#alistair the accidental heretic

[5lazarus]

This is gonna be fun because I know so little about Dragon Age, but here goes: A priest gets ex-communicated from his order due to a series of increasingly unlikely events which make the priest appear to be doing something sacrilegious when in fact he was trying to overcorrect for the previous appearance of sacrilege.

finally got this done! this was a lot of fun. Alistair the Accidental Heretic, crossposted to AO3 here.

Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It's not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

They’ve caught him snoring through Lauds three times this week, so Alistair really wants to stay awake through this time. He thinks active thoughts: fireballs to the face, Isolde screeching when he broke her favorite bottle of perfume, nug-racing with the kitchen staff. Still he finds himself drifting. Mother Prudence’s voice has this wonderful soporific quality. She gurgles the Chant like raindrops in a drainpipe.

He drifts off, eyes alighting on the stained glass window above the altar. Andraste stands silent, wreathed in flames, while Shartan without the ears fires arrows as Hessarian pulls out his sword. It’s all very Chantry, all very templar-y, which of course is to be expected because he is in a chantry and surrounded by templars and these robes are really quite itchy, they really need to try something finer spun, because what if he breaks out into a rash? Alistair is amused. If he scratches himself enough he can raise enough bumps to make it look like he has a rash, that he’s allergic to the templar uniform, and then they’ll have to let him home. They’ll have to. He’d rather go back to waiting on Arl Eamon’s squires than sing the Chant. “Maker have mercy, it never ends,” Alistair mutters to himself. He leans back in the pew. Sure, the shuffling is annoying, but at least he’s making it obvious he’s not falling asleep. He yawns. The guy next to him shoots him a glare. Alistair rolls his eyes.

Mother Prudence continues to sing, and boy is she getting old. She warbles and Alistair thinks this must be why the Maker turned away in the first place, because the singing’s so bad. If everyone singing at all ends of the earth in harmony would bring Him back, would He be mad if they’re off key? He snickers to himself. The guy next to him, some landholder’s brat from Honnleath, shoots him a furious stare. “What?” Alistair says. “You’re being disrespectful,” he says. “Oh come on,” Alistair says. The liturgy stops and the hall falls silent, but Alistair can’t help himself, he keeps going on. “At least I’m awake. Listen, singing that bad is the reason the Maker turned away in the first place.” Mother Prudence gasps. Alistair looks around at the shocked templar faces around him and mutters, “Damn. Tough crowd.” They wash his mouth out first for the swear and second for the heresy. Unfortunately he was not heretical enough to be thrown out of the templars--but they do flog him, and like a child. Alistair is left sniffling and resentful, avoiding the others’ jeers as he walks gingerly into the mess hall. He eyes the hard bench warily, and rubs his backside. He kneels at his seat instead of sitting. “What are you doing?” the Honnleath recruit asks. “Praying,” Alistair snaps back. He groans as Mother Prudence enters the hall for the evening prayer before dinner. Achingly he maneuvers back onto his feet. Mother Prudence warbles, “Blessed are THEEEEY who STAAAAAAND beFOOOORE the corrUUUPT,” she sings it like she’s hiding a burp, “and the WIIIIIICked and do not FAAAALter.” Alistair looks around questioningly. “She’s off-rhythm today,” he remarks. “This is worse than usual.” The templars, recruits and all, bellow back, “BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS, THE CHAMPIONS OF THE JUUUUUST!” Alistair winces and rubs his ears, massaging the tapered points. He knows his mother must have been an elf, because he’s got the eyes and the hearing. For a second he envies the servants, who get to avoid evening prayer as they clean up the kitchen. He knows he should be grateful that Arl Eamonn elevated him to his human father’s status, but he’d rather be a cheesemonger than this. A Chantry sister rings a bell. Mother Prudence grandly announces to the hall, “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.” The templars reply, “Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.” Alistair mutters instead, “Fowl and carrots are they who have taken His grits and turned it against his chitterlings.” The Honnleath guy elbows him. “What?” Alistair says, annoyed. “I’m hungry. Doesn’t ‘maleficar’ sound like a type of fancy Orlesian cheese?” He gapes at him, and Alistair shrugs. “Am I really the only one in this order who has a sense of humor? Is this what lyrium does to you?” A heavy hand comes down hard on his shoulder. Alistair giggles nervously to himself, and slowly cranes his neck up. “Ah, Knight-Commander Greagoir. Fancy seeing you here. Anything I can do to help?” “Alistair,” the Knight-Commander says wearily. “You know the drill. Out. No supper.” “Not even fancy cheese? We’ve been singing about it all day--” Greagoir gives him a gentle shove, and Alistair stops talking before he can dig himself deeper and make a joke about being a maleficarum, which would probably lose him the benefit of the doubt and get him killed. He hates the templars, but he likes living more.  He paces around the dormitory to stave off hunger, because now he’s gotten himself anxious. He’s never met a blood mage and doubts he will, some of the older recruits will talk knowingly about Harrowings gone wrong, but from what he can tell, most of them go exactly right, it’s all about having the right mentality, and isn’t that the whole point of the Fade? It reflects what it’s given. So if he goes into the Fade with a mage and starts singing about chitterlings, there won’t be demons, just a feast. Alistair giggles in the silent room. Then his stomach growls, first going low, then rising an octave, warbling for a bit, and then settling to a moan. He clutches his gut. He’s a growing boy: he needs food, or else his thoughts will wander, and he’ll end up accidentally coming up with heresy again. He is particularly proud of that thought. Feed him or else he’ll become a heretic. Alistair grins and says, “Well, that’s sorted. Guess I’ll go to the kitchens then.” No one answers back, because he is in an empty room, but the Knight-Commander never actually told him to stay put, so he roves out in search of food, and maybe even companionship. The servants don’t like the templars or the mages much, though some of the other mixed-blood children give him the occasional curious look. Everyone is always trying to figure out whose son he is. Alistair would like to know, too. Arl Eamon told him his father is of noble blood, though not of Eamon’s own line--a nice way of telling him he isn’t his bastard, and Alistair can tell from his own face that his mother must have been an elf. He only hopes she hadn’t been coerced in some way, that she had been happy to have a baby, that it wasn’t ruination and damnation and shame, because the elves don’t like it when their people step out with humans either, but those thoughts are hungry thoughts, laced with despair, and when Alistair reaches the kitchen door frame, he silences them. The kitchen is empty but for the head cook, sitting at the head of a long flour-dusted table. He is studying a menu, squinting angrily. Alistair almost hesitates. He doesn’t want to interrupt. But the head cook catches his eye, and waves him in. The head cook has ears like him and the same eyebrows and chin. Maybe he’s a cousin. Everyone is related somehow, he hopes. He’d like to have relatives, and anyway, he’s nice to him sometimes, and has let him sneak leftovers before, so Alistair has high hopes for at least a snack tonight. “Hello!” Alistair sings out. “Was wondering if there’s any leftover cheese I can nibble on.” The cook stares at him. He says, “What are you, a mouse?” Alistair says hopefully, “Squeak, squeak.” He fixes his best innocent look onto his face. “They sent me to bed without supper again. But the Knight-Commander said nothing about a snack!” The cook scoffs. “What’d you do? Isn’t this the third time this week?” Alistair grins sheepishly. “I might’ve said ‘maleficarum’ sounds like a type of Orlesian cheese.” “Sweet Shartan,” the cook says, then corrects himself. “Maker’s breath.” He looks at Alistair significantly, and Alistair knows he is supposed to pretend he didn’t hear the elvhen prophet’s name. “Whoever’s bastard you must be, he’s a powerful man. Did they whip you?” “Eh,” Alistair rubs the back of his head. “Earlier, for something else.” The cook boggles. “What’d you do? Sing the Canticle of Shartan? How they haven’t burned you, I don’t know.” “Aw, they wouldn’t do that. They don’t burn people anymore,” Alistair says. The cook shakes his head. Alistair blinks. “They don’t, do they? They don’t even burn blood mages! It’s just a Smite or the noose nowadays. The Chantry wouldn’t do that!” The elf says, “They did that in the Dales. They did that to Andraste. What makes you special?” “Woah,” Alistair says. “You’re the one who brought up Shartan. I don’t even know the canticle.” He hesitates. “Well, the whole canticle.” He has heard some of the mages whispering it to each other, in corners of the library, where they don’t realize it’s enchanted to echo. “Do you?” The cook says sharply, “I don’t talk religion with templars. You might have the ears of the People, boy, but you don’t have the soul.” He folds the piece of paper and slips it into his apron, and Alistair understands suddenly that perhaps the week’s menu is not written on that piece of paper, but something infinitely more interesting. He thinks to himself, blessed are the chitterlings, the champagne of the just. “Hey,” Alistair says. “Hey! I didn’t ask for this. I won’t--I’m not a templar! I don’t want to be. What’s your problem? I’m just here for the cheese.” The cook sighs. “You need to get out of here,” he informs him. “Not just my kitchen. The Circle. Because with your sense of humor, and your ears, not even noble blood will protect you. And you’ll drag anyone seen talking to you down with you.” Alistair snaps back, “‘A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten and be forgiven, but a slave never. If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight.’” He rears back, grinning proudly. He has always had an excellent memory for recitation. “Don’t I know it.” “Get out,” the cook says flatly. “Out. Don’t even look at me, kid. Get the fuck out, heretic. And for the sake of your mother, I’ll give you a piece of cheese.” Alistair leaves abruptly, gnawing on a piece of cheese, and takes a lesson from it. He keeps his mouth shut during lessons and prayers. The servants don’t even look at him when he passes them in the halls, and he doesn’t dare go to the kitchen when he’s hungry anymore. He speaks when spoken to, looks up only when addressed, and when the Grey Warden arrives, looking for volunteers, he throws himself at him, because he didn’t mean to be a heretic, but it seems like the only way to be.

[heartslogos]

the declassified texts of the inquisition’s elite [128]

(201):  Thank god you don't know my other address I'm safe for now (862):  Awww you know you would like it if I found u - (307):  Did u find my other sock in your bra? U said u were uneven so I did the gentlemanly thing. -

“Your friends are terrifying. Is it because you ended a Blight together? Does ending a Blight make you…like that? Is it because you’re of that particular area and, well, era?” Max asks as Leliana smiles at her phone.

“Max. We’re basically the same age,” she points out. “Give or take a few years.”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever alluded to having a physical age. Careful, Leliana. Next you’ll be accidentally letting people know that you have a blood type, which means you’ve got blood. Which means you’ve got some sort of biological functions going on which may eventually lead to someone concluding that you are not, in fact, immortal and omnipotent.

”I am not omnipotent, Maxwell. Omniscient though? I do thoroughly enjoy those rumors.”

“Next will be omnipresent at which point you’ll be verging on apotheosis and possibly lighting off some sort of heretical religion of your very own,” Max rests his cheek on his fist as he swipes through documents on his tablet. “Are you absolutely sure that this meeting is going on half an hour? No one else is here and no one else accepted the meeting invite.”

“They’ll come because I said they would.”

“Omnipotence.”

“Leverage.”

“I don’t hear a difference, Leliana, I really don’t. Now why are you terrorizing Zevran? Don’t answer with the word foreplay.”

Leliana rolls her eyes. “I’m not terrorizing him. I’m teasing him. Besides. Me not knowing some of his addresses is an interesting fact he’s let slip. I need to up my game.”

“Maybe he wants privacy.”

“Maybe he should have gotten different friends,” Leliana retorts. “It’s like a little game. No harm — no permanent harm done. And no hard feelings. And if Zevran really didn’t want me to get into his business he would say something or let me have some kind of a hint. I’m not invasive without cause. I respect certain private boundaries when they aren’t pertinent to my work.”

“That’s good to know.” Max drums his fingers on the conference table as he scans through an email Herah sent him with some reference files he’d been looking for. “Out of morbid curiosity why are you hunting Zevran down? Recreational purposes? Or official business?”

“I can’t keep track my friends for the sheer pleasure of it?” Leliana quirks an eyebrow at Max.

“Well. No offense, Leliana. But it’s you.”

“Fair enough. Recreational. I was planning a surprise party for Alistair’s birthday.”

“You’re throwing a surprise birthday party for the King of Ferelden.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t that be somewhat difficult, what with — well. You know. His constant security detail? His numerous appointments? The fact that he’s the King of Ferelden?”

“Max. It’s me. I can throw a surprise party for whoever I want and I will damn make sure they’re surprised and there for it.”

- “Your boyfriend isn’t a gentleman,” Mahanon says, handing Ellana the sock he’d found when going through the shed remnants of his disguise. “Also when did he find time to slip a sock into my bra?”

“The Iron Bull is definitely a gentleman, and he snuck it in when you were checking to see if you had any better padding,” Ellana replies. “He was just going around with one sock for the rest of the operation. You should thank him.”

“His assistance was unsolicited.”

“His sock stopped you from looking like a botched plastic surgery job,” Ellana says gently. “Was it an Inquisition disguise? I don’t see you doing that kind of shoddy prep work for an undercover case.”

“Of course it was an Inquisition disguise,” Mahon replies. “Did you see the wig they gave me to use? How fortunate for me that the lighting inside the building was extra dim. I’m not sure if the lighting was for ambiance or if they wanted to make it harder to spot forgeries. Either way, I got plenty of evidence.”

“Shame I couldn’t see your disguise before you went off,” Ellana sighs. “Sorry. I should’ve been the one to go. Switching me out for you at the last minute most likely did not help things in the gathering of supplies for the last minute disguise part. But you know how it is.”

“How’s the fever?” Mahanon asks, fishing around in his bag and pulling out the sports drinks he picked on the way. He shakes it at her like a peace offering.  “Move, I had it first so I’m most likely immune.”

“It broke last night but I’m still feeling woozy,” Ellana says, standing aside for Mahanon to enter, taking one the blue sports drink from his hand and cracking it open. “The mission update I sent you — was it coherent? I didn’t have time to read it over and I’m pretty sure I kept falling asleep while writing it and forgetting where I was when I woke up.”

“I got the gist of it,” Mahanon says, opening her fridge to empty out his bag. A few more sports drinks, some jello and pudding cups, and a small bag of oranges. “Whatever didn’t make sense I asked Leliana for background on. There were some…hiccups while I was in the op but I was able to improvise. Again. The dim lighting and excellent use of make up made it easier to explain away some of the differences between your appearance as renowned art collector Juno Violenta, and my appearance as Juno Violenta. Who came up with that name, anyway? Wait.” Mahanon pauses as he’s pulling some eggs out of the refrigerator. “Was it de Fer?”

“Of course it was Vivienne,” Ellana says, already standing by the stove and watching water boil. “Who else knows things about art collectors? You know, Mahanon, if you wanted, you could come back. You don’t have to keep staying in the Inquisition barracks. I don’t think I’m so bad anymore.”

“I’ll give another day or two,” Mahanon says. “Bad enough you’re down. If both of us are down again then who else are they going to bring in to keep up the charade? Sera? With her nose? And the alignment of her teeth? The fact that she’s several years younger than us and also about two inches shorter? There’s only so much make up and the talents of the Inquisition’s disguise team can do. Not even dim lighting can lower those flags.”

[angstofdestiny]

Brother’s Genitivi letter to an unknown scholar

Dear friend!

Thank you for your letter. Your descriptions of the wonders of Antiva were most enlightening. I find it fascinating that the myth of the Witch of the Wilds appears also there, in such a similar form — it would be absolutely thrilling if we could learn what caused such a similar fairytale to appear in such distant regions as Ferelden and Antiva. I believe there might be some truth to these stories, given that I have met an apostate — I am fairly sure that she was a maleficar as well — who fancied herself to be one. Of course, she was far from the mighty being described in the stories, but let me tell you, the cruelty and mischievous nature was present in her just like in the Witch of the legends.

You would probably ask how did I encounter such a vile character — and accidentally, this leads me to your questions about the Hero of Ferelden. The Witch has been traveling in his company, a valued comrade, if you might imagine! That should give you some inclinations to the Warden-Commander’s character, I believe. I still find it astonishing that King Alistair and Sister Nightingale allowed that despicable man to lead their mission. The only thing I can imagine is that the elf has somehow threatened His Majesty into submission. Was it blackmail, or maybe simply he used his assassin to intimidate the King, I do not know. What did he do to Sister Nightingale — that’s anyone’s guess.

As you can see, I do not have a high opinion of this man. I have met him twice — and the first time was in the circumstances most dire, when I have been captured by the heretics in the village of Haven during my search for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes. He had bandaged my wounds and shared an elfroot concoction, that is true, but his motivations were far from noble. He was looking for the Urn as well, to bring the Ashes to Arl Eamon Guerrin and needed a guide who would lead him to the Temple. Were it not for his quest, I believe he would gladly leave me to die — though I doubt the good King Alistair would stand for it.

He was surly and unpleasant when we went up the mountain. What caught my attention was the coldness in his eyes and the cruel set of his jaw as well as these barbaric Dalish tattoos covering his face; but I was telling myself that this must be a good man, tired with his trials. I did not dare to think what would become of me if the signs I read in his face were true.

Quickly I have noticed, that having such noble people as the King and Sister Nightingale with him, he still sought counsel and company of the assassin — his infamous Crow lover — and the Witch. From the conversations I have overheard I have learned also that shortly before they found me, Commander Mahariel has killed another companion of theirs, an oxman from Par Vollen. At the time I believed what I heard — that the oxman turned out to be too dangerous to keep them company and too dangerous to be let go — but knowing what I know now I think that it was more of a spat between two savages that ended in bloodshed. It would not surprise me to learn that the Warden-Commander put the oxman down motivated only by his thirst for blood.

They went into the Temple, leaving me under care of Sister Leliana — what a delightful girl she was at the time! — who was very reluctant to share anything about Commander Mahariel or his less savory companions. She spoke about him nicely, saying that he was very young and fairly lost in the world of humans, but I could see it in her face that she had a hard time coming up with anything positive to say. Finally, she told me he was really dedicated to stopping the Blight and very good with animals. The latter does not surprise with a Dalish savage, and till today I believe that his dedication to his mission was his only redeeming quality.

The trouble started later, when they left the Temple. They have never told me what occurred there, but they all seemed shaken by the events. Mahariel grew silent and even more somber than before and started to reveal his nature. I swear by Andraste’s Ashes, he wanted to kill me when I talked about opening the Temple to the public. He did not threaten me directly then, but I saw it in his eyes when he argued with me, saying that this would be too dangerous endeavor. Dangerous! As if he cared! There must have been treasures in the Temple he did not want anyone to find, bent on plundering them himself.  Still, he was armed and proficient in combat and I feared for my life, even with the King and Sister Nightingale present.

The road down to the Hinterlands was probably the second most miserable period in my life, just after the time I spent in the captivity. I was free, but I did not feel it, forced to rely on that savage and heathen. It was easy to see how deeply he despised all the humans — the only exception being the Witch, but I think I must agree with that vile man that she was no more human than he was, even if her ears were round. He was perpetually angry, when he spoke, it was all bile and blasphemies. I tried to engage with him in a friendly manner, inquire about his people — both because they are a fascinating topic of study, and because he undoubtedly has a deep connection to their so-called “culture”. The only thing that earned me was even more venom, insults and death threats. After some time I realized that no matter how pleasant I would be, there was no chance of connection. Warden-Commander simply was what he seemed to be — a hateful, cruel savage with only one goal in his mind. And let us all thank the Maker that this goal was to defeat the Blight. Had he been born in a different era, without the threat of the Darkspawn hanging over our heads, he would surely use this vile energy in a less noble endeavor, causing lots of death and misery.

The second time I met him was at his investiture and recognition ceremony. He was still this crude, hateful man I met. He arrived at the royal ceremony dressed in the same savage, worn leathers he wore in Haven, barefoot and flaunting both of his lovers. His only allowance for the ceremony was a Grey Warden tabard he wore over his armor. He did not deign to kneel before the King when his investiture was announced — as the custom demands — and when the good King gave him his boon for his achievements, he looked sour and offended. I did not talk to him that day, but I overheard him — this ungrateful wretch! — to argue with the King after the ceremony as with a commoner, saying that the lands he was given for his people were not good enough and that he found his Majesty’s grace offensive and demeaning.

So, here you have, a honest portrait of the Hero of Ferelden. Unlike how the public opinion paints him, he is a cruel, prideful and petty man, with no sense of gratitude or any social graces. I will not dare to write it in any of the books I am publishing now, that is why you found this character absent from my scriptures. I would be, however, grateful, if you saved this letter and made it public after I meet the Maker, as this may be the only honest accounting of the Warden-Commander Mahariel’s character ever written by a historian who witnessed it first-hand.

May the Maker bless your endeavors,

Yours truly ,

Genitivi

[5lazarus]

The Domestics

Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.” Read on Archive of Our Own here.

It’s snowing at Skyhold, which delays Alistair’s plans by a day. Anora cuts him loose, locking herself in the ambassador’s heated room with her furs, and he wishes he could change into less fine clothes and join the children in their snowball fight, or wander into the kitchens and see if he can sweet-talk the cook into giving him something hot and sweet to drink. He’s king, so he could ask for all the chocolate in Seheron, and doubtless the Inquisition would try to give it to him.

He walks the battlements so less people will see him and watches the battle in the courtyard below. The Inquisitor’s children seem to have made common cause with the servants’ kids against the visiting nobility; honestly it’s just a relief to see that it isn’t human against elf. Alistair, a tad self-conscious, touches his right ear. An older elf is watching them, smiling. Alistair wonders if she’s the mother of one of them below.

“Which one’s yours?” Alistair asks.

The woman says, “I’m only watching them for the Inquisitor. I’m their guard.” She’s got short black hair, threaded with silver, but her eyes are lively enough. She’s wearing green robes with a bit of Dalish-looking embroidery at the ends of her sleeves. She’s got an Orlesian accent, too. He didn’t know the Inquisition was working with elves from Orlais, didn’t Anora tell him to keep an eye out for Ambassador Briala’s livery?

“Oh.” He shouldn’t feel awkward, but he blushes anyway. He stares at the woman’s feet, toes poking out of those foot wraps, and wonders how on earth she’s not freezing. Alistair’s got a coat of heavy wool, trimmed in fur.

The woman notices he’s staring and says, matter-of-fact, “My circulatory system is different than yours. We conserve heat more efficiently than your people. Besides, I’m a mage. It’s easy to keep warm.”

That has him a bit miffed. Of course he knows elves are biologically different than humans; they can still breed, though. He’s evidence of that. He doesn’t feel the cold as intensely as the others at court, and he knows why. The servants at the palace can tell, even if he passes, for the most part. Eamon and Tegan talk all the time about how much he looks like his father, how much he looks like Cailan, but he’s seen enough portraits of them both to know how he differs.

Alistair says, again, “Oh. Cool. I’m half, you know.” It’s not that he’s discouraged from talking about it, but it’s never been something to advertise. Those with eyes to see it don’t need to be told, but right Alistair feels like he needs to justify himself, with the way she’s looking at him. Skyhold has had him wrong-footed; Leliana has been distant and he is finding it harder and harder to slip away from the King. Anora tells him that’s part of adulthood. He’s not so sure.

The woman says, “I know.”

Alistair folds his arms. “Really? Because I didn’t. What’s your name, by the way?”

The elf smiles sadly. “Fiona. I used to travel with the Grey Wardens, when I was young.”

Alistair says, “Really? The Grey Wardens don’t really let people leave. Unless, you know, you point out that yet another civil war is going to break out if they don’t let you put your ass back on the throne. What was your excuse?”

Fiona says, “I had a baby. It’s hard to keep a nursery going in the Deep Roads. The darkspawn get jealous.”

“Oh. Can’t be having that, they’re crabby enough as it is. Though I heard of a Warden who brought his cat into the Deep Roads too, scratched out the eyes of a hurlock apparently. You’re lucky, most of us can’t have kids. I can’t. Probably.” He thinks about his own natural daughter with Tabris and blushes at the lie, rubbing at the back of his head. It’s for her own good and the good of the realm he hasn’t brought her to court. It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason, and Morrigan has the spare heir anyway, if Anora can’t figure something out.

Fiona says, “I suppose it’s luck. The Circle took him away from me, and gave him back to his father.” She sounds wistful. “But under the Inquisition, the mages keep their children. It’s a different world now. There’s no going back.”

He thinks to himself, I’m not so sure—the disastrous plans for the Hinterlands, the riots in Denerim, the failure of the embassy in the Brecilian forest. He thought after the Blight, with this new alliance between elves, dwarves, and men, there would be no going back. Anora tells him it’s a struggle for the future and that reform doesn’t come in a day, perhaps not even their lifetime: sometimes they need to settle for establishing the groundwork for the next person to rule, like Maric did for them. But of course, Anora’s never had her cousin kidnapped and brutalized, or her father sold into slavery. That sort of perspective changes things.

Alistair says, “Really?” He scratches his head. “I look at things in Ferelden and wonder how things can stay so stagnant, and then you look at Orlais and how they’re eating themselves alive. And Orzammar, of course, which is basically a living fossil. People don’t like change. They’d prefer for things to stay the same, or even go back to how they were a generation ago.” He is surprised at the bitterness in his voice.

Fiona cocks her head and looks at him curiously. She says, “You’re too young to be talking like that. You must understand it comes in seasons—we flourish in spring and reap our harvest in summer, and then prepare for and suffer through the conservative reaction in winter. Sometimes it’s a harsh winter, and many do not survive. But then there is always the spring. You lived in Ferelden, you should know—from the Night Elves who freed your people from the Orlesian occupation to Clan Alerion securing the boundaries of the Hinterlands now, things have changed. You just need to…riot every so often, to make sure no one gets complacent.” She grins.

It’s nice to talk politics with someone who doesn’t know who he is, who thinks he’s just another wealthy Ferelden currying favor with the Inquisition, not a king staring down the religious cult that just carved itself a city-state at the border of his realm. Below the children are yelling. A couple of them are using magic to freeze the snowballs, and they’re having a fierce debate, interspersed with throwing said ice balls, on whether that’s fair.

Alistair says, “Then I hope you’re right. I hope the mages and the Inquisition’s made enough of a, er, spring, to shake things up. It’s good for these kids to stay with their families, I hated what the Circle did. I didn’t know my mother, growing up. Would’ve avoided a lot of angst if I’d gotten to meet her.” He thinks about Morrigan and her awful mom, and then Goldanna flashes through his mind. Ashamed, he pushes the thought away. “Or maybe it would’ve made it worse! Hard to say, I certainly don’t know!” He smiles at the woman brightly.

Fiona says, “It might have made it worse, since she was an elf. Your life would’ve looked very different, even in Ferelden.”

His heart stops. Surely she doesn’t know who he is. That could be awkward, considering what he’s been saying. Anora will be furious that he’s gone off and talked politics with another random person again. He can’t help it, he gets bored easily, and the courtiers and advisors only tell him what they think he should want to hear.

“How do you know I’m Ferelden?” Alistair asks suspiciously.

“You’re wearing the badge on your fur coat. And, of course, your accent. Unless I am mistaken?”

“No, no,” Alistair says. “But yeah. Sorry. I don’t know much about her. Don’t know if she’s still alive. Just that she was an elf. Always assumed she was a serving woman or something, if my father was anything like C-Caleb.”

Fiona says, “Sometimes it’s better not to think about it, how we came into the world. I never met my parents either.” She leans against the balustrade and shakes her head at the kids fighting in the courtyard below. They’ve devolved into outright brawling, but that weird Warden the Inquisitor keeps around her has waded into the fray, bellowing orders. “It’s good to see them playing again. They never had enough time to play.”

“When were you a Warden?” Alistair asks. “You know, my dad travelled with the Wardens too. But they didn’t make him join up—guess that’s why I’m here, ha-ha.” He wants to ask her if she ever met him, because they might have overlapped. It’s hard to tell with elves sometimes though, they age more slowly, but she looks like she’s in her late forties, a bit careworn. Then he decides he really doesn’t want the conversation to get weird, because he is a king and his father was a king, and it’s rare that someone speaks to him normally now—treats him like the lovable idiot he knows he is, not the history-breaking king.

Fiona says, “Oh, give or take thirty years or so. I try not to count the years, at my age. My people live a long time if left unmolested, but I have a knack for running into trouble.”

Alistair laughs. “Oh, me too! I don’t even mean to do it, I’ve just never learned to keep my mouth shut.” To Teagan and Anora’s chagrin, he thinks ruefully. “I was given to the Templars as a boy, before I managed to get the Wardens to take me, and Maker! The Mother despaired of me. Called me most the accidental heretic she’d ever known. Really the Wardens taking me saved my life, Maker knows what they would’ve done to me if I kept poking at them like I was.”

Fiona pauses, trying to suppress a laugh, and then says, “At least you’ve never started a war.”

Alistair laughs heartily at that. Then he realizes what she’s said. “Wait, what? You started a war?”

Fiona says, “You…you didn’t know?”

Alistair says, “Is there something I should know?”

Fiona steps away, smoothing her expression away. “Many things.” Anxiously she peers down into the courtyard, smoothing her sleeves over her hands. The two factions of Skyhold children have joined forces and are attacking Blackwall with snow, but another one of the Inquisitor’s companions has joined the fray—a cackling elvhen girl, and then Alistair sees that from the balcony of the inn there’s a mustachioed mage swatting snowballs away from his friend.

Alistair says, “You never asked me my name.”

Fiona glances at him and then turns away. “I didn’t need to. You look very much like your father. Though I suppose you must know that.”

Alistair opens his mouth and then closes it. He says, voice hoarse, “Did you ever—“ He stumbles over his words, and clears his throat. “Did you ever find out what happened to your baby? When the Circle took him away.”

Fiona hesitates. The silence between them is filled with the children laughing below, the mage grandiosely chanting what are clearly made-up words, and the old Warden dramatically pretending to be overwhelmed by the volley of snow. The elven girl is swearing revenge, right now. It looks the children are trying to steal the “body” and make a pyre out of snow.

Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

Fiona covers her face with her hands.

Alistair continues, “Then, yeah, being apostates suck. Believe me. I met a girl who lived in a swamp. But I think we could’ve made it work. Like since I pass, and I’m not magic—at least I don’t think so, but I think I’d know by now? I’m like, thirty-five. Or something. I could’ve gone to the villages and traded for food. And I would’ve known more about who I am. Than just Maric’s bastard. Who’s just a story, anyway. That’s how kings like that end up. Just stories.”

His mother is weeping now.

He says, “I have no idea how you started that war you said you did. But I think I know what I’m supposed to know.” He takes a step closer, and she doesn’t move. He says, helplessly now, “I think I have your eyes.”

Fiona leans against the balustrade, back to the courtyard below. She’s not crying now, but she’s not making any sound. Alistair is afraid to go closer. Her hands press into her face like a mask, restraining a scream. He thinks if he touches her, all that tension will explode. He gets overwhelmed like that too. Can you inherit that sort of thing? He has to wonder, does the way one expresses pain get passed down in the blood?

He waits for her to speak. A door behind them creaks open, footsteps scuffle to a stop, then retreat. The door shuts. The mage has come down into the courtyard now and is chanting what appears to be Nevarran over the pile of snow that is Blackwall’s pyre. The elven girl is leading the children in mourning—but then the mage flourishes, and the snow glows purple, then scarlet, then green as he sparks. Blackwall throws the snow off and roars. The children cheer.

Fiona breathes heavily, drawing herself out of wherever she retreated. She swipes at her face with her sleeves. She says, “Forgive me. It was better that you didn’t know. You couldn’t have become—you deserved—Maric needed—what are you going to do, I told the Divine to go fuck herself, you can’t have a mother who told the Divine—“

Alistair says, impressed, “You told the Divine to go fuck herself? I am your son, I knew it had to come from somewhere! This is your fault!” He gestures at himself, and Fiona manages a laugh.

“An exaggeration,” she says. “I merely said the Divine should fuck herself, right before we voted to dissolve the Circles and separate from the Chantry. I’d hoped to tell her that at the Conclave, which is why they sent Orsino rather than myself.” Her mouth twists into a rueful smile. “Perhaps the only time running off my mouth and losing my temper has saved my life.”

Alistair says, “Well, the Divine was kind of an ass. Somebody had to say it.” He laughs. “Oh, this is wonderful. My mother, the rebel mage.” He’s genuinely delighted, this is much cooler than anything he came up with as a boy. “This is so cool. Anora’s going to be so annoyed when I tell her. Not like she can complain, her dad betrayed the realm and got all the Wardens killed, so really on the scale of shitty in-laws, I win.” He pauses: he isn’t sure he conveyed what he wanted to by that. Fiona is just staring at him. “But seriously, I don’t know who you are. Besides, obviously, my mother.”

Fiona says, disbelief in her voice, “I’m the Grand Enchanter."

Alistair says, “Oh Maker, I should’ve recognized the belt, shouldn’t I?”

[5lazarus]

Masterlist of My Stories

My Writing

Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, I post a snippet of what I'm currently working on.

On Mondays, I post the last lines of the stories I'm finishing up, as well as lessons learned from the previous week. I post this under the tag #last line monday and #lessons from the week.

On Wednesdays, I throw up a snippet of fanfiction. I post this under the tag #wip wednesday.

On Fridays, I write at least seven lines of my own stories, either poetry, essays, or fiction. I post this under the tag #seven line friday.

On Sundays, I post at least six lines of fanfic. I post this under the tag #six sentence sunday.

For more information about me, check out my About Me page. I don't answer personal questions unless I share an asklist, I don't take prompts unless I share a promptlist, and I don't keep anonymous asks on. I've also made two promptlists--one a writing challenge, the other a list of poetry prompts! Find my work archived and updated under hes5thlazarus on Archive of Our Own.

Below is a catalogue of my stories, broken down by fandom (Dragon Age, Harry Potter, Star Trek):

My Dragon Age Stories

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore's wonderful promptlist.

Ultramarine Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride. Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident. Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais! A big thank you to potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It's not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan's Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens' companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Palimpsest Velanna and Sigrun fight some darkspawn, talk around the past, and write some letters. Written as a gift for hellbell, for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders' first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what's more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke's debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There's no resolution to an argument when they're both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den's 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

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

The Most Boring Sex Party in All Orlais Josephine and Leliana both admit the night they met ended with someone's smallclothes pinned to the Chanter's Board--but what happened right before? Josephine says, “I have played the Game before, and understand its cutthroat stakes. But I must admit, I never thought I would witness the opening salvo of a coup at the most boring sex party of all Orlais.”

Catabasis Kirkwall's in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

The Domestics Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

The Bane of Red Crossing In the astrarium cave in the Storm Coast with Inquisitor Lavellan, Cole, and Solas, Sera opens a chest and finds a beautiful bow, named the Bane of Red Crossing. But what is the Bane of Red Crossing? According to the codex: "Ser Yves de Chevac used this bow in the Exalted March against the Dales – specifically, in the liberation of Val Royeaux, where the chevalier famously struck down the elven forces' commander with a shot to the throat at two hundred feet." Lavellan is not pleased, but does not know how to communicate effectively with Sera. Cole and Solas make it worse. Sometimes there is no adequate resolution, when you are faced with the instrument of your great-grandparents' destruction. Sometimes there is nothing that disinterested compassion can say.

To the Victor the Spoils In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain. A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly. As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it."

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, "he wants to give wisdom, not orders," and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

So Much Lore! So Much Information! Dorian has a wonderful conversation with the Skyhold Librarian about improvements to the library's filing system and the innovations coming out of Minrathous when Vivienne comes by and points out he's just talking to himself. He's been waxing rhapsodic about the Tevinter equivalent of the Dewey decimal system to a spirit--or maybe a demon. So clearly they must investigate.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers--and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Written as a gift for hellbell, for a prompt they gave for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange, but not submitted to the collection.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel's Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel's Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara's sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel's Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars' harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn't think her Keeper's calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry's leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called "Herald of Andraste" and see Mythal's vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter--one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

My Harry Potter Stories

Harry Potter Daydreams Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3. These are not necessarily nice to the characters from canon, and focus what I find interesting--their flaws, and how that could create conflict in their lives.

General Snape Headcanons Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3.

Augury Gang Eileen's mother curses her, and she dies not too long after giving birth to Severus. Tobias, a millworker and a proud union man, does his best.

Snape in the City Instead of dying, Snape moves to New York. A Severus Snape/Narcissa Malfoy and Severus Snape/Regulus Black story.

An Incident at the Mill the millrat AU A series of vignettes on what could’ve happened if Tobias Snape had been badly injured in an accident at the mill, forcing Severus to drop out of Hogwarts before the Prank. Predominantly Lilycentric. Snily shippers, rejoice: most of the vignettes are from Lily’s point of view, featuring her as flawed, passionate, bullheaded, comfortable in her sexuality, quick to curse and quicker to laugh at herself–and with a complicated relationship to alcohol and the Wizarding World. A big thank you to eleniaz and deathdaydungeon for sparking the initial headcanons that became this series.

Saplings 1980 Albus asks Minerva to tend to the "tender new sapling" of a Potions Master. Minerva looks at the manic-triggered recovered Death Eater and thinks they're doomed for failure. Snape thinks she's right. A couple of friendship & mentorship & not-quite hurt/comfort ficlets, where Severus oozes despair and McGonagall fails, completely, utterly, to be of service. There are two pieces of fanart floating around Snapedom, one of Snape oozing, the other a comic eleniaz did years ago. Unfortunately I've lost the links.

Harry Potter and the Summer of the Stepfather In an alternate world where Neville Longbottom is the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter's parents divorce relatively amicably. Eventually, Lily starts dating again, and Harry finds himself actually enjoying the summer Snape stays over.

Last Round at the Hog's Head Thirty-one ficlets written for the 2020 Snapetober challenge.

Your Body's a Revolution Eight stories written for the 2020 Trans Snape Week challenge.

July 1977 Snape stews in teenage melodrama, eating lunch at a cheap fish-and-chips shop in Upper Cokeworth, beset by memories of a wasted ex-girlfriend, who couldn't be Lily Evans--what Bertha Jorkins saw behind the greenhouses, and what came after. Revised from an earlier account, cross-posted from fanfiction.net.

Maleficari's Mutinous Munitions Sprout grew the wrong kind of mandrakes--mandragora, rather than English mandrakes, and no one knew that there actually was an infinitesimal difference--so Severus needs to save the day before Lockhart can. A little of Slytherin cunning, a willingness to embezzle, and a sense of spite wins the day. Prompted by masaotheheckindog.

Honeydukes Horror Remus Lupin genially humiliates Severus Snape as he attempts to order chocolates. Some schoolboy grudges never get better, and nothing Severus can say will let him seem the better man. Prompted by snapescapades.

Weavers Bored before the start of sixth year, Harry goes through Petunia's old family photo albums. He demands some answers, and Dumbledore sends Snape. "He finds a photo of her laughing with a boy who is not his father, who’s got his long black hair and a hand thrown up, too, covering his face. She’s about his age in this photo, or a bit older. Carefully he slides it out of the plastic. There’s writing on the back: 'Weavers, Sev & Lily, 1976. to Baba O’Riley and the rest of our lives!!' The writing is familiar, spidery, almost indecipherable, and he squints because it reminds him of someone, it’s strangely familiar, and then he drops the photo in shock. Because he knows: that’s Severus Snape."

They Call This Closure? Severus comes to consciousness into a dream of Potter reenacting his worst memory-and then Lily Evans comes tearing in at age sixteen, rather than as the more mature adult his subconscious normally designs her. They call this closure? Officially dead, officially incomplete: and I call this closure?

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark Triple-cross! Mitarashi Anko of the Village Hidden in the Leaves joins Severus Snape as one of Dumbledore's agents, seeking to train the Boy-Who-Lived to understand his mental connection to Lord Voldemort. Snape thinks that they really didn't need to hire a goddamn technicolor ninja to fill the DADA position, but at least it's not one of Fudge's underlings taking charge--wait, he has to put up with her anyway? More seriously, Anko and Severus discover a connection between their cursed marks and the Potter boy's scar, Dumbledore expedites the plot, and Voldemort weaves an insidious plot, inspired by Lord Orochimaru, to take over the Resistance--from the inside. Incomplete and officially dead.

My Star Trek Stories

Raktajino Kira Nerys stews over the history of Terok Nor and the Occupation over a cup of raktajino, soon after she meets Marritza, and Garak just does not know when to leave a bleeding wound alone. Written as a gift for batsy22-me.

Open Mic at Quark's Thirty-one stories written for Trektober 2020, ranging from TOS, the movies, to Lower Decks and Discovery. Includes Keiko joining the Maquis, Spock introducing Amanda to Saavik, Mariner and crew getting lost on a road trip, and more!

Splash Quark takes a dip in a hot spring. Odo follows. It is not, Odo insists, sexy. Regardless, Quark is going to enjoy tormenting him with mutual nudity, since he was the one who interrupted his bath, after all. Prompted by saathiray.

Lore and the Prophets Lore thinks he can sneak off Deep Space Nine and get through the wormhole without anyone noticing. The Prophets have other ideas. Written for the Star Trek 2020 Gift Exchange, for electricsunrise.

Jambalaya Before Worf's wedding plans take over the station, Benjamin Sisko tries to find out what happened during the Founders' occupation of Deep Space Nine, and why Odo won't look him in the eye. Of course he investigates in the guise of inviting everyone to dinner.

Tear of the Prophets Was prompted by saathiray to write about Kira Nerys repatriating an artifact sacred to Bajor from Cardassia, and this is what we got! The Shakaar cell leads a procession after Cardassia returns the Orb of Contemplation to Bajor, to collective joy. Kai Opaka says, "So I say to you my people, the survivors of atrocity and keepers of the wormhole—the Prophets cried for you millennia before you were made. They sent their Tears from their temple as a safeguard as to what was to come. And now that it is safe, now that we have won—their Tears are for all." Featuring Latha having an Orb experience, explaining why he became a vedek.

Jane Austen Book Club Dukat reads Pride and Prejudice to help him understand human relations (and fuck the Sisko). He thinks he’s being Darcy but really, he’s just Mr. Collins…and evil. Garak lends him a copy of Jane Austen and a horrific cravat, and really, it's all downhill from there.

Miscellaneous Stories

Fireworks, a feminist deconstruction of Naruto Sarada takes one look at the Uchiha legacy and decides she wants no part of it. Sakura, who has built herself a life independent of the husband who abandoned them, tries to reckon with how her daughter cannot actually decide the path her life takes. And Hanabi is happy to offer advice and consolation, as Sakura tries to talk her best friends into letting Sarada be a civilian. A feminist deconstruction of Naruto, where everyone is taken seriously and treated with the same love Sakura offers to all her friends. No character-bashing, just contemplating what could have happened if, when Sasuke left Sakura and their baby the second time, Sakura decided to file for divorce rather than wait for him to come back. Of course they still love each other. Of course it's not simple.

Same Time Next Week?, a Babylon 5 fanfic Vir and Lennier meet for their usual drink. A pre-relationship, lightest of touches, beginning of it all story.

Sunrise, Parabellum, a Disco Elysium fanfic Early Wednesday morning, before Harry's woken up and before they've closed the water lock and headed to the fishing village, Kim Kitsuragi gets up and wants a cigarette. He has a cup of coffee instead and contemplates his partner's newfound sobriety. Sunrise, parabellum: he gets up and prepares for war.

Dragon Eyes, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic On a diplomatic mission to the Fire Nation, Katara leaves the children with Aang to have tea with Zuko and Mai. But the two of them have something they want to talk about. They've lived enough of fathers neglecting one child for the other, and they have seen enough. Katara wishes they had propositioned her, rather than bring this up.

Cages, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic Mai visits Azula. It is not easy.

[5lazarus]

My Dragon Age Fanfiction Masterlist

In chronological order, from Arlathan to post-Trespasser.

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore’s wonderful promptlist.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It’s not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan’s Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens’ companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders’ first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what’s more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke’s debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There’s no resolution to an argument when they’re both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den’s 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts.

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Catabasis Kirkwall’s in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, “he wants to give wisdom, not orders,” and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers–and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel’s Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel’s Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara’s sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel’s Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars’ harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn’t think her Keeper’s calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry’s leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called “Herald of Andraste” and see Mythal’s vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter–one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

[5lazarus]

Hi Lazarus! For the Fanfic Writer Meta Asks: 3, 4, 5, 17, and 20, please <3 Thank you!

that’s a lot of questions! thank you for interest! :) from this meta writing meme 3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway) answered here 4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like) lol, completely forgot about this one, had to go back and add: from Kirkwall Thunderstorm: Thunder rolls down the mountain and Hawke smiles to themselves and opens their eyes and counts: one, two, three lightning crackles the limestone walls blue rather than dirty. The storm is coming from the Sundermount. Maybe it’s the witch, Flemeth, or Asha’bellanar, whatever the Dalish mage called her. She seems chaotic enough, powerful enough, to try to shape the weather to her will, and Bethany’s said that’s what her primal magic does on a small scale, creates a zone of atmospheric interference and then honestly Hawke stopped listening, but if the Veil is so thin here that spirits of the damned walk Darktown, then maybe a dragon lady can make it rain. Why would she do that? For the same reasons Hawke would: the pure primal pleasure of it. I’m proud of the rhythm of it, the use of alliteration and how I balanced the sentences, and I enjoy the very careful balancing act of constructing a narrative vis-a-vis stream of consciousness. this whole story was just for the pure pleasure of it, and I like it. it’s the closest I write to outside of fanworks. 5. What character that you’re writing do you most identify with? answered here, though now I’m thinking about how I’m writing my best Catholic school pranks into Alistair the Accidental Heretic. (best moment of middle school was when a classmate was doing the morning reading, and said to the entire school assembly, “And Jesus said--turn page here?” bless his heart.) 17. Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations? I’ve been very lucky with that. what I write about is niche but the people who like it get it, and get it in a way that really astounds me and that I hold close to my heart. I’m very lucky with that, that some of the people who read my work resonated with it and felt comfortable telling me. and generally, my motivation is to have fun, to get the story out, and to learn--it’s all about learning structure and rhythm, and to an extent, discipline and how to ration my energy. maybe that’s what would surprise my readers? my motivation is to take a compelling story--dragon age, or harry potter, or star trek, or whatever--find out why it resonated with me, and learn how to replicate it while honing my own voice. less drawing blood from a stone and more stone carving! 20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?) I like the challenge of writing an unintentionally neglectful parent, who knows that she’s not doing enough, but is trying as much as she can in Fen’Harel’s Teeth--that both my Lavellan and her children know this isn’t enough, but that they don’t have enough, and that her older daughter especially is mature enough to see the web her mother is caught in, but still is rightfully angry that she had her mother taken away. just starting to get to that in the plot--that sometimes, you’re just fucked, and all you can do is be honest with each other.

[5lazarus]

1 and 19 for the meta writer asks?

thank you for the ask! :) from this meme 1. Tell us about your current project(s)  – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it? Lately, I’m working my way through a huge list of prompts folks sent me in late November and December, where I decided to challenge myself and write a short story per prompt. Right now I’m prioritizing a story about Riker and Troi reacting to Picard naming his dog “Number One.” (I personally couldn’t get into Picard, but I do love the three of them). I also have a story halfwritten called “Alistair the Accidental Heretic.” It is what it sounds like, and it’s been a lot of fun. Throwing in all my experiences messing around during morning prayer when I was in religious education. 19. Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?) Endless conversations, long descriptions of cityscapes, scenes taking place in the quiet moment of a rainstorm. I watched too many Kurosawa movies as a kid.

[5lazarus]

to write

prompts

lore story

“You do such damage, how do you manage?”

“This is as good a place to fall as any.” (Imladris)

“These chains never leave me, I keep dragging them around” (Mahariel)

Tell me what all this sighing’s about.” (Anders)

“Say my name, and every color illuminates.” (Anders)

“She’s just like the weather, can’t hold it together.” (Mahariel)

“Did you just throw a sock at me?” Solavellan baby Sera’s wedding

Solas & Imladris come home to Mirwen setting Mathalin’s hair on fire

Alistair the Accidental Heretic

The Hanged Man/Fenders

family fun time

privacy

sour candy

teenage mandrake

“Did you walk the dog?” Lower Decks crew

my own shit

jambalaya weavers ultramarine 3 anders/karl stories lol and always, fen’harel’s teeth

[5lazarus]

goals for sunday

finish warp & weft for potato get at least halfway done for alistair the accidental heretic get Number One does

[5lazarus]

to write

lore story prompts white nights ch 2 2 anders stories mahariel & surana -lavellan & solas waking up to her daughter yelling from the other room, “Please stop crying, don’t tell mamae!” fenders for potato alistair the accidental heretic hawke & leandra’s first party as wealthy

[5lazarus]

goals for the week (preweekend)

finish alistair the accidental heretic finish warp and weft finish debutante (maybe even the next chapter of white nights?)