—  

"Let's move," she rushes out, too fast, too sharp, because, unfortunately, an absolutely tragic cramp is forming in her ankle, and she refuses to let a minor muscular rebellion ruin this. 

Another kiss. Hurried, fleeting, just a punctuation mark between her hopping off the table and their mindless trek back to his room. Just long enough for her to taste herself on his lips.It makes her giggle, high and a little unhinged; it’s hardly the most depraved thing in the grand scheme of debauchery, and yet, somehow, it still is.

This time, when he lies over her—kissing her, being kissed in return—it's all lips. Wet, then dry, then chapped, then wet again, teeth occasionally knocking. And this time, she feels him. Feels the outline of his cock through his trousers, the warmth, the shape of it. She reaches down, presses her palm against him, and smiles when he shivers. Does it again. Each time, he rocks into her hand, helplessly eager. 

"Rook, Rook," he gasps, catching her wrist to stop it. Sheepish, he adds, "A little slower, darling, or it will be over much too quick." 

"Ah," she says, mercifully relenting. "I don’t care, I don’t care." Why is she saying it twice? Who knows. "It'll still be miles better than the clusterfuck I told you about." 

At this, his eyes immediately lurch to the left. 

"There has been," he swallows, "no one since?" 

"No one," she confirms. 

And now his eyes dart hard to the right. At this rate, they might just pop out of his skull entirely, and then she’ll have to deal with the awkward logistics of catching them mid-air and pressing them back into their sockets. 

"We can, we can," he stammers, "take things slowly." 

The way he says can has a distinct whiff of should, and frankly, she is not in the mood for whatever moral crisis he’s about to spiral into. Emmrich is perfectly free to disassociate or have a deep, introspective moment about the sanctity of human connection—on his own time. But not here. Not now. Not when she is finally, finally about to get laid like a normal, functional adult.

So, no. Absolutely not. And she tells him as much—"No."—before shoving her tongue down his throat like she’s trying to personally realign his moral compass through his tonsils. Just to really drive the point home, she gives his cock another thoroughly encouraging squeeze. For posterity. 

He clearly takes care of himself; lean, tall, the kind of body that suggests an active lifestyle but also a healthy respect for good food and a decent mattress. Still, he’s older—not old, but older—and she sees it in the slight narrowness of his chest, the soft give of his stomach as she undresses him. It’s endearing. It’s real.

He sits back to finish peeling off the last of his clothes, and she shrugs off her, well, his, robe, watching as whatever remained between them falls away. When he moves to settle back over her, she shakes her head, presses a hand to his chest, and pushes him back down. 

She climbs over him, kisses here and there. The dip of his sternum, the stretch of his throat, the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple. Traces the faint trail of hair down his stomach, following it lower, lower, between his thighs, all the way down to his knees. Biscuit knees, her mind helpfully, uselessly supplies. The kind that would absolutely shatter on impact if he ever fell. Then again, given his height, it would take him a solid three to five business days to actually hit the ground, so maybe it’s a non-issue. 

She strokes his cock, careful not to squeeze too hard, which is already more strategic planning than she usually applies to anything. She even attempts some fancy little wrist maneuver; something she thinks she saw once, something that looks very professional in theory, but immediately cramps up like a fucking amateur.

But that’s fine. She has two hands. And she highly doubts Emmrich, currently sprawled out in front of her, will object to her switching tactics. Now, now she actually feels it. The weight of him, the heat, the way the veins on the underside swell under her palm as he thickens, blood rushing in, skin growing taut and flushed.

She leans down, takes the head into her mouth, licks the salt and musk from his skin; clean, warm, threaded faintly with soap. Gathers spit and lets it drip down his length, then strokes him again, watching the slickness ease the motion, watching the way his hips jerk, his cock pushing eagerly into the tight, wet tunnel of her hand.

She does it again. Once more. Loosens her grip, then constricts it, watching the way the blood surges through him, the way the head reddens, leaks more freely, twitches under her touch. And when she leans once more, swallowing him until the blunt head of him brushes the back of her throat, she barely has time to register the fingers threading into her hair before he’s pulling her off. Not forcefully—Emmrich is nothing if not maddeningly careful—but enough that she knows to stop.

She relents, dragging her mouth off him with a slow suction, admiring the slick sheen of her spit stretch between them before finally breaking.

He settles back over her, and for a while, he just strokes her. He doesn’t even need to wet his fingers; she’s already slick enough that they slide inside easily. But patience is not her virtue, and soon enough, she’s shifting, pressing, urging him on. 

He exhales, soft yet jittery, then withdraws just long enough to search the nightstand. His fingers shake—barely, but enough for her to notice—as he pulls out a condom, struggles briefly with the wrapper, lips pressing together in the slightest show of frustration before he finally rolls it down his cock. 

She doesn’t wait. Yanks him back in, suddenly way too eager, her blood running way too hot. His cheeks are painted pink, and for some reason, she really, really wants to lick them. Or rather, the cheekbones specifically. High, protruding, and—what’s the word? Aristocratic. 

So she does. Just drags her tongue along the bone and, immediately, laughs, breathless, right into his cheek. 

"You smell so, so good," she murmurs, voice hazy, pleased. 

It would probably read as corny in a novel, she thinks. The way his thumbs brush over her cheeks, the softness of the kiss that follows, how everything is patient, unhurried, careful. His hand moves between them, wrapping around himself, guiding his cock to her entrance.

She feels it before anything else—the smooth, warm press of him against her clit, the slow, teasing glide downward, the subtle shift in his grip as he angles himself just right. And then—pressure. A steady push, inch by inch, stretching her open. It isn’t pain, not exactly, just a deep, foreign ache, something unfamiliar, something to adjust to.

Above her, Emmrich shudders, exhales hard against her skin, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

"Rook," he breathes, then again, and again, voice unraveling, a lovely, little litany against her throat, Rook, Rook, Rook, like her name is something essential.

He finds a rhythm, and now—now—it really starts to feel good. The steady drag of his cock inside her, pushing deeper with every roll of his hips. He’s whispering something, words she barely catches, low and breathless, something sweet, something kind, though it barely registers past the heat pooling in her stomach. One of his hands moves over her, palms her breast, fingers pinching lightly at her nipple, sliding down, lower, pressing over her stomach like he’s feeling himself inside her before slipping between her legs.

A slow stroke over her clit, then another, massaging, circling, his pubic bone grinding into her with every thrust, a perfect friction, a sharp little pulse of pleasure each time his hips press flush against hers. Her toes curl, a smile forms. The sound that slips from her mouth is more desperate than she wants it to be; a mewl, something high, something needy, and he hears it, because it has an effect on him.

His hips snap harder against hers, the rhythm shifts, deepens, the sounds between them getting louder, and it’s good, fuck, it’s good, until suddenly it isn’t. A sharp pressure, too much, too deep, something inside her clenching in a way that isn’t pleasure at all.

“Hold on, hold on,” she gasps, legs tightening around his hips to stop him from pushing any further. "Just... Can you not move for a second?"

He stills instantly, breath hot against her skin, his cock buried deep, his body held in place by the tight grip of her thighs. "Did I—?"

"You're sort of..." she begins before cutting herself of. How do people say this sexily? Seductively? In a way that doesn’t make it sound like she’s filing a noise complaint? She gives up. Goes for bluntness. "Long."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, a tad hoarse, moving to pull out. "I'm sorry."

She doesn’t let him. Her arms tighten around him before he can go anywhere, legs wrapping firmer around his hips, holding him inside. She arches, moves against him, slow, rolling little circles with her hips so his cock isn’t thrusting so much as gliding, caressing her from the inside.

She gasps as she finds the spot he’s already rubbed raw, the one that made her thighs tremble when he had her spread open on his kitchen table. Heat surges through her, another rush of slick rolling around him, and he groans before settling into a slower, more controlled pace.

"Is this all right?" he asks, bracing himself on his forearms, shifting his weight to one side long enough to ease a palm beneath her head, fingers weaving into her hair.

"All right," she echoes, a smile tugging at her lips, too wide, too much, barely able to contain the sheer rightness of it. "So, so all right."

It doesn’t take long before she feels it. His breath catching, his hips starting to stutter, the rhythm breaking into something messier, inconsistant. A shudder travels through him, down his spine, his body pressing flush to hers, a quiet, choked noise escaping his lips as one hand finds purchase beneath her knee, pulling her closer.

"I'm afraid it has been a while," he admits, breath hitching between ragged little half-moans. "I will not be able to—"

"Come," she interrupts, fingers threading through his hair.

She moves with him, against him, tilting her hips to chase every last bit of friction she can get, feeling herself clench, flutter around him, sighing in time with the erratic jingle-jingle of his bracelets, the sound intertwining with the pulse between her legs.

She feels the heat of his release, the way his breath stutters into a quiet, helpless whine as he rides it out, still moving, though his thrusts grow slower, lazier, his body gradually yielding to exhaustion. She feels the steady, insistent thud of his heartbeat—against her chest, inside her, everywhere—before he finally stills, the weight of him pressing down for just a moment before he lifts himself slightly. 

He kisses her, languid and deep, the kind of kiss that lingers in the space between wakefulness and sleep, his eyes drifting shut as if he could rest right here, against her. Without opening them, asks, "How would you like to finish?" 

"What?" she says, dazed, the word barely formed as he kisses his way down her neck, over her breasts, his tongue dragging, teeth catching, lips closing over every sensitive inch he can reach. It’s a stupid question, made even stupider by the fact that she has no idea what she’s even asking.

His hand curls around her knee, pushing it outward, widening the angle until the muscles in her inner thighs stretch, taut and trembling. Then his mouth is on her, lips raw from all the kissing but quickly slicked as his tongue glides through the heat of her, lapping up the mess between her legs.

A sharp jerk in her thighs, the involuntary arch of her back, the sudden, helpless stutter of her breath breaking apart into something that is almost a keen but not quite. Just a strangled sound she doesn’t have the presence of mind to control.

Two fingers spread her folds, slick and flushed, pulsing with every aching throb of blood beneath her skin. His thumb presses down on her clit, firm but careful, at the same moment his tongue pushes inside, slipping past the entrance, licking up everything his cock dragged out, pleasure wet and tacky and slippery.

The heat of his mouth moves with purpose; his tongue curling, stroking, fucking her open between warm breaths and the quiet vibrations of his humming, the sound sending little sparks of sensation straight through her. Praise spills from his lips, soft and slurred and half-formed, slipping between flicks of his tongue, as though every slow, wet drag is a conversation, a promise, a confession whispered straight into the slick, trembling heat of her cunt. Good, lovely, darling—words lost between the obscene suck of his mouth and the way he eats her, like he means every syllable, like he wants her to feel them inside her just as much as his tongue.

Her breath wheezes, her legs tense, her slick drips down over his chin as she grinds helplessly against his mouth, overstimulated, wrung out, gone.

It's the praise that finally pushes her over. It’s not earth-shattering. It's not the kind of orgasm that tears through her in some great, cinematic crescendo. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t see stars, doesn’t arch like some desperate, pornographic thing. No, this one is different. It creeps in slowly, melts her from the inside out, something deep and final, something that leaves her limp and spent and done.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what a proper one is supposed to feel like. Not leaving her restless and ready to go again, but making her tender, sweating, like even the brush of a hand against her ankle would be too much.

He keeps working her through it, lets her ride it out as long as she needs, until she’s limp and tired, nothing but heat and pulse beneath him. Only then does he finally ease away, planting one last kiss against the inside of her thigh before moving back up, his mouth slick and shining, cheeks flushed.

He says something, but she doesn’t catch it before he slips away. The sound of running water drifts from the bathroom, and when he returns, it’s with a damp hand towel, which he presses between her legs, cleaning her up before setting it aside. 

"Thank you," she breathes. 

He makes a sound, not quite a word, more of a hum, something deeply pleased. If a smile could be heard, that’s what it would sound like. Then he leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead, and climbs back into bed beside her. 

It’s morning. They should probably get on with their respective days, but she has no interest in leaving the warmth of the bed just yet. So, instead, she pulls the covers up over them, settling deeper into the cocoon of lingering heat. 

"How early did you get up?" she asks suddenly. "You weren’t here when I woke up." 

"A quarter past five," Emmrich says, and there it is again—that small, almost bashful glance as he takes her hand. She rolls into him, content to leech off his warmth. 

"Criminal," she declares. "But at least that explains why you weren’t there." 

"Oh, I wasn’t beside you at all, I’m afraid. That would have been Manfred. He refused to be displaced." 

"Ah. Hence the mouthful of hair." 

[sofiemystique]

For @paramortality

Because I can't come give you a hug. And I can't show up and sit with you. Best I got is Emmrich loving on Laird. Only posting this because he told me too.

And completely aside, I sent this to Bone Dad and he sent me back the photos. That's how you know you're on the same wavelength as your friends!

Laird sat on the chaise, tears glistening in his eyes. Laughter floated through the door from the team down in the library, but he couldn't join them. Not like this. Not feeling like this. Why anyone thought he was capable and competent was beyond him. He would let them down, this would crumble, everything would be lost…

He took a deep breath, filling his chest with air, holding it for a count and then releasing it over a few seconds. Again, he repeated the exercise, a common one young apprentices were taught but somehow he seemed to be frequenting as of late. The feel of his chest disgusted him. His whole body and skin made him feel shame. The scars on his chest showcasing that even in his own body he didn't even belong.

And Emmrich…

Emmrich would realize the mistake he was making and leave him. It was inevitable. How would someone as intelligent, talented, and handsome ever truly be content with the mess of a watcher, let alone person he was. Laird's face dropped into his hands.

The door creaked as it was opened. "Darling?" came that voice that Laird loved. That calmed and soothed him, and yet it was the last voice in this moment he wanted to hear. Emmrich couldn't see him like this, be with him while he wallowed in this despair.

Attempting to cough and quickly wipe his eyes dry, he cracked his neck. It was of no use. Emmrich rounded the corner of the chaise, his eyes filled with concern and love. And no trace of pity.

"Hi…hi Emmrich," Laird attempted to choke out.

"Darling, what is troubling you? How can I assist?" Emmrich knelt in front of Laird, taking one of the ginger haired man's hands inside of his own. Laird merely felt tears sting at the edges of his eyes stronger than before. His bottom lip quivered staring into the hazel eyes of Emmrich, who was so patiently waiting, giving Laird the space he needed to formulate the words.

"How can you love me?" Laird gave a small cry. "I'm gross and horrible. I'm unworthy of such love you give. I'm a failure. I'm so broken…" he trailed off as Emmrich leaned forward and placed his lips on Laird's brow before setting back on his heels.

"Who has been telling you such lies, my love?" the question was soft, but there was a sharper undercurrent.

Laird couldn't formulate words as he stared into Emmrich's kind eyes. He could only shake his head as more tears escaped down his cheeks.

"You are not gross, nor are you horrible." Emmrich leaned up to place another kiss on Laird's forehead. "You are not broken, nor are you a failure. Not until you give up and quit fighting, and my love that isn't what is happening right now."

The words washed over Laird, like a soothing balm on a sore wound. It was hard to accept, hard to receive, even with Emmrich's lips on his forehead and his arms moving up to pull him into an embrace. "You are not unworthy of the love I freely and completely give to you. You are utterly worthy. Laird, my dearest heart, you are the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me."

Cheek pressed close to Emmrich's heart, Laird allowed himself to softly sob. Emmrich's hand rubbed along his back in a gentle motion. "No one else could take your place. Not as the leader of this team nor as the holder of my heart. Thedas is vastly improved and far more beautiful because you dare to exist in it."

A soft kiss was placed onto the top of Laird's head. "Cast those thoughts from your mind. And should they plague you, further, please my love, I beg you, come find me. Let me drown them out. Allow me to kiss them away. Give me the honor of worshiping your body, your mind, and your spirit. I would kiss every inch of your skin and then will kiss it again. I will hide myself within my favorite place - you. I will hold you until the stress and the turmoil fades and only this light remains."

Laird lifted his head, tear stained cheeks and bleary eyes finding Emmrich's own. "Do you.. promise I am not a bother?"

Emmrich rested his own forehead against Laird's. "My love, you are a gift, a treasure. You are more precious to me than anything. Perish the thought now." And gently Emmrich touched his lips to Laird in a slow, drawn out kiss before pulling back. "I will love you from now until breath leaves my lungs. And even after, I will burn only for you."

And once again their lips joined, Laird laying back allowing Emmrich to crawl up on top of him, and hold hold their bodies tightly together in a warm embrace.

[weaveandwood]

In Hushed Whispers

There was a little interest in me posting some Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfic here, so I'm going to share the one shot I have written! I know I have a few mutuals who are also doing their first playthrough of Inquisition, so if you haven't done the quest this one-shot is named for, don't read this! Consider this your warning!

Pairing: Cullen/Female Lavellan (Brinni, my dual wielding rogue) Words: 1,374

Angst

Read on AO3!

Cullen threw the crumpled up message across the room and leaned over the war table, shaking his head, willing himself to take his next breath even as dread constricted every fiber of his being. 

Dead. 

He slammed his fist against the table, toppling over the markers that had been so carefully placed earlier that day. He told her it was a trap - he told them all! She wasn’t an idiot, she knew it was clearly a trap as well. Still, she was determined - and that determination had doomed them all.  

He paced the length of the room. Back and forth, over and over, replaying their last conversation in his head, trying to figure out what he could have said differently. 

“Redcliffe has repelled thousands of assaults. If you go in there you’ll die, and we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won’t allow it,” he had told her. Of course, there was the unspoken reason he hadn’t wanted her to go, one he was too foolish and too scared to voice. No, better to have her believe he only saw her as a tool, a weapon for them to wield. Nothing more. 

Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana argued the optics of marching on the castle, the consequences of leaving a foreign magister in power on Ferelden land. It appeared they had been outplayed. No matter how hard Cullen stared at the table, a strategy would not come to him. 

“There has to be something we’re not thinking of,” she had said quietly, finally breaking the silence and looking at each of them. “Another way in.”

Discussions took place. Brinni paced back and forth while Leliana and Cassandra spoke of the secret entrance for the family and planned the “distraction” Brinni and her envoy would be for the magister. Someone suddenly barged into the war room with insider knowledge of the magister’s plans - Brinni seemed to trust him and his easy confidence, so everyone else did as well. 

It was settled. They would leave first thing in the morning. 

 “The plan puts you in the most danger - we can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait. It’s up to you,” he said to her before parting, his cool demeanor soothing over the storm within. Don’t go. It’s a trap. You will die. 

She went. So did Blackwall (prisoner), Varric (prisoner), and the new mage, Dorian (dead). 

Dead. 

If he had just talked to her, told her how important she was - not just to the Inquisition, but to everyone in their inner circle even after this short amount of time, how he looked forward to reading her messages from her seemingly never-ending duties in the Hinterlands, how their conversations while he was overseeing the training exercises were the best sort of distraction…

He sighed. She still would have gone. Still would have died. 

He walked out of the building, staring at the breach in the sky. What were they going to do now? 

Months passed. It was almost a year to the day since the Inquisition lost their one hope at closing the Breach. Cullen had been right about Redcliffe. He threw troops at it, but they were no match for The Elder One’s demon army. Thedas was gone - everything was covered in red lyrium. Leliana had been captured on a spy mission months ago. Cassandra and Iron Bull led a charge soon after the news of Brinni’s death reached Haven with the rest of her companions - they never returned. Josephine tried her hand at diplomacy and was caught by a demon possessing a nobleman. 

Dead, dead, dead. 

Only a handful of troops remained. Templars, warriors, and even a few elves had traveled to Haven after everything really started going south about a month after…after her death. They fought for the fallen Herald of Andraste. He fought for her. Brinni Lavellan. He still found his thoughts easily drifting to her. He did a double take every time he saw an elf with short white hair the color of starlight. He missed her, even now. Even as he mounted his favorite horse outside of Redcliffe Village, ready to lead one last charge against the castle. One last attempt at saving the world, though it was certain they would all end up the same as everyone else who had tried.

Would he see her once this was over? He mulled the thought over as they marched on the castle through fields of red lyrium, the power surrounding it warm and intoxicating. He saw corpses with crystals growing out of them and shuddered. What world was left to save? They got to the bridge and he dismounted, taking all of the riding gear off of his horse. He dropped it to the ground before slapping the horse’s hindquarters, sending it off to live whatever life it could manage. There would be no one left to care for it after today and he could not bring himself to watch the horse die in battle. He smiled to himself. “The Commander has a soft spot” - she had teased him about that once in the stables, long ago.

A horrible grinding noise brought his attention back to the present, the telltale sound of the demons that had laid waste to the land and the people of Thedas. This was it. He raised his sword, rallying the small troop behind him and charged. 

They fought as well as they could, taking down a few demons while the demons took down more of them. He watched as they fought and fell, their numbers shrinking further and further until only a true handful were left, each fighting their own hopeless battle. A cry, a thud. Dead. A shout, a demonic laugh. Dead. 

“Sir, behind yo-” someone called out, seconds too late. Cullen started to turn, his sword preparing to strike when he felt a sharp pain in his chest, followed by searing heat and frigid cold seeping through his body. He fell to the ground, looking up at the roiling green-grey sky and tried unsuccessfully to remember what it looked like on a clear, blue, cloudless day before magic destroyed everything. He was lying in something warm and wet and he was tired, so tired. His eyes fluttered and the world grew dim. The cries of battle were quiet now and the grinding noise from the demons drifted further from his consciousness. 

It was over. 

“Sir? Sir? A message from Redcliffe,” a voice called from outside the door of his office, accompanied by urgent knocks. 

Cullen startled and sat up. Had he been sleeping at his desk? The long nights and early mornings had caught up with him, it appeared - he would need to keep a better schedule. He cleared his throat, calling for the messenger to enter and took the small envelope from him. 

He quickly ripped it open to read the missive from Brinni’s operation, his eyes scanning desperately for a key word to indicate how the mission went. He quickly crumpled it up and threw it across the room to prevent himself from spending all day reading it over and over again before leaning over his desk, his head in his hands. 

Mission successful. Recruited mages as allies. Will explain when we return. - B

She was fine. She didn’t die, she wasn’t taken prisoner, and she had recruited the mages as allies for the Inquisition. Once again, she exceeded his expectations. He leaned back in his chair, his face to the ceiling and laughed loudly, the cord of tension within him that had been wound so tightly since they left finally loosening. Was the tension he had been harboring solely due to the fate of their Inquisition? They would be able to continue closing Fade Rifts and perhaps close the Breach with the assistance of the recruited mages. Or…was it something that was beginning to take hold inside him, gentle and warm, just like the way she smiled at him during her rounds the other day when she found him in the stables, brushing his favorite horse’s mane and talking sweetly to it? “The Commander has a soft spot,” she had teased him. 

It appeared that the Commander may have had more than one.

[songbird-and-her-fos]

My anxiety has been acting up today so here is Emmrich taking care of Rook when being the hero starts wearing them down.

The Weight of the World

Emmrich/NB!Rook

Rook is only mortal, and the weight of the world resting on their shoulders takes its toll, no matter how hard they try to hide it.

-

Evening fell over Thedas, at least as far as the inhabitants of the Lighthouse would be able to tell, and Emmrich had noticed Rook being suspiciously absent during the day. They never missed meals, or training, or the book club otherwise, so it was even more noticable, like there was a big, Rook-shaped hole whenever everyone got together. Even during days where they needed some solitude to recharge, they usually sought out Emmrich at least *once*.

He found his suspicion confirmed when Manfred came clattering into the room, looking as alarmed as someone without facial muscles could. “Rook. Not well.”

There was no answer when Emmrich knocked on the door to Rook’s room.

“Darling? Is everything alright?” Again, no reply.

He slowly pushed down the doorhandle and entered, finding Rook on the chaise they usually slept on, bundled up in several blankets. It took a moment for Emmrich to realize that they were doing the breathing exercises usually taught to young necromancers, to help the mind settle. Only that Rook didn’t look settled in the least; their face was ashen, with bloodshot, glossy eyes staring at nothing in particular.

Emmrich closed the door behind him and approached Rook. “Dearest?”

Rook flinched out of their exercise, and their eyes focused on him. “E-Emmrich. Did you knock? I didn’t hear you. Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess at the moment-” They were speaking so fast that they were stumbling over their words.

“Rook”, Emmrich said, voice firmer now. “Breathe.”

Their shoulders tensed. “I tried. It didn’t help. I’m not usually like this, I’ve never-” They gripped the blankets to pull them tighter around themself, and Emmrich noticed how badly their hands were shaking.

It was a woefully familiar state to Emmrich; ice-cold, unsoothable fear. He sat next to them, disentangling one of their hands from the fabric so he could hold it between his. It was cold and clammy with sweat, and shivering even now. “Tell me what happened, darling.”

“Nothing happened. It came out of nowhere last night, like I just now realized what’s happening and what could happen if I don’t do everything right. All of the ways everything could go wrong.”

Woefully familiar indeed.

“Is this why you have been hiding in here all day?”

Rook slumped against him, as if all the tension had suddenly left their body, leaving only a boneless pile of misery. “I can’t let the others see me like this. They trust me, they have to. And how could they if they saw me right now?”

“I don’t think they would judge you. I know I don’t.” His thumb stroked the back of their hand. “Just like you have never judged any of us for our troubles.” But as he spoke, Emmrich actually considered his words. Yes, none of their companions would judge Rook. But none of them had ever asked about their wellbeing, either, and to his shame, he had to include himself in that. And he also knew that no amount of talking or rationalising could drive away the terror Rook was feeling at the moment.

“Tell me that everything’s going to be okay”, Rook muttered. “Even if it’s a lie. Just tell me-”

“There is no guarantee for that”, he responded gently, wrapping one arm around their shoulders and pulling them close. “But everyone knows how hard you work. If things go wrong, it won’t be a failing on your part.”

Rook smiled shakily. “Somehow, that helps to know. Thank you.” A short moment of silence followed, before Rook spoke again:”Can you stay with me tonight?”

Emmrich pulled them closer, turning his torso so he could embrace them with both arms. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone in this state, darling.”

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

Meet Anabel “Rook” Laidir!

Age: 20, nearly 21

Parents: Alistair Theirin and Jasmine Amell, raised by Leliana "Auntie Ana" Divine Victoria and Uncle Zev from the age of five years. It was for her own protection. Leliana could claim her as her own child due to the red hair and similar eye color.

Height and Build: 5 feet, takes after her mother in that regard, and a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. If she didn't get as much exercise as she does, she would have an hourglass figure.

Class: Mage with heavy rogue training

Faction: Lords of Fortune since age 18.

She looks very much like her father, but with her mother's eyes and mouth.

I'm working on her page right now.

Some fun facts:

She's demiromantic and pansexual, but not entirely inexperienced. At least as far as romance goes. If her true parentage and history became known, she could end up on a ahit list for existing. She would love some romance though.

Masculinity, regardless of gender, is what she's most attracted to. Body hair is a major bonus, and deep voices damn near make her vibrate with arousal. Seeing Lucanis for the first time made her gasp. Hearing him...hehehe.

When not actively treasure hunting, she makes her money as a bard. Anabel can play the lute, tin whistle, and fiddle, snd favors the fiddle. Unfortunately, carrying that around can cause issues, so she has her tin whistle with her. She can also sing, but nothing grand.

She excels at acrobatics.

Anabel also knows how to sew and mend her own clothes, and enjoys embroidery. She has handsewn gems to her clothes, as well as glass beads, into elaborate patterns. One particular outfit has silver and gold threads made from real silver and gold.

She keeps a ring on every finger, bracelets on both wrists, and several necklaces at all time. One is a locket that won't open with her breath, and contains a small painting of her parents. It's also enchanted to be waterproof and whatever chain or cord she uses for it will never break.

Yes, she is a devout Andrastian. Her faith cannot be shaken.

She loves studying history. It's one of her favorite topics, and one of the reasons she joined LoF.

Leliana and Zev insisted she experience the world, and provided her with a surname she could safely use. She's been on her own since 16.

In her bedroom at home, she has a collection of music boxes her mother sent to her every year until she was 10 years old. Then they suddenly stopped. Her father sent her random trinkets and baubles until she was around seven. Then they stopped.

Anabel does not resent her parents. In fact, she misses them and would give damn near anything to see them again. Leliana told her she sees them anytime Anabel laughs because it's her mother's laugh, smiles because she has her father's smile, her kindness because it echoes that of both her parents, her temper because it was her mother's, her magic because also her mother, her humor because of her father, and her grace in a fight because of her father. Anabel takes comfort in that.

She lives the Antivan accent, and not just because of her Uncle Zev. She's well versed in the language amd how the Crows operate because of him. He made sure she built up a tolerance to various poisons, could throw a knife accurately with little effort. Leliana taught her to pick locks, as well as spy without looking like it.

Her accent is mostly Fereldan. She remained there until she was 10, kept secret and protected. Rather rural too. Plus some extra training with Avvar, namely magic.

She speaks fluent Orlesian, Antivan, Trade (common tongue in Thedas), Dalish, Avvar, and Fereldan. She knows some Qunari as Avvar. She can read all the above plus a few others. All of this has helped tremendously with her work.

She has freckles, but update how they look on the screen. For some reason, they made her look twice jer age. Pretend she has almost as many as Harding.

Lots of tattoos!!!

The scar on her neck was from someone who thought they could kill her in her sleep and steal everything she has. That someone is now very dead. The blade was laced with poison, had her sick for several days, and scarred her something nasty. She now sets up wards before going to sleep.

Varric is completely unaware of her parentage.

I need to update the page I'm making for her.

[contreparry]

For DADWC: “Heads, I do it. Tails, you do it" for the pairing of your choice :)

Absolutely! Here's some modern!Thedas Fenders for @dadrunkwriting!

Despite being a stickler for cleaning at work, spring cleaning the apartment was an Event in Anders' life. That was what came with the territory of being a proud cat parent and having an active social calendar- things just... piled up! Everywhere! Add to that a boyfriend who felt that book space was more important than living space (fine he was guilty of that as well, clap him in irons too) and collected kitchen gadgets and pots and pans like a dragon's horde and... well...

Well, spring cleaning became Spring Cleaning (TM), and Anders had to set aside an entire weekend and Friday evening so he and Fenris could get their shared apartment in order.

It wasn't all terrible. They'd order in takeout, have a beer (or, in Fenris' case, wine), and start sorting out all the trash from the treasure, the wheat from the chaff, the stuff that was their stuff from the stuff that one of their many friends left lying around. They'd organize the living room, then he'd sort through all the closets while Fenris took charge in the kitchen. But then... there was the office.

It used to be Anders' room when they were roommates who tried to avoid each other, but ever since Anders and Fenris started spending more nights in the same bed than not it became the Room of Many Hats- the office, the guest room, the catch-all clutter chamber, The Unspeakable Void-

"Heads I do it. Tails you do it," Anders suggested, and Fenris glowered at him.

"You're a dirty cheater. I know that coin is weighted, you got it from Varric," Fenris declared. Anders sighed and stuffed the coin into the pocket of his worn down cut-off sweatpants (really they were Fenris', but they were comfortable and fit and Fenris seemed to get a kick out of Anders wearing his clothes so why not indulge the man?).

"One of us has to go first. Someone has to get started on... it," Anders said, emphatically gesturing towards the Room of Many Hats. There were several cardboard boxes precariously stacked on top of the futon, and the bookshelves were overflowing with paper, books, and at least one failed knitting project. And there were the weights. So. Many. Weights. Did a man really need that many hand weights and yoga mats and and an exercise ball?

"Yes. And as I made lunch you get to start," Fenris replied. Anders rolled his eyes.

"Ah, yes, toiled over the microwave for five minutes, how can I ever repay you?" Anders asked as Fenris passed him in the hallway.

"Move some boxes from the Room," Fenris suggested sweetly before leaning in and pressing a heated kiss to Anders' mouth that left him weak-kneed and gasping for breath.

"I've got to finish organizing the pantry," Fenris murmured when he pulled back, his breath hot against Anders' face. "You get started and I'll join you in a bit."

"Right," Anders wheezed out, feeling dazed. As he regained his balance and sanity he watched Fenris saunter down the hall in his leggings and crop top, a bit of a smug skip in his step because he knew that he had won.

"We're going to consecrate the futon when the room's clean, you know! We're going to make more work for ourselves in the long run, so why even start?!" Anders called out, but Fenris only laughed at him. Anders groaned and looked at the massive pile of junk in the Room of Many Hats.

"You're lucky you're cute," Anders muttered under his breath, and he picked up the first empty cardboard box and began to fold it up for recycling.

[the-dreadful-canine]

Thank you v much for the tag @noire-pandora, @oxygenforthewicked, @emerald-amidst-gold and @dungeons-and-dragon-age I appreciate you all~ 🥰

On this fine day, I bring a snippet of the gang having a sweet moment at the tavern (but then I throw angst in the end because I am built like this).

Cw for: gambling, drinking, mentions of blood, ptsd, mild panic attack (it sounds really bad omg)

Balanced on the back legs of her chair, Elizabeth hid a soft smile behind a sip of her cup’s contents. The well-fed fire burned merrily on the hearth, bathing her chilled skin and the tavern in flickers of gold and orange, enhancing the homey atmosphere its patrons created. Scouts, Chargers and members of the Inner Circle alike gathered, piling around a couple of hastily pushed together tables.

Groans of defeat and pleased laughs filled the air, fistfuls of sweets, coins and the odd piece of clothing changed hands at the end of another round of Wicked Grace.

Following the self-assigned role of fire keeper, she eased the chair’ legs on the floor, turning back to the flames. It burned low, so she fed it a new log. Reaching her will outwards, Elizabeth called out to some of the curious *kindlings floating above the table, coaxing them to feed on the offered wood.

“Kadan, please.” The sudden baritone rising above the hushed gambling made her head turn, and she watched a coatless Dorian caught on his lover’s embrace. He had his nose in the air, arms crossed and eyes closed, a clear dismissal to whatever Bull tried to convince him of.

Finding his reasoning ignored, Bull let go of his lover with a sigh. Who was more than happy to return to the table and take a healthy gulp of his glass. With less grace than the usual he bent halfway under the thing, returning moments later with a triumphant expression. Whistles and hoots followed the clinking thud of his shiny boots being dropped over wood, and more than one pair of eyebrows rising at the rare bet.

“Deal me in, rogue.” Dorian spoke, managing to appear somewhat regal even while hastily tucking his now much colder feet under himself.

“You sure, Sparkler?” Varric drawled, eying the expensive item “That’s quite the pretty thing to risk.”

“And it’s about to look prettier surrounded by everyone’s piles of coins I’ll win this round.”

“A brave claim for someone clad only in a shirt and breeches.” Taunted Josephine from over her hand of cards. The ambassador perched like a golden dragon on her chair, her loot spread around her. “This will be a pretty addition to my collection.”

“You, Montilyet, shall rob me of no more items,” he scoffed, “for I have picked up on your tell.”

“A lady has no tells, Pavus.” She retorts swiftly, sipping from her wine with a smile like the cat who ate a canary gracing her face.

“Oh but she does.” called a voice from the door, a series of disheartened mutters rising from the table when the owner revealed herself. “If you know where to look.” she smirked, eying the offered footwear. “Now Mister Tethras, if you will?” Leliana spoke, roosting smoothly on a chair and motioning for Varric to deal her some cards.

Elizabeth nearly snorted on her drink when a chunk of the table suddenly decided to skip the round in a wave of half-baked excuses. Wise decision. But her favorite necromant’s wisdom had drowned somewhere around his fifth serving of liquor and he grew bolder, teasing the new rival, and she shook her head.

How in the Void Dorian still had enough clarity of mind to play Grace was beyond her. Their shared taste for the spicy, embrium-infused drink meant they were sharing a bottle this night; she was barely half her second cup and already her body started to feel all kinds of woozy. But then again, her ability to hold her liquor was never anything to boast about.

A fond smile made way to her face when the laughing and voices of other companions joined the growing banter. They were precious, these moments of peace where they could all come together and enjoy each other’s company. Even if for a few hours, they could ignore the ever-looming presence of the falling skies and rising evil magisters.

Much too often the hearth provided a melancholic light devoid of warmth and drinks not for loosening and unwinding with friends. The burning found at the bottom of the cup was a way to numb down the senses. To forget the days on the battlefield. To hope their bloodstained souls would not stain in crimsom their sleeping hours.

Something cold and sticky seeped on her thigh, and only then Elizabeth noticed the shaking hands. The spilled red liquid trailed down her fingers to pool on the rug, like blood pouring from a gaping wound. She closed her eyes and held her breath, willing her mind to settle. But it was too late. The homey smell of burning wood and roasting meat wafting from the kitchens twisted, and the stench of smoke and scorched flesh filled her nostrils instead. The laughing voices, warm and friendly grew louder, too loud. They bled and mixed into each other until all she heard was a cacophony of horrified screams of the uncountable lives she had to take just to survive.

A gentle, firm tug at her hand, pulls her from the edge of the vortex inside her mind and she reopens her eyes, blinking away the blur of unshed tears. Pale blue stares back at her, the familiar depths filled with so much empathy and understanding and it feels like an anchor; one she allows to ground her.

She can’t hear his words at first, but works trough the calming exercises until his blessedly monotonous and unwavering voice returns to her. The rest of the tavern’s voices and noises following soon enough.

Once awareness returns Elizabeth notices the rug she’s sitting in, the walls of the attic a familiar sight. She has no memory of getting there, but is thankful all the same. The boy in front of her gets up from his crouch, tugging her to her feet with a strength that never ceases to surprise her.

“Come.”

“Cole,” she tries pulling her hand out of his, but the spirit refuses to yield his grasp “thank you for coming to my aid but, really. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.”

“You are hurting.”

“Well, once you reach your thirties, you’re always hurting somewhere.” She jokes, trying to lighten the mood, but Cole sees right through her act, and although his face wears the usual neutral expression, his eyes scream his disapproval. With a sigh, she gives in, allowing him to drag her down the flights of stairs to the floor level.

“I can’t make you forget. They can help.” He says with a ghost of a smile once they reach the last step of the stairs. And then he’s gone.

There’s no time to feel awkward for standing alone in a dark corner, Varric’s finding her in a heartbeat. He calls out to her then, a wide grin on his face, warm brown eyes glimmering from something more than being on high spirits.

“Stop hiding, Stabby!” the table perks up at the mention of her nickname. More eyes and smiles turning to greet her “You’ve got too little alcohol and way too much dignity left in your body, you’re making us all look bad!”

The giggles and assorted noises of agreement wash over her like a warm cocoon, and weight she wasn’t even aware being on her shoulders slowly melts away.

Maybe Cole was right, she thinks - hopes -, while walking to the table. They could help.

* I tweaked Elizabeth's abilities based off her origins. She's from Earth not Thedas, and so I gave her earth-like magic: her 'magic' comes not from the Fade, but from borrowing from the elementals in the ambient. The kindlings mentioned in the scene are that, smol fire elementals attracted by the flames of the hearth.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Choice

Chapter 66 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

In which Fenris tells the Exalted Council to shove it what the future of the Inquisition will be, and everyone gets to finally relax. **CANON-DIVERGENT SPOILERS ABOUND, so scroll on if you aren’t caught up and you care about spoils!**

Full chapter is ~7600 words, and includes some smutty smut. Read on AO3 instead. 

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

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Dorian. “Stop gaping at me.”

Dorian immediately looked away. “I wasn’t gaping. I don’t gape,” he said loftily. “I’m not a fish.”

Fenris grunted. “You could have fooled me.” In truth, he couldn’t blame Dorian for staring; Fenris couldn’t stop looking at his own skin, either. Every time he reached for a quill or picked up an apple or lifted his hand to run his fingers through his hair, the sight of his own unmarked hands was like a constant exclamation mark in his mind, perking his attention and reminding him that he was normal.

He wasn’t a mage. He wasn’t a marked and tainted slave, and he wasn’t a warrior whose magic had been forced into the marks on his skin. He was a normal man, and he was free. 

Nearly free, in any case. Hence the informal procession he and Hawke were leading toward the great hall where the Exalted Council were convened.

Dorian sniffed. “That’s offensive. I’m nothing like a fish. If I resemble any animal, it’s a graceful and vicious tiger.”

Sera snorted. “You are too like a fish!”

Dorian shot her a resentful look. “How dare you say such a thing?”

“Fish are flashy,” she said matter-of-factly. “You know, scales and that? Flashy fish, flashy you.”

“Hey, you’re right,” Varric said. “He is pretty flashy, with the buckles and the rings.”

Dorian tsked. “Flashy is one thing. Fishy is quite another.” He elbowed Bull’s hip. “Why aren’t you defending me?”

“Sorry, kadan,” Bull said. “I couldn’t focus over your flashy buckles.”

Rainier chuckled. “Even your fabrics are flashy now, Dorian. Is that the fashion in Tevinter these days?”

Dorian barked out a laugh. “Someone mark this day on the calendar! Thom Rainier uses the word ‘fashion’. I wasn’t aware you knew the meaning of the word.”

Rainier scoffed into his beard, and Hawke laughed and patted Rainier’s burly arm. “Hey, that’s not nice! I think Thom has a very appealing aesthetic.”

“Thank you, Hawke,” he said. Then he scratched his beard. “Er, what does that mean?”

Sera cackled and Hawke grinned, but Cole was the one to answer. “Big and burly, beautiful beard. The axe looks small in his hands, rough and rugged hands for running over my skin. I wonder if he’s single?”

Hawke’s jaw dropped in delight. Rainier’s eyes widened, and Varric chuckled. “Sounds like someone has an admirer.”

“No kidding!” Hawke crowed. She poked Cole’s arm. “Whose thoughts were those?”

He looked around vaguely. “She’s not here.”

Bull huffed in amusement. “Real helpful, Cole. Thanks.”

Varric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, it’s got to be someone who’s seen the hero chopping wood behind the stables.”

Hawke tutted. “That could be anyone! Everyone in the Inquisition has gone by the stables at one point or another to visit the nuggalopes.”

Rainier grunted. “True. Those damned beasts are the most popular in the stables. Not sure why.”

Dorian smiled charmingly at him. “Some might say the same about you.”

Rainier snorted. “Oh shut it, Pavus.”

The others chuckled and continued to poke fun at each other, but the mention of the nuggalopes raised a fresh concern in Fenris’s mind. Damned nuggalopes, he thought ruefully. The problem wasn’t just the nuggalopes, in fact, but the Inquisition’s entire range of odd steeds. Who would look after them? Would Dennet be willing to take them back to the Hinterlands with him? Perhaps they could be gifted to the agents of the Inquisition who could use them best? 

He stopped himself before he could start sinking too deeply into the problem. This was an issue that could be delegated, likely to Josephine. It was absolutely not necessary for Fenris to worry about this. 

He smiled to himself. Then Hawke’s fingers slid gently over his wrist. 

He looked at her. She smiled up at him and twined her fingers with his. “How are you?” she asked. 

“I’m well,” he said, and he savoured the novelty of this statement actually being true. 

“Good,” she said. “Hang on to that feeling. Sounds like you’re about to get into it.” She jerked her thumb at the closed doors to the great hall. 

Fenris pursed his lips. Already he could hear Cyril’s raised voice through the doors. “... and now we stand on the brink of war with the qunari?”

“Yes,” Teagan snapped, “because this Solas provoked them in the first place!”

Josephine’s calm voice was the next to speak. “The Inquisition did not cause this threat. We informed the summit of the danger–”

“The danger posed by qunari spies inside your organization!” Teagan shouted.

Cassandra interrupted in a harder tone than Josephine’s. “Without the Inquisition, none of us would be here to complain.”

Hawke grimaced at Fenris. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, and he hefted the heavy tome beneath his arm: the same tome that Cassandra had once slammed down on a rough wooden table back in Haven’s little Chantry.

He pushed open the doors to the great hall. The assembled spectators turned, then immediately broke into frenzied murmuring.

“The Inquisitor! He looks different, non?”

“Where are his Dalish tattoos?”

“He’s not Dalish, you idiot. He was a slave. Did you not read The Tale of the Champion?”

“He’s so late! The Council started an hour ago! Do you think he was fighting qunari?”

“Perhaps he was allying with the qunari. I heard he lived with them for a time.”

“Shut your mouth, he’s the Herald. He would never.”

“His hand! The mark of Andraste is gone!”

“Does that mean Andraste has forsaken him?”

Fenris ignored them and made his way to the table where Josephine was sitting by herself. “You couldn’t wait for me, I see,” he murmured. 

She gave him the tiniest hint of a smile. “I tried, Fenris, believe me. You spoke to Leliana this morning?”

“I did,” he said. Leliana had coached him in what he was about to say – which was, of course, why Josephine was asking. 

He placed the tome on the table and looked up at the high table, where Cassandra was sandwiched between Cyril and Teagan. “I apologize for my lateness,” he said. “But you will be pleased to know I have reached a decision about the Inquisition’s future.”

Teagan’s eyebrows leapt up on his forehead. “You have reached a decision? That is not your choice to make!”

“It is, in fact,” Fenris said. He tapped the tome. “This is the writ from the late and revered Divine Justinia authorizing the reformation of the Inquisition.” He flipped open the book. “Here on page 147, it clearly states the following: ‘It is the Inquisition’s duty and goal to act in the interest of the people of Thedas. To protect them from the dangers borne of the Breach and to guide the return of peace to all nations where such guidance is so required. The Inquisitor's judgment shall be exercised to determine when those goals have been met.’” He looked up and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Cyril shifted slightly in his seat, but Teagan sat forward and glared viciously at Fenris. “You would abuse this power for your own gains?”

“My aim here is not to abuse this power,” Fenris said. “My aim is to point out that you have been correct. During the past two days, we acted beyond the bounds of this writ.” He raised his voice slightly so everyone in the room would hear. “In stopping the qunari plot to invade Thedas and to kill the leaders of every nation herein, the Inquisition acted beyond our bounds.”

A murmur of interest and alarm rose from the crowd, just as Fenris had known it would, and Teagan swelled with anger. “You – this is – don’t you dare act as though you played no role in this!” he shouted. “You had qunari spies within the Inquisition!”

Fenris bowed his head. “This is unfortunately true. An unfortunate truth that we seem to share with Orlais.” 

Another murmur, louder this time, rose from the onlookers, and Fenris breathed slowly to master his discomfort at the attention. At the high table, Teagan finally leaned back and glared at Cyril instead. 

Cyril shifted, then rested his fingers delicately on the table. “Be that as it may, Inquisitor, the Arl is correct. You stepped beyond your authority here at the Winter Palace. Your soldiers attempted to wrest control of the palace from the Orlesian guards.”

“That is true,” Fenris admitted. “And it is for reasons such as this that I have made my decision about the future of the Inquisition.” He looked directly at Cassandra. “A woman of great wisdom once told me that there is strength in picking up the mantle of responsibility when a guiding hand is needed. But there is also strength in knowing when to let that mantle go. In knowing that tyranny and complacency are always on the horizon, and to set power aside before we fall prey to its gaping maw.” He lifted his chin. “The time has come for the Inquisition to retire this mantle. We had a purpose: to close the Breach, to destroy those responsible, and to do our part in restoring order. We achieved these goals; we met our purpose. And thus I declare the Inquisition disbanded.” 

An outcry of surprise and interest rose from the gawking crowd, but Fenris ignored them; Cassandra was smiling proudly at him, and hers was the only reaction he cared about.

He smiled back at her, then bowed briefly to the Council before turning away. He caught Josephine’s eye, and the relief in her smile only helped reinforce his conviction.

He made his way along the aisle toward the exit and tried not to listen to the chatter of the crowd. As he neared the doors, his companions rose from the benches at the back of the room. Together as a group, they left the great hall. 

As soon as the doors of the great hall closed behind them, Hawke propped her fists on her hips. “Well! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think this calls for some punch.”

Rainier and Bull murmured their agreement, and Sera did an excited little hop. “Punch! Punch! Do some punch!”

Dorian groaned. “Oh no, not that damned punch.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Sparkler, you love that punch. You said so two days ago.”

“How drunk was I at the time?” Dorian said archly.

“Pretty damn drunk,” Varric admitted.

Dorian folded his arms. “I rest my case.”

Hawke poked Dorian’s arm. “I would be offended by your attitude if getting you all terribly drunk wasn’t my favourite goal. Now come on, who needs a drink?”

Fenris huffed. “Dare I point out that it is barely ten o’ clock?”

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “Oh shit, you’re right. Well, I’ll throw some orange juice into the mix then.”

Sera laughed, and Rainier patted Hawke’s shoulder. “Always with a solution, Hawke.”

Bull grunted in agreement. “A solution for getting drunk at the least respectable times of the day: that’s a woman after my own heart.”

Dorian tsked and smacked his arm. “Are you trying to make me jealous? I’m standing right here.”

Rainier smirked at him. “As though we could forget. You know, with all the flashing buckles.”

“And the fishy scale fabric,” Sera added.

“It is very shiny,” Cole agreed, and Sera jumped and scowled.

“And the rings,” Bull said. “Do you really need so many rings, kadan?”

Dorian gave Fenris a pitiful look. “Fenris, they’re picking on me. Do something.”

“I can’t,” Fenris said pleasantly. “I have no authority anymore.”

Dorian scoffed. “Some friend you are. You know, just for this, I’ll be sure to call you on the sending crystal at all hours of the morning – even earlier than this. I shall call repeatedly until you are forced to take my calls, and I will tell you in exhaustive detail all about the trivial minutiae of magisterial life…”

Fenris turned to Hawke. “Remind me to destroy the sending crystal,” he said dryly.

Hawke chuckled and looped her hand through his elbow, and their group meandered leisurely through the Winter Palace’s halls. There was much lighthearted talk about a game of wicked grace in the tavern while Varric read to them from the first chapter draft of his new book, and Fenris listened contentedly without saying much. 

Hawke stroked his arm. “Are you all right?”

He gave her a chiding look. “There is no need to keep asking. I promise you, I’m fine.” He lowered his voice. “I should be asking how you feel. How is our turnip?”

She smiled and squeezed his arm. “I’m tired, but the turnip is great. Sucking all my energy, growing its little ears and fingers, you know.”

He smiled at her, then sighed and lowered his voice. “If I’m perfectly honest, I am tired too. What I really want at this moment is a bath and a nap.” After returning from the Crossroads and debriefing with Leliana, Josephine and Cullen, Fenris had barely gotten three hours of sleep last night. 

“Maker, yes,” she said fervently. “A bath and a nap would be so good.”

He raised an eyebrow, and Hawke smiled. Then she pulled him to a stop. “Change of plans,” she announced to the group. “I’m going to take a nap because I’m pregnant, and Fenris is going to rub my feet because I’m spoiled.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Boring.”

“I agree,” Dorian said. “That’s very boring.”

Rainier shrugged. “I think it’s a good idea. Hawke should get some rest.”

Hawke batted her eyelashes at him. “Why thank you, Thom! That’s the kind of attitude I like to see in one of our baby’s many uncles.”

Rainier’s cheeks turned pink with pleasure. Varric folded his arms and shot Rainier a knowing look. “Suck-up,” he said.

Rainier scoffed. “Says the man who’s been tipping the servants to pay special attention to Hawke since we’ve been here.”

Hawke and Fenris looked at Varric in surprise. “You were?” Fenris asked.

He shrugged. “Eh, I might’ve done. It’s no big deal.”

Fenris smiled at him, Hawke threw her arms around his neck. “I was wondering why I was getting so much attention! Oh Varric, you shouldn’t have.” She kissed him on the cheek.

He patted her arm. “Really, Hawke, it was no big deal.”

Bull tucked his thumbs into his belt. “You’re excited to be an uncle. Just own up to it.”

Cole nodded. “He is excited. ‘Future and family for friends: they deserve it. They’ve been through enough. Babysitting will be fun when they’re in town.’”

Everyone chuckled, and Varric tugged his ear. “Come on, kid, don’t make me look too soft,” he mumbled. 

Hawke kissed Varric’s cheek once more before releasing him. “Can I take that as your standing offer to babysit whenever Fenris and I are on holiday in Kirkwall and we want some time alone to–” 

“All right, all right, go take your nap,” Varric said loudly. “We’ll be in the Gilded Horn when you guys are done being boring.” 

Sera elbowed Hawke. “I’ll save you some boring juice for the wee widdle!”

Hawke chuckled and flicked her ear. “Thanks, Sera. We’ll see you later.”

The others drifted toward the main entrance, still laughing and poking fun at each other, but to Fenris’s surprise, Cole stayed behind. 

Hawke squeezed his arm. “Go on, Cole, go play cards with the others! You’re getting better at bluffing every day.”

“Is he?” Fenris said dryly.

Hawke poked him. “Shh. He’s trying.”

Cole blinked at them. “It’s time. I’m going now.”

Fenris gave him a sharp look, and Hawke cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean? Go where?”

“It’s done. You helped,” Cole said. His customary vague gaze drifted from Fenris to Hawke. “Healing hurts, healing the sky, helping. There’s more to help, and I can help best from home.”

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Home? You mean… are you going back to the Fade?”

Cole nodded. “I will slip back safely, a spirit. Someone is hurting. He needs me to remember who he is.”

Hawke’s mouth fell open in surprise at the mention of Solas, and Fenris scowled. “He’s hurting? He is planning the murder of every person in this world!”

Cole shook his head. “He doesn’t want to hurt people. He isn’t that kind of wolf.”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but Hawke placed a hand on his wrist. “You know what, Cole? If anyone can get through to him, it’s you,” she said firmly. “He isn’t a complete asshole.  Not yet, at least. Can you remind him of that?”

“Yes,” Cole said simply. 

Hawke smiled at him, then pulled him into a hug. “What am I going to do without you exposing all my dirty thoughts in public?” she asked. “I’ll have to start telling them to random people myself.”

“As though that is any different than usual,” Fenris teased.

She shot him a quick grin, and he noted with a pang that her eyes were wet. A long moment later, she released Cole and rubbed her nose. “Don’t forget to say goodbye to Varric before you go, all right? He’ll be sad if you don’t.”

Cole nodded, then tilted his head. “It’ll be all right, Hawke. I’m not really gone.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Thanks, Cole.”

“Yes, thank you for your assistance,” Fenris said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he held out his hand to shake.

Cole studied Fenris’s hand quizzically, then tentatively reached out and shook his hand. Fenris nodded, then released Cole’s hand. “We will not forget you,” he said.

Cole smiled. “Thank you,” he said. A blink of an eye later, he was gone.

Hawke sniffled. Fenris gently squeezed her waist, and she smiled brightly and waved her hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said hurriedly. “I’m not going to blubber too much, I swear. We knew everyone was going to go their own way eventually. Besides, we’re leaving too. And it’s not like we won’t all stay in touch.” She took his hand as they made their way toward their suite. “I mean, we’ll have to stay in touch anyway for–”

Fenris cleared his throat and kept his eyes ahead. There was no telling who was listening in the blasted hallways here. 

Hawke pulled a little face and fell silent. They walked the rest of the way to their suite in silence, and it wasn’t until they were inside with the doors locked that Hawke spoke. “Sorry,” she said. “It’ll take me a while to get used to the ‘no blurting out every thought in your head because you’re a spy’ thing.” She crouched beside an eagerly panting Toby and scratched his jowls.

“It will take time for both of us,” Fenris assured her. “Leliana knows that.” He patted Toby’s head briefly before shucking his formal coat.

Hawke grinned at him. “I’m excited to learn her secret cipher, though. Can I practice it by writing you dirty letters?”

Fenris smirked at her. “Dirty letters in Leliana’s secret cipher? That is hardly romantic.”

She giggled as she rose to her feet. “You like the idea. Admit it.”

He shrugged and hung his coat in the armoire. “Perhaps I’ll write dirty cipher letters for you,” he said casually.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Maker’s balls, yes! Please do! I like that idea even better.” She gave Toby’s head one last pat, then wafted into the bathroom and began filling the ornate bathtub. 

She started stripping off her clothes, and Fenris began stripping too. By the time he was padding over to the tub, Hawke was already sinking into the water with a sigh. “This is fucking bliss,” she announced. She playfully flicked some water at him. “Come on in, the water’s warm.”

He eyed the glowing runes inscribed on the inner surfaces of the tub. This was an Orlesian extravagance that he could actually appreciate. He stepped into the tub, then sighed in relief: the water was perfectly hot just as Hawke had said, and Fenris happily settled himself on the opposite side of the tub from her. 

He scooped some water in his hands and splashed his face, then briefly dunked his head beneath the water. When he rose to the surface and opened his eyes, it was to find Hawke smiling goofily at him. 

Her eyes were on his forehead. He instinctively reached up to wipe his face, then remembered why she was staring: the trio of lyrium marks on his forehead were gone. 

He lowered his hand and raised an eyebrow. “I really look that strange to you?”

She shook her head slightly. She was still smiling, and her eyes were roaming from his chin down to his neck now. “In the best way,” she assured him. “It’s going to be strange for a while. You’ll need to cut me some slack and let me stare.”

He huffed in amusement. “Fair enough,” he said. He picked up the loofah on the side of the tub and began to rub his arms – his plain, unmarred, tawny-skinned arms. 

He wiped his shoulder down to his elbow and then his forearm, and all the while he kept staring at his own skin. On the inside of his arm, a handspan below his wrist, he had a long fine scar from a nasty scrap during his flight from Minrathous. His hands bore a number of faint dark lines from the days when he was learning to climb trees and fight with daggers in Seheron, and the veins in his forearms stood out in sharp relief when he closed his fists.  

He gazed happily at the scars and veins: mundane marks of the type that anyone could have. The type that nobody would usually think about, and the type that Fenris had never really paid attention to before because the lyrium tattoos were in the way. 

Hawke shifted toward him with a soft whisper of moving water. “Let me do that,” she said. 

She was reaching for the loofah. Fenris gave it to her, and she settled herself over his lap. She squeezed the extra water from the loofah, then began soaping it up.

He let his hands sink into the water to rest on her thighs, and she smiled coyly at him. “I’ll need one of those hands, please,” she said. 

He lifted his left hand from the water, and Hawke lathered his hand with the loofah. She carefully washed the back of his hand, then his wrist, then smoothed the soapy loofah along his forearm to his elbow and his shoulder, and all the while her eyes were moving attentively over his unmarked skin. 

She sluiced some water over his skin to rinse the soap away, then began carefully washing his right arm. “So I had an idea. I think you and I should write a book.” 

“A book?” he said. “About what?”

“About the things we know,” she said. “Stuff we learned from the eluvians and from, uh… from Solas.” She made a little face, then began gently lathering his neck with her soapy hands. 

He gave her a skeptical look. “You want to write a book about the things he said?”

“Not just him,” she said quickly. “The spirit in the Vir Dirthara, too. And the things we saw, what those memory-books were like, meeting Mythal and all the shit she said…” She rinsed his neck. “And not just that, but the deep roads too. The Titan’s heart, the thaig where we found the red lyrium idol with Varric, all that.”

Fenris frowned slightly. “Just so I understand, this isn’t a fictional account you’re talking about.”

She let out a little laugh. “No no, that’s Varric’s purview.  I’m talking about a non-fiction sort of thing. Like a… a treatise or something.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A treatise? Like an academic text?”

“Exactly!” she said. “We’ve seen a lot of insane shit, Fenris. We’ve been through eluvians and into the Fade and we’ve met two elven gods and been to the deep roads how many times now?”

“This is true,” he said slowly. 

She shrugged and gently scrubbed his chest. “I just thought – I mean, if we’re…” She lowered her voice. “If we’re going to be Leliana’s intelligence agents, this is the intelligence we have. We spent the most time with Solas during the year that he was with us–”

“You especially,” Fenris pointed out. Then he regretted it when her smile faltered slightly.

“Exactly,” she said. “I just… I thought something good could come of it if we, you know, document it.”

He tilted his head and studied her thoughtfully. “Knowledge is power,” he mused.

She gave him a quizzical look, so he explained. “If we document this – all the things we’ve seen and heard…  if we publish it and share it with those we trust, those we know who won’t abuse it…” 

Hawke finished his thought. “You’ll be sharing the power with other people.” She smirked at him. “Solas would not approve.”

“Good,” Fenris said flatly. “He can operate as he sees fit, and we will do the same.”

Hawke smiled slowly. “Does that mean you’ll write a book with me?”

“It is a fine idea,” he said. “My answer is yes. I will write a book with you.”

She beamed at him, then playfully pinched his chin. “If you have time in between writing me those dirty cipher letters, that is.”

He smirked. “Of course.” 

She planted a happy little kiss on his lips before tapping his collarbone. “Come on, handsome, turn around now so I can wash your back.”

He took her hand in his. “Hawke,” he said.

She tilted her head, and he gently squeezed her hand. “You are not to blame for Solas’s betrayal,” he said quietly.

She dropped his gaze and picked up the soap. “No, you’re – it’s okay, you were right. I was too trusting. He was hiding all that shit from us the whole time, and I just–”

He tipped her chin up and looked her in the eye. “You are not to blame,” he said firmly. “You could not have known this. No one could have guessed at this.”

“But you do think I’m too trusting,” she said pointedly. 

He sighed and cradled her neck in his palm. “You see the best in people,” he said softly. “Even those who don’t deserve the boon of a second chance. It is the most infuriating and enthralling thing about you.”

She laughed lightly. “I think that’s a compliment, but I can’t be sure.”

“Take it as a compliment,” he said seriously. “This life would be bleak and cynical without you.”

Her face softened with surprise before lighting into a brilliant smile. She cupped his face in her hands. “You smooth talker,” she murmured. 

“Mm,” he agreed lazily. He lifted his chin, and she followed his wordless suggestion and kissed him. 

Fenris closed his eyes and relaxed into her kiss. Her lips were soft and plump, and her hands were sliding slowly down his chest. When her fingers trailed over his abs, his cock stirred beneath the water. 

He gently licked Hawke’s lower lip. Her breath caught as a tiny gasp, and the sound lit a thrill beneath his unmarked skin. She peeled her lips away from his, then kissed his chin and the edge of his jaw, and Fenris tilted his head back with a sigh. Her palms were splayed on his abs now and her lips were travelling along the line of his throat, and when she licked the line of his collarbone, he released a slow and luxurious breath. 

She gently nipped the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and a shiver of pleasure rippled down the back of his neck. He lifted his hips entreatingly, and Hawke settled herself more firmly on his  lap.

She tilted her hips low and pressed against him, rolling her hips in a slow and gentle grind over his cock, and his breath hitched at the teasing touch. The water was hot and soothing, but the tantalizing press of her body and the press of her fingers on his skin made him want a different sort of soothing heat altogether. 

She nipped his shoulder again, then gave his earlobe a little tug with her lips. “Do you want to get out now?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he breathed.

She smiled against his cheek, then shifted off of his body and rose to her feet, and Fenris greedily studied the curves of her bottom and the dip at the base of her spine as she stepped out of the tub. He exited the tub as well and roughly rubbed his wet hair with a towel, but before he could start drying his skin, Hawke reached out and took his hand. 

“Let me do it,” she said. 

He gave her a chiding look, but allowed her to take the towel from his hand. “You are aware that I’m capable of bathing and drying myself?” he said.

She wrinkled her nose playfully, then started dabbing his chest with the towel. “Indulge me. This gives me a good excuse to stare at you while pretending to be helpful.”

He shook his head in amusement. “You are shameless.”

“I really am!” she said brightly. “Thank you for noticing.” She moved around behind him and began smoothing the towel over his back. 

She followed the path of the towel with her fingers, tracing gentle lines over the span of his skin as she patted him dry, and by the time her hands were smoothing over his hips and buttocks, his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and slow: all the better to savour the feel of her hands on his skin – his clean, unmarred, unmarked skin. 

Hawke pressed her lips between his shoulder blades in a gentle kiss. She slowly moved around in front of him, leaving a trail of kisses from his shoulder blade to his arm and finally his chest, and Fenris simply breathed and focused on the feeling of her lips on his chest and her hands on his hips. When her hands slid down his thighs, he shuddered and opened his eyes. 

Hawke was on her knees in front of him. She looked up to meet his gaze, and a rush of want pulsed through his chest and down to his cock. 

A grin lifted her lips – her raspberry-red lips that were mere inches from his eager cock. “You’re not too tired for this, are you?” she asked.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, I – no. You can – I want this.”

She smiled more widely, then leaned forward on her knees and brushed her cheek against his shaft. 

He jerked his hips, and Hawke let out a throaty little laugh. “Hold on, handsome. I have to dry you off first,” she purred. She began dabbing his thighs and calves with the towel, but her other hand was the one that was stealing all of Fenris’s attention: it was curving around the back of his other thigh, then along his inner thigh to graze his balls, and he shifted his hips restlessly at the teasing touch. 

She suddenly licked the tip of his cock, and he gasped. “Vixen,” he accused breathlessly. 

She chuckled again. “Hardly. I’m just doing my job, drying you off, making sure you won’t catch cold…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Catch cold from my legs being damp?”

“That’s right,” she said. Her tone was cheeky, but her eyes were moving slowly over his chest and his abs again as though to take in every inch of his unmarked skin. When her eyes returned to his face, he was surprised to find them shining with tears. 

He cradled her chin in one hand. “What’s the matter?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing. That’s why I…” She let out a little laugh and wiped her eyes. “I’m just happy,” she said. Then she leaned forward and took his cock in her mouth. 

He gasped at the sudden heat of her mouth. She angled her head and took him deeper, and he gasped again and braced his palms behind him on the bathtub. His cock was sliding past her palate toward her throat, and her hands were firm on his hips and her skin was bare, and her nipples were dusky buds dappled with drops of water that were begging for his tongue… 

She suckled his cock, strong slick pulls of her lips and throat and tongue, and Fenris shuddered at the sheer unmitigated pleasure of it. Hawke was eager and voracious, taking his length with hungry pulls and palming his balls with the perfect gentle grip, and it wasn’t long before the pleasure was rushing through his abdomen and his cock, roiling and buzzing between his legs with an eagerness that her lips were pulling forth–

His climax burst in a sudden rush, and he shuddered and cried out. “Hawke,” he gasped. 

She gripped his thighs and suckled him firmly, and he shuddered again as she pulled every drop of pleasure from his pulsing cock. When she finally released him, he was leaning bonelessly against the bathtub for support, and she was smiling smugly. 

“Was that all right?” she asked. 

He exhaled heavily and lifted her chin. “You know it was,” he rasped. “Go lie on the bed.” 

She laughed as she rose to her feet. “Nice try, serrah, but I’m in charge today.” She playfully pinched his chin. “You go lie down on the bed.” 

He tossed her a skeptical look as he approached the bed. “I thought you enjoyed my bossy tone.”

“Oh, I do,” she said with relish. “But today I want to stare at my handsome husband.”

He huffed in exasperation and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Someday you will tire of flattering me.”

“Not a chance,” she said cheerfully. “But this isn’t flattery. Come on, lie down.” She pushed gently on his shoulders.

He sighed, but shuffled back on the bed and stretched out with one arm tucked behind his head. “There. Are you satisfied?” he drawled.

She shot him a quick grin. “I will be,” she said lasciviously. She kneeled beside his hip and ran her palm over his knee.

Her touch was unhurried and exploratory now, sliding carefully along his thigh and up to his hip, and Fenris watched curiously as her cheeky expression melted into a gentle sort of contentment. Her eyes roved carefully over his chest and his collarbones and up to his chin, and when her eyes finally found his face, they were shining again. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” she said.

He scoffed, and she laughed and poked his hip. “I know, I know, I’m being hormonal and dramatic, but I mean it. You – you’ve always been the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. But now, you’re…” She took a deep breath, and her eyes travelled over the blank tawny canvas of his skin. 

She met his gaze once more. “You know I loved your tattoos in a way. Not – not the tattoos themselves, but–” 

“I know, Hawke,” he said softly. “I know what you mean.”

She nodded. “I loved them for bringing you to Kirkwall. They… we wouldn’t know each other without your tattoos.” She smiled slowly. “But seeing you without them… This is so much better. This is what you wanted.” She skimmed her knuckles over his abdomen. “This was your choice.”

“Yes,” he whispered. 

Her smile widened. She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles, then turned his hand over and kissed the inside of his wrist. 

He skimmed her cheek with his fingers. “Come closer,” he murmured. “Lie on top of me.”

She beamed at him. “Ooh, don’t mind if I do,” she said, and she straddled his hips. 

Fenris reached up and slid his fingers around the nape of her neck, then gently pulled her down until she was close enough to kiss. “You were my choice,” he told her softly. “Being with you – a chance for more time with you, to live the life I always wanted with you: that was my choice.” He stroked her throat with his thumb. “Losing the tattoos was a happy accident. The real choice I made was you, Hawke. I want you to know that.”

She laughed, and the sound was a little shaky. “I know,” she murmured. “And I want you to know you’re my choice too.”

“I know,” he whispered. And he did. If there was anything Fenris had ever been sure of, anything he’d ever known with unshakeable certainty over the last ten years, it was that he was the one Rynne Hawke had chosen and would continue to choose, forever and a day. 

He lifted his chin and kissed her. She smelled of the soap from their bath, and the skin of her arms and back was soft and supple beneath his exploring hands. He stroked her neck and her collarbone as she tangled her tongue smoothly with his, and when her hips started shifting restlessly over his cock, he leaned away from her kiss and squeezed her hip.

“Move up,” he murmured.

She blinked at him, and he slid his hand over her bottom and squeezed. “I want to taste you,” he said. 

She exhaled sharply and nodded, and a moment later she was shifting higher on his body to straddle his face. She braced her palms on the padded Orlesian headboard, and Fenris greedily studied her body as she settled herself over him: her perfect petite breasts and her perfect pert nipples, the planes of her belly and the dampness of her curls and the perfect primal scent of her desire as she lowered herself over his lips… 

He lifted his chin and graced her with a hungry open-mouthed kiss. 

Hawke gasped and arched, pressing herself closer to his mouth, and his cock jerked eagerly at the perfect sound. He wrapped his hands around her thighs to guide her as she rode his face. She was wet and fragrant and warm, and her clit was a perfect swollen bud, and every time he pressed it with his tongue, the most enticing little mewl of pleasure left her throat. The rhythm of her hips was a slow circular grind that matched the stroking swirl of his tongue, and it wasn’t long before Fenris was lost in the rhythm of her body: was Hawke driving herself higher with the rolling of her hips, or was he pushing her to her peak with the swirling of his tongue? He couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter, because all that mattered was Hawke’s pleasure. It was evident in the tension in her belly and her thighs beneath his hands, and it was evident in the desperate sounds she was making and the pulsing of her clit against his tongue, and when she pounded the headboard and cried out, he was so preoccupied with the taste and the scent and the smooth and silky feel of her pussy on his lips that he didn’t want to stop. 

She arched her spine and moaned and continued to ride his face, her movements jerky now in the throes of her pleasure, and Fenris kept feasting on the slickness of her flesh until she lifted herself away from his mouth. 

“Fuck,” she whimpered. She shakily slid off of his body and collapsed onto her back, and Fenris rolled onto his side and admired the rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

He smoothed his palm over her breast, and she gasped and arched her back like a bow. “Please,” she whined. “Please, Fenris, I–” She suddenly broke off with a little cry: Fenris was suckling her nipple now while thumbing the peak of her other breast, and her desperate gasps of pleasure were just as pleasing to his ear as the sound of her actual pleas. 

He pressed her nipple between his teeth, and she jerked and sank her fingers into his hair. “Please,” she begged. “I need you, I need you to fuck me–”

Fenris clasped her neck and kissed her, and a moment later he was stretched over her and pressing his palms to hers while he pumped his cock through the slickness of her folds.

He breathed hard as he slid through her smooth and creamy heat. She was slick and wet and waiting, and Fenris was sharing in that slickness with every slow pump of his hips, spreading her heat along the length of his shaft and sharing in her lust – sharing in this moment of increasingly desperate desire, just as he had shared every other important moment of his life with her… 

She mewled and twisted beneath him, and her nails dug into his knuckles. “Please,” she begged. “Fenris, please fuck me!”

He adjusted his hips and entered her in a smooth, hard thrust.

She cried out and curled her hips toward him, and he moaned against her throat. “I love you,” he breathed.

She gasped and jerked her hips, and he thrust into her once more. Soon they were rolling together in a smooth and driving rhythm, hips rising and falling together in time with their gasping breaths, and Fenris squeezed his eyes shut as her heat and her tightness and her treasured little moans all conspired to pull his pleasure to the fore. 

He dipped his head low and suckled her nipple, and she arched and jolted. “Yes!” she wailed. “Yes, yes, oh fuck, please...”

He gasped against the silken curve of her breast. The sound of her voice – fasta vass, her cries, her obvious pleasure, the obviousness of how badly she wanted him right now – no, not just now, but how badly she had always wanted him. How badly she continued to want him, despite the familiarity of the years that had passed and the arguments they always had and the exhausting battles they’d fought…

A rush of heat and longing and gratitude swelled in his chest and in his throat, and he gritted his teeth and fucked her harder. 

“Yes!” she screamed. “Fenris, please, I – fuck, I love you so much–”

His climax was sudden and hard, a surge of pleasure that forced a bursting of lights behind his closed eyelids and a sob of pleasure from his throat, and he kissed her hard and fucked her harder still as the ecstasy shivered through his fingertips and his calves down to his toes. 

When his pleasure finally ebbed away, leaving him boneless once more, he released Hawke’s hands and settled his head cozily on her chest. She instantly wrapped her arms around him and stroked his sweat-dampened skin, and he smiled lazily against her chest. 

She chuckled softly and stroked his hair. “Someone’s happy.”

He hummed in agreement. “Someone certainly is.”

“I’m talking about the turnip,” Hawke said. “It’s being nicely squished between mum and dad.” 

Fenris sat up in alarm. “Am I – kaffas, I’m crushing the baby? I can move–”

She burst out laughing and pulled him back down. “I’m teasing, I’m teasing! You’re fine. We’ll happily be crushed by you. It’ll make for an excellent story: ‘Former Inquisitor’s wife and turnip child smushed in post-coital cuddle–’”

Fenris rolled over so she was on top of him, then pinched her waist until she squealed with laughter. “You are an idiot,” he said affectionately. 

She grinned and smoothed her hands over his collarbones. “Only for you, Fenris,” she giggled. “Only for you.” She shuffled lower on his body and tucked her head under his chin. 

He smirked and closed his eyes. As was always the case, he knew that this peace wouldn’t last; Solas was a far greater threat than Corypheus had ever been, and now that the Inquisition was disbanded, they no longer had access to a network of contacts that spanned the entire south of Thedas. 

Not openly, at least, he thought. The Inquisition might be officially disbanded and its members might disperse, but its people had a new goal now. Leliana would spearhead the efforts against Solas with Josephine’s assistance, and Dorian would search quietly for support in Tevinter with Maevaris by his side. Bull’s Ben-Hassrath background would be a boon for collecting further information, and Varric had no small number of spies and underground contacts of his own. Cole would return to the Fade, and Fenris could only hope compassion would do the same good in the Fade as it had done on this side of the Veil. Sera and the Red Jennies would always be there to fight against those who would punch down, and when the day finally came that they would need a sword on their side, Rainier, Cullen, and Cassandra would be there.

This idyllic feeling of peace wouldn’t last. But for the first time in years, Fenris felt at peace. He was no longer the Inquisitor, and Hawke was no longer the Champion. They were going to find a house on the beach in Rivain, and they were going to have a child. They would work against the Dread Wolf in a quiet and careful way, and they would write a book about everything they knew so that they could share the power of that knowledge too. 

But in the meantime, they would live in peace. For the first time since he and Hawke had known each other, they would have the quiet and peaceful life they had always wanted. 

For the first time in years, Fenris felt truly free. 

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

For the DADWC: “If you’re so cold, why didn’t you say something? Come here.” with the couple of your choosing!

Another first for me! Hopefully this duo appeals to you guys as much as it does to me :D

Jim & Minaeve, “I Hate The Cold” (AO3)

Jim didn’t quite know where he was going.

The last thing he remembered was chucking Sister Nightingale’s report on the Commander’s desk and half-dashing, half-stumbling towards, and then down that ridiculously long flight of stairs towards the central courtyard, just going anywhere which would put as much distance as possible between him and Commander Cullen.

Maker save him, why didn’t he just look up from that blasted scroll when he walked out on those battlements and exercise due discretion?

The more he thought about it the more he realised just what a shit heap he was in. Millions of souls in Thedas and he was one of three that knew that the Inquisitor and her Commander were mashing faces atop Skyhold, and he hadn’t been either participant.

Andraste’s knickers, the Commander would be bearing down on him like an out-of-control bronto just to make sure he didn’t blab about it to anyone. With any luck they’d get more public with it – that way he’d have to split his attention between more than one hapless, unlucky witness. Not the Inquisitor, she had much more important things to do.

He realised that he was blaspheming when he realised that he was hoping that she’d have too many Fade rifts to handle out there to come breathing down his neck, and wandered into the Chantry to make his apologies to the Maker and His Bride.

After sitting on the pews for at least a good five minutes, he stood up to leave, and realised that a minor snowstorm had blown in whilst he was hiding from the Commander.

A thin layer of snow, having been brought over from of the many peaks surrounding Skyhold, now coated everything in the herb garden which was usually tended by Minaeve, that Circle mage who’d been the previous creature researcher. She was seated on the bench near the pavilion, also being gently billowed by the chill breeze.

The elf was hunched over, with her knees touching, but she didn’t seem to be shivering, just…kind of tired.

As he headed to the door back into the main hall, he gave her a kind of wave, sort of turning his head to her general direction.

She gave that kind of forlorn smile she gave everyone, nodding back in his direction.

Jim’s hand wavered at the handle as he thought things through. If he went back to quarters now, or regrouped with his buddies at the Herald’s Rest, there’d be the chance that the Commander would catch up with him, and even if he wasn’t really going to have his guts for garters – Ser Rutherford was an absolute Chantry sister next to the Spymaster, now there was a superior that could make him soil his breeches – he really wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable nod-and-smile, your-secret-is-safe-with-me chat they’d wind up having.

If he was going to waste the next few minutes, it might as well be in the company of a pretty face, or so he reckoned. So, he moved away from the door, and walked up to Minaeve, who only realised that he was approaching when he was about three steps away from the bench.

She gave a start, mostly unintentionally. “Oh! Hello, uh…”

“Jeremias,” he said, “but everyone calls me Jim. You’re Minaeve, aren’t you?”

She nodded, saying, “Yes, that’s me. Is there something you need, Jim?”

“Well, not really. I’m mostly just trying to stay out of the, ah, public eye. Are you, ah, alone?”, he asked, scanning the deserted, snowy, garden.

“I am,” she sighed, staring through him. “But I don’t mind company.”

“Oh, right,” Jim said, brushing some snow off her bench before sitting down a respectful distance away. “So…you like the snow around here?”

A long, painfully awkward, silence, ensued where Minaeve just stared into the space in front of her while Jim shifted uncomfortably. Finally, just as Jim’s breath was catching in his throat, she spoke.

“No,” she said. “I fucking hate it.”

“I…I’m sorry?”

She turned to him, eyes dazzling with far more than the glint of sunshine off the snowdrift. “Can you keep a secret, Jim?”

He stated, “Well…I can,” as he thought back to the circumstances that had led him here.

Minaeve nodded slowly. “Do you know anything about how I joined the Circle?”

He shook his head.

“This is how the story usually goes. I was born to a Dalish clan somewhere around Highever, and when it turned out I had magic they cast me out because they had a limit on them per clan. It was the middle of winter when they did it. All I remember is night after freezing night until I made it to the outskirts of Highever. I tried lighting a fire with my magic and the townspeople were going to string me up until a visiting Templar, a brave man called Emeric, saved my life, and that’s how I got there.”

Realising he’d been biting on his lip, Jim released it, saying, “I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible, what your clan and those townspeople…”

“Except that part about that rule among the Dalish is bullshit. It’s all bullshit,” she cried, sobbing. Jim really didn’t know what to do, so he watched her wipe her tears. She continued, “I’ve been telling lies about the elves for more than a decade because the alternative’s just so much worse. This doesn’t leave the two of us, you understand?”

He immediately nodded complyingly.

“They love magic. They can’t get enough of it. They’d never throw one out unless…”

“Unless..?” Jim asked, expectantly.

“Well, it’s a long story, but my father was killed and my mother was…cursed in the Brecilian Forest shortly before I was born. Her condition got worse and worse, and eventually she had to be…put down.” Minaeve sighed deeply, carrying the sum of her pains in her breath.

“Put down?”

“Her condition had made her violent, right at the end. Nobody wanted to associate with me after that. Not with that damned curse hanging over my head. They were all waiting for me to succumb too, and when they saw I had magic that was excuse enough.”

Jim exhaled, breath condensing in the chill. “Why didn’t you tell people about the curse?”

Minaeve shook her head. “They wouldn’t understand. And those who would, they’d just throw me out just like my clan did.”

“You think that?”

“I know that.”

He thought for a moment. “Why tell me all this?”

She turned to him. “Because you said you could keep a secret. Because I’m just so damned tired of keeping it to myself. Because every time it snows in this blasted place I’m reminded of the worst time of my life, nearly freezing to death because of some short-sighted idiots.”

Minaeve now was shivering, or sobbing, or both. Jim drew a little closer, whipping off his head coverings and getting his helmet off, revealing a short scruff of brown hair with close-cropped sides.

“Well, you should have said you were getting chilled out here! Here, at least cover your head. I’ve got all this green cloth to keep me warm.”

Jim was holding his helmet out, offering it to her. She stared at it, then at him, with an expectant expression that was goofier with every second that passed. Eventually, Minaeve gingerly took it and slipped it over her head, tucking her ears in one by one as it came down. Her brilliant hazel eyes were framed perfectly by the little gap in the helmet’s cheek-plates. Without those in the way, she in turn got her first look of the scout’s face in full.

“Great, now I’m freezing my bum off and I’m sure I look like an idiot. How’s the headscarf?”

Trying to draw the hood a bit closer to his ears, Jim said, “It’s…less warm than I thought it would be, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Well, thanks. Not really for the helmet, but thanks for listening, Jim. It’s been…a while since I got to tell anyone that.”

“You’re welcome. It’s refreshing to just have a chat with someone here besides the Command-

Cullen’s voice broke into the courtyard. “Scout Jeremias!”

As though things could get even colder, the entire scene froze, with Minaeve bearing a mortified expression as she reached for the helmet and Jim just gaping at the Commander as he stood framed in the doorway. In the end, it was Cullen that broke the silence.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere in Skyhold for the past half-hour, but I…see…that we share a common understanding.”

“Sir…?”

Cullen’s eyes flashed as he glanced at Minaeve, who’d managed to get Jim’s helmet off one of her ears and was still staring at Cullen like a stray hedgehog who’d avoided getting run over by a chevalier’s steed.

“I-Sir-this isn’t-we-” Jim stuttered, but the Commander waved him shut.

“Settle your affairs, Jeremias. Dinner’s on the hour and the briefing’s right after that. We’re leaving at sunrise for Emprise du Lion to oversee the bridge.”

“I-affairs?!” he finally managed, standing up to confront the accusation, but Cullen was already gone, the door slamming behind the Commander.

“Here you go,” Minaeve said quietly, passing Jim his helmet back.

Turning slowly back to her, he took it and pulled his hood back, preparing to put it back on. “Oh. Right. Thanks, Minaeve.”

“You’re welcome. But you know what?” she asked. “It’s got to be warmer in the keep. You don’t need to wear that unless you’re concerned about rocks falling from the sky, right?”

“I guess not, what with the Breach closed. Well, more or less,” he said, carelessly threading his free fingers through his helmet-flattened hair.

“Anyway,” she said, standing up, “I suppose I should check in on Helisma. She wanted my advice on some beasts’ diets, I believe. But…it was nice meeting you, Jim.”

“And you, Minaeve,” he said, nodding.

“When do you return from Emprise du Lion?”

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, to be honest. These things could take days, or weeks.”

“Well,” Minaeve said, “if and when you do, I’ll be here. Tending the garden, as usual.”

“Well,” he replied, “I guess I’ll see you then. Oh, look at that. I think it’s stopped snowing.”

“So it has,” she said, lingering in the courtyard for a moment to look at the skies together with him as the setting sun broke through the clouds. “By the way, Jim, what did the Commander mean when he said that you were ‘men of a common understanding?’”

“I, uh, I couldn’t possibly say,” he said, flushing down to his neck.

“Sister Nightingale’s still sweet on the Hero of Ferelden, and Lady Montilyet has Warden Blackwall’s undivided attention, so…” she trailed off, her eyes widening. “It couldn’t be, could it…?”

“You said it best, Minaeve. I can keep a secret,” Jim said with a wink as he left.

Author’s Note: I like to imagine that Jim looks like this under the hood (full credit to the OP)

@dadrunkwriting

[red-wardens]

I was reading your OCs page and I wanted to say a few things. 1) They are all amazing, best warden squad in all Thedas 20/10 2) I'm the same height as Blue :O 3) Kieran is older than Meraan :O 4) What does each warden think of ending up being consumed by the taint? Sorry for the angst

1. First of all, thank you and i love you and owe you my life. 

2. Second, you and all my Wardens except my dwarves are taller than me (I’m 5′1 and 24 so I ain’t growing anymore. RIP me and my short Filipino genes)

3. Kieran in Inquisition time is 30 but still acts like he’s 20, maybe 22. Will he ever act his age? Thedas may never know. 

4. I LIVE for angst so here we go

Red Warden Squad vs. THE TAINT

1.) Blue Surana: The taint has affected her the most throughout the years- thinning her hair, darkening the whites of her eyes, making her body frail, and turning many of her veins black. She’s been hearing and ignoring/resisting The Calling song for a couple of years now. She’s not afraid, calmly resigned to her quickly impending death, but just wants to find a cure to save the rest of her squad. Blue wears very conservative clothing and a dark grey scarf around her neck and lower face nowadays to hide the bruise like marks of the taint that has been spreading. She doesn’t want to worry her squad. Blue would like to see Sten one last time before she dies but knows it’s very unlikely.

2.) Isseya Mahariel: The healthiest of the Wardens. The taint hasn’t done much damage yet. She is not greatly concerned about the Taint. Isseya is confident she and the squad will find a cure before any of them die. Her bigger concern is trying to conceive children. She and Zevran have been trying but no luck so far. This frustrates her greatly. 

3.) Alyss Amell: She hasn’t had any serious side effects yet except insomnia and is now very prone to easy and bad bruising. Has studied advanced healing magic and during the 10 years since The Joining has begun to eat healthy and exercise more so she’s been taking care of herself. It’s almost neurotic though. She occasionally wakes up in tears after nightmares about getting her Calling. She tries to put on a brave face to not scare her love Leliana, and hopes and prays to the Maker that they’ll find a cure.

4.) Kieran Tabris: Has never feared dying young and accepted it as part of the job when he signed up. Blue Surana gave him full disclosure about what being a Warden would mean and he drank from The Chalice ready for it. He doesn’t actively want to die but he figures when his time comes then it comes- no use getting worked up about it. Kieran is low key kind of excited to go to the Dark City and take down as many darkspawn with him as possible. He’s jokingly told the squad they should keep a kill count during their Calling and compare scores in the afterlife. He hasn’t told Shianni about The Taint though and has made the others swear never to say anything except that he died in battle. Over time, The Taint has started to affect his lungs, making it difficult to breathe on occasion.

5.) Ronan Aeducan: He’s anxious about leaving Bhelen, who he has started exchanging letters with over the past couple years since their reconciliation, alone. Despite what happened between them, they’re close again and Ronan often gives him advice on ruling Orzammar. Other than that, he accepted his death when he was first sent into the Deep Roads by his father. He wants to see his dead parents again. He’s at peace with returning to the stone. He just would prefer be the last of the squad to go because he doesn’t want any of the rest of them to feel that loneliness and despair of being the last one left. The Taint made him increasingly prone to migraines. 

6.) Nora Brosca: Is honestly surprised she’s even lived this long. She and Sigrun have both accepted death and are just happy to enjoy the time they have together. Each day is a gift and they’re excited to make the most of it even though she gets sick very easily now (the Taint has compromised her immune system). The only time she’s cried about it is when Sigrun first started hearing the song. Nora was barely able to convince her to stay. That was about 5 years ago. Nora promises that if Sigrun hears it again and can’t resist then she will go with her regardless if she’s heard her own calling yet. She's not convinced that they’ll find a cure but she’s very eager to try. 

7.) Cassian Cousland: The Calling scares him and he’s not afraid to admit it. He sometimes feels burning in his blood like when a Warden senses darkspawn nearby- except there are none- and then will occasionally have an anxiety attack. Sometimes he hears an eerie tuneless song beckoning and has to go swimming until he’s too exhausted to move, or cuddle with his many dogs in order to calm down. He makes Fergus promise to take care of all his dogs when he’s gone. He and hubby Nathaniel Howe have talked about it many times, often ending in one or both of them in tears. They are determined to do all they can to help find a cure. 

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 60 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: None Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

A Split Second Decision

Orlesians, it seemed, were hopeless romantics. Despite the plethora of less than complimentary comments Rory had overheard in the last few hours, suddenly the lords and ladies of the court were falling over themselves to be sweet and pleasant to her. She had a feeling that change of tune had everything to do with the fact that Cullen had claimed her from Granthis at the end of their dance, and had yet to let go, his arm wrapped about her back as they faced his gaggle of breathless hangers-on.

"Madame Rutherford, you are a vision," one of the barons was saying to her. His attempt to sidle closer a moment ago had resulted in Cullen's hand tightening on her hip, a subtle sign that overtures of more than friendship were not going to be accepted with grace. "Such confidence to throw off the dictates of fashion. My wife has been admiring your gown all evening."

"Indeed, madame, it is a beautiful creation," the baron's wife added. She was on the other side of Cullen, and all hands in the commander's own words. "Who created for you? I do hope she kept the design."

Rory tried not to laugh at this sudden interest in her. She'd known Cullen was very popular among the Orlesian nobility, but she genuinely hadn't expected him to use her as a sort of human shield at the first opportunity. Since he'd pulled her to his accustomed corner of the ballroom, he hadn't had to say a word - his admirers were focusing on her in some strange attempt to win his favor by being pleasant to his wife.

"Madame De Fer's preferred seamstress, Madame Francoise, made this gown," she told the baroness with a smile that was only just short of being a grin. She could play at being a vacuous primp for a while. "Her technique is just divine, my lady, and so comfortable! Why, I even have pockets for my precious things!"

She felt Cullen swallow down the urge to snort with laughter, the familiar tension in his chest rumbling against her arm as he watched the little group suddenly separate into fascinated women, and bored men. None of the lords had a hope of following the conversation now taking place, as Rory did her best to praise Francoise to the skies while sounding as empty-headed as possible. With the Orlesian ladies sighing excitedly, discussing their own hopes to commission Francoise for their next events, he leaned down to murmur against her ear.

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?"

She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze from behind her mask with innocent mischief. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she informed her husband sweetly, watching as he manfully forced himself not to smile openly at her playful devilry. "Should I invite the gentlemen back to fondle your spectacular backside again?"

Cullen blanched, his eyes going wide for a brief moment. "How did you know ... Never mind." He shook his head, glancing at their small horde of admirers. "Act faint," he murmured against her ear, both of them knowing that it looked to those around them as though he was whispering sweet nothings to her.

The order might have been a surprise, but how else could they have a reasonable conversation in this ridiculous place? Privacy was hard to come by in the Imperial Court. Rory wasn't entirely certain she could sell faintness, but she gave it a good go, letting her knees buckle a little as her hand groped for his.

"Madame!" A marquis on the outskirts of the group was the first to notice, pushing forward to take her hand as Cullen schooled his expression into one of concern, his arm wrapping about her waist to ostensibly hold her up. "Are you unwell?"

She shook her head, offering a brave little smile for his concern. "A little faint," she told the nobleman. "It seems very warm in here."

"Perhaps some fresh air will help," Cullen announced, more for the benefit of their admirers than anything else. "Come out onto the balcony a while. Thank you, my lord. Do excuse us."

With skillful charm, he managed to detach his wife from the worried marquis' grip and usher her out onto the nearest balcony, breathing a sigh of relief when no one tried to follow. Rory tried not to laugh at the instant relief on his face.

"Maker's breath, they won't leave me alone," he complained impatiently. "Congratulations on our marriage combined with snide suggestions that an Orlesian mistress would suit me better than a Ferelden wife. Male or female."

"Not tempted, then?" she teased, earning herself a dark look from her husband.

"You are more than temptation enough for me, sweeting," he informed her in a firm tone, turning his body to hide the gentle touch of his hand to the little swell of their child, hidden beneath her flouncing skirts. "You seem to have them wrapped about your finger well enough. Have you heard anything of note?"

Rory shook her head. "Nothing but gossip regarding themselves," she admitted. "I've passed most of it on to Leliana; she seems to think she can make use of it. They're very derogatory about Kaaras. It's difficult not to leap to his defense, but everyone here thinks I don't speak Orlesian."

"Which was the point of the exercise," he agreed reluctantly. "I have tried to change their minds about him, but their fixation on ... well, my personal preferences ... does not allow for much in the way of political discourse."

She bit her lip, utterly failing to hide her smile. "You're not enjoying all the attention, love?"

He snorted derisively. "Hardly." Leaning beside her against the stone balustrade, he let his lips brush her ear, his tone lowering to something far less than appropriate for such a public place. "Yours is the only attention worth having."

She shivered at the promise in his tone, her fingers curling into his hand to grip tightly as his unspoken desire brought a bloom of heat to her cheeks. The inner fangirl was squealing again, absolutely delighted by a piece of game dialogue recreated with all new nuances just for her.

"You are so beautiful," Cullen whispered to her, the fingertips of his free hand tracing over her shoulder, along the dipped neckline of her gown. "A wildflower among roses. I have never felt more privileged than when you entered the ballroom and heads turned to admire you, knowing you are mine."

"Cullen," she breathed, uncertain if she was pleading for him to stop or to go on.

Those who glanced their way from the ballroom would see only the commander and his wife, standing side by side, speaking quietly together in the fresher night air. They couldn't hear the low longing in his voice as he caressed her senses with words alone; couldn't feel the way she thrilled to the possessive craving in the tangle of his fingers about her own, the heady darkening of whiskey-warm eyes that wanted to see her melt at his command. He wouldn't kiss her, not where these puffed-up idiots could see and take it for their own entertainment, but he could tease her with soft promises of the night to come, when their business here was over and they were free to return to Val Royeaux.

The sound of a throat quietly clearing behind them drew them apart to turn, finding Blackwall standing awkwardly in the doorway to the ballroom, trying to look as though he wasn't interrupting what he knew was a private moment.

"What is it?" Cullen asked, the longing, the promise, gone from his voice in an instant. How does he do that?

Blackwall let his dark eyes touch them regretfully. "Solas is asking for a healer's help," he said quietly, moving to join them so he would not be overheard. "Dorian's wrist needs setting before he can heal it."

"There was fighting in the servants' wing?" Cullen asked, releasing Rory as she turned toward the false Warden.

"Aye, but we came through it," the bearded man nodded. "Kaaras is dancing with the Grand Duchess. Think Leliana might want you, commander."

"Of course." Cullen nodded, glancing down at his wife briefly. Things seemed to be coming to a head. He drew her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently. "Bring her back to the ballroom when she's done," he told Blackwall firmly. "We'll want you all there in case of ... incident."

"Right you are." Blackwall nodded in agreement, offering Rory his arm. His courtly manners were still very good, despite several years spent in the wilds, but the tension in him was palpable. He was skirting a dangerous line just being here, and he knew it. "This way, mistress."

With a last look to Cullen, Rory took the offered arm, forcing herself to wipe the concern from her face as Blackwall escorted her through the ballroom to the great doors that opened into the vestibule. Despite the mask she wore, she knew the people here could likely read her expression with the ease of years of practice. She wanted them to think that Cullen had handed his wife to a trusted friend to seek refreshment, while he returned to his place in the ballroom; she wasn't sure if she had succeeded. A brief glance to the dance-floor revealed that Kaaras was, indeed, dancing with Florianne du Chalons - the evening was definitely accelerating toward its final conclusion. But what that conclusion would be, Rory still could not guess. Celene and Gaspard were both awful options, and Briala was working for her own gain, but somehow, at least one of them had to come out on top tonight. She did not envy her Qunari friend that decision.

Dorian was hidden away in the library, pale as he cradled his broken wrist, sipping an elfroot potion to numb the pain while Solas waited patiently beside him.

"Ah, there you are," he managed in a tight tone. "A prettier healer I never did see."

"Did you have another argument with a door, Dorian?" Rory asked, kneeling down in front of him to gently inspect the state of his wrist.

"Sadly, no," he informed her, cheerful despite his injury. "A Venatori thug objected to my outfit rather violently, as it happens."

"Well, the cutting edge of fashion is rather brutal," she agreed, turning his hand as gently as she could. "This is going to be incredibly painful."

"You know, just once it would be nice if you could lie through your teeth about the pain aspect," the altus complained, gritting his teeth already.

"Are you ready, Solas?" she asked, tilting her head up to the elven apostate. She found it a little strange that none of the group had tried to set this wrist themselves, but then maybe they'd leapt at the chance to get her out from under the nobles' eyes for a few minutes. It would be nice to think that was the case, but it was more likely that no one wanted the responsibility of resetting the bone in case it went wrong.

Solas nodded silently, raising his hand over the injured arm, prepared to pour that healing magic into Dorian's limb the moment the bone was set. "On your mark, healer."

"All right, then." She turned her attention back to the wrist. "Dorian, what's the Tevinter word for sexy?"

"The ... why in Andraste's name would you want to know tha - vishante kaffas!"

He threw back his head with a strangled groan of blinding agony as she used his confusion to tug the bones back into position. A moment later, Solas was done, and all that remained was the lingering memory of that pain. Dorian scowled at her, flexing his newly healed wrist.

"If I had the energy, I might hate you for that," he told her, nodding gratefully to Solas as the other mage stepped away. "You could have done that a little differently."

"You have a bad habit of tensing up," she informed her friend, taking Blackwall's hand to rise to her feet. "It makes my job harder. Up you get; Cullen wants everyone in the ballroom for the foreseeable."

Together, the three of them made their way back to the ballroom, an interesting enough trio to draw the attention of the curious nobles away from Kaaras disappearing once again with Varric, Cassandra, and Solas. Cullen was nowhere to be seen, but Rory knew what was happening now - the Inquisitor was walking into a trap, and Cullen was giving the order for his soldiers to infiltrate the Winter Palace. A quick sweep of the ballroom revealed that there were a few harlequins in evidence, something that made the redhead distinctly uneasy. She'd only played the big fight ending once, somehow managing to keep her court approval high enough not to have to do it again, but the sight of those Orlesian assassins mixed in with the nobility was giving her a very bad feeling.

When Cullen returned, he all but glued himself to her side, his tension palpable enough that Dorian chose not to tease him about protecting his wife in a room full of nobles who, at worst, wanted to get her into bed. In fact, Dorian was on edge; everyone she knew in this room was on edge. Granthis, who had been so jovial all evening, was watching from the sidelines, his mismatched eyes wary behind his mask. Even the nobility was beginning to feel it, their lively chatter starting to show the strain, when the herald announced that in a few moments, the Empress would be addressing them.

"Where is he?" Cullen muttered, worry and exasperation mingling in his tone. They needed Kaaras here when Celene made her announcement, or everything they'd come here to accomplish would go down the drain. And he didn't even know that Florianne was the assassin.

The suggestion of horns emerging from an unused doorway into the ballroom caught the commander's attention, and he strode away to make sure Kaaras knew what was going on. But Rory was a little more immediately concerned by the sight of the smiling mask of a harlequin too close for comfort, taking up position beside the Inquisition soldier who was guarding the door to the balcony nearby. She squeezed Dorian's arm.

"Let's move a little bit further down the rug here," she murmured to him, subtly nodding toward the theatrically-dressed assassin.

Dorian seemed to barely glance in that direction, but he nodded in agreement. "Ah, yes, the view of the Empress will be so much better from over here," he said aloud. "Her sense of style is unrivaled, so I hear. Or was, before you walked into Halamshiral." In a lower tone, so quiet she almost missed it, he added, "Stay close to me."

"I hardly think anyone's going to remember me after tonight," she told him for the benefit of anyone listening to them, as he guided her to the lee of one of the thick pillars beside the railing that looked down over the dancefloor. Defensible.

"You may be surprised," the altus answered, raising his head. "Ah, I believe the Empress is about to speak."

As the herald called for silence, and Celene took her place to address the court, Rory's eyes searched wildly for Kaaras. He wasn't moving. A cold certainty gripped her heart as her gaze rose to the Empress ... to Florianne circling behind her. She felt sick, hands gripping the warm marble of the railing before her. She knew what was going to happen.

Empress Celene was going to die. And the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, her friend, was going to let it happen. A split second decision ... and there was nothing she could do to change it.

[katalyna-rose]

Vhenan Chapter Five

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris/Female Mage Hawke, Zevrain/Female Warden Mahariel

AKA: Lyna/Solas, Fenris/Alie, Zevran/Kahlia

Angst, Fluff, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Mildly Conon-Divergent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Isablea/Merrill, Constructive Criticism Welcome

Summary: Solas, the Dread Wolf Fen'Harel, has left Lyna behind in an attempt to fix mistakes made thousands of years ago. Willing to destroy everything for his goals, he doesn’t realize exactly how determined Lyna is to show him a better path. Both worlds could thrive, given the chance. Her world is real and valid and deserves a chance, but so does his. There must be a middle ground.

And there is another reason that Lyna must find Solas, a secret kept from the world that attempted to put her up on a pedestal. But how would Thedas react to such a secret, such undeniable proof that their Herald of Andraste is a person like any other? That she is someone who loves, someone who makes mistakes, who bleeds and cries. And is having the Dread Wolf’s child.

Read on AO3!

From the Beginning

Lyna stirred, trying to wake from her dreams, but it was difficult even with the screaming and wailing all around her.

“Lyna!” It was Hawke’s voice, and she was excited. “Lyna, come on! Wake up! Your son is ready to greet you!”

My son? Oh! She remembered in a rush, being unconscious through the birth. She’d given birth! That thought allowed her to push away the haze of dreams, even dreams of Solas.

“My son! Let me see him!” Lyna cried. She reached out with both arms, forgetting for a moment that she could hold him with only one.

Elarra held the squirming bundle, which she passed to the new mother, settling it firmly in her one good arm. “Here he is. A strong little thing, this one. And he knows who his mother is. He was reaching for you for the whole time I was cleaning him off,” she said, grinning.

Lyna looked into her son’s face. Bright violet eyes stared just beyond her, too new yet to focus. With the stump of her left arm, she settled the blankets further back from his face. He calmed as she held him, stopped screaming.

“He’s beautiful,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears.

“He is,” Hawke agreed through her own watery smile.

Fenris, arms wrapped around his wife’s waist, said, “He’s very small, isn’t he?”

“A bit smaller than is average, yes,” Elarra said as she bustled about, cleaning up. “But he’s healthy. Lungs working just fine, everything properly developed. He’s just small, that’s all.”

“He’s perfect,” Lyna told them, never looking away from her son’s tiny and beautiful face.

“Of course he is,” Fenris conceded, a smile in his voice.

Suddenly, Lyna’s tears of joy became tears of sorrow. “I wish his father were here,” she whispered. Just then her son, her little Solas, reached out and placed his hand on the stump of her arm. A sob escaped her lips. “I should have told him, Hawke. You were right. I should have told him, even if it wouldn’t have changed anything. He still should have known.”

Hawke sat beside her friend and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. With her other hand she smoothed the little boy’s dark brown hair. Lyna hadn’t known what color Solas’s hair would have been, but she supposed she did now.

“You did what you thought was right at the time,” she said softly. “Regrets now don’t change what is.”

Lyna took a deep breath. “I know that. But I wish I could find some way to tell him.” She looked up at her friend. “I see him nearly every night. I speak to him sometimes. But I can never find the words to say it, even when I try.”

“Maybe you will,” Hawke said brightly. “If life has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is impossible.”

“I suppose,” she said, doubtful. Solas started mewling and reached up and out with his tiny little arms. When one met her breast, he fell silent and kneaded the flesh a little. She chuckled. “Hungry already, little one?” she asked him. Somehow, she managed to maneuver her dress until one breast was bared. Solas immediately latched on to begin his meal. His mother sighed. “At least my son is healthy. As long as that is true, I can handle anything.”

“Exactly,” Hawke said.

**

“A boy. Bright. Healthy. Little. So little. But strong. A tug on the silk to pull it out. Hurts, but it’s good. He’s good,” Cole said in that peculiar way of his.

“Yes,” Lyna told him with a smile. “A healthy little boy. I named him for his father.”

“I’m glad he’s healthy,” Cole told her with his own small smile.

“So am I. How are you?”

“She finds me and I falter, wanting, waiting, wishing. She’ll find me again, want it, need it, have to keep her away.” His eyes grew glazed, his gaze far away, and Lyna knew whose thoughts he was speaking. “She tries to speak, mouth opens then closes, words that won’t pass her throat. What is it? Want to hear, afraid to hear, know it could change everything but not what it is. Each time she finds me it is harder to push her away. Want her to stay. So strong, she’s so strong to even find me. Why does she let me retreat?”

“I have no choice but to let him go, Cole,” Lyna said seriously, wrapping her arms around herself in some vain attempt at comfort.

“That’s not true!” Joy interjected, appearing suddenly and twirling around. For now, Joy appeared as a young girl in a flowery dress. It had been spending a lot of time with Lyna since she’d given birth almost two weeks ago, despite the sorrow that dulled her joy.

“What do you mean?” Lyna asked the slightly more straight-forward spirit.

It continued twirling with a grin. “In the Fade, there is always choice,” it told her, and she retracted her former observation of its straight-forward nature.

“What do you mean?” she asked again. “He always pushes me away.”

“But you let him!” it declared, still twirling, faster and faster until it made Lyna dizzy.

“He’ll push me out on his own if I don’t leave,” she reminded her friend. “So why not steal the last word from him as I do?”

It stopped spinning suddenly, enough so that any mortal would have toppled over. It sighed at her, seeming disappointed. “You have always thought of this battle between the two of you as a battle of wills,” it told her, finally giving a straight answer. “In the Fade, that concept is a literal one! If your will surpasses his, he cannot push you out.”

“He…” she began, then stopped and swallowed hard. “He wouldn’t be able to eject me from his dreams if I didn’t let him?”

“I didn’t say that,” Joy was quick to correct. “If his will to push you out is greater than your will to stay, he can still make you go. It’s simply a more literal interpretation of your ongoing battle of wills.”

“If I were strong enough, I could make him stay until I can finally force the words out of my throat to tell him he has a son?” Lyna asked urgently, clutching her friends’ arms.

“Well, it’s possible,” Joy said with a shrug. “But I doubt you’d be able to hold him for very long. Or anyone, really. It takes a lot of concentration, and if you’re distracted by what you need to say then it’ll make it easier for him to ignore your command. But theoretically, yes.”

“But if I tried, I could…” She had to know.

“This is the Fade, Lyna!” Joy cried. “Everything here exists because someone willed it so!”

“You could will him to stay,” Cole added. “He wants to, but he can’t.”

“Then I’ll need to practice,” she told them with a smile. Joy nodded happily, easily.

“I will help,” Cole said. He always understood.

**

“Hush now, little one! What’s all this?” Lyna cooed to her son. He was wailing again, as he tended to prefer doing the moment she laid down to rest. Carefully, she lowered the side of his crib so she could bend over and scoop him into her arm. He calmed a little for a moment, then continued howling. She checked his diaper then sighed.

“No tears and no mess today. Just practicing, then?” she asked her son. He didn’t answer, just kept up the noise. She sighed again and sat in her rocking chair with him. They rocked slowly while he exercised his lungs.

“At this rate,” she told him after a few minutes, “you’re going to be an incredible singer one day.” He wrapped a strand of her platinum blonde hair around his little fist and tugged. She winced, then did her best to untangle her hair from him. “I’m beginning to regret growing my hair out,” she admitted to him wryly. He burped in response, then continued wailing. When he tugged her hair again, she sighed. “Some things are easier with two hands,” she said to no one, the most ridiculous understatement she’d ever made. “Keeping a one-month-old out of trouble is certainly one of them.”

Lyna watched as dawn’s first light colored Kirkwall pale pink, holding her screaming child close. “Why can I never find the words or the strength to tell him about you?” she asked the horizon. “I see him almost every night, even talk to him fairly often when we can trick each other for a moment, but I can never get the words out. Why? What is it that I’m so afraid of? That he’ll reject me? He already did that. Three times, no less!” Solas finally quieted and nestled into the crook of his mother’s arm, yawning and stretching his little arms. She smiled down at him sadly. “I suppose I’m afraid that he’ll reject you, da’mi,” she whispered to her son. “My little Solas, you are named for him and born of his seed, but that does make him a father. Would he even want you, if he knew? That must be what I’m afraid of, then. That he would leave altogether, even in dreams, to avoid a responsibility to you.”

He yawned again, tiny fists pressed against his cheeks, and it was so adorable she couldn’t help but grin at him. “What would you say to your father, I wonder? Would you be hurt that he isn’t here with you? Or would you be satisfied that I’m here, that I love you with my whole being?” She sighed heavily and kissed his forehead. “Someday, I’ll have an answer to that question, I think. When you’re old enough, I know you’ll ask me about him. And I will tell you, of course. I would never lie to you, da’mi. I know the damage that lies can do.”

He made a little noise then, demanding and insistent, and reached up to her with one small hand. She smiled again. “A story, then? Very well. Let’s see…” She thought for a moment. “How about I tell you the story of how my parents met? My father was born in an Alienage, you know. And one cold, snowy winter near Ostwick…”

**

“He is well,” Wisdom told Lyna before she could even ask. She smiled ruefully.

“Am I that predictable?” she asked. The spirit smiled.

“You ask me the same question each time we meet,” it reminded her.

“Is he well, though? Truly?” she asked, concerned. “The last time I saw him he seemed… thin. Malnourished. Like perhaps he isn’t sleeping enough.”

“Health and wellness are all relative,” Wisdom told her with sadness in her gaze. Lyna wondered for a moment why both spirits of Wisdom she had met preferred to appear female and were also friends with Solas, then shook it off as a question for another time. “What is healthy for you is not healthy for you son.”

“Is he taking care of himself?” Lyna asked insistently. “Is he well for him? I don’t care about his health relative to anyone but himself!”

Wisdom sighed. “I know, but I thought that perhaps you would be better off believing he is well.”

“How wise would that be?” Lyna asked the spirit with angry sarcasm.

“It could, perhaps, allow you to focus on your own health and that of your son,” Wisdom said patiently. Lyna clenched her jaw and said nothing more; perhaps the spirit was right and she should try to worry about him less. Yet then Wisdom grinned, a rare thing for her. “If you could simply cease worry for your love, a lot of problems might be solved. But it would also prove that you do not, in fact, love him. Love is boundless when true, and cares not for distance or anger. Yet love is not blind; it sees the imperfections of a person and it embraces them. He is rash and impulsive beyond what others see and you know this, yet you embrace these flaws in him.”

“They aren’t always to his detriment,” she reminded her newest friend. “That same impulsivity that has caused him to make so many mistakes also allowed him to fall in love with me. Maybe it could make him let me back in if I could just…”

“Just what?” the spirit asked eagerly, as though Lyna were on the verge of something profound.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want him to come back out of nothing more than a false sense of obligation to his son.”

Wisdom tilted her head. “What makes it a false sense?” she asked curiously. “If the child is his, born of his loins, as we both know it to be, then is the obligation not upon him to care for the child?”

“It isn’t that simple,” she told the spirit, shaking her head. “Perhaps some people see it that way, but I don’t. I wanted my child, my son. I want him because I love him and what he represents. I love the potential he carries and that I will be there to nurture it. But simply creating a child does not make one a parent. It is an active choice, and not one that he has made.”

“Because he does not know,” Wisdom reminded her. “He cannot make a choice if he does not have the information.” Lyna sighed heavily.

“I know that,” she said wearily. “But every time I try to tell him, I freeze up. I can’t force the words out of my throat.”

“You are afraid,” it observed. Lyna snorted.

“I know that,” she told it. “I simply don’t know how to work past it to tell him.”

They were silent for a few long minutes as Lyna played with the landscape around them, shaping a waterfall to create music. Wisdom tilted her head and nudged a rock so the note rang true, and they sighed together, pleased with the results.

“Keep trying,” Wisdom said at last, then vanished. Lyna rolled her eyes.

**

She found him again in a memory he visited far too often. Ordinarily, she’d leave him to it, let him be with this one and not interfere. But she found that she couldn’t simply leave this time. It was probably the hormones still coursing through her, but she didn’t want him to keep doing this.

He moved through the memory with ease, viewing it from a hundred different angles, ducking waving limbs when necessary. His face was drawn and closed, expression fierce; he was using this memory to torture himself. And he looked even less healthy than the last time she’d found him in his own dreams. The dark circles under his eyes were darker, bags that dragged down his face. He seemed to have lost more weight. She wondered if he was really that unhealthy in waking or if it was a representation in the Fade, like most things. She hoped he was taking better care of himself than he seemed to be.

Surely he deserved it, she told herself again. In the memory, Lyna screamed in pain and clutched her left wrist as though that could stem the tide of agony. Solas allowed each tiny noise of distress to spear his heart, keeping his eyes on her no matter who else was speaking. They were all speaking, arguing about the Exalted Council and how best to mitigate the fallout from his own actions. And Lyna was terrified, though she could never show it to them.

“All the rifts I closed, all the demons I faced,” she mourned when the pain could no longer be hidden. When she broke. “I don’t want to die!” Solas clenched his fists, shoulders bowing under the weight of the desperation in her voice. He bowed his head when she continued, amending her statement. “Not… knowing that the world still needed me.” She didn’t want to die, but she couldn’t allow herself to be selfish. And it was his fault.

As she collected herself, polite mask back in place, he froze the memory around him. With one finger, he touched Lyna’s cheek. It was soft and altogether too real. Even in memory, he shuddered at the sensation. He began the scene again, from the beginning.

And she couldn’t watch, couldn’t let him continue. “Why do you torture yourself with the past?” she asked him. He spun around, searching for her, but she knew he would find her only if she let him and continued to float just outside of his perception, a familiar dance. He had taught her this trick, though he hadn’t meant to. He had taught her to float through the Fade as consciousness without form.

“How did you get here?” he asked, sounding oddly desperate.

“You let me in,” she told him. His expression became strained, and she laughed lightly. “In moments like this, you all but drag me here,” she admitted, knowing that he would ward against her even more strongly than ever when he wished to be alone. But she couldn’t let him continue like this and she would find a way past his warding eventually. Or he would simply let her in again. “Why do you do this to yourself?” She felt him probing, moving closer. She moved away.

“It is no less than I deserve,” he admitted softly, his eyes darting around as though his sight could find her. He should know better.

“Perhaps, but it is over,” she reminded him. “It is done. I do not hold it against you.”

“How can you not?” he whispered brokenly, his search for her momentarily abandoned. “I nearly destroyed you. I did destroy the Inquisition.”

“No,” she said fiercely. “I received the Anchor by my will, not yours. And you saved my life, saved me when it would have destroyed me. And I disbanded the Inquisition. It was simply time, our work completed. The reason for its existence was over, so I sent them all home.”

He laughed without humor. “You cannot lie to me, vhenan,” he reminded her softly. “Not here.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed, a smile in her voice. His search for her resumed. “But you have still not answered my question. Why are you here?”

He hesitated. “I told you when last we met in waking that I am not a monster, but I have never been certain if I believe those words.” In her shock, she almost let him catch her before moving away.

“No love of mine could ever be a monster,” she told him with certainty. He bowed his head.

“You simply do not know me,” he whispered.

“Don’t say that!” she snapped. He jerked, surprised to hear her lose her temper; it happened so rarely, yet she couldn’t help it. How could he question all that she knew and loved like that? It was an insult that she would not tolerate. “I know all I need to know to love you! I know that you are kind, that you would help refugees rather than pursue your own purposes. I have seen you do it. I know that you are knowledgeable and willing to share. How many nights did we talk through in the rotunda until dawn while I studied your latest mural? I know that you are creative, in both art and studies. You always found the most interesting ways to look at things, and I will always treasure the murals and sketches and paintings you left behind. A person’s past does not define who they are. I did not need to know that you were once Fen’Harel to know that you are Solas and I love you.”

He took a deep, shaking breath, abandoning his quest for her, allowing her to remain with him. She did not take the bait. “You love a shadow, the remnants of a man who ceased to exist long ago,” he insisted.

“No,” she said gently, her fury fading as swiftly as it had taken her. “You were Solas first, and you will remain Solas long after Fen’Harel is laid to rest. My people forgot the truth, but I will never forget. I will never forget you.” He jerked as she repeated his last words to her back to him.

Knowing what would happen yet acting anyway, she coalesced her consciousness into form just before him and took his face in her hands. She pressed her lips against his gently and for a moment he remained hard and unyielding. Until, all at once, he broke and wrapped her in his arms, crushing her lips with his. He leaned her back, making her cling to him, and kissed her until she was breathless.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he murmured against her mouth as they breathed as one.

“I know, Solas,” she whispered, caressing his face. She felt him pushing her consciousness away, out of his dream, out of the Fade altogether. “Ar lath ma. Var lath vir suledin. But I will not go quietly tonight,” she vowed, holding her ground, fighting his will. His eyes widened, something between fear and delight in his gaze, and she shivered in his arms under the weight of that look. “There is something…” she began, trying again, but he was still pushing, they were still fighting, and she was so afraid. She wavered for a moment, he almost won, before she dug her nails into his shoulders and he winced with pain and it allowed her to keep herself in place. “I need to tell…” Her breaths came short and quick, panic speeding her pulse. He frowned, their mental grappling slowing just a little in his confusion.

“Vhenan,” he murmured, just barely giving voice to the word, and she tore herself from his grasp. She couldn’t touch him and still find the strength to say it. He had to know so that he could choose, so that he could know, yet she was so afraid of the result that she couldn’t even look at him. She wrapped her arms around herself, breathing so hard that she was about to hyperventilate and wondering if that translated into the waking world, if that was why everything was becoming blurry.

She tried to rush it, to force the words out all at once. “Solas, we have-“ The dream shattered on an infant’s scream.

Lyna sat up in bed and tried to wipe some of the tears from her face. She was fairly certain that she’d hadn’t been crying in the dream, but her pillow was soaked. She’d also discovered that she had, in fact, been breathing just as hard in waking as in dreaming. She tried to slow her heart as she left the bed and went over to her son. His cries lessened as his mother appeared in his field of vision, then stopped entirely when she scooped him up, her mental state having no effect on the demands of his little tummy. She sighed as she sat in her rocking chair with him and he began his meal.

“I suppose this must mean you don’t want your father to know,” she told the suckling infant at her breast. “Maybe it’s for the best, but I can’t just leave it like this. What he does with the information is up to him, but he deserves to have it.” She kissed her son’s forehead, then wiped her face on her shoulder. “I would be no better than him at his worst if I kept knowledge of you from him on purpose. I need to tell him if only to soothe my conscience. If he vanishes entirely, that’s his own choice.” She stared off into the darkness of Kirkwall’s landscape. “That’s his own choice,” she repeated, trying to tell herself that she would be okay with it and failing.

**

She dreamed of her father. She was small and his strong arms were still there to scoop her up and swing her around. His strong and calloused hands were still there to guide hers on the tiny bow he’d made for her, small enough for her little arms to wield. His voice was deep and low in her ear as he whispered to her about the wind’s direction and course, how to correct her aim. They made no other sound so that they wouldn’t scare away the deer they hunted.

They were close to it, so close that if the wind shifted even a little it would scent them and run. But they had to be so close because the range on the tiny bow was so much less than that of the one strapped to her father’s back. But he wanted her to make the kill, if she could.

His hands left her, allowing her to hold the bow and arrow with her own strength. He said no more, allowed her to judge the proper moment. She could feel how tense he was, holding his breath in anticipation. She let the arrow fly.

It struck true! The deer was dead before he hit the ground, painlessly slipping away into the Beyond. Lyna screamed with glee as her father tilted his head back and laughed, deep and long, and swung her up into his arms.

“Oh, well done, da’assan!” he cried, tossing her up to catch her and hold her close. He peppered her face with kisses. “Look at you! A master archer already and only nine years old! One day, my little arrow, you will rule the world if you wish!”

“But Bae, I don’t want to rule the world!” she told him with a grin, her arms around his neck. He brushed a rebellious white blonde curl off her face.

“No?” he asked, tilting his head. Her own dark violet eyes stared at her from his face, though sandy blond hair framed the wide cheekbones. “But think of all the wonderful changes you could enact, ma lath!” She shook her head.

“I just want to help Mamae and the Keeper,” she said with a child’s determination. “I want to keep the clan safe. Everyone I love is here. Everything I want is here. Why would I want the world when I have you?”

And for a moment her father looked as though he might cry, tears gathering in his eyes. Then his grin split his cheeks and he covered her in kisses until she was squealing with laughter. Finally, he let her slide to the ground.

“Come on, then!” he cried, waving her toward the deer carcass. “We must thank this graceful beast for the gift of its body that will nourish the clan. And then we must take out the intestines and put them in this bag and drain the blood before we haul it back to camp.”

“But why, Babae? Can’t we just take it home now?” she asked, trotting to keep up with her father’s long legs.

“This is a great beast, da’len,” he reminded her, gesturing to the size of the buck. “It would be too heavy for us. We keep the entrails because they are put to use, but we take them out because they are heavy. The blood is simply weight we don’t need to carry. Once this task is completed, we will tie up the carcass and drag it home and it will be a much simpler task to get it there and a much simpler task to break it down once we do. You understand?”

Lyna nodded eagerly, curls bouncing around her face. “Yes, Babae,” she said. She knelt by the deer’s head, the first creature bigger than a nug that she had ever killed. She blinked back a few tears to see the glaze in its eyes, the lack of life where life should be. Her father noticed.

“It is good to mourn the dead, da’len,” he told her softly, a hand coming to rest on the top of her head. “It is especially good to mourn when it was your deed or order that caused the death. It will help you keep perspective. Never be greedy with death, my little arrow, or it will consume you in the worst ways.” His eyes clouded then with some memory that Lyna had not known to ask about as a child. “That is why we must thank this beast for the bounty of his body. That is why we must never hunt females in the breeding season and why we must never hunt the younglings. You understand, da’assan?”

“Yes, Babae,” she said again, and rested her hand on the deer’s head. “Thank you, kind one. We will do our best to honor you,” she whispered to it, then took the knife that her father handed her to begin the task of carving.

She stopped, sniffing the wind, sensing a predator on the horizon. The image of her father wavered as she shifted beyond the boundaries of the memory. She lifted her head and turned to look and saw the wolf, as tall as the buck that lay dead before her and black as pitch, six ruby eyes trained on her. And she was unafraid. She knew him, even in the body of her nine-year-old self.

“Solas,” she said, reaching out, and her child’s voice sounded strange shaping the name. He lifted a paw, made to move toward her, then hesitated. “Solas, come speak to me,” she tried again. “There’s something I have to-“ He shuddered hard, then turned away.

[contreparry]

"Euphonious: pleasing; sweet in sound" for dwc!

... I think I’m going to write some Cassandra and Cullen friendship pre-Conclave explosion, for @dadrunkwriting!

Haven was a surprisingly tranquil place. The tiny mountain village was isolated from the rest of Thedas by the heavy winter snowfall and treacherous terrain, and even with the rest of the world intruding upon this holy sanctuary Haven somehow retained its sense of peace and quiet. Perhaps it was the bad weather that kept most people indoors, either in the Chantry or in the various cabins and hastily erected tents and shelters.

Cassandra preferred to walk about. Divine Justinia asked her to listen to the common folk, the Templars and Mages who voyaged to this place in search of peace, and while Justinia’s request was reasonable, Cassandra knew the old woman was really doing her a favor. If she had to spend one more minute in the stuffy Chantry listening to the Mothers, Sisters, and Brothers squabble like children, she was going to- to-

Whatever she was planning would be unpleasant. It was better that she do something else. Something a little more productive. Maybe the training grounds would help settle and ground her. The Chantry wasn’t exactly a place for prayer and contemplation at the moment. Too much arguing and too many whispers- let Leliana handle the gossips and nobles. Cassandra would breathe in the icy air and calm her nerves.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” Ser Cullen said in greeting as she passed by. He had his sword at his side and wore simple leather armor, and it was clear that he had just finished some sort of training exercise with the others.  

“Ser Cullen,” Cassandra replied. “Doing well, I trust?”

“Well enough. Decent weather, for this time of year,” Cullen remarked, giving the overcast skies a pointed look. “Always get snowfall in Guardian, especially in the later half. Sometimes you’ll have a freak blizzard in Cloudreach, but... was there something you needed?”

“Distraction. The talk in the Chantry makes me want to drive a dagger in my ear,” Cassandra complained, and Cullen’s low chuckle was a pleasant, soothing sound. Much better than the arguing and accusations flying inside the Chantry walls. A little flicker of guilt flared in her heart- Justinia and Leliana and Josephine were facing that firestorm on their own, while she was out here listening to gossip and talking to far more agreeable personages. Maker, even Tethras would be a more pleasant companion than any of the Sisters inside!

That was a frightening thought.

“I can’t say I disagree with you, Seeker. I find that training has been an excellent use of my time,” Cullen said mildly. “There is so much to see to, after all. I... could use some assistance.” Lies, of course, lies that Cassandra could see laid bare. The walls were sturdy, the soldiers were drilled within an inch of their lives, the equipment was perfectly maintained- there really was nothing for her to do here, but Cassandra would take the lie for now.

“Which I’ll gladly give,” Cassandra offered. “Please.”

“Thank you, Seeker,” he said, and while his voice was perfectly polite and mild his brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “I think that a demonstration on proper shield technique is in order, don’t you agree?”

[teiranlavellan]

Lilacs

@dadrunkwriting

@silent-of-spirit Lilac prompt/any characters

Thank you for the prompt!!! So, Karissa is a new-ish character that I’ve always had floating around in my head, but this prompt really made me flesh her out a bit.

There is also some Cullen fluff.  Karissa and Cullen are a thing.  I’ve never romanced Cullen before, so this was an exercise in that too.  Hope he sounds right!

  Karissa sipped her tea anxiously, sitting on the edge of Lady Montilyet’s pink armchair.  She crossed her legs at the ankle, adjusting her maroon dress accordingly while she listened to the scratch of quill on parchment.

Leliana’s voice whispered in her mind, “As the Inquisitor’s messenger, you will of course be responsible for ensuring all business is conducted smoothly.  The Inquisitor, Lady Montilyet, Commander Cullen, Seeker Cassandra and myself will need to be informed of all matters before our meetings and this is your primary roll.  However, you are also responsible for maintaining the Inquisitor’s quarters, maintaining her safety.”

Karissa watched the flames in the fireplace dance, “It’s only lilacs.  Nothing dangerous.  Nothing to be worried about.”  She thought, however the idea that someone was getting these into the Inquisitor’s room, without her knowing who was doing so, worried her.

With a flourish, Josephine replaced her quill in the ink pot and leaned back in her chair.  A deep breath, then she stood and called to Karissa, “Thank you for your patience Karissa; here is the last of them for today.”  Josephine reached into a drawer in her vast desk and produced five new scrolls, each bearing her “JM” signature on the outside.

Karissa replaced her teacup in its saucer and hurried to take the scrolls from the ambassador.  Shyly, she dipped her head, “Not a problem, Lady Montilyet.  Thank you for the tea.  Can I bring it down to the kitchens for you?”

Josephine shook her head, “Someone will be by soon anyway for it. Have a good night, Karissa.”

Karissa smiled lightly, “Good night, Lady Montilyet.”  Karissa tucked the new scrolls into her messenger bag, placing them in the central pocket with those lacking the Inquisitor’s signature. “Could it be Lady Montilyet?  She was kind enough to send the flowers, but if it was her she seems like the type to leave a note.”  Karissa argued with herself.  

Her waist-long braid hit her stomach as she turned for the door and left the cozy office.  Karissa pushed the heavy braid back over her shoulder and crossed the large hall that ran through the middle of Skyhold.  The hall seemed larger than usual since there were few people about this late in the evening; Karissa bit her lip and crossed quickly and silently.  She reprimanded herself for being nervous, “This is not the Circle and there are not Templars around every corner, Karissa. You are being ridiculous.”

Still, she wished the lively dwarf were at his customary place by the hearth in this carnivorous hall. She always enjoyed delivering messages to him, though the Inquisitor was more likely to speak to him in person.  “Maybe Varric?  No, he doesn’t seem the type to send flowers.  And if he did, it would be more to make me fret over how they had gotten past me than anything else.  Him or that elf would both do it just to mess with me.  That elf would send something meaner than flowers though; something that would smell just awful.  Thank the Maker the Inquisitor does not send messages to her very often.”

Karissa opened the door that led to the rotunda and prayed to the Maker that the elf who painted there was asleep on the couch in the corner.  The human mage was of the opinion that an elven apostate should not have such a prominent place in the Herald of Andraste’s inner circle.  

Karissa peaked around the wall and exhaled silently in relief when she saw the rotunda was empty. “If the Inquisitor needed more mages with her, she should pick from among her allies from the Circle.”  Karissa thought, a tinge of jealously coloring her perception of Solas as her tirade continued, “The Herald has been chosen by Andraste to lead the other elves, apostates or not, back to the Maker for the good of all Thedas.  Just as Andraste did for all of humankind.”  Karissa flitted over to the empty desk and placed a message from the Inquisitor on it.

“And Solas is not only resistant, but he seems to encourage the Herald’s occasional, sacrilegious thought.  Besides, he is too nice, like he’s hiding something. ” Karissa mused as she climbed the stone steps of the rotunda, passing the library on the second floor and heading to the aviary at the top. “What if he’s the one sending the flowers?”  Karissa’s step faltered and she paused a moment before shaking her head, “I don’t think he has any interests beyond his books and he is certainly too serious for anything so romantic.”

The squawk of seemingly every kind of bird inhabiting Thedas greeted Karissa as she stepped onto the wooden circular platform.

Leliana turned from the window to watch Karissa approach her, the mage’s hands shifting through her bag and collecting scrolls in her arms as she walked.  The Spymaster inclined her head in greeting, “Thank you, Karissa.  Anything to report?”

Karissa swallowed, placed the scrolls in Leliana’s hands, then smiled and met her gaze evenly, “Good evening, Lady Nightingale.  All is well. The Herald is in her room, reading.” She smiled and Leliana nodded, already reading her new messages.

Karissa turned and descended the staircase all the way to the first floor when a terrifying thought occurred to her, “What if the Nightingale placed the flowers there as a test?”  Karissa shuddered at the thought as she crossed the rotunda and opened the door leading to the battlements.  As the cold, evening air hit her; her troubling thoughts cleared and her heart began to beat faster.  She blushed as she remembered how approaching the former Templar used to make her heart race in fear.

Karissa knocked on the thick wooden door and waited a moment.  Cullen pulled the door open with a crooked smile, “You know, you’re the only one who knocks and waits to be let in.”

Karissa smiled slyly back at him, “Is that a bad thing?”

Cullen laughed as he let her in to his small tower.  She crossed over to his desk and leaned against it, “So, is it?”

Cullen stared into her green eyes, “No, it’s . . .it’s quite nice actually.”  Then he broke their gaze as he cleared his throat, “So, how many messages has the Inquisitor sent me tonight?”

Karissa smoothly pulled them from her bag and placed them in his hand, “Only a few.  Do you have any for me to send to her?”

Cullen scanned his desk, “Um . . .yes, here you are.”  Cullen handed her a scroll, which she took without looking away from him.

Suddenly waxing shy, the two broke eye contact and each stared at the floor under their feet with Karissa blushing and Cullen rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, I better get these to the Herald before she falls asleep on her desk again.”  Karissa told the floor as she headed for the door.

“Oh dear, yes.  I suppose you’d better.”  Cullen fell in step beside her, escorting her to the door. She pulled the door open and Cullen awkwardly took it from her to hold it open for her.

“Sleep well, Karissa.”  Cullen wished, his voice low and deep.

“Thank you, Cullen. Good night.”  Karissa whispered, her breathing shallow, like it always was when his voice did that.  She turned and crossed the stone bridge back to the rotunda, hearing the door close behind her a couple of minutes after she had walked away.

She smiled giddily to herself; running her hands over her braid as she walked into the rotunda, back through the main hall and up the staircase to the left of the Inquisitor’s throne.  Karissa took a deep breath, smoothed her expression, but retained her happy smile. She knocked on the Inquisitor’s door as she opened it a crack, listening for her queue to enter.

“Come in, Karissa.” Teiran’s voice called from across her room.  Karissa stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and then approached the elf at her desk.

“Good evening Herald.”  Karissa said as she placed her bag full of scrolls next to her desk.

Teiran glanced at the amount of work ahead of her, slammed her quill on the desk beside the journal she was annotating, and began her pacing from her desk to her balcony.

Karissa watched her pace for a moment before the white lilacs still on the desk captured her attention.  “Who?  Who could have snuck in here without me knowing?  What if . . . What if it was Commander Cullen?  She was the Herald after all . . .” Karissa fretted, though her expression remained neutrally trained on the Inquisitor.

Teiran paused in her pacing, exhaling loudly as if physically expelling her annoyance. Teiran turned her back on the mountains and leaned against the wall that framed the balcony’s entrance.  She met Karissa’s eyes, “Thank you, Karissa.  Was there anything else?”

“No.  Nothing, Herald.”  Karissa moved towards the offending flowers, “These are beautiful, who sent them to you?”

Teiran looked puzzled a moment, then her expression cleared in a full smile, “Oh!  I picked them this morning.  But . . .” The Inquisitor smile turned shy, “Don’t tell anyone ok?  If they all find out then I will be sent some. All the time.  It’ll just be one more thing about the Inquisitor that will be used against me.  Promise?”

Karissa could have sighed in relief, “Oh, how silly of me!  Well, that’s a relief.  Still, I don’t understand why she wouldn’t want to be sent more flowers.  She obviously likes them enough to go get them herself.”  Instead of showing her relief, she smiled normally, “It’ll be our secret then.”

Teiran smiled at her, and then sat back at her desk, “Well, I better get started.”

Karissa curtsied, “Good night, Herald of Andraste.”

Teiran, leaning back with a scroll under her nose, replied, “See you tomorrow.”

[dragonageroleplay88-blog]

Chapter III: Part IV: Bastian

Bastian pushed forcefully through the crowd of roaring Fereldens who gathered in the street outside the formal dwellings with a great smile on his face, that never faltered from the moment Ashara strode away. The Mage was possessed by a fiendish fury, a deep hatred and ferocity directed towards Duke Bastian that took root in her soul like a sinister seed, blossoming into a painful alienation from her fellow magi.

Bastian was risking her soul. Indeed, she was worth much more than he had expressed, but the Duke would not beg and grovel for her to follow - she would learn to appreciate him as a Mage before her dying breath.

Bastian was pleased to note he had been threatened by death on that day thrice: once by Knight-Captain Gregory Pinnen, who ordered the capture of the Duke; once by Yara, who threatened to plunge a dagger into his throat; and once by Ashara, the anguished shape-shifter with a troubled existence and an Order’s mark on her back.

It was a good day for Duke Bastian de Prosperu - a good beginning to his newest Game.

The Grand Game was the greatest achievement of Bastian’s life. Since he left the Circle in Ghislain as a fully appointed Mage, Bastian had devoted his time to accomplishing his goals and dedicated his energies to reinstating himself in Orlesian high society, reclaiming his family’s title.

Bastian was entitled Baron by the Council of Heraldry six weeks after his Harrowing, following a game with an overconfident and pretentious Baron Montblanche who stupidly risked his very title against a young Mage, barely outside the reaches of the circle and a member of a disgraced lineage.

Baron Montblanche, thinking the young Mage would make an easy opportunity for advancing his own status, was foolish like his father. He considered Bastian to be prey for the hungry upper classes: a mouse for the jaws of a lion. Baron Desjardins had made the same mistake; his error cost him everything and soon Baron Montblanche learned not to play the Grand Game with the newly named Bastian de Prosperu.

With a smile of sadistic pleasure, Bastian passed through the rusted gates of his dwellings, leaving the swarm of Fereldens to wallow in their petty lives. The gate-rust was carried throughout the house, an unwelcome reminder of how far away from his duchy was.

‘Today was more for my pleasure than the progression of negotiation and diplomacy - tomorrow the talks begin anew,’ Bastian thought to himself, as he reached for the door. Bastian was looking forward to a warm bath, filled with perfumed bubbles and essential oils to help the young Duke relax and remove the Denerim dirt from his pores.

However, Bastian felt a sudden shiver take hold, like a thousand needles pinpricked down his spine. He glanced over his shoulders, checking both sides, sensing someone’s presence. But, the Duke could not see anyone. Perhaps, he was anticipating the moment a bard came for his heart, like Yara or Ashara had promised.

Sighing, Bastian reached for the door, which swung open with the lightest touch. Bastian was certain he had locked his dwelling before leaving that morning and the taint of lyrium brought bile to his throat.

He smiled wickedly, swallowing the bile again: ‘My fun has barely begun it seems.’

Bastian strode gracefully into his dwellings, elegantly passing from room to room, listening carefully for any sound he might recognise and following the lure of lyrium. He walked out onto the balcony where the taint was strongest and immediately felt cold steel cut against his neck.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” a voice cooed from the shadows, holding the blade tight against Bastian’s skin. “I am deeply disappointed in the great Duke de Prosperu. Knight-Captain Pinnen warned that I would need to be cautious in your presence.”

Bastian smiled, standing motionless as the templar’s blade dug beneath his chin. It took all of Bastian’s will to resist the temptation to laugh. Laughter would bring blood forth.

“My dear,” Bastian said softly, relaxing his muscles, “Why has Gregory Pinnen decided to take such a drastic course of action. Has he lost his mind? I took him for a fool, I must admit. I am the Empress’ representative and Ferelden is in her debt - your Knight-Captain has no power to barter with, only his pathetic stature which he considers sufficient like an…”

The blade cut. The skin broke. The blood flowed.

“You are the pawn, Mage scum,” the templar hissed, running the blade back and forth, each rocking motion breaking more and more skin. “The Order has given you its terms at the negotiations and you will not budge. You pity the Mages. You value your own kind - you have no place at these talks. You deserve nothing but the Right of Annulment. I have the pleasure of exercising that right.”

Bastian could not resist it anymore. The blade cut deeper but Bastian laughed heartily, like a crazed hyena mocking the bird it was about to disembowel.

“My dear, how foolish all you Fereldens are. Nothing more than green leaves among the ancient trees, too young to see the light of day nor the culling of your time. I have been threatened by worse than you - I am the one who is bitterly disappointed.”

Bastian swung his leg back as he brought his hands up, grabbed the templar’s wrists and pulled down hard. Bastian’s foot collided with his assailant’s knee and he heard a wonderful crack as the joint snapped in an unnatural direction. The templar began to scream and, in his idiocy, dropped the blade.

The falling blade landed in Bastian’s hand and with and stylised twist was buried to the hilt in the templar’s chest, grinding against the bones of his rib cage until it impaled the heart.

Bastian could now see his attacker for the first time. The templar was not much older than Bastian, barely a man but he held such anger in his eyes. Anger. The last emotion to ever cross the boy’s mind.

The Duke released his grip on the blade, letting the templar’s body collapse lifeless on the floor. The boy’s blood spilled crimson from under his breastplate, sweeping across the tiles towards Bastian’s feet.

The templar was another casualty of the Order’s inherent inability to care for the mortal coil. The Order had its eyes set on the Magi, but worried not for the survival of their own if their eternal ambition was met. The Order was too quick to dispense their pawns when a Duke was moved into squares of their colour, like ridiculous kings controlling pieces of chess.

The arrival of the templar was a clear indicator of the Order’s intent: Orlais would be reimbursed for their debts, but no Mage would orchestrate the terms of Denerim’s payment; no Mage would be accepted while the rebellion was taking root in Thedas.

Bastian smiled once more, as the young templar’s blood stained the ends of his robe.

Gregory Pinnen would pay. The negotiations would end soon, very soon. Bastian would see them all end the next day, with all of Denerim at Bastian’s feet.

[kaoruyogi]

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 2)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content!

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 2: That Vexing Interloper

The queerly dressed, foul-mouthed woman cried for nearly three hours after she woke the second time. Josephine insisted that all three advisors wait in the woman’s room until she calmed enough to discuss how she’d come to be with them. The entire exercise was feckless and pretextual as far as he was concerned. They could have put her in the cells to question her, or Leliana could have extracted whatever information she wanted in her own way. Instead they detained her in comfort, in her own room, while so many shared quarters or slept in tents in the valley below. That thought alone left him piqued—agitated in a way he never would have been if he’d seen anyone else crying. Anyone but her.

The way she’d spoken to him was impudent, to say the very least. While it was clear she had no idea who he was, that fact mattered little to him. That she thought her desires were more important than their cause, however, was a galling concept. He despised the nobility for the same reason, making it obvious to him that the two of them were not going to see eye to eye.

However, Leliana was uncharacteristically kind to her, and Josephine rubbed her back and cooed soothing little assurances for almost the entirety of the three hours of sobbing. Cullen stood with his arms crossed by the door, glowering at the weeping woman. She rocked back and forth, whimpering and puling, having wrapped herself up in a blanket to ward the cool winds away from her pale skin. Loose, winding tendrils of her deep red hair fell over her shoulder as she sniffled and swayed.

He would puff out a loud sigh every now and again to remind the women that they all had better things to do than watch this vexing interloper lament her circumstances. Josephine stared more than a few daggers into him in response. So there he waited. Until she finally began to speak.

Her name was Belle. She haled from someplace called “Orange County, California”—a strange name for a strange place. The year there was 2017, but she couldn’t explain what age it was. She said they didn’t have ages, but then rattled on about the “Middle Ages” and the “Bronze Age” and the “Industrial Age” and something about how ages were never named until after they were over in a flustered stream of consciousness he thought would never end. He became more grateful as she rambled that they hadn’t had time to question the other one. There was no telling what the young man may have spewed out in this state.

She asked for her glasses, telling Cullen they were in her purse next to him. When he looked inside the black and cream colored satchel, a jumble of bright colors and papers and tiny trinkets perplexed him so that he just hurled the whole mess onto the bed in front of her.

“Oh my God, will you stop disrespecting my shit?!” She hollered her curses at him after the odd leather bag spilled some of its contents, an angry, wounded look on her tear-swollen face. “First you want to dig through it, then you don’t want to dig through it, then you’re fucking hucking it at me.” Her head swung from one side to the other as she spoke, her voice still a bit nasal. “Fine. I get it. You don’t like me. You don’t want me here. Well, guess what, Commander Cullen Ruther-whateverthefuck of the Inquisition, I don’t want to be here either.”

She opened an misshapen orange leather pouch and pulled out a pair of clear eyeglasses, not at all like the dark monstrosities she’d been wearing when they found her. Once they were affixed to her face, she looked at him again, calmer this time. “But apparently I’m stuck here. So  apparently you’re stuck with me.”

He couldn’t argue with her logic. Though he might argue that they weren’t quite as stuck with her as she was in Thedas. They could take her to Denerim or Val Royeaux and be rid of her. He remained silent, keeping that option to himself.

“How did you come to Thedas?” Leliana asked.

“I don’t know. If I had to guess, it probably happened when that weird green wormhole thing defied all science and reason and sucked me up in the middle of the street.”

The spymaster turned her attention to Cullen. “Your men said she fell from a rift, did they not?”

Of the three of them, he’d had the greatest exposure to Fade rifts. He spent days after the Breach opened fighting off the demons gushing out of the things. So he nodded. “That is also how the first one fell into the wreckage of the Temple. I do not know what a ‘wormhole’ is, but the way she describes it, I believe it is a Fade rift. How one might have opened in this ‘Orange County’ without simply pouring out demons is rather puzzling.”

“Perhaps we should ask Dagna to research this,” Josephine said, speaking up for the first time in what may have been minutes or hours. Her hand still rested on the bespectacled intruder’s shoulder.

Leliana nodded. “Yes, though she will want to take samples.”

A bulky curl flew through the air as the Belle’s head whirled to level a stare at the spymaster. “What do you mean, ‘samples’? Like, ‘oh we’ll just take a piece of her shirt and a few skin cells’ samples or, ‘well, hey, it’s time to chop off a foot’ samples?”

“Somewhere in between, I imagine.”

“Listen, if you’re trying to be funny, comedy has this thing called ‘timing.’ I don’t think you’ve grasped it.”

The spymaster smiled—actually smiled—at the impertinent woman, and she managed to smile back. It was a weak thing, but there was something pleasing about it. It was genuine and warm, and her bottom lip stretched more than her top one. He cleared his throat to jostle himself from the thought.

Three sets of eyes fixed themselves on him, all of them perturbed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and when the women had determined he had nothing useful to add they returned to their conversation.

“You guys keep talking about ‘the young man’ and ‘the other one.’ There was someone else who dropped in on you like I did?”

Leliana nodded. “There was.”

“Who is he? Do he and I have anything in common that might have drawn both of us here?” Belle’s hazel eyes bore a glimmer of hope beneath their watery sheen.

“I think perhaps we will keep his name to ourselves until he returns in five days’ time. We are uncertain whether anything may link the two of you, and we have not yet ruled out Corypheus’s involvement in your sudden appearance.”

Offhand, Cullen couldn’t fathom anything that might have linked the young man to Belle. They differed in far too many ways.

“I don’t know who or what that is, but I get it.” The outsider accepted Leliana’s reply with too little protest, in his opinion. While he preferred this non-sobbing version of her, he found her sudden surrender peculiar.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked him dead in the eye and said, “It’s pointless for me to argue with you all. I gather that you’re at war here—needing a Commander and a keep and the clanging swords outside and everything—and I definitely can’t get home without another wormhole or rift or whatever. So all I can do for now is wait until we sort this out and thank you for your help.” Her stare was fixed on him as she spoke, her voice leaving her dusky lips in a tone so even and controlled it was like a different person was talking.

Could they read minds in Orange County?

“Do you have a trade where you come from?” Josephine asked. It was a good question. The Inquisition could not afford to feed anyone that did not work, let alone quarter them. In a private tower only feet from his own. He stifled a growl at the thought.

Belle sniffled and pushed at her nose with her knuckle. “I did. I do? Yes, I guess would be the best answer, ignoring tenses. I’m an attorney.”

Confounded glances flicked between each of the advisors. It was a rare occasion, indeed, when not one of them knew the meaning of a word. Even rarer when the word was related to a trade. Their combined experience with the varied peoples of Thedas offered them a wide pool of knowledge from which to draw their comprehension. Orange County must have been quite bizarre.

Josephine, it seemed, was the first of them brave enough to admit she did not understand. “I apologize. I have never heard of such a trade.” Her hazel eyes cast down for a moment as she considered her next words. “What does it entail?” she asked, looking to Belle’s face again. Their eyes appeared remarkably similar in color from where he stood.

“Oh. Um. Okay, so you don’t have attorneys here. That must make things easier and harder all at once.” Belle was muttering again. She took a deep breath, and as she did her hands rose up in front of her. Her nails were long and covered in some sort of paint. Tiny lines and patterns wove from finger to finger in glittering shades of blue and purple and pink. It was like nothing Cullen had ever encountered before. Like miniscule paintings. Perhaps “attorney” meant “painter” where she came from.

“Okay, an attorney is someone who works with the law,” she said. Her hands moved while she spoke, her long fingers curving with surprising delicacy. Her pinkies stayed out straighter than the others, but not completely straight. Odd.

Cullen ventured a guess. “Is it a post in a guard force?”

Belle bunched her mouth up on the left side of her face. “Not really? Umm…” She hummed and drew both lips between her teeth. “Attorneys—or lawyers or counselors we’re sometimes called—help create the law. Then we help people use the law to protect themselves and attack others who’ve violated it.” Strange. Cullen had only ever heard of monarchs and nobility making the law or punishing violators.

“Most of us specialize in a particular area or study because there are so many laws. I specialize in video ga—Um…I worked a lot on negotiations, drawing up contracts, employment agreements, privacy agreements, and terms of use, and with copyright and trademark stuff. I worked on some incorporations. I also did a little bit of business advisory work with some of my clients. I’d help them with strategies to grow their companies and make more money. Oh, and I do a little mediating here and there.” She splayed her fingers out in a kind of shrug and raised her eyebrows. He supposed she was finished.

Cullen had never seen Josephine’s eyes light up like they did as Belle explained herself. No one in that room understood some of the words she’d said. There was little doubt about that. But Josephine heard “negotiations,” “contracts,” “agreements,” “grow,” and “more money” and began to glow like the sun. It was unsettling.

Leliana let out a small laugh—also unsettling. “I believe we may have found someone of your ilk, Josie.”

The lady ambassador ignored the remark, the entirety of her energy now honed in on their uninvited guest. She spoke with the voice of a child on Satinalia morning. “Truly? Your work involves contracts and negotiations?” She leaned forward as she pried—unaware of her own movement, Cullen imagined. Josephine was not one to relinquish her composure.

Meanwhile, Belle leaned back, eyes wide with surprise and mouth bearing a poorly bitten back grin. “Yes. That’s most of what I do—did—” She let out an exasperated sigh. She seemed to be having some difficulty reconciling her past and present. “Most of it has to do with contracts and negotiations. There’s other work, but that was my bread and butter.” A fitting choice of words, as that was what she would have to earn for as long as she stayed with them.

If she was not working for Corypheus.

Josephine’s expression turned pensive in a flash. “I could use someone like you. The nobility are fickle, and while many of them are useful for a transaction or two, there is no constant but me to track all of the Inquisition’s contracts. And I have no neutral nobility but myself to engage in negotiations.”

Belle’s face twisted into something like disgust. Who was she to feel disgusted at anything? Cullen’s contempt for her dredged itself up afresh, pricking at his fingertips, clutching the pommel of his sword just a little tighter.

“You’re doing all this by yourself? I mean, I get that you have people who work one or two cases for you, but no one’s got a consistent workload but you? And you’re the only negotiator for—what is this—a whole army?”

“The Inquisition is a peacekeeping force instituted to end the mage rebellion, seal the Breach, find those responsible, and bring them to justice.” Cullen said it like he’d said it hundreds of times. He had. Every new recruit that passed under his command heard it before anything else. They needed to hear it before anything else.

But their pale stranger looked unimpressed. “Okay, thanks. At ease.” She flicked her wrist and hand in an odd kind of salute and looked away for a moment before her eyes snapped back to him. “Wait a second, did you just fucking say ‘mage’?”

The conversation sped up from there. Much to Cullen’s chagrin, Leliana and Josephine poured information out to the interloper, who it seemed had never seen magic or even heard of a real mage. They explained the mage uprising in as simple a set of terms as they could, told her about the Temple of Sacred ashes, the Breach, and Corypheus, and she learned of the events at Haven less than a month ago. Leliana didn’t seem to think Belle was as much a threat as he did. She said too much, in his opinion. But it was her knowledge to give, and not his place to question. He was beginning to feel he was just there to stand guard and be ignored.

It was agreed upon—without Cullen’s input—that Belle would be granted access to Skyhold proper. She would read and research the laws and customs of Thedas until the Inquisitor’s return in five days. With him would come the Inquisition’s other drop-in and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. At that time, the advisors, Cassandra, and the Inquisitor would make a second assessment of both the outsiders’ potential threat level and determine whether they could remain part of the organization. If their statements were deemed credible and their loyalty assured, Belle would begin working as Josephine’s primary associate. This would put her in a position of power, allowing her access to the Inquisition’s funds, authority to negotiate and contract on behalf of the Inquisition, and the ability to communicate with all the nobility of Thedas. Cullen did not wish the last duty upon anyone.

They left her after nightfall, and after she finally realized they had moved her to the upper floor of a very tall tower. She whimpered something about a fear of heights and Josephine promised her a staircase if all went as she hoped. Leliana whispered something to one of her scouts on the battlements. He nodded and vanished into the night.

“She will be watched closely,” said the spymaster.

Cullen nodded his relief and approval. “She must be.”

*****

It was three days before he saw Belle again. Three times a day, Leliana’s scouts would report to her, then to him. Most of what they told him was innocuous. Belle spent the majority of her time in one of the libraries, and could either be found with her nose buried in a tome in the rotunda or amid the dusty shelves beneath Josephine’s office.

She screamed the first time she saw Dorian do magic, but immediately grabbed him by the wrist to demand that he do it again. One of the scouts reported seeing her in the garden trying to replicate the simple spell to no avail. Cullen thanked his lucky stars for that. The last thing he needed was an untrained mage traipsing about unattended.

She also spat out ale the first time someone gave it to her in the Herald’s Rest, claiming something about a sensitive stomach. Cullen wondered if that was a ruse she played up to keep her wits about her while she spied on them. She wouldn’t be the first to avoid dampening her senses to keep a keen eye.

She even blanched at shedding her clothes in the baths. He could only perceive such reticence as concealment of some telling mark on her body. Some scar or brand on her flesh must have bound her to Corypheus. And she saturated an otherwise clean drying cloth. Wasteful.

There was yet another report that Belle swallowed several smooth pebble-shaped objects every morning and sometimes throughout the day. They emerged from a mélange of bottles in varying shapes and colors. He was also told that she counted the objects that remained in the bottles with a look of worry affixed to her face. When asked once, she said they were for her stomach, head, back, and neck. She called them “pills” and “meds.” Adan speculated when pressed that perhaps, in Orange County, these “pills” and “meds” were a means of delivering healing herbs—like a potion or a poultice for one’s innards. Rubbish. Cullen suspected she was hiding magical items in her gut. Or perhaps she was swallowing the bits to keep some enchantment in place. As far-fetched as it may have sounded to someone else, he had seen stranger things. Recently, in fact.

It was well into the depths of Belle’s third night in Skyhold when Cullen encountered her again. He’d tried to sleep. At least he played at trying to fall asleep. Sleep was an elusive thing, grasping it a fever dream in and of itself. Most nights he managed about two or three hours of tumultuous rest, tossing and turning and plagued by nightmares of horrors past. He was beset by night sweats and lyrium withdrawal symptoms, made worse by the fact that he was still hiding his cessation of the stuff from the Inquisitor. The man had enough troubles without being burdened with Cullen’s.

He threw on the nearest breeches and tunic he could find, not bothering with the small laces that would have made his shirt presentable. The knot at the hip of his breeches was lazy at best. He just needed a cup of water. He convinced himself that would be enough to help him sleep. He pulled on his boots with his feet more than his hands, stomping his way past his grip to don the worn leather things.

After descending the ladder and exiting his quarters, Cullen cast a quick glance at Belle’s tower. Belle’s tower. He scoffed at the thought. It sat just above the stables where the horses and Warden Blackwall made their beds for the night. They should have given that tower to the Warden, not to some irksome woman who fell through a rift. No light or sound emanated from within, so Cullen believed her to be asleep.

He travelled down the stairs against the battlements into the rear courtyard. It was the way he always went when he needed water in the middle of the night. The way he could disturb the fewest people and be watched by the fewest guards. He tugged the wooden door open as quietly as he could, knowing that many of the cooks and servants slept just below. Likewise, he silenced his footfalls. He’d woken Donatien once, and was loathe to suffer the cook’s spoon-flailing wrath a second time.

An odd shadow on the wall and the sound of quiet humming stilled his steps. There was someone else in the kitchen. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on her. Belle sat on the floor next to roaring fireplace in a tangle of limbs. Her back settled against the wall. She wore a soft shirt with a strange image on it, black breeches made from a similar material covering her crossed legs. A heavy looking book lay open between her knees, its spine resting on one of her bare ankles. Her feet were bare too, and the toes of her right foot wiggled on her left thigh. Her right hand sat on the edge of the volume, holding a page aloft as though she was about to turn it. The fingers of her left hand splayed across her cheek. Cullen lost sight of three of them under her hair. It glowed like a fiery halo about her round face, set alight by the flames beside her. Her pinky brushed back and forth across her parted lower lip as she read, the nail occasionally finding itself between her teeth. Her lips were plush and soft like the rest of her body. They were rather enticing when they weren’t spewing vitriol at him.

She turned the page and reached down without looking. The movement drew Cullen’s attention away from his dangerous thoughts about her lips. Her fingers tapped the floor around a half-eaten Orlesian bread roll on a cloth in front of her knee. Her head turned to find the bread her hand hadn’t, and she grabbed it up. But then she caught sight of him.

Belle’s whole body jerked, hurling her bread into the fire and slamming the thick tome shut between her thighs with a loud thump. Her hand flew up to grip her chest. She gasped hard, her supple lips emitting what he could only imagine was a string of curses. “Jesus balls on a bike!” She hissed in a breath. “Fuck!”

He was frozen in place, overwhelmed by boyhood sensation so familiar it made his chest ache. Like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have done. Seeing something he shouldn’t have seen. But that was wrong. She was the one doing something she shouldn’t have. “What are you doing in here at this time of night?”

She panted a few hard breaths before her hazel eyes flew up to meet his. “Reading, having a snack, what’s it look like? I’m a bad traveler, and I have no fucking idea what time zone this is, but I’m having a very hard time getting on your schedule. I’m also not a huge fan of climbing that godforsaken ladder in the tower. I should ask you the same thing. Shouldn’t you be—I dunno—sleeping or brooding or something?” There it was.

But he was befuddled. “I was…having trouble sleeping and I came in here for some water.” Maker’s breath. Why did he still feel he owed her an explanation?

She squinted up at him from behind her glasses. “Why are you so sweaty? It’s, like, forty-three degrees outside.”

He hadn’t noticed the sweat beading at his forehead and along his back until that moment. But he would not be explaining himself to the nettlesome woman any further. “You should not be in here.”

It was then that she stood. Belle snatched up the heavy book from the floor and marched right up to him. She stopped just shy of their bodies colliding. This close, Cullen could see the details of her eyes. They were blue-green like the sea, but a thick bronze starburst surrounded her pupils. Little flecks of ochre and sienna in that bronze ring made it look like armor—like a round shield that had been battered and marred and dented in the heat of battle. Where the rest of her was soft, her eyes were hard. Warrior’s eyes.

And those embattled eyes darted about, examining his face and boring down into him. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I find you suspicious.”

“It’s more than that, though. I think there’s something fundamental about me you don’t like.” She canted her head to the side, her gaze never leaving his. Her lips had a natural part when she paused. “That’s fine. But when you find my story credible—and rest assured you didn’t have to wait for whoever the hell is coming back here to do that—we’re going to have to work together, you and I. And that, Commander Cullen Rutherford, is something you’re going to have to come to grips with.”

Belle stepped back, still staring at him. He held himself firm, keeping his posture tight and his jaw clenched. She was right. There was something fundamentally infuriating about her. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was her obstinacy or her foul mouth or her general disregard for their well-founded suspicions. Perhaps it was the way she looked at him.

Book in hand, she slipped past Cullen toward the back door through which he had entered. “By the way,” she said behind him, “I don’t know what kind of drugs you have here in Thedas, but I’ve seen plenty of people detox before. You were right to come down for water. And you should take extra. Hydration is key.” The door closed, shutting out her tempestuous eyes and her confounding lips once more.

He felt exposed. He did not know what “detox” meant, but the way she said it…Maker. She knew something about him that no one else did. She must have.

He retrieved his water from the deep basin and drank it down. It was cool on his parched throat, though it did little to soothe his frayed nerves. He was naked to her. He couldn’t shake the feeling. It hovered over him as he trudged back to his tower, as he climbed his ladder, as he lay sleepless through the wee hours of the morning.

Unsettling, needling woman.

It was yet another two days before he saw her again. She stood beside Josephine on the steps of Skyhold outside the main hall, awaiting Inquisitor Trevelyan’s arrival. She seemed firm and composed, an occasional sigh the only sign of her nerves. Even when the Inquisitor and his companions rode through the gate, she remained still. Until the young man came in.

He marched alongside several of Cullen’s infantrymen, his every step dutiful despite the cheering around them. Cullen realized he wasn’t the only one watching Belle when the soldiers entered. Leliana and Josephine had also locked their eyes on her.

But all she could do was stare down at the portcullis. Her eyes widened first. Her jaw dropped open next. At her sides, her hands trembled. She murmured something they couldn’t quite hear. When Josephine asked Belle to repeat herself, she obliged, only a touch louder.

“P,” she said. One letter, her voice barely a whisper as she said it.

“What?” Josephine asked.

“Spencer!”

Ah. So they did know each other.

*****