#and anders asking hawke if he’s making them uncomfortable becomes ‘doesn’t mean i want you to stop’

[drasticdoodling]

i wanna do an andersmance run of da2 bc i need to see if they let him have any normal dialogue bc the lines ive stumbled into? well. they are Written.

[pinkfadespirit]

for the kiss prompts, could you do 36, with fenders please? :>

A kiss to give up control - I wasn’t entirely certain how to interpret this at at first but it was an interesting one to figure out. I hope you’ll like what I did with it. 

They do get slightly rough at one point in this (because I rarely seem to be able to make these two behave when I write them together). I don’t think it’s anything worse than the in game romances but I thought I’d mention it anyway just to be safe.  

For @dadrunkwriting

When the mage's eyes catch his from across the room for what has to be at least the fifth time tonight, Fenris knows that he’s doing it on purpose. There’s no other way of interpreting it: Anders is staring at him.  

It’s not that Fenris isn't used to stares. Looking the way he does, they’re as much a part of life as the markings that draw them. How he reacts to them depends on his mood and how much more attention he can risk drawing to himself in the moment.

This is different. He is in Hawke’s estate, amongst... friends, he could call them, though Fenris still finds himself hesitating over the word. They each know of the markings and their origins and there should be no reason to stare. And yet Anders does and Fenris’ own reaction to that is uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons. When their eyes lock and Anders’ don't shift away, Fenris finds himself stuck for a moment on that glint of firelight adding even more warmth to the deep amber he’s become so familiar with.

It shouldn’t as feel familiar as it does.  

The look lasts several moments too long before Fenris forces himself to look away and focus instead on something Hawke is saying. (Though, ask him later to recall what that might be and he’s not sure he could answer.) He won’t let himself think about it. Whatever feelings those looks conjure up in him, they’re of no use to him. They’re dangerous and Fenris has enough danger in his life without courting more.  

Hawke’s estate may be vast but even so it seems there’s no avoiding the mage even beyond the room they’ve gathered in. Fenris is in the hall when he bumps into the mage and he’d almost believe it on purpose but for the look of surprise on Anders’ face. Even so, he’s suspicious. The timing is too exact and there are not so many of them gathered here that he would not have noticed Fenris leaving the room first.  

The look of surprise drains from Anders’ features and is replaced by a frown. “What?” he demands testily.  

“I might ask you the same thing,” Fenris mutters.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Fenris scowls. Surely he cannot be so oblivious to his own actions. “The staring, Mage. I wish for you to stop.”

Anders’ eyes grow round, his cheeks faintly flushed. “What? I wasn’t—”

Fenris sneers at him and he breaks off mid sentence, ducking his head to scratch behind one of his ears. “Alright. I might have been staring.”

“I do not want to know why,” Fenris tells him quickly.

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?” Fenris swears at him but it doesn’t seem to help matters. “It wasn't as if you weren't staring right back at me. I could see you were trying not to but you weren't doing the best job at it. It was sort of entertaining to watch really.”

“I told you...”

Anders holds up his hands. “I know, I know...” he says, grinning wickedly. Fenris wants to wipe the smirk off his face but the only way of doing so that comes to him is enough in itself to make him freeze, the thought striking too quickly for Fenris to fend it off as he usually would.

“Be silent,” he manages to hiss.  

But that smirk stays right where it is, taunting him, almost as though he can see how close Fenris is to the edge of his tightly held control. There’s a gleam in Anders’ eyes. A challenge. And then he says the words, “Why don’t you make me?”

Fenris doesn't quite process the next moment that passes. One second, he’s seething at the mage’s arrogance, the next—well he’s still seething but now he has his hands fisted in Anders’ tunic and Anders himself pinned to the wall in front of him. The smirk, at least, is gone. Instead, his eyes are wide, his lips parted in surprise at the impact.  

Fenris is breathing hard as he looks up at him and the scent of him fills his head and it shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. Maybe it wouldn’t be if not for the way Anders is looking at him and the heat of his body as Fenris presses himself close. The surprised look on Anders’ face is fast being replaced by something like hunger. He’s seen Anders look at him a hundred times but never like this. Never so unguarded and without reservation.  

It makes Fenris wonder what it would be like to give in. To simply let that control slip and take what he can no longer deny he wants.  

“Fenris...” Anders whispers and it almost sounds like a plea, with nothing of the arrogance he’d possessed just moments before. Something in Fenris gives and he surges up, closes the distance between them and captures Anders’ lips in a hard kiss.  

Anders makes another of those desperate sounds, wordless this time, and Fenris grips harder to the fabric clutched between his fingers as though it might be the only thing keeping him tethered through the sudden lightheaded warmth that floods him. He feels it and he breaks away, pulls back from the kiss, breathing hard and overwhelmed by the intensity of this feeling. Anders tries to follow. “Don’t stop,” he complains. “That was good!”

It takes Fenris a moment to regain his wits enough to stare back at Anders and scoff. “That is not how I would describe this situation.”

“The situation, maybe... But not the kiss.” Fenris narrows his eyes at him but there’s something a little less cocky about the smirk Anders gives him this time. “Come on,” he coaxes. “A kiss can just be a kiss. If I can let go a little, I think you can too. It won’t kill you.”

Fenris almost scoffs again. He almost walks away. But somehow, he just can’t bring himself to do it. He looks at Anders, at the lips that were just pressed against his own. He can still feel them. And the thing is, Anders is right: it was good. It was better than anything else he can remember in this moment.  

Anders’ fingers have moved to grip his wrist since he stepped back and the warmth of that touch is just a taste of what he could have if he’d only stop holding himself back. He looks at those fingers. Then up into amber eyes.  

And then he lets go.  

[5lazarus]

Anders in Autumn, Ch. 8

inspired by @cozy-autumn-prompts, but now with plot! Ch. 8, frolic in the leaves: Anders heads to the Sundermount, to replenish the clinic's stores of elfroot and embrium. Fenris invites himself along.

Anders wakes up in a better mood. The weather is a bit warmer, and he gets up early enough to see light seeping over the cobble streets, and the air tastes less like soot and more like the old wood. Things are stirring: the last of the harvest, the quiet dead, and Justice, justice is back in the streets. Both of them are in a better mood, knowing what is happening at the docks, and he is ready for the influx of injuries, and he knows it is time to prepare. In the bright morning Anders resolves to gather elfroot and embrium and spindleweed from the Sundermount, and ambles to Hightown to talk Hawke into coming with him. As usual, Hawke has their mansion filled to keep from the echoing loneliness since Bethany was kidnapped, since Leandra was murdered. Dog barks excitedly at him and Anders smiles slightly at the scene: Merrill and Sandal sliding down the banister while Orana worries in the corner and Bodahn laughs, and he can hear Isabela’s boisterous laugh from the study. He dodges Merrill and Sandal as they frolic and finds the rest of his friends laughing, except for Fenris. Varric is saying, “And then he declared, dick right out, ‘FELICITATE ME!’” Fenris grimaces, trying to hide a laugh, as the others chortle. “You should’ve seen Sebastian’s face...oh, hey Blondie, been a bit. You good after all that embrium last week?” Anders is a bit embarrassed. He steals a look at Fenris, who catches his eye and starts slightly. “It was fine. No rampages this time.” “Yeah,” Varric says. An awkward lull falls between them. Anders settles next to Fenris, who tenses. Embarrassed, he draws away. At first he had been offended by Fenris’s hostility, but Justice told him to be gentle. Justice is compassionate, after all, more than he ever was, before he met him. Sometimes he wishes he could be less so. He misses being able to indulge in self-righteousness. Varric coughs slightly. “Anyway, I have to go, there’s this mess…” He waves a hand. “I don’t even want to talk about it. But the Merchants’ Guild awaits. See you later, Hawke.” He heads out. In the silence, Anders says, “So. I need to head to the Coast--I’m running low on supplies. I was wondering if you’d all like to come with.” “Meh,” Isabela says. “Trees. And you’re not even doing anything fun with the elfroot. I’ll pass.” Fenris regards him. “I’ll go.” Anders is annoyed at first, because Fenris always thinks him incapable of self-moderation, of keeping his mouth shut, of keeping himself leashed. It is impossible to keep Justice silent. He should  know that. But when Isabela leaves, Fenris relaxes slightly. He murmurs, “Preparing?” He’s smiling slightly. Anders shifts closer, to hear him better. “You can never have too much elfroot,” he says, to prove to him that he can be discreet. Fenris rolls his eyes at him and they walk downstairs to collect Hawke and Merrill, who are taking turns trying to jump onto the chandelier, and they hire horses to ride out of Kirkwall’s urban sprawl to the Sundermount, and only a few people try to steal them, too. Poor Hawke, Anders thinks, hanging out with apostates and elves, they’ve never going to be left alone. He steals a look at them as they ride into the woods. Hawke is laughing as Merrill whirls the leaves about them in a wonderful dance of light. He wonders if they know what is coming, what side they would take. If Fenris knows, Merrill has to, and if Merrill is involved, then Hawke is probably preaching beheading the bosses behind closed doors. They dismount. Merrill summons a spirit to watch over their houses, to Fenris’ disgust, and they pair up. Merrill giggles and grabs Hawke’s arm and tugs them in the direction of a particularly promising pile of leaves, squealing about frolicking. They have left him and Fenris alone. Anders wonders if it is deliberate, but no, of course not. “Well,” Fenris says impatiently, “shall we?” “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.” They head into the woods and begin gathering elfroot. The woods taste hungry, like the promise of a good meal, and the air is so clear Anders almost chokes on it, he has become so used to the soot of the Foundry. It flashes through him that it isn’t right, that Kirkwall is so dirty, that it could still be like this. They say the elves lived cleanly with the woods: maybe that’s what Merrill means when she talks about frolicking. No, Justice says, it’s fucking, but close enough. Anders blinks, halfway through trimming a shoot of royal elfroot, and wonders: do spirits fuck? What? They work in companionable silence. Fenris is humming under his breath. He has a nice voice. Anders says, “I’ve always liked foraging. I love Kirkwall, but I’ve missed this part of being on the run. When you know you’re not being watched.” Fenris grunts. Anders continues, “So--I’m preparing for the worst, but I don’t think Varric’s going to let anyone actually kill the workers. Or even seriously maim. Unless I’m overestimating his pull in the Merchants’ Guild, but hey, he’s kept both of us alive. Do you think he’ll do the right thing?” Fenris says testily, “I think he’ll do what he thinks will make him comfortable. And being cruel makes Varric uncomfortable. But he doesn’t like to be challenged.” Anders finishes harvesting that particular patch of elfroot, and moves to a growth of embrium, close enough to Fenris that he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Fenris doesn’t shift as he crouches next to him, but nudges him gently. “I know how you get on that,” he says. “Just take what you need, for the others. Don’t want you ripping open the Veil again.” Anders puts down his knife and stares at him incredulously. “Is that what you think that was? You really think I’m a demon, don’t you?” He laughs, but only because he’s angry. “Do you know what it takes to rip open the Veil? Do you--” “Yes,” Fenris says simply. He sits back on his haunches and meets his gaze. “I was owned by a magister. I know what it takes to tear the Veil.” The woods around them are still and gold, beautiful for once, and Fenris sticks out sharply with his blue brands and white hair. Anders shakes his head. “Then you should know I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I’m not a fool like Merrill. I don’t go fucking around with demons. Justice isn’t--” “Then what was that thing at Varric’s party?” Fenris is getting annoyed. “It took us over! Even Donnec! I couldn’t see the streets, the sound changed--” “That was a wisp!” Anders shouted. Fenris scowls. “It was just a wisp. Like a memory. It was drawn to us because the Veil’s so thin in Kirkwall, especially around this time of year, that all time may as well be eternal and we’re half in the Fade anyway. It was trying to show us something from the Kirkwall slave rebellion, Fenris. That’s what it was doing with the lightshow. It was showing the constellation Servani breaking free.” Fenris is silent. “I thought you summoned it.” Anders says flatly, “I try to keep spirits as far from this world as possible. They don’t deserve it. It’s corrupting. I can barely keep Justice whole, I wouldn’t do that to a wisp. They’re like children. And I wouldn’t--the Fade is scary enough, for a mage. I wouldn’t bring non-mages anywhere close to it, not without asking first.” Fenris says, “Ah.” He reaches for his knife and begins cutting the embrium. He is harvesting more than Anders needs. He supposes this will be the closest he’ll get to an apology. Anders huffs and kicks his way through the fallen leaves to the other side of the clearing, where more elfroot awaits. Fenris doesn’t begin humming again, and Anders is bothered and annoyed and embarrassed. He would never risk one of his friends like that, not even Fenris--but when did Fenris become a friend?

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 17/28 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

 Yvanne searched nearly an hour for a pub that wasn’t the Hanged Man, got horribly lost, and somehow ended up at the Hanged Man anyway.Was the damn place somehow the only pub in the city? But by that point she was sick and tired of walking, and so went ahead inside.

 It was less crowded now, but for whatever reason, still serving. Though this time, her prospects for getting some unscrupulous lecher to put her up didn’t seem nearly as good.

 She’d have to barter. How hard could it be? She’d done it before in the Denerim markets, and she’d carried Hawke’s stupid candlestick all this way.

 Five minutes deep into a screaming argument with the bartender about how much exactly the gilding on the candlestick was worth, she saw motion in the corner of her eye as someone approached.

 “What’s with all the fuss?” said the outlandish woman she’d met before—Isabela? She wasn’t jingling quite so much this time. She was barefoot and divested of most of her gold. Her mussed hair and squinty eyes suggested that she’d been sleeping.

 “You again?” Yvanne said, not lowering the candlestick. “What, do you live here or something?”

 “I’ve got a room here. And what about it?” She raised an eyebrow. “The real question is why you’re waving a candlestick around and causing all this fuss.“

 “If this ginger idiot would just take the damn candlestick there wouldn’t be any fuss.” She rounded back on the bartender. “Look, you wretched man, this is      real gold,    it’s more valuable than anything you’ve ever seen in your life.”

 “She with you, Bela?” sighed the bartender.

 “Sure she is,” said Isabela, and turned smiling to her. “Now how about you stop waving that thing around before you hurt someone?”

 “I’ll definitely  hurt someone if you don’t leave me the—”

 “Come on, now,” said Isabela. She snatched Yvanne by her candlestick-wielding elbow and all but dragged her to a secluded nook. The other woman was a good deal stronger than her; Yvanne doubted she’d be match for her, without magic.

 “Right,” said Isabela, letting her go. “Care to explain?”

 “Care to mind your own business?” Yvanne shot back, yanking her arm away.

 “Well, not if you’re going to be bludgeoning my favorite bartender.”

 “I’ll bludgeon      you.”  

 “Really? Will you? Go on, then.” Isabela took a seat on a bench and swung an ankle onto her knee, leaning back.

 “Look here,” Yvanne said, jabbing the candlestick in her direction, but decidedly not doing any bludgeoning. “I have just about      had    it with all of this. I’ve been robbed, blackmailed, menaced. I’ve gone without food or drink or sleep or comfort, nearly puked my guts out, lost about everyone I’ve ever cared about, put up with your dwarf friend’s horrible jokes, been sobbed on by a soggy nobleman, and now I’m being prevented from even buying myself a drink. I’m at my      fucking    limit and I am—sick—of—all—this—      shit!”  

 The other woman nodded. “Been there. Want a drink?”

 “No thanks,” Yvanne said exhaustedly, and collapsed into a chair. She pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes. Maker, she was tired.

 Isabela sighed. “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry about earlier. I saw that man come at you, and couldn’t help but be reminded of myself when I was younger.”

 It wasn’t surprising. Isabela looked a good deal more like Yvanne than Hawke did. “I’m not that young.”

 “Never said you were. Just thought you looked a little lost.”

 “And what about it?”

 They sat in silence for a moment.

 “Varric told me who you are and what you were doing here,” Isabela said eventually. “Sorry if you didn’t want people to know. He can’t resist a good secret.”

 “Figures,” Yvanne muttered. But she supposed it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t an apostate, or a deserter. Nobody was looking for her. Nobody cared about where she was, one way or the other.

 “So judging by the fact that you seem to be trying to barter for booze with one of Hawke’s candlesticks, I guess meeting him didn’t go over too well.”

 “How do you know this is Hawke’s?” Yvanne said defensively.

 Isabela tapped it one of the candelestick’s stems, slightly bent. “I remember the exact incident where this got dented. It involved a burglar, a coopful of chickens, and a very ornery—well, nevermind. It’s from Hawke’s place, I recognize it.”

 “Aren’t you perceptive.”

 “You have to be, in my line of work.”

 Yvanne put the pilfered candlestick on the (uncomfortably sticky) table. “Want it back?” she said, shamed. “Don’t think I’m having much luck persuading the damn bartender it’s worth anything.”

 “No, no. I encourage petty theft, as a matter of principle. Actually, if you need a fence, I know a few guys.”

 “Uh. No thanks.” She looked at her distorted reflection in the shiny gold. “I get that he’s your friend, but talking to him…I just couldn’t.”

 “Just because someone’s family doesn’t mean they’re      family.    Like I said. Been there.“

 “Well. Thanks.” Yvanne hesitated. “I heard the dwarf calling you ‘Rivaini.’ Is that where you’re from?”

 Isabela shrugged. “Why do you want to know?”

 “I might go to Rivain.”

 “What for?”

     Because there is the barest chance my mother might be there. Because I have nowhere else tolerable to go and nothing else tolerable to do, and if I don’t do something, I might just fucking kill myself.  

 “Don’t really know,” said Yvanne.

 “How are you planning on getting there, then?”

 “I’ll figure something out.”

 Isabela gave her a look that was endlessly, awfully patient.

 “Look,” she said, “judging by the fact that you’re bartering with stolen candlesticks, I’m guessing you aren’t long on funds. You can try and stow away, but that’s risky. I wouldn’t bother unless you’re really desperate. But I can do you one better—I can offer you a job.”

  “What sort of job?” Yvanne said, wary.

 “A few of us were going to go down to the Wounded Coast to deal with some slavers. Fenris is really chomping at the bit to go clear them out, but it’s hard to get a good crew together without Hawke—he’s everyone’s mutual friend. And as you saw, right now he’s a bit indisposed. Come with us, help do the job, collect the bounty, and of course there’s always looting to be done. And if that’s not enough, or you can’t find a ship, well, there’s always lots of jobs, if you’re willing to get your hands dirty.”

 “What makes you think I’d be any use against slavers?”

 “Let’s just say you seem formidable, hm? I can get you something better to bludgeon with.”

 “I don’t know…”

 She shrugged. “You’ve got til tomorrow morning. But it’s a standing offer. Like I said, always plenty of jobs.”

 Yvanne sighed. She really did need the money.

 “In the meantime,” said Isabela, “you can stay in my room for the night, if you want. Not that there’s much night left.”

 “I—ah—”

 “Meaning nothing untoward, of course,” she added, perhaps too quickly. “Not that I’m in the habit of taking in strays, but I shudder to think how the red the streets of Kirkwall would run with blood if I let you loose on them still wielding a blunt instrument.”

 Yvanne snorted. Then she looked at her, really looked. Isabela even without her myriad of knives and pounds of jewelry seemed so invincible, and here she was being kind. Whatever Yvanne playacted at being, Isabela was the real thing. And she was really very beautiful.

 She felt, absurdly,      want.  

 Not that it mattered, because Isabela meant nothing untoward. She wasn’t offering, so of course Yvanne wasn’t going to ask. Not when she actually wanted to.

 All of a sudden she was afraid. If she was capable of wanting something like that, what else was she capable of wanting?

 “Thanks,” she said, “but I think I’ll go my own way.”

 Isabela gave a slightly      well-I-tried    shrug. “Suit yourself,” she said, then added, “and good on you.”

 By this time the first rays of the morning sun were crawling across the sky. Yvanne could see the beginnings of it from the window. She left hurriedly, before she had the chance the reconsider.

 Because she could see it, quite easily. Going off on an adventure with Isabela and her friends. Getting to know them, making some money. Probably Hawke, too; that was probably inevitable, if he was everybody’s mutual friend. And once she’d made some money she’d drink it away, and it would be alright, because there’d be another job lined up, just in time. And she’d go again, replenish her purse, spend more time with those people.  It hurt her heart, the way they reminded her of the little simulacrum family she’d built and then abandoned at Vigil’s Keep, and it would never be the same. But perhaps in time it would hurt less and less, and eventually not at all. Maybe next time Isabela      would    mean something untoward, and she’d sleep with her, and that would be fine. She’d learn the inside jokes. She’d make some of her own. She would become another fixture in their shared lives. Would that be so bad?

 Here in this city of bones and poison she would dwell, among something-like-friends, among something-like-family, and it would be better than being alone. A half-shadowed life, after all, was better than a full-shadowed one. A half-shadowed life contained also light.

 But she had once dwelled      all    in light. Not for long; only a few months, all told, of uncomplicated happiness, before Rolan had arrived and spurred on the rot.

 For those few months—golden, perfect—she had known more than base contentment. She had known joy.

 How could she now stand to live half in shadows?

 —

 After most of the morning had passed, she found the docks. She stole breakfast out of a merchant’s stall with the practiced ease of a girl who’d spent her whole childhood hiding things, and her recent adulthood one small disaster away from living in the streets. At the docks, she found a barrel to sit on and eat her mango and watch the dock workers. Her half-baked scheme of stowing away on a vessel bound for Rivain was in fact hardly baked at all, and was almost sure to fail the moment she tried to implement it. She didn’t even know which of these ships were bound for Dairsmuid—if any at all.

 She carefully did not allow herself to think about what she would do when she got to Dairsmuid. Maybe nothing. Maybe she would go live in the swamps by herself and be a mad apostate. Or maybe she wouldn’t live. All she knew was that she needed to not be here, and she had nowhere else to go.

 As she mulled all this over, a hand closed around her upper arm. It caught her off guard; and she was pulled into the alleyway

 Her first thought—      ah! Here it is! I’m going to be robbed and raped, it’s about time!—    was f  ollowed almost immediately by—      no way in hell will the bastard have the satisfaction!    

 She twisted, and bit down hard on her assailant’s hand. He yelled and released her; she spun to face him, deciding which of her most horrible spells to unleash if he touched her again. Her assailant was tall, broad-shouldered, holding a fighting staff wrapped with cloth strips, and—Andraste’s left tit, did he live in the sewers? What was that      smell?    It was bad even by Kirkwall standards.

 “What in the Maker’s name are you      doing    here?” the man hissed.

 “Eating my      fucking    breakfast, you shit-stinking ratman! Let go of me before I beat you to death with your idiot stick, or—Andraste’s tits.” She blinked, as though her eyes deceived her, and all the fight went out of her. “Anders?”

 She was shocked that she recognized him. It had been a few years since she’d seen him, but not      that    many. Anders looked like he’d aged at least a decade. There was grey in his hair and lines on his forehead and around his eyes. He was dressed in what looked like the bedraggled remains of the Tevinter-style robes he’d once favored, pieces of his old Warden uniform, and an awful lot of rags.

 “Maker,” she said, “what happened to you?”

 He glared at her. “If you’re here to arrest me—”

 “Arrest you?” At first she couldn’t even process what he meant by that. “Andraste’s fucking tits, I’m not here to arrest you! Hells, I didn’t even know you were      here.    Is that why you grabbed me? Did you lose your mind along with your earring?”

 He self-consciously, and probably without realizing he was doing it, touched his ear. “I thought—when I heard a woman named Amell was here, I thought the Grey Wardens had come to arrest and charge me for deserting. But I see you’re…not in uniform.”

 "Charitably put,“ she muttered. She probably didn’t look much better off than he did, even if she smelled better. “No, I’m not here to arrest you, and   as a matter of fact my presence in this city has nothing to do with you in the first place.”

 “Alright, alright!” He snorted. “I see you haven’t changed all that much.”

 “      You     have.”

 He brushed a piece of limp greying hair behind his ear. “That’s true.”

 He didn’t      seem    like an insane, gibbering abomination. She had so many questions. Most of them feauring rude words. The rest, variants on Are you alright?

The questions hung in the air like an acrid fog. They weighed her tongue and choked her. So Anders spoke first. “So if you’re not here to arrest me for desertion, what are you doing here?”

 “Don’t.”

 “Is Loriel here—?”

 “      Don’t.”    It came out as a hiss of air.

 He drew back a little in surprise. She wondered what her face had done. After a moment she regained control over herself. “You’re a clever fellow,” she said dully. “You can connect the dots.”

 She didn’t dare look at him. If she saw pity, she would have no choice but to kill herself. “Why did      you    come here, then?”

 “You’re clever, aren’t you?” he said. “I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

 Then she did look up. There was only one good reason that she knew of for Anders to come to Kirkwall. “So did you find him?”

 “Don’t,” he said, pained. And that was all she needed to hear.

 So they stood in the darkened alley by the Kirkwall docks, two people who had known each other, once, lost in their own separate tragedies, together and alone.

 “So why’d you stay?” she said eventually. “Kirkwall’s not exactly friendly to our kind.”

 “That’s exactly why we had to stay.”

 “We?” she said sharply.

 He hesitated. “Justice and I.”

 Her eyes widened. “So it’s true. You let him—”

 “Yes. Keep your voice down, would you?”

 “Can I talk to him?”

 He glanced sharply at her. “I don’t think that would be possible.”

 “We could go somewhere hidden—”

 “No, not because someone might see. I’m a wanted man as it is,“ he said dismissively. "I mean, I don’t think it’s      possible.”  

 “What?”

 “Justice is…he’s gone.”

 Her heart thumped. “You mean he’s dead?”

 “Not exactly. He’s not the same. When we—you know—we did more than join. We became the same being. I can’t tell where he ends and where I begin. We’re something different now.”

 She boggled. “What in the Maker’s left trouser pocket are you talking about?”

 ”  I’m not the person you used to know.”

 "Good thing I knew both of you, then,“ she said irritably. “Nobody’s ever the same person. You’re not special.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Can’t you at least try?” She tried not to let it sound like a whine. “I can help; I’ve learned so much spirit lore since you left. I wanted to help him, back at the Vigil, but then you…can’t you try?”

 He hesitated. “Alright. But make it quick. I think he finds it uncomfortable to borrow my body like this.”

 She held her breath. Anders blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they weren’t his eyes anymore.

 “Justice?” she breathed.

 “Yes.”

 “Maker.” Impulsively, she reached up, put her hands on either side of his face. She had never expected to feel this particular pattern of Fade energy again. “It’s really you.”

 The spirit smiled faintly, as though humoring her. It wasn’t anything like Anders’ smile, but a great deal like the smile she’d seen on Kristoff’s corpse.

 “What’s it      like?”  

 Justice thought about it. “It is different from possessing a corpse. Most of the time I am only a passenger. I try not to intrude.“

 "That sounds unfathomably lonely.”

 "Anders did me a great service in allowing this. Together we will accomplish much.”

 “It’s like you’re trapped, isn’t it?” Her mouth curled into a bitter line. “We would have found you another vessel.”

 “I have no objection to my current status.”

 “But are you happy?”

 “I am fulfilling my purpose.”

 “That’s not what I asked.”

 “I am fulfilling my purpose.” But the second time he said it—unless it was her imagination?—it almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

 She’d almost forgotten what it was like to actually talk to a spirit. They could be awfully single minded. But Justice hadn’t been like that. He’d become more than his purpose. He’d lived in the mortal world, known friendship and love.

 “Do you remember that sparrows’ nest I showed you?” she said dully.

 “Yes. I remember it.”

 “Good. That’s good.”

 “Yes,” he said, slowly, as though it took great effort to retrieve the memory. “It was good.” But then his brow—Anders’ brow—darkened slightly.

 “You should stay here in Kirkwall,” the spirit said. “You should help us.”

 “Help you with what?” she said, caught off guard.

 “Change. We are bringing justice to the mages of Kirkwall.”

 At first she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Then she laughed out loud. “How?”

 “Many ways,“ Justice insisted. "We are healing the wounds of the sick and the poor, to show the people that magic need not be feared. We are disseminating a manifesto. We have contacts who are able to put pressure on the Grand Cleric. We are helping apostates escape the Gallows, guiding them to freedom. Progress is slow, but extant. You could help us.”

 "Manifestos? Civil discussion with the Grand Cleric?” She shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

 "I consider this a matter of deadly seriousness.“ Here Justice’s voice took on the cadence and timbre of Anders’ voice. She wasn’t sure who she was speaking to anymore. "How can you abdicate your responsibility to your fellow mages?”

 This talk was starting to make her angry. It was one thing to hear this talk from a naive spirit, but from Anders? It was too absurd. “You can’t abdicate something you never agreed to take on in the first place. What do I have to do with other mages, besides the unfortunate fact that we all share a curse?”

 “That is exactly the attitude that we are fighting against,” said Justice, or Anders, or maybe there really wasn’t a difference anymore. “Magic isn’t a curse, and it never was.”

 "I can’t listen to this.”

 “Mages are your people. You should seek justice for them.”

 She scowled and spat. “And give up, what? Everything else?”

 “Yes.”

 A part of her wanted to keep arguing. Maybe she just enjoyed conflict a little too much. But the spirit’s face—her old friend’s face—was so pathetically earnest that all her anger drained away.

 “Maker, Justice. It’s not bloody fair, what happened to you.“ Her breath hitched. "You were becoming a person. You knew joy, you knew love. Now it’s like…” She shook her head. “I don’t even know what it’s like. But it’s not fair.”

 She was met only with steady blue fire. “Of course justice is fair. What else could it be?”

 That was about all she could take. “It was good to talk to you, Justice,” she sighed. “Please take care of yourself.”

 The spirit said nothing further; the next time he blinked, the blue light was retreated, and it was only Anders again.

 She looked balefully at him. “How could you? You as good as killed him.”

 “Probably,” Anders said, miserable. “But it’s done. I can’t undo it.”

 “Well,” she tried, suddenly guilty for aggravating what was clearly a sore wound. Could Justice hear them say these things? How much ‘access’ did he have to the outside world when he was hidden? “Maybe I could. Like I said, I’ve been learning a lot of spirit lore. It shouldn’t be impossible.”

 “No,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t think that’s wise. What we’re doing is too important. When we’re like this, there’s so much I can do…I don’t need to sleep or eat much, and my magic has never been more powerful, and…” He caught the look on her face and trailed off. “It’s better this way.”

 He caught her doubtful gaze. “It is,” he insisted.”

 “If you say so.”

 “Look,” he said, with obvious effort, “I don’t have too many friends in this city. The ones I do have…aren’t entirely sympathetic to what I’m trying to achieve. What I’m saying is I could really use someone like you in my corner.”

 “No. No, I don’t think so.” She didn’t say she was sorry. It would have been absurd to say it.

 “I see,” he muttered. “Pressing business elsewhere?”

 “Of a sort,” she said vaguely. “I’m going to Rivain.”

 “Got a ship, have you?”

“Not yet. Was working on it when you assaulted me.”

 “Uh-huh.”

 “You don’t happen to know which of these ships is headed for Dairsmuid? Perhaps one unlikely to notice a stowaway?”

 He shook his head. “Come with me. I know someone who can help.”

 —

 Anders had contacts in the Mage Underground. He took her through the Darktown sewers—that certainly explained the smell. After a long, foul journey, they arrived at the—Yvanne could only call it a den—of a man called Federico, who dealt in “herbs” and owed Anders a favor. Federico didn’t have a ship, but his cousin did.

 Anders and Federico argued for a while, and finally nodded and shook hands.

 “Alright,” Anders told Yvanne. “I got you passage. Federico’s cousin has a ship headed for Dairsmuid. He takes apostates from the Gallows sometimes, but you’ll have to work as a windmage.”

 “A windmage?”

 “A shipboard mage who summons winds in case the ship gets becalmed. It’s not too hard. You’ll be fine.”

 “Windmage? I’ve barely used magic all year. I haven’t cast a wind spell in—Maker, I don’t even know how long—and you think I can be a windmage?”

 Anders shrugged. “Weren’t you the youngest Harrowed mage in several decades of Kinloch students? You’ll be fine.”

 “Anders, I swear—”

 “You’ll be fine!” He cleared his throat. “And another thing—if you want to make it in time, you had better leave now. If you miss the ship, you miss your chance.”

 “What?! I have no idea how to get to the docks, or what this ship even looks like—”

 “Calm down.” Anders rolled his eyes. “I’ll take you.”

 And back in the sewers they went.

 Along the way something occurred to her. “Hey,” she said. “How did you know I was here, anyway? Another one of your sewer contacts?”

 “Sort of,” he said, and then paused for so long that she thought he was finished speaking. Then he said, “Hawke told me.”

 “Hawke!” Yvanne said. “Is there a single person in this wretched city that isn’t acquainted with Hawke? I’m so bloody tired of hearing about Hawke.”

 “Hawke’s a good person,” Anders said defensively. “And a great man.”

 “He’s a pathetic milksop who’s never known a day’s hardship in his life,” Yvanne spat.

 “That’s not true.”

 She snorted. “What are you defending him for?”

 “Not that it’s your business,” Anders snapped, wavering, “but he helps. Our cause, I mean. Even if he doesn’t always agree, he still helps. And he’s been kind to me.”

 Yvanne flashed back to the Amell estate, reprocessed some of Hawke’s ramblings. She put two and two together and was instantly overcome with the monstrous unfairness of it all.

 “Oh, I see,” she said coldly. “You’re shtupping him. That explains it.”

 It was hard to tell in the sewers, but she was gratified to see Anders flush. “Don’t call it that.”

 “It’s all coming together,” she said in a mean sing-song. “Came for one boyfriend, found another. Traded up, too; the new one’s rich! Gotta say, Anders, looks like you’ve really got it made. Servants and silk sheets, and you still get to feel like noble martyr in the bargain—”

 “Shut,” he said, “up.”  

 The sewer filled with blue light and the too-intense vibration of the Fade. For one terrible moment Yvanne thought she’d really gone too far. Anders had never been her match in combat magic before, but he was an abomination now. The dismembered bodies of the patrol Wardens flashed through her mind.

 Then the blue Fadelight winked out. Her heart thumped. Anders said nothing. He kept moving, so she kept following him.

 “It’s not a bloody crime to be happy, you know,” he said eventually.

 “Are  you happy?” she shot back.

 He only shrugged. “We are fulfilling our purpose.”

 They didn’t talk for the rest of the journey.

 “I guess Federico’s cousin won’t mind that I smell like shit?” she said sourly when they emerged again.

 “He’s used to it,” said Anders. “That’s him over there, in the blue coat. Get going, would you? I had to spend a favor on this. Tell the captain that ‘Feathers’ sent you.”

 She spotted the man he was pointing to. His ship was a great deal bigger than the cog that had taken her to Kirkwall.

 She turned to him. “Listen, Anders, I just wanted to say—”

 “You’ve said it all already,” he said.

 She shut her mouth, feeling like she’d already made every wrong choice. “Take care of yourself, Anders.”

 He only nodded tersely. She thought about hugging him, and then thought better of it.

 She had a ship to catch.

 She felt awkward approaching the gangplank. “Um,” she said. “Feathers sent me.”

 The man in the blue coat looked dubiously at her. “You?” he said, and shook his head. “Very well. Get on, you’re late.”

 She stepped aboard, once again feeling useless and small amidst all the shipboard activity.

 Since she had nothing to do, she went to the portside, hoping for a final glimpse of her old friend’s face. But it was too late. Anders had already disappeared in the crowd, and she had already never seen him again.

[princessshikky]

Basically an m!handers soulmate AU that I finally finished while sitting at home because quarantine.

Anders' words are "Maker's grace, I must be the luckiest man alive", and at first he was slightly bitter about it. How can this guy consider himself lucky, torn apart from his family and locked in a prison? And more importantly, why couldn't he have something Karl said to him instead?

In solitary, the words become his anchor. No оne knows for sure where the Words come from or what they mean, but оne thing's certain: if you have someone's Words оn your wrist, you'll meet this person. Your meeting might be short and tragic, but it's bound to happen. Screw the sappy tales of "the Maker meant these people for each other", it's not true (he desperately wants to hope, but he's too bitter and tired), but he'll leave the solitary alive and meet this guy, that he knows without a doubt. 

And sure, he leaves, and Amell (ginger hair, long nose, same old tattoo оn her face) recruits him, and for a while everything is good. Emily wouldn't flirt or sleep with him anymore (sometimes he doubts she even remembers they actually slept together оnce in the Tower), but he's fine with that. Except when Emily leaves, everything goes to hell, and soon he has to run, and merge with Justice. That didn't go so well. 

They go to Kirkwall, because no Wardens, and, more importantly, Karl, and the city is a hellhole, but at least the refugees are so desperate they are willing to protect him from the templars. Anders is alerted regardless: any minute, something could happen. Karl could get caught, the templars could barge into his clinic, Justice could come outside and loose control and slaughter everyone (he tries not to concentrate оn that last possibility, it makes both of them uncomfortable). Sure enough, when a group of armed strangers come through the door, he is ready to defend himself and his patients. Justice sends him a burst of energy, and Anders tentatively lets him... not take over their body, no, but come to the surface of their conscience. 

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?" — Justice demands in Anders' voice. Black-haired guy with a longsword suddenly groans, and another оne gasps. 

"Maker's grace, I must be the luckiest man alive". 

"Oh, no", — the sword-guy mutters, and Anders is inclined to agree with him. Oh, no. He doesn't need that now. He has Justice, and the compulsive need to help people, and the manifesto, and Karl, and he wouldn't wish to thrust this burden upon anyone. 

Hawke doesn't exactly give him the chance to back off. He's kind, and understanding, and a fellow mage (an apostate, no less!), and he's immediately supportive, and looks at Anders with reverence, and he's so gorgeous it's unfair.

 In short, Hawke is perfect. 

He helps with the disastrous attempt to get Karl out. He helps with the mage underground. He tries to help the mages escape the Circle. He reads the manifesto and offers new arguments. He is even supportive about the situation with Justice. He looks at Anders like he hung the moons in the sky. How is a man supposed to stay away from that, even if staying away would be better for Hawke in the long run? 

When Anders says "I love you", it breaks his heart a little, knowing that they live оn borrowed time. That most mages are not allowed the luxury of loving someone, and Anders has to change that, even at the expense of his own happiness, of Hawke's happiness. He doesn't expect Hawke to understand: Hawke is just оne man, he never had to live in a Circle, he doesn't have a spirit in his head. 

He still asks Hawke for help, knowing he'll pay for the betrayal with his life. 

Only he doesn't. 

Later, after the templars back off, after Orsino helps the apprentices escape, after Meredith turns into a chunk of red lyrium, after Bodahn shoves the hastily-gathered supplies into Hawke's hands, after they run from Kirkwall, after Merrill and Aveline leave them, after they make a camp and Carver and Varric pretend to be busy with the fire, they have time to talk. Hawke sighs and frowns and shakes his head. 

"I can't believe you did this". 

"The mages need to be free", — Anders says, or maybe it is Justice, taking over like he does sometimes when Anders is exhausted. — "What I did was unforgivable, but it was the оnly way to achieve this". 

"Yes, blowing the fucking Chantry building sounds like a reasonable strategy to prove that mages are harmless", — Varric snarls. 

"Who cares about the damn Chantry?" — Hawke says, louder than necessary. — "I definitely don't plan to shed any tears over them". — Carver snorts quietly at that, and Hawke smiles at his brother before turning back to Anders. — "What I meant was... Well, you should have told me. I... you should have trusted me with that". 

"I didn't want to endanger you any more than necessary". 

"Endanger... Anders, do you have any idea how scared I was? I lost my home, I lost my family, and I thought I was going to lose you too! You acted like you were preparing for a certain death! Every day I woke up and I looked at you and thought "Is it going to be today?". Do you know how I felt when I saw that damn Chantry going in flames? I was relieved! Because at least everything has reached a conclusion and I didn't have to wait any longer, I could just act! Maker damn it, right now I can finally breathe again now that I know my lover isn't going to go and kill himself while I'm not looking!" 

Anders gulps. Carver shakes his head but doesn't say anything. Varric looks at Hawke disapprovingly. For a moment everyone is quiet, until Hawke weakly smirks. 

"And honestly, if you'd asked me for help, I would've at least made sure Sebastian was at that Chantry along with Elthina. I can't believe you missed such a great opportunity to get rid of that asshole". 

Carver chuckles unexpectedly. 

"Damn, brother. I had no idea I missed your stupid jokes". 

Anders has to agree. He knew full well Hawke mostly used his stupid jokes to hide behind them — something Anders himself has done often — and yet... Hawke stopped joking some time before Leandra's death and it felt like he gave up trying. 

Still smiling, Hawke moves closer to Anders and kisses him lightly. 

"Look. There is nothing you can do that would make me leave you. And I mean it — nothing. So please, just trust me next time. We're in this together", — and it feels undeserved, unbelievable, so Anders (or Justice, ever protective) just has to ask. 

"Still feel like the luckiest man alive?" 

Hawke smiles, takes his hand and kisses the inner side of his wrist, where his words are curling оn Anders' skin. 

"Always".

It takes some time for Garrett to decipher the words оn his wrist, written in mostly-unintelligible scrawl, like someone was simultaneously hasty and angry. 

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?". 

All right, Garrett could think of worse ways to start a conversation. At least these Words are unique. He'll know his Person instantly. 

Carver teases him mercilessly. "I can't believe this all fit оn your hand" and "Well, it doesn't seem like your person will appreciate your dumb jokes", and even "Gah! Marauder! Why would you ever threaten a sanctum of salvation!". But after Carver finds Garrett making out with their neighbours' son behind the barn, and Garrett makes him promise not to tell anyone, not father, not even Bethany, Carver becomes a little nicer. Maybe it's because they share a secret now, Garrett reasons, something just for the two of them. 

"Do you think it's a guy? Your Person?" — Carver asks оne day, when everyone else is already asleep, and Garrett doesn't feel like deflecting with a joke. 

"I hope so. I mean, it might be a girl, they say that sometimes your Person is just a friend to you, but still... I'd prefer a guy". 

"Do you not like girls at all?" — Carver asks disbelievingly (he is a teenager, after all). 

"I don't hate them, I guess, but they're just... not interesting", — Garrett says. — "Guys are..." 

"Hot?" 

"I guess you could say that". 

"Well, good. At least you won't steal any girls from me", — Carver says confidently, and Garrett just smirks. "You can keep them as long as you send any cute guys in my direction".

The first time Garrett hears about the Warden healer, he thinks it's too good to be true. 

A free mage who openly uses his magic to help other people? Come оn. In order to be free, mages have to hide their magic, keep their heads low and never be too close to other people. Holding a free clinic for the refugees? No оne's this selfless. 

Except for this Anders Warden, apparently. Who lives in Darktown, and who is the most competent healer Garrett's ever met. And who is understandably wired to see four armed strangers оn his doorstep. 

Anders grabs his staff and turns to them in оne swift motion. 

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?" 

Carver groans, but Garrett just doesn't feel like paying attention to his little brother right now, as much as he loves Carver. 

"Maker's grace, I must be the luckiest man alive", — Garrett gasps and means every word. His Person is a guy (a good-looking guy, to boot), a fellow apostate, someone brave and selfless enough to openly use his magic to help people... what's not to like? 

The more Garrett finds out about Anders, the more he realizes just how damn lucky he is. His first impression was right: Anders is too good to be true. Yes, he lashes out at Merrill sometimes, but other than that? Perfection. Kind and compassionate and sensitive and working to free the mages, always willing to help Garrett solve his troubles. The оnly problem? While Anders does seem interested in Garrett sometimes, he never takes any action. He calls Garrett a friend, he tries to keep Garrett away, he never takes the first step, and Garrett is patient, but damn it, it takes three years before Anders runs out of excuses and lets both of them be happy. 

And then he starts acting strange. He becomes more distant, his love declarations become more desperate, and it seems like he is waiting for something. Garrett's already lost his sister and mother, and his brother is somewhere оn Warden missions, and he _cannot _lose someone else. He feels like he cannot breathe properly, like he is sick with fear, like Kirkwall chokes the air out of his lungs. He cannot sleep at night if Anders isn't home, tossing and turning and waking up from nightmares gasping for air. 

One day, when Anders is in his clinic, Garrett comes to the alienage. Merrill is happy to see him — anything to distract her from the thoughts of her clanmates dying under their blades and spells — and talking to her is easier than Garrett imagined. 

"I want you to teach me blood magic". 

Anders would be furious if he knew, but ultimately he would understand. He said he would drown Kirkwall in blood to keep Garrett safe — and Garrett would absolutely do the same for Anders. 

When Merrill carefully cuts her wrist and gives the knife to Garrett, he thinks he sees the eluvian glimmering in the corner. 

And then it's over. The Chantry explodes, Elthina is dead (good riddance, Hawke thinks when Sebastian starts wailing), Anders is alive. 

Everything goes straight to hell. Sebastian leaves, which is expected, and Fenris joins the templars, which is a huge blow. Yes, Garrett knew about his views, but he thought Fenris had his back. He always helped Fenris out, didn't he? Even Cullen, of all people, decided to help Hawke at the end. Cullen, the asshole who said Tranquility is a mercy. And Zevran is helping them fight for some reason? Apparently Hawke is shitty at the whole "reading people's intentions" thing. 

At the end of the day, people Hawke cares about are alive. Merrill, Aveline and Carver are fine. Anders is alive. Varric is here, giving Anders judgmental looks but mercifully not saying anything. They get to leave Kirkwall unharmed, albeit in a hurry. Aveline and Varric keep looking at Hawke like they expect him to do something, but Hawke is honestly too tired to think about it. What do they want? He has no clue. Apparently he barely knows people who he regularly spoke with. Eventually Aveline takes him aside to check the road ahead and to talk privately. 

"Are you going to say anything to him? About him?" — she asks. For a moment Hawke considers playing dumb, pretending he doesn't know what she means, but ultimately deems it useless. 

"What do you want me to say? Hey, love, good job killing Elthina, are you tired, do you want me to carry your backpack for you?" 

"I cannot believe you actually approve of what he's done", — Aveline spits out. 

"Well, I do", — Hawke says simply. — "And even if I didn't... Maker help me, I would protect him anyway". 

"He's murdered innocent people!" 

"He's my family, Aveline! And I cannot lose him, not after everything!" 

Aveline has a pitying expression оn her face. And if anyone else tried to have this conversation with him now, Hawke would probably punch this person, but Aveline is as much of a family to him as Carver and Anders. And isn't it an uncomfortable realisation? That he is no better than people he so callously judged? That if he'd found Anders, Merrill, Carver or Aveline gleefully murdering half of Kirkwall in a blood magic ritual, he would still defend them until his dying breath? Does this make him an awful person? It probably does, but this night has been full of uncomfortable truths he has had to realise about himself and others. 

Thankfully, Aveline doesn't press the matter further. 

They leave оne by оne. Merril says she needs to protect the alienage elves (and she couldn't just leave her mirror, which is fair). Aveline goes back to lead the guard again. Carver has some Warden mission. Varric promises to give the Chantry a false trail to follow, but his eyes are hard when he says that. Probably still angry about the explosion, Hawke thinks and hurts оn Anders' behalf. 

Anders is still quiet. Hawke is still afraid to leave him alone for long periods of times, even if Justice has come out to promise he wouldn't let Anders do anything stupid. 

They are sitting оn a log, staring into the campfire. There are glimpses of blue in Anders' eyes. Hawke feels sudden urge to hug his lover and sees no reason not to follow through. 

Anders shivers in Hawke's arms. 

"Love, what?" 

"Nothing", — Anders shakes his head, — "just... Sometimes it's still hard to believe you're with me". 

"You won't get rid of me so easily". 

"I don't deserve you". 

Anders' self-deprecation is unbelievable sometimes. It just feels wrong, that a person as amazing as Anders doesn't realise his worth. One of the many reasons to hate the Circles, Hawke thinks bitterly. 

"Love, I'm the оne who doesn't deserve you. You're the bravest, most selfless person I've ever met. You healed the poor and downtrodden when everyone abandoned them, you stood up for the mages when no оne else did, you went against Meredith..." 

"And betrayed your trust in the process". 

"Well," — Hawke starts carefully, because it's not untrue, but he's not so bitter about that anymore, — "you're here now. The оnly оne who stayed with me". 

Anders looks at him with eyes full of hope. 

"I won't repeat my mistake again, I promise. You're stuck with me now. I'm not going anywhere". 

"Good", — Hawke says, relieved, because Anders speaks like he means it. — "I wouldn't have it any other way".

[jenniferhawke]

Bitter jealousy

Summary: So long as the mage made her happy, he would remain silent. Even when she sits in Anders’ lap after having too many drinks at The Hanged Man, even as she kisses him openly and without uncertainty. Fenris tolerates these things, even as it wounds him like a poison burning him from the inside out. He will not interfere, so long as she smiles. Until, one day, she isn’t anymore. 

A continuation of my recent Fenris drabbles (but reads well enough as a stand alone). 

------------- It is hard to remain quiet. But Fenris remembers a time not so long ago when he could not speak freely. When he had no voice. When he was a slave. 

Watching Hawke with Anders is agonizing those first few months when she is all smiles and eager glances. When the two of them can barely keep their hands to themselves during Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite, slender fingers running down the back of a shabby coat, calloused fingers caressing a soft cheek in return. Eyes of longing gaze through her silken fringe at the man to her left, faint lines of glee crinkling at the corners. She’d once glanced at him that way, Fenris thinks to himself, tossing another copper into the growing pile of coin as everyone places their bets. When his eyes meet Varric’s, the dwarf smirks, a look that says ‘I know what you’re thinking, elf’. He ignores it, instead returning his eyes to his cards as if they hold all the answers to every burning question ever asked. Even with a winning hand, even as his pockets feel much heavier at the end of the night, all Fenris can fixate on during his lonesome walk home is that look of adoration in Hawke’s eyes. Venhedis, how he aches to think of it, to know that it is no longer reserved for him but another.

Time is a cruel mistress, Fenris soon learns. It does not heal wounds, as others have said. Long months pass, and with them, Hawke’s relationship with her fellow mage grows. Taking to the streets one sunny afternoon, his keen ears pick up the gossiping of two housewives.

“Did you hear about the Champion?” one asks.

“That she is living in sin? Of course I heard. Any respectable man would ask for her hand in marriage before rightly moving in!”

The words sting as if vinegar poured on a fresh wound. It is a wound that festers, refusing to heal, no matter how he tends to it, no matter how busy he keeps his mind. Fenris takes odd jobs during the days when Hawke does not call upon him, and in the evenings, he catches up with contacts he’s made in his never ending search for his sister. But during quiet moments at night, when sleep eludes him, when his treacherous mind thinks of nothing but that night with Hawke, his heart lurches, breath catching in his throat as he pictures the hands of another roaming the valley of her skin, counting her silver scars, relishing in the feel of her inside. When he finally drifts to sleep, he dreams of nothing but what could have been, if only he hadn’t walked away, if instead he had chosen to stay.

The next day, Hawke collects Fenris, asking for his assistance along the Wounded Coast. Varric and Anders accompany them on their travels, and for a time, Fenris remains quiet. But even as his tongue refuses to form words, misery consumes his mind. Being in the very presence of the Darktown healer has his heart consumed with bitter jealousy. As feet cross sun beaten sand, Varric and Hawke take the lead, and soon, the blond mage trails to his side. For a moment, Fenris loses himself, unable to remain silent a moment longer. 

“You … are living with Hawke now?” 

“What’s it to you?” Anders barks in response.

“Be good to her. Break her heart, and I will kill you.”

The mage rolls his eyes at this, quickening his footsteps until he catches up to Hawke, wrapping an arm around her slender waist. Fenris knows Anders well enough to know this is his petty way of showing Fenris whom she belongs to. But Fenris is not one to take ownership of another. Hawke would always be free to make her choice. And if Anders was what she truly wanted … then so be it. He had walked away from her, had thrown away his chance at a life with the woman he cherished. It would always haunt him, but he had no right to voice his distaste. So long as the mage made her happy, he would remain silent. Even when she sits in Anders’ lap after having too many drinks at The Hanged Man, even as she kisses him openly and without uncertainty. Fenris tolerates these things, even as it wounds him like a poison burning him from the inside out. He will not interfere, so long as she smiles.

Until, one day, she isn’t anymore.

Two years pass, and slowly her smile fades into something resembling indifference. At first, Fenris thinks little of it, assuming her relationship with the healer has turned into less a novelty and something resembling routine. But then Anders stops coming to Varric’s suite for cards. Hawke brushes it off the first few weeks, saying that his work at the clinic has him overburdened. It is not completely out of the usual for the apostate to be swamped with patients from time to time. But weeks turn into months, and the mage’s absence becomes something of habit.

One evening, after everyone has piled out of Varric’s suite and have said their goodbyes for the night, he watches as Hawke returns to the bar. A mug of whiskey is poured for her, and she knocks it back as if it’s nothing, immediately ordering another. She’s already drunk, that much had been made clear during their game of Diamondback with her constant insistence of more rounds and her speech beginning to slur. As Fenris approaches the bar, he can see the frown on her face, the one she desperately tries to hide from her friends. 

“Hawke” he says as she knocks back her second mug as if it is merely water.

“Fenrissss,” she drawls out his name, giving him a sloppy grin. “Want another round? Isss on me.”

“Perhaps another time,” he politely declines. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asks, as if he wasn’t already planning on escorting her home in this state.

“I suppose that might be wise.” Hawke reaches in her coin purse to pay her tab, several coppers dropping to the floor in her clumsy effort. Fenris bends to pick them up, handing them back to her. Soft fingers grasp them from his palm, and even now, after all this time, he aches to remember how she once felt against him.

“Thanks,” she says, plopping them down on the bar. Together, they leave the Hanged Man, and begin their walk home.

It takes twice as long to reach Hightown, with Hawke’s stumbling and her refusal to let Fenris help her. Three times she has to stop to relieve herself in an alley, muttering half apologies and shouting the words of a song he does not know in an attempt to cover up the sound of her emptying her bladder. Fenris shakes his head, but even so, a wry smile tugs on his lips. Even in her drunken stupor, it is impossible for him to find her anything less than charming.

As they reach Hightown, her sullen mood from before suddenly returns, and when Fenris glances at her, her eyes carry the weight of the world within them. Loudly, she sighs.

“I’ve been lying, you know.”

“About?” he asks, perking a curious brow.

“Anders. He’s not busy with his patients. He’s … “ she stops.

“He’s what, Hawke?”

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He’s never home anymore. And when he is, he wants nothing to do with me. He’s always working on that … that Maker forsaken mani--manisessto,” she slurs.

“And this surprises you?” he asks, colder than he intends to.

“You don’t know him like I do!… Like I used to,” she says defensively. “I used to mean something to him. But now, all I’m good for is a warm place to sleep.”

“You know you are worth far greater than that,” Fenris says and Hawke suddenly stops mid step, eyes upon him.

“How should I know? No one ever stays for long.” Her eyes shine with sadness and uncertainty, but before Fenris can stumble on something to say to comfort her, she picks up her pace once more. They walk in an uncomfortable silence as her house nears. “You know, he doesn’t even kiss me anymore.”

Fenris feels fuzzy, and not from drink. He doesn’t wish to know anything about her intimate life with the apostate, nor does he think she wishes him to know such personal details. “Hawke, you are drunk. Perhaps we can discuss this in the morning when - “

“Nothing will change. Not tomorrow, or the day after that or … “ she chokes out a sob. Fenris’ lips pinch together in a thin line.

“Then he is a fool,” he says quietly, walking her to her door. Under the light of a lit lantern, she peers up at him, sapphire eyes seeking his own.

“You really don’t like him, do you?” she asks, and Fenris scoffs.

“Have I ever made a secret of my distaste for the mage?” he asks.

“No. I suppose not,” she says. “I never meant to fall in love with him, you know.”

“Hawke -- “.

“He was supposed to be a simple distraction. But I suppose with Anders, he would always want more. I was hurting. I missed you and … it just … happened.” A shaky breath flutters past her lips. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Oh … I dunno. For sleeping with your arch emasis?” she slurs yet again, in that ever so endearing way of hers.

“The mage is far from my arch nemesis,” he corrects. “Besides, I could never hate you Hawke. Do not think such things.”

Before he can realise what he’s doing, Fenris brushes an errant hair away from her cheek. Hawke responds by nuzzling against his hand, and as if pricked by a needle, he pulls away. Even as he yearns for her touch, he cannot take what she cannot rightfully give. A single taste, and he would be starving for more. “If you are unhappy, I think you should bring it up with the mage.”

Hawke sighs. “He’s never home long enough to have a real conversation. And when he is … he won’t listen.”

“Then make him listen, Hawke. If he truly cares for you like he should, he will fight to keep you in his life.” The words taste pungent as breathes them to life, for he has thought of them far too often. I should have fought for you, he thinks bitterly, then is even more perturbed upon realising he is consoling the woman he endlessly yearns for about her relationship with another.

They stand there, lantern light hanging above, casting a soft glow around Hawke’s lovely features. “I guess I can try,” she finally says. “Thank you … for walking me home.”

“It was no trouble at all. Drink some water before you retire,” he says, offering her the smallest hint of a smile.

“Probably a good idea,” she says. Pulling out a key from her pocket, she turns it into the slot of the door. As she tugs the heavy door open, she stumbles back, and Fenris catches her before she can fall head over heels. He slowly rights her posture, their eyes meeting once more. A shallow puff of her breath caresses the skin of his throat, and he is all too aware of their proximity. “Fenris,” she whispers, as if a familiar lover, and he does not fail to notice the longing held within her eyes … the look he has yearned for desperately so. He wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss her, to taste the whiskey on her lips and replace it with his own flavour. But it would not be right. She is drunk and still lays with another. It matters little how often Anders returns to her bed, it is the fact that he is still free to do so if he so wishes. And Fenris … he has yet to resolve his own circumstances. If he were to kiss her now, he would not be the man she deserves.

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he says, slowly backing away, as reluctant as he is.

“Goodnight Fenris,” she sighs, shutting the door behind her. As Fenris walks the short distance to his manor, the tickle of her breath still lingers on his neck, the hunger in her eyes still haunt him, for it is a hunger that matches his own. The fire in his belly that burns for her burns all the brighter now, knowing that perhaps, after all this time, she might still care for him as she once did. He wants to quash this newfound hope, to extinguish it before it grows. Before it can hurt him more than he already aches. Drunken confessions matter little if they are not spoken with a clear mind. But even as he retires to bed, Fenris does something he hasn’t done in a remarkably long time. He smiles. For even though he cannot yet be with Hawke, it no longer seems such an impossible dream. As he falls asleep, it is finally a dreamless sleep, with no stolen memories or lost lovers to haunt him.

A week later, the first letter from Varania arrives, and it changes everything. 

[lazysupernova]

Fenris Appreciation Month 2018 - Day 1. Satinalia

Ships: Fenris/M!OC, mentioned F!Hawke/Anders

Words: 1913

The Hawke mansion had never been so alive. The windows glowed with the light of a thousand candles, and merry chatters and singing poured out onto the street.

Inside, Arys Hawke, having exchanged her usual set of armour for a festive maroon gown, flitted between her guests, offering them food and drinks. Her cheerful mood was contagious. For the first time in her life she had friends she could celebrate Satinalia with, and, as it happened, she also had enough money to throw the party she thought they all deserved.

And everyone seemed to appreciate her efforts, Fenris thought. He was standing by the fireplace, with a glass of wine in his hand. The party had started out tame enough, but with each gallon of wine consumed, some of the guests were becoming rowdier. It was coming to the point where one wrong word or gesture could turn the gathering into a messy disaster.

He tossed his head in annoyance. He was letting his pessimism get the better of him. And he'd promised he would behave! Berwyn, Maker bless his kind heart, had insisted they both have a little fun this evening. And he certainly seemed to be doing so. Fenris glanced across the room, to where his beloved was standing, with a silver goblet in his hand and a smile on his face. He was talking with Bethany Hawke, who seemed happy to be back home. It was odd that she had been allowed to attend her sister's celebration. The Gallows had become even more of a prison the past few months. Perhaps her presence had something to do with that young templar, who was standing near the door, looking slightly uncomfortable?

Suddenly, Arys was by his side. She jabbed her elbow into Fenris's ribs to get his attention.

“I think this is turning out into a rather pleasant affair,” she said. “I was worried things might go … out of hand.”

“The night is still young.”

“Is this a threat?” She asked him with a smile. “Berwyn promised he'd keep an eye on you for me.”

“Hm, he did?”

Taking a sip out of his wine, Fenris directed his gaze to Berwyn again. Much to his displeasure, he saw that Anders had approached him, offering him and Bethany some sweets from a tray. Berwyn accepted one with a smile and then, perhaps having sensed that he was watched, turned to where Fenris and Arys were standing. He waved at them cheerfully.

"Why don't you go to him instead of sulking in a corner by yourself?" Arys asked.

"I'm not in a corner," Fenris corrected her, taking another, bigger swig of his wine. It was strong, with faint hints of nuts and spices. "Besides, he looks like he's having fun. I don't want to ruin it."

"How would you ruin it exactly?"

"By not being drunk enough to play nice with him." Fenris grimaced as he gestured towards Anders. “Why did you have to invite him?”

“He's my lover, Fenris.”

“And he's currently sitting in a room with two templars. Don't you think you're taking an unnecessary risk?”

“Carver knows better than to go against me,” Arys smiled, suddenly looking not like the refined noblewoman she wanted to appear this evening, but like the bold warrior she truly was. “And Cullen doesn't seem to realize there are other mages besides Bethany around him, which is good.” She suddenly hooked  her arm around his. “Let's go talk to someone. I won't have you stand here all evening like … like some scarecrow!”

“I'm fine!” He protested. Arys was unusually strong, and he spilled his drink on himself trying to resist her pulling. “I'll go talk to Berwyn once he's alone. You go, talk to your other guests.”

“Hm.” She pouted at him, but let him go. “Fine. But know this – Berwyn will not be happy knowing you spent the entire evening playing the shrinking violet.”

Fenris sighed once she'd left, but it seemed that his relief had been premature. As soon as Arys was gone, Varric took her place. Fenris was much more welcoming of his company, mainly due to the fact that the dwarf held two cups of wine, filled almost to the brim. He promptly gave one to Fenris.

"Cheer up a little, Broody!" He said. His voice was a bit louder than usual, and Fenris figured he was probably a bit tipsy. "Haven't you been to parties before?"

"Not to ones where I didn't have to serve drinks to the guests."

"Oh, right." The reply left the dwarf momentarily confused. He quickly recovered, though, and merrily slapped Fenris on the back. "Guess I'll have to teach you how it's done then. Listen up, Broody! First, it's important that you don't sulk away in the corner all night-"

"We are not in the corner."

"Metaphorically speaking." Varric waved his hand dismissively. "What I mean is, it's important for you to mingle a little. Like the kid is doing."

Fenris looked at his beloved. Berwyn was still with Bethany and Anders, but he wasn't taking part in their conversation. Instead, he was sitting on the floor and playing with Arys's mabari, Azure. The dog's belly was visibly bloated, and it amused Fenris to imagine that Berwyn and others had spent most of the evening sneakily feeding her.

"He looks happy, doesn't he?"

"Oh, he is." Varric laughed. "He's a good sort. A bit troublesome, but he'll grow out of it."

"Yeah." Fenris mumbled, not really knowing what he was agreeing to. He'd just noticed how mesmerising the light reflecting off of Berwyn's raven locks was. “He looks … so beautiful.”

“Mm?” Varric shot Fenris an amused glance. “I'm sure he'd say the same for you. I'm guessing he picked the mask and outfit?”

Fenris nodded, bringing a hand to his face and gingerly touching his mask. It was wooden, covered in dark blue velvet. Unlike most Satinalia masks he'd seen, this one lacked any decorations save for a few silver lines along the edges. Berwyn had bought it and insisted that Fenris put it on, and then had made him stand in front of the cracked mirror in their bedroom to see 'how handsome he looked'. And - Fenris was willing to admit so to himself – he did look handsome.

So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn't even notice Berwyn looking up and smiling at him. After giving Azure a few more pats, the young mage got up and walked over to the fireplace. Fenris noticed him only when he was standing less than a foot from him.

"How are you?" He asked, taking Fenris's free hand in his and squeezing it. "Not entirely miserable, I hope?"

Berwyn's own mask was pure white, with black lace over it. It was distinctly feminine, though Fenris thought it suited his beloved quite well. Beneath the mask, he could see that Berwyn's cheeks were slightly flushed and assumed that, like himself, Berwyn had also started to feel the effects of the wine.

“I hope you're not too angry at me for bringing you,” Berwyn continued. “I thought it would be a nice change, getting together just to have fun.”

“I'm fine,” Fenris said with a smile. “You know I'm not the partying sort. But I am having fun too, in a way.” He shook his glass meaningfully. “The drinks are good. As is the company.” Varric grinned at him and then walked away, granting the couple some privacy. “I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself.”

Berwyn's eyes darkened with worry for a second.

“I … I guess it is kind of selfish that I left you all alone ...”

“No, I didn't mean it like that.” Fenris smiled. “You looked so happy. I … I wish I could see you like that more often.”

“We could start gate-crashing all the rich people's parties. Then I'd be happy all the time!”

“I'll consider it.” Fenris chuckled. He glanced around the room to make sure that no one was watching them, then took Berwyn by the hand and pulled him towards the door. "Come."

Stumbling slightly over his own feet, he led Berwyn outside, and then, ignoring the other's hushed protests, dragged him over to the staircase. Tripping on the thick carpet, they eventually managed to end up on the second floor.

"Fenris, we're not supposed to be up there! Arys said so!"

"Shh!"

They quieted down when they heard footsteps below them, but it turned out to be Sandal, who was walking down the hallway, humming to himself. He paid them no mind and was soon out of their sight.

"Arys will kill us!" Berwyn said, giggling softly.

"Only if she finds out."

Fenris opened the door to one of the spare bedroom and pushed Berwyn inside, closing the door behind them. He turned the key in the lock it, in case anyone noticed they'd left the party and came looking for them. Certain that he'd ensured wouldn't be disturbed, he and Berwyn could enjoy each other's company. He wrapped his arms around Berwyn, pulling him in and locking his body in his grasp, and kissed him.

"Fenris ..."

"Mm?" He hummed with his eyes closed. Berwyn's mouth tasted like wine and chocolate, and he found it hard to pull away. But when he felt Berwyn squirming in his arms, he halted his affections and looked at him with slight worry. “What is it?”

“I just … can't help but think that you … well, you were bored. And … I'm not happy with that.” Berwyn removed his mask, tossing it aside with a sigh. Now that his face was fully exposed, Fenris could see how disturbed he truly was. Berwyn continued, looking down at his feet. “I'm really sorry … I should have been more thoughtful.”

“Berwyn.” Fenris put a finger under Berwyn's chin and lifted his head so that he could kiss him again. “You needn't worry about this. You're not obliged to be by my side at all times.”

"But I want to!"

“Well, you're here now.” He smiled.

“I am.”

With a smile, Berwyn removed Fenris's mask. He stared at his face for a few seconds, then leaned in and kissed him on the nose. He always started with the nose, Fenris thought, though he didn't dislike it. He'd actually come to find the quirk adorable.

He pulled Berwyn closer, pressing their chests and lips together. His legs slowly guided them to the bed, and Fenris helped Berwyn lie down before climbing over him. He kissed him repeatedly on the lips, the cheeks and the neck, until Berwyn's skin was flaming under his lips. Then he lied down next to him, wrought his fingers in Berwyn's hair and pulled him close until their foreheads were touching.

They stayed in each other's embrace for a while, with their eyes closed. Finally, Berwyn's soft whispers broke the silence.

“We should go back,” he said. “Someone must have noticed we're gone.”

“Mhm ..” Fenris hummed in agreement. He made no effort to get up though, and Berwyn remained still as well. “Or … if you are really serious about making sure I have fun ...”

“Yes?” Berwyn opened his eyes to find Fenris staring at him.

“Then we could stay here until Arys kicks us out?”

[icharchivist]

Ive been told da2 gets a lot of bad reviews. What's your opinion on the game?? :0

Heyo!!

Oh dear. Okay so let’s start it by saying i absolutly adore da2. I love all the da game, and da2 is no exception. They all have different strong points that makes them stand out on their own and as a result da2 is a great game on its own.

I tried, under the cut, to enter more into details without spoiling, hopefully it worked ahah.

IMO the reason da2 had bad reviews…. is that it came after dao and people had high expectations, and some people having problems with new things da2 introduced - ie the general “Sequel Problem” of people refusing it to be any different from its original game. 

I’ll get more in depth under the cut (avoiding spoiling as much as i can) but ay

I believe it’s likely people got upset to be kinda “locked into a city” while dao allowed you to go to more places. The focus of the story is also much more the Mage/Templar conflict while dao focused on a diverse brunch of conflict. (which…. Okay the thing that annoys me with that argument is that yes there were more conflicts in dao, like, the dwarves and such, (and like, dao’s focused on so much because they didn’t focus as much in depth on them. dao was an intruduction to the lore, so it couldn’t overwhelm us with it) but the magic conflict was a pillar to dao not only with the Circle incident, it was worth focusing upon, and even there they took the time to explore others lore stuff. Hell there’s a hell tone of forshadowing in da2 which personally for the lore hungry person i am, i love to death.)

And there isn’t “one great goal” in the end of the game - like in dao you have to defeat the blight! in da2, you have no idea what’s the endgame will be and how it’ll end, you kinda move forward to understand why Varric is telling your story to the Seeker of Truth.

(I think a complain that could happen but that I don’t see brought up a lot is that da2 being the only game narrated by a character, da2′s story could… actually be a little simplified? I personally blame most of the clumsy writting or like, lack of environment (which are two problems a lot of people complain about) to the fact that it’s Varric telling the story and the Seeker imagining it, therefore the point of view is biased. It gives them a good narrative stun imo and it allow more fluidity, and it doesn’t mean that all of da2 is bullshit either I hope people would understand that. I don’t see much people complain about the narrative format but imo a lot of the major “uncoherence” people complain about can… completely be justified over the narrative format so idk)

I think what people are overlooking when they make those complains is that… da2 is meant to be a smaller story. It’s not the story of a Warden, or of an Inquisitor - it’s Hawke, a person who’s trying to survive in this world, who’s trying to have their family survive, and who ends up wrapped into a conflict against their will. 

da2 isn’t meant to be as big and vast as dao because it’s a smaller story with huge consequences, it’s not supposed to be like dao.

(also on the technical levels i’ve read apparently the story was more planned to be dao->dai, but EA pushed the compagny to do another game quite quickly so instead of rushing to dai they decided to expend elements with da2 so the story will flow more naturally. Because they were pressed and with new engins the game had limitations, so they focused on a more intimist story about Hawke and their friends.) 

In some ways da2 can be considered a transition game, but i don’t completely think so, it gained an identity on its own and personally i think the emotions and elements of da2 stand out even more as its own strong story because of the approach taken. 

Then I think also it’s because this game is much more heavy on small consequences, especially with how the approval system work - say, how easily it is to lose the surviving sibling’s life to the deep roads, or how completely different a character storyline can go depending on how you befriend them or rival them. If you don’t play your cards right i think it’s possible to be disappointed with where it’s taken, but 1- it’s not. as bad as it sounds, 2-, I personally think it’s even more of a strength. 

DA2 is a personal game. if the Warden’s companions stuck around because they had to save the world, da2′s companions only stick around because…. they like Hawke. That’s it. That’s why the approval system is Friendship/Rivalry and not Approval/Disapproval. This isn’t a question of them approving your actions it’s a question of how your friendship developped toward the years. It’s extremely bold but require players to be even more involved with the characters because their own friendship is what holds the game together. 

Also the fact that da2 happens over the course of multiple years (if i’m not wrong about 7 years) while we have dao happen over the course of one year/one year and a half with awakening, only. The bound between the companions isn’t supposed to be the same. Da2 asks you to care more than dao did. And while dao definitly have character development with the approval, da2 pushes it further with how the consequences of said development pay off. (although i’m not saying it in a bad way for dao - even if they were “around to save the day” their friendship was genuine with high approval and it was still emotionally charged).

And I think a few people may have had a problem with that while… it’s a great thing? It makes the game stand out. It makes it more emotional. 

Then - be careful with reviews because who generally leave review? Ye certain bases of gamers that. huh. Especially in 2011 where it was still the time of even shittier gamers that we have now. 

For exemple I’ve read there had been a lot of uprising over the fact the whole romance team were bi. Which i find stupid af, but apparently this was a problem in 2011. I’ve read people being absolutly upset and tear the game to pieces because they found it irrealistic. Worse even - Anders shows he has a crush on Hawke no matter what gender Hawke is, so players can’t exactly ignore it. (Also if the info filtered on forum - in the mlm romance with Anders, it’s confirmed that Karl, the mage who was made tranquil in the begining of the game? Was Anders’s… lover for lack of a better word when they were in the Circle so they remained intimate. (he was the reason Anders ran away from the Circle in Awakening for the last time- a whole other can of worm i won’t expend on) It’s therefore implied that after his death Anders’s emotions were all over the place, thus his crush happened over the person who helped him. But ye, if people learned that, they therefore learn that Anders kinda have his bisexuality in the frontrow and it cannot be ignored.) I’ve read hundreds of fanboys rant about how it made them uncomfortable, and a lot of different sort of discourses over the sexualities of that game. (most that I think are completely ot of place and again, remembering the target demographic, 2011 wasn’t as much a good time for those things as recent years.) 

(also the worst thing about da is its fandom, i don’t trust any “common opinions” whatsoever. 9 out of 10 it’s deforming plot informations to fit an argument that doesnt have its place here). (…. although I suppose the same thing could be said from my own opinions so like, make your own opinion, truly. Don’t let people influence you. DA is a personal experience, which can be completely different depending on your choices and on how you get along with the companions-  don’t let anyone ruin it.)

Then i’m not gonna act like the game is flawless either but I think the reasons people pick on it are… not good reasons. There’s flaws yes but like all the games (there’s tons of flaws in dao and dai, and it doesn’t remove from their qualities and the strong stuff that are in those games - why would you treat da2 differently), and they’re minors in the whole game.

I know the ending caused problems for a lot of people too, and that I can’t enter in details there - I see a few cons, but imo the endingS are incredible on what they mean on a thematic level. it’s really complicated to enter into details and i wouldn’t want my “it’s incredible” to be taken out of context or like, about a detail that I don’t mean by that - so maybe later, but i do think the game is asking you to weight the impact of your decisions and the conclusion is really strong. 

I think one of the possible other reason it may have badly reasonated with some fans is the lack of power fantasy? For exemple, especially for human nobles, you can actually become king/queen in dao. And it’s treated as a good thing. And in the end, even without playing this origin, you become Warden Commander, and an advisor in the throne room, and the Hero of Fereldan people will respect for ever. Your accomplishment are important and it makes you feel empowered.Da2 doesn’t treat power the same way. The Mantle of Champion is more stress indulging, especially when you play as a mage, because you are seen by everyone. The Champion Mantle isn’t the end of your story, like the Warden Commander was the end of the Warden’s story in dao. the Champion title is more stress infliging considering the current political state of Kirkwall.and there’s more to that later but to me it’s something I find fascinating. 

What I find fascinating with this series of game is how much the context change how you can approach a similar situation. I’ve compared it a lot to dao to make my point but I want to be clear: i love the approach of dao, it fits in its context, in how the plot elements are going on, about why all of this is happening. because in dao’s context, the fact it happens this way is extremely interesting and much more telling - and the emotional involvement is still here. The idea is that by contrast, because of the different context in da2, the way things are different is fascinating and coherent. But say, a treatment like that wouldn’t have worked in dao’s context - it works because da2 created a context in which this was what rose the stakes.

People who just wanted to relive the experience of dao couldn’t get that in da2 because the context was too different, so even if you can hit some vague marks (romance and have sex with your LI, characters development, position of power ect..) the context will require you to think about it differently, so if you go in thinking about having it the same way as dao i think you can be disappointed.

I personally think da2′s context make for a lot of brilliance in its scenario without undermining what dao accomplished.

(and i didn’t mention dai at all because i don’t want to spoil but my reasoning applies there too - the differences or similarities in dai with the others games works because it works in its context and those elements cannot be taken out of their context if you want to appreciate them. Putting them in contrast isn’t belittling one or the other, it’s seeing why the context allowed to have such different or similar plots and why it works.)

Also i think it may play that da2 is more political. or at least the politics cannot be ignored. dao was extremely political but you could go "shut up i just want to kill that dragon" and make quick decisions about politics. Da2 is entrely centered about the politics of the chantry/circle/mage/templar and people can be allergic to plot asking you to take into consideration a lot of issues linked to oppression. but idk politics were in dao too ppl who complain about it in da2 are just mad that this time they are forced to care about it

I think da2 fall flat if you’re not ready to involve yourself emotionally, because the emotions is the most important factor of da2, before even the accomplishments and the likes. it’s the driving force of the game. I do think the emotions are super important for the enjoyement of all the games, but for da2 i’d go as far as to say it’s a requirement. 

if you like lore, too, da2 is full of it, it has a lot of intruiguing lore pieces to remember for later; I know i didn’t think much of them the first time but ever since dai i’ve been digging in every codex possibles and da2 has a lot of interesting stuff when it comes to the lore. Maybe harder to find the interest for without the big picture, but really incredible and interesting to read nevertheless.

For the story, again, I think it needs the emotional bound to your character and to the other characters, but i still think it’s a really important story that had to be told, and if it had to be told, this way to do it was really good, it was important, it showed how those things in the little picture would affect the big picture. I love this kind of things. Thematically the story is incredible.

TL;DR: I absolutly love da2, it’s an incredible game on its own rights, and i entered a lot of details why because a lot of the things i saw people complain about are… the things I actually love with the game. It’s supposed to be different from dao because of its context, and it does it well, if you’re ready to be taken by this new adventure and understand it doesn’t have the same stakes as dao. 

People complained about a lot of things, the da fandom always complain about something all the time, but especially in 2011, when most of the reviews of da2 came out, the fanbase and people who were loud about it were… Not ready i think? For lack of a better word? 

SO YE that’s more of less my thoughts, and i’m mostly just saying why i like things people disliked, but trust me i loved this game in a lot of others details, and i tried to remain vague to avoid possible spoilers ahah.

Take care!!

[silent-of-spirit]

MORE writing? Like, Two in three days? What? Sarah, what has gotten into you? 

I know, I know. It’s shocking, but I am trying not to question a good thing. Anyways, have more Fenris and Faye because they are my fonts of inspiration at the moment. Dunno why.

@ladylike-foxes

Fenris x Faye Amell - First Kiss

Takes place after this.

The first time he sees her smile, it is as though the clouds part and the world is flooded with light. He is entranced by the sight of it, and it becomes nearly impossible to keep his distance – to allow her the space he has given so she can heal without the pressure of his feelings.

The distance allows him to process as well, if he is being honest. He is still not sure what to make of the revelation that blindsided him on that rainy night when she broke in his arms. It is... different and confusing – something he was wholly unprepared for, and still is.

But oh, how it consumes him, something as simple as her smile sparking the fire within him all over again.

He sees it as a mark of her progress and does not press, merely smiles back – the first genuine smile he can remember – as Varric guffaws in the background.

“Dancing? W-was that a joke, Broody?” Varric can hardly contain himself, threatening to fall out of his chair. Fenris watches with an amused quirk of his lips and a cocked brow.

“It's completely true,” Marian pipes up, pushing herself away from where she lounged against Anders by the fire. The mage had been dozing, but startles awake at her movement, a brief flash of disappointment crossing his face as she pulls from his arms. Marian is the very picture of complete seriousness as she leans forward conspiratorially. “I've seen it. All hours of the day he just prances. He's really quite beautiful. That grace, that beauty, that flexibility...” She waggles her eyebrows on the last, a large smile finally breaking the false mask. “He could give any of the dancers at the Blooming Rose a run for their money.”

Varric loses it while Anders struggles to conceal a snort, cheeks coloring. Fenris rolls his eyes at Hawke's wink, but a smile tugs at his own lips. But then, the inexplicable; Faye laughs.

It is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

None of them mean to, he knows, but all of them fall silent, gazes turned toward the quiet woman in shock and joy. He swears Hawke's eyes are shining with unshed tears. Faye's widen at the sudden attention, and she ducks her head, embarrassment creeping up her neck and cheeks.

“That's a good thing to hear, Sparrow,” Varric says softly, looking every bit the proud papa he isn't. But he had adopted her in a way – the same way he had Brionna – and he wants only the best for them both. Faye is beloved by them all, forever winning them over with her gentle words and kind manner. She is the soothing rain after a wildfire, bringing comfort and peace whenever anyone shares her company. They three swarm her, and she squeals, the peals of her laughter ringing through the room.

He watches, reminded of a conversation months past – when they had both begun to trust each other, had begun to open up and slowly share their darkness... piece by piece. It was the beginning of recognizing they don't have to be alone – a turning point.

“I am afraid,” she had whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as she watched the rain from the window. So clearly he saw the memory of that night reflected in her eyes – the rain that had chilled her to her bones, and the ghosts of demons and memories that saw her flee. She closed her eyes, and a visible struggle had crossed her features.

He spoke, unwilling to see her shut herself back off so quickly. “What of?” He'd asked, voice gentle. She seemed surprised, turning her gaze to him with parted lips that did not seem to know how to form the words. She had never spoken of it, had never admitted its existence so openly – and he saw in her face that she hadn't meant to. There was so much uncertainty lingering in her eyes, and he understood it. He closed the book in his lap, set it aside as he rose. He took measured steps, allowing her the chance to tell him to stop, the chance to run – but she did neither. She watched as he seated himself in the chair beside hers and waited.

She had turned away, seeming tortured by her own confession, confused by her willingness to speak of it in his company, and he did not press. He sat, watching, allowing her to decide if she would reveal herself. He knew how hard it was.

Oh, how he knew.

“I'm not strong enough,” Her voice had been so pained – so utterly broken. “I watched as the demons claimed people whose strength I envied, those who had been bulwarks against the tide of cruelty. They fell so easily, and... and...” She took a shaking breath, fingers flicking away the tears that had slipped from her eyes.

He hadn't meant to, but he reached for her hand, gently pulling it back as she made to erase the evidence of her pain. He clutched it between both of his own, and it was so small... so cold. She had gasped at the contact, but did not pull away, instead turning her face so he could not see her tears.

He hadn't minded, his only thought to let her release them – to allow herself to feel it instead of hide from it.

“I learned before my Harrowing that demons will do anything to get out of the Fade. They will use your desires, your fears, your emotions – make promises and whisper in your ear the thing you want most so you will open yourself to their influence.” She paused, trembled, “But that's the thing; they have to be allowed. Those people I envied, those pillars of strength and knowledge... they were among the first to fall. What chance did I have?”

“You closed yourself off,” he said, voice rumbling between them. The way she stiffened gave him his answer.

“If I choose not to feel, then what can a demon use against me?”

He closed his eyes against the emotions that surged through him, memories of his own – demons of a different sort, content to tempt you with everything you want only to rip it from your grasp with a cruel sneer and laughter.

“I fear the same,” he confessed, unconsciously squeezing her hand in his grasp. She placed her free hand atop his – a gesture of solidarity, comfort, understanding.

Terrified to feel, of being used and having their control stripped from them...

Yet here they are, laughing and smiling and remembering how good it feels. She meets his eyes, and they are bright, shining with life and humor... until a strange sound causes them all to freeze, looking around in puzzlement.

“What was th-” Anders begins, but is interrupted by an obscene moan, muffled by the walls and very clearly sounding from the direction of Garrett's room. Anders' eyes widen, Marian has the look of mischief about her, Varric seems to pale slightly, and Faye has become scarlet from the tips of her ears to the collar of her dress.

“And that's my cue,” Varric grunts as he pushes himself up. Marian laughs, pinning him with an amused look.

“Aw, Ver-bear you should be happy for them! Maker knows they've been dancing around each other long enough,” She smirks as Varric waves a dismissive hand in her direction.

“I can be both happy for them and extremely uncomfortable that a girl I damn near see as my daughter is the one with him.” Marian bursts into laughter as the dwarf flees, pulling Anders to his feet the moment the door swings shut.

“I sense a friendly competition,” she says with a saucy wink, pushing the mage toward the stairs.

“W-what? Wait,” he tries to say, silenced by a swat on his rear.

“Time to show Garrett who the superior man is,” Marian says, giggling like a girl at his spluttered attempts at speaking. “I trust you can find your way out, Fenris,” she calls just before swinging her bedroom door shut.

Fenris shakes his head, chuckling softly to himself. Hawke certainly never lacks entertainment. He looks over to Faye, nearly snorts at the way she pointedly looks at everything but the two doors at the top of the stairs, face awash with color.

“Thank the Maker the doors to the library are thick,” she says shyly, shooting him an embarrassed look. He raises a brow.

“You're going to sleep in the library?”

She lets out a nervous, breathy laugh. “My room lies directly between theirs. The silence is preferable to their... uh... to that,” If possible, her flush grows deeper, and he cannot hold back the laugh now. She glances at him, sheepish, and pushes herself to her feet.

She is silent for a moment, shuffling her feet against the carpet in a nervous gesture he does not expect. The embers in the hearth crackle somewhere behind him, signaling the dying of the fire moments before the light in the room fades to a rosy glow.

Whatever has her nervous, she seems disinclined to speak on it, so he rises from his chair. He has no desire to stick around for the antics sure to ensue. The twins are competitive about everything, and it is utterly ridiculous the lengths they will go to one-up the other.

He stretches briefly, cracking his neck before nodding to Faye with a small smile.

“W-wait,” she says, clearing her throat, “I, um, I have another book for you,” She reaches into the pocket on her dress and pulls out a battered notebook. He recognizes it immediately, gaze flicking from the worn leather to her face. How long had he witnessed her scribbling in that very same book? Five years? Yes, he decides. Back when his prejudice had seen him hate her despite her silence. He feels a slight twinge at that.

She steps forward until she stands before him, holding the book aloft with slightly shaking hands. “I wrote it,” she says so quietly he almost wonders if he imagines it. “I wanted you to be the first to read it,” and he knows he doesn't imagine that. His breath seizes for a moment and he fixes her with the intensity of his gaze. He does not know how to tell her what it means, for her to trust him this way, to hand him a piece of her soul in the form of words.

“Thank you,” is what he says instead, hoping it conveys what he cannot. Their fingers brush as he takes it from her, and that single point of contact nearly sets him ablaze. Something hangs heavy in the dim light between them, and she looks shy. But finally, she lets go of the book, seemingly rattled as she makes to turn.

Right on that one edge of the foyer carpet that never likes to stay put.

She stumbles, begins to teeter back with wide eyes just as he catches her around the waist so that she falls into him instead. Her hands clench in his shirt, and she looks up at him with parted lips and flaming cheeks and he wonders if she can hear the way his heart pounds.

He should push her away. He shouldn't be this close, enough to smell her faint perfume, heady and intoxicating. He needs to give her space. He can't – doesn't want to – confuse her, doesn't want her to think that she has to return his affections. She needs time to heal. He needs to give her space. He needs to, he needs-

He can feel the way her heart flutters beneath his palm, gaze captured by her lips as she wets them with the barest flick of her tongue. He can't step away, can't move, can't breathe, dizzy with her proximity, with the way she feels beneath his hands. He needs to stop, he tells himself even as he dips his head, fingers twitching against her waist. He manages it just before their lips touch, breath coming fast as he tries to rein in the temptation. Her breath mingles with his in the scant space between them, and he struggles to pull back, to regain control over his wayward body.

But then, “Fenris,” his name whispered like a damn prayer, and he forces his eyes open to look at her, nearly shaking. Her gaze is hooded, but he can see something there – a certain need, pleading. A small hand smooths up his chest, clutches the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.

And then she is pulling him down, closing the distance, and Maker, he must be dreaming when her lips brush against his. It is just the barest whisper of a thing, shy and hesitant, but it sets him ablaze. He has to close his eyes when she pulls away, has to grasp at the fraying ends of his self control before he breaks, before he scares her away – but when he opens his eyes he sees the worry in hers, the doubt that tells her she misjudged, and he could kick himself for allowing it even a moment to take hold in her mind.

He refuses to allow it to linger.

He pulls her flush against him, dipping his head to taste her, to feel her, and he distantly feels guilt at the way his mouth crashes against hers none too gently. But the guilt is gone as soon as it had come, and he is lost. Her lips are so soft and pliant, and already he is addicted to the way she clutches him, as though she is drowning and he is the only thing keeping her afloat. He can't get enough and his body sings as she kisses him back, needy, demanding, finally, the sharp tug at his hair causing him to growl as she attempts to pull him closer, closer, and it isn't close enough.

He leans over, diving into her as he deepens the kiss, nearly loses his mind at the sound she makes when he does so. She tastes divine, and he knows he would find contentment drinking from her lips for the rest of his days. He feels drunk, dizzy, breathless, lost in the way she molds herself to him so effortlessly, the way she begs with lips and tongue and sweet sounds.

Maker, finally, is the only thought that echoes in his mind and it is so much better than he ever imagined. He can't seem to stop, can't allow himself to pull away with the knowledge that she is just as lost as he is. He can't and again he tastes her, pushes her back, back, back until she hits the wall and breaks away with a gasp, lifting her legs to wrap around his waist without hesitation. He hisses at the way the action rubs her against him, and tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her head back to lave at her throat.

There is nothing but this moment. Nothing but the way she arches against him with a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan as he sinks his teeth into the junction of her shoulder. He is wild with need, with want, with the touch of her hands and her heart and her soul. With every kiss, every caress, he feels her. Not her body, but her – the woman she has hidden away beneath pain and trauma, begging to be set free. And she calls to him, the part of him that is buried and he feared to be gone. He finds her lips again; begs to be set free, to know her, all of her – those deep, dark places, her joy, her love, her sorrow, her pain. He wants it; wants her and he cannot find the words... cannot find a way to tell her... so he kisses her. He moves his lips against hers until his doubts are assuaged, until his body aches from want of more, until he is so dizzy and warm that he swears he must be drunk.

When they finally, finally, pull away they are both thoroughly wrecked. They try to catch their breath, chests rising hard and fast, eyes glossed over with want fixed squarely on the other's. He looks at her, intent on memorizing every detail of her face, and she blushes under his scrutiny.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, running a rough thumb over her swollen lips, watching the way she shudders. His eyes search her face and he doesn't know how to find the words to explain the way his heart swells. “Thank you,” he says again, hoarse and breathy. “Thank you,”

Something flashes in her eyes, and she places a gentle hand upon his cheek, pressing her lips against his once more with a tenderness that nearly makes him break.

“No,” she whispers, “thank you.”

They both are reluctant to pull apart, but they know they must. He places her back on the floor as gently as a babe, releasing her only when he sees she can stand properly. She smiles shyly, reaching for the book that lay forgotten in the chair he had tossed it to in his haste to catch her. She brushes her fingers over the cover, almost wistful in the way she looks at it.

“I, um, I hope you like it,” she says, avoiding his eyes as she hands it to him for the second time that night. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as again, he reaches for it, taking it with all the reverence he can muster.

“I know I will.”

She nods and turns toward the library. When she reaches the door, she pauses, standing still for a moment before glancing back at him over her shoulder, fingers pressed to her lips. She offers a radiant smile, all the more bright in the dim haze, and disappears into the room.

[the-tevinter-biscuit]

WIP Meme

Do This: List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or as little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on. This can be writing, arts, gifsets, whatever.

tagged by my good pal @gothic-princess-witch​ <3 i suppose this will serve as a good to-do list! and an opportunity for some teasers :) but what we’ll really learn is i cant name things

literally anyone who wants to do this can! i shan’t bother with tagging, but if you wanna then go for it! you can even say i tagged you, if you like 

long post is post so it’ll be under a cut

1. Rest Easy, Sweetheart (Currently: Chapter 4) - A direct sequel to my fic Milk Carton Kid  as it details Fenris’s healing process and adjustment to life back at home with his father, Sebastian, and ex?-boyfriend Garrett. Lots of angst and lots of hurt/comfort.

Isabela swung her arms wide open as she approached, ready to embrace Fenris in the world’s largest hug. She had always been a touchy person, taking every opportunity for contact. Before she could capture him, Garrett put a hand on her shoulder to stop her and then whispered something in her ear. From where he sat, Fenris couldn’t quite make out what it was that he said.

“Can I give you a hug Fenris?” she asked suddenly, arms wilting slightly as she stood directly in front of him. He swallowed roughly. For what it was worth, he couldn’t think of any reasons why she should make him uncomfortable, so he nodded slowly.

2. Mystery (Working Title) - When Fenris wakes up on a bridge in the middle of seemingly nowhere, he’s rightly confused. He can’t remember how he got there, or who this man is offering him a cigarette. All he knows is he wants to go home. With the bruises on his neck and a man who knows both too much and not enough as the only keys, he attempts to figure out what exactly happened to him.

“I know you want to leave but you can’t yet,” Hawke explained. Fenris’s head snapped up to look at him. 

“Do you know why I am here? How I got here?” he asked, determined for answers. The grin had faded from Hawke’s face and he didn’t answer for a moment, eyes drifting towards the sky. He had to have answers – he had to! “You have to answer me!”

After what felt like an eternity though was likely only a minute or two, he broke the silence with: “You specifically? I don’t. But we’ll both find out in time.”

3. Untitled - Fenris and Garrett and rival assassins who both get assigned to do the same job. At first, Garrett doesn’t recognise Fenris in all of his feminine get-up to have the upper-hand at the party, not until he catches him escaping from the scene after stealing his kill. A sorry excuse for smut.

When the mission came through, Fenris had immediately refused. It was a simple task, one that he could easily pull off. His target was an overweight, middle-aged man, wealthy and well-known for exploiting his workers. It was no wonder someone wished him dead. Annually, the target held a fancy party where he could mingle with younger women. He was after sex and they were after his wealth, the situation was simple enough. That wasn’t to say there weren’t men dotted around the place. Isabela had insisted however, that his chances of success would be much higher if he posed as a woman.

4. Longer version of Home - Garrett had only heard bad rumours about Fenris, an 8 year old boy from his class. But everyone deserved at least one friend right? What’s the worst that could happen? Angst-y children!AU covering some sensitive issues, particularly child abuse. Unsure of length at this point.

“He’s weird,” Anders said. “He gets into fights a lot. I heard he threw a chair at a teacher. He doesn’t like other people much I don’t think. I wouldn’t talk to him if I were you. What if he hits you or somethin’?” 

Hawke stiffened a little. He didn’t want to be hit, that was for sure. The boy was so small though, he couldn’t imagine his punches hurt much. However, what Anders said did seem to add up. He was covered in battle wounds that must be from fights and a repulsive attitude was sure to drive away other children. If he had been mean to a teacher, it was reason for them to not like him too. However, he was just a kid, wasn’t he? He wasn’t that much different from him. How could anyone hate Garrett Hawke? He was charming and witty with chubby cheeks and a cheeky smile. If anyone could get through to this kid, it would be him.

5. Into The Dark (aka. Teen AU) - Most of you know of this series, or my ask blog. Full fic documenting the love and life of Garrett Hawke and Fenris through highschool over 6 years from ages 11 to 17 in Kirkwall, England. Something is going on with Fenris after all, but what if he doesn’t want things to be fixed? A fic that encompasses all: humour, romance, drama, angst. This one is my big project and it probably won’t come out for a long time.

“But he…But he deserves it! You’ve heard what he says to me! He…He pushes my things off my desk and laughs at me and…and…it doesn’t stop outside of class he…he—” The boy, Fenris, was childishly babbling, voice cracking in places. Oh puberty, you were always a bitch. His eyes were becoming slightly watery, he blinked back the tears he was cut off by Mr. Vael.

“I know. We can sort this out but first you need to let go of him,” Hawke was surprised he wasn’t yelling at him, sending him to the headmistress. It was working though, Fenris’s shaky hands released Anders. He’d never forget the look of shock on Anders’s face for years to come as he did, genuinely surprised that Fenris had been defused so easily. 

6. Misc - I have some drawing prompts and drabbles to write in my inbox that I’ll get around to at some point probably.

[talesfromthefade]

Garrett Hawke x Fenris (Fenris POV) || SFW || 1558 words

“Dwarf,” Fenris interrupts the other’s story amidst their weekly game of Wicked Grace in Varric’s room at the Hanged Man, while Hawke has gone back down to the bar to fetch them all some more drinks.

“Yeah, Broody,” Varric responds, pausing his gleeful recitation of one of his earlier adventures to the Bone Pit with the mage before some of them had joined their little band of misfits, back when they’d been working like mad to scrape together enough coin to invest in that blighted Deep Roads Expedition.

“What purpose can it possibly serve to embellish that story? Aveline and Anders were with you on that trip, and we all know Hawke well enough by now. He casts supportive and debilitating spells, not those sorts of flashy offensive ones.”

“Are you being serious,” Anders blurts out before Varric can even open his mouth again, the blonde-haired mage so surprised he forgets himself and drops his hands, flashing his cards to Isabela before realizing his mistake and laying them face down on the table.

“When have you ever known me not to be, mage,” Fenris grumbles back at him.

“Maker’s tits. You really don’t know anything, do you,” Anders continues with a fierce glare across the table from the elf, despite the warning whisper of ‘Anders’ from his lover beside him. “So, what, you really think that’s all just something Varric made up? That Hawke doesn’t know how or doesn’t cast any firestorms, maybe throw some hail or lightning around a battlefield at the undesirables we run into if you aren’t with us?”

“Get to the point, mage,” Fenris growls angrily, even as he struggles to think. Why should his presence or absence matter in the least, or have any impact on how the other man fights?

But the elder of the first set of Hawke twins has returned with a tray full of drinks and begins setting them down in front of each of them just as his sister Sonja finally manages to cut Anders off from spewing any further diatribes. Garrett looks distinctly uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation and avoids Fenris until he has passed out all the other flagons. Fenris arrests his wrist just as he’s pulling it back towards himself having delivered the elf’s drink.

“What is he talking about, Hawke?”

“Fenris…” Hawke begins to reply uncharacteristically cautious, devoid of his usual cheeky sarcasm.

“Do you fight differently when I accompany you,” the elf presses on.

“Well, of course, he does,” Merill hiccups cheerfully over her drink, the pleasant flush of her cheeks a tell-tale sign her beers are beginning to hit bottom. “Everything’s a bit different where you are concerned,” she continues, before Isabela softly shushes and manages to distract her from further butting into the conversation.

“Why,” Fenris demands, still holding tight to Hawke’s hand, turning his gaze back to the other man, fighting back down the wave of memories and emotion the other elf’s words have stirred in him.

“You said my barrier spells pull on and draw from the Lyrium in your markings,” the mage replies with a slight frown as he meets the large, wide green eyes that stare up at him.

Once. He had said that one time, and only once, very early on in their acquaintance. Well before he had even decided he would let this man, this mage, into his life and let down his walls. And it had mostly been out of irritation, disgust, and disbelief in himself for finding himself so often in the company of yet another mage after his escape. Spells cast around him didn’t actually hurt, more an annoyance than anything, and sometimes an unpleasant reminder of Danarius using far less friendly spells on him. But Hawke had listened and never forgot.

“I won’t cast a broad-ranged spell like a lightning storm without one and risk hitting you,” Hawke adds firmly, shaking his head.

“Even if it would be a more effective tactic? That’s madness,” the elf criticizes.

“You’ve seen me fight plenty of times by now, Fenris. I know other spells that work just as well against whoever we’re fighting.” The mage hesitates a moment, seeming to weight whether or not it’s best to say anything further before adding. “I made you a promise, some years ago now, and I intend to keep it.”

The elf shakes his head a little at this, before suddenly becoming incredibly interested in the grain of the table in front of him, the tips of his ears flushing ever so slightly. Even so, after everything, even though they aren’t together anymore… It’s not right, isn’t fair that he still takes such considerations for him to get nothing back, but Garrett has made no demands, asked nothing of Fenris beyond what he is willing to give.

Hawke coughs after a moment, offering a pointed glance down towards where Fenris still holds his hand. The warrior quickly lets go, before suddenly thinking better of it, though he chooses to clasp his hand now rather than his wrist, earning a surprised look from the other. “I would like to continue this conversation… Without an audience, if you wouldn’t mind,” the elf requests quietly.

“Of course,” Hawke nods, gently, perhaps not entirely certain how welcome the gesture may be, the mage squeezes his fingers where they are wrapped in his, and briefly makes his apologies and goodbyes to Varric and the group at large, before taking his leave with Fenris in tow.

They walk in companionable, if a little awkward, silence together until they reach the edge of Hightown. “Your place, or mine,” Garrett asks.

He’s been back to the Hawke estate since, but the elf’s mind can’t seem to help but flash to a soft firelit room and a large four-poster bed, warm sheets, and even warmer and surprisingly tender touches and patient kisses. “Mine,” Fenris replies quickly, pushing the memories back down. Garrett nods and follows.

“This can’t really be that much of a surprise, can it,” the mage asks once they’ve entered the mansion. “Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly stopped caring, Fenris,” Garrett points out.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes frowning as the elf stares wide-eyed and silent at him for a moment after his words. “You left. Perhaps you’ve moved on. I shouldn’t say such things.” The elf, however, has finally gained some measure of control over himself again and is vigorously shaking his head.

“No,” Fenris replies firmly. “There’s been no one else. I- I simply am still a bit surprised that anyone- that you- would speak your mind and heart so freely,” the warrior admits. “Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be,” he adds softly with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, thinking back to the evening they first met. “Four years,” the elf marvels under his breath, shaking his head a little. “I am free. Danarius is dead. Yet… it doesn’t feel like it should.”

“Seems like you should be dancing for joy,” Hawke smiles sympathetically.

“I would have thought so. I thought if I didn’t need to run and fight to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does. But how is that? Whatever past I had is gone. I have nothing now- not even an enemy.”

“Maybe that just means you have nothing holding you back,” the mage suggests with a slight shrug.

“Hmm,” Fenris hums. “An interesting thought. It’s just… difficult to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter, it’s not without cause. Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads. Do you?”

“Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll stay together,” Hawke replies truthfully. He doesn’t mean it like that, Fenris thinks, nodding. Hawke still cares about him. He’s just said as much, though it’s obvious to anyone. Even amongst their tight-knit group of friends it had taken the rest of them months for anyone besides the mage’s sister to figure out the two of them weren’t together anymore, because the fact of the matter is while they’d never kissed or slept with each other since, they never really stopped acting like a couple. Perhaps, the elf thinks, because neither of them had ever truly stopped caring for the other. Even so, Fenris had been the one to end things between them, and Fenris would have to be the one to make the first move if he wanted any of what they’d shared before back again, because Hawke never would, no matter how much the mage might wish to. There’s something comforting in that thought, that the other would never pressure or attempt to manipulate him into doing or giving something of himself he doesn’t wish to. Novel. Even if it’s probably a bit too noble and selfless on the other’s part.

“That is my hope, as well,” the elf admits softly with a far warmer and less reserved smile than he ever gives anyone else. Not tonight, the elf thinks idly as he fetches them both one of the more decent bottles of wine he’s found in the markets here, but perhaps one day soon, he’ll be ready to talk about what happened that night three years ago, ask the other man to forgive him, and if there’s any chance they could have another go.

[5lazarus]

Hurt / Comfort prompt list: 6 and/or 17, please!

so you and Verdi inspired an entire story! these prompts provoke catharsis, and I was thinking of DA characters who desperately need that emotional catharsis, so here we go. Might make more sense if you read these two first, but I think it stands alone. Basically, after escaping Kirkwall, Hawke and friends are stuck in a cave, waiting for a storm to pass. Now they have to figure out how to weather each other. I put it up on AO3, titled Catabasis.

6. “I can’t breathe.” Isabela says, “Can you all fucking chill? I can’t breathe with this shit.” She throws her cards down. “Anyway, I win.” She pulls at her necklace anxiously. Everyone is on edge. Hawke bites back a response. Arguing with Isabela is never worth it, somehow she always wins, just out of pure intransigence. “We’re playing Go Fish,” Varric says, “not Wicked Grace. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rivaini. You haven’t won shit.” Hawke is surprised at his vehemence. “Don’t give me that look, Hawke. You know how much I hate caves.” He drops another card. “So we’ve literally blown up our lives. Blondie’s in a fucking coma. Aveline’s finally lost her job, and I’ve wasted all the money I spent bribing the guards to keep the only woman with principles on payroll. Which, in light of the whole city being burned down and invaded by our favorite choir boy, doesn’t seem the worst of my losses. We’re all pissed off. So? What are we going to do about it?” “We could talk,” Hawke says petulantly, sitting down cross legged. Varric hands them a few random cards. Hawke blinks at them. They aren’t quite sure if they are playing Go Fish, or Wicked Grace, or some unholy game Isabela and Varric have concocted just to mess with Bethany. They’ve done that before, made up a card game and rules on the fly. “What’s there to talk about?” Isabela says. She puts two cards down. “Hit me.” Varric slaps her hand and moves one of the cards sideways. They are definitely making up the rules as they go along. “We’re all pissed off. We’re on the run. Again. And I’ve lost my ship. Yet again. But what does it matter? Just pieces.” “What’s that?” Hawke asks. “Qunari philosophy. My mother was viddathari, you know this.” Isabela puts down another card. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like the Qun, that’s obvious. But it has its moments.” Merrill slinks out of the shadows and curls around Hawke. They put their arm around her and plant a kiss at the edge of her hairline, right above her ear. Merrill shivers, in a good way. Isabela smirks at them. “Anyway, it’s just--none of this shit matters, in the end. You just have to keep moving. Let the waves take you where they will. So Kirkwall’s behind us. Well, at least we know where we’re going. When the rain clears up, we’ll head to Wycombe. I’ve got some friends in the Rivaini merchant community there. We have options. Llomerryn isn’t that awful. Rainy, but smells better than Lowtown, at least. And we’re different about magic, about--well--elves. We won’t be turned away from taverns anymore, I’ll tell you that. If you want to stay with me.” They all fall quiet at that. Hawke wants everyone to stay together, but to what end? What’s the point where they’re falling apart like this? Take them out of the Hanged Man, without a common enemy, and immediately they are all at each other’s throats. Hawke catches Bethany’s eye. They want to try, but they are tired of trying and failing. They stay silent. Fenris says, “The Qunari don’t like magic, and you’re a fool to think Rivain can stay neutral when Tevinter inevitably drags Orlais into their war. And you’re a fool to think the Chantry won’t try to punish the Circles, for what Kirkwall did. You remember what Leliana said. The mages are stuck in a war for their own survival. We will find peace nowhere.” “Always a ray of sunshine,” Varric remarks. He throws his hand into the air, and the cards rain down like confetti. Merrill giggles. He says the unthinkable: “What if we split up?” “Don’t say that,” Hawke says immediately. “We stay together.” They cannot lose them and Kirkwall both. They’ve lost Carver and Leandra and Lothering, that awful mansion, their uncle and cousin too. Kirkwall will never welcome its champion home, not with Starkhaven’s army occupying it, not with the Divine’s Seekers crawling through Darktown tunnels for any hint of rebellion. Hawke has lost their home. They cannot lost their friends too. Bethany and Merrill are not enough. They look helplessly at Isabela, who smiles sadly. Isabela, who has never had much at all: she puts a stop to that though. Isabela fans her cards out in front of her lap. She taps a queen, then looks at Hawke. “We’ll have to keep running, for a long time. Especially if the Divine is after us.” She does not need to say it: I will follow you. She came back even after the Arishok killed the Viscount. She will not abandon them now. Hawke smiles, heartened. They know where they will go, now: Wycombe, then Llomerryn, and onward. “How much further ‘til Wycombe?” they ask. “Fenris? You’ve clearly been there before. What are our next steps?” Fenris says, “We don’t move on until Anders can move. It would be safer to split, but I am reluctant to risk missing a rendezvous.” There it is again, unspoken: I followed you from Kirkwall, and Anders too, and I will not leave me now. Do not leave me now. Fenris takes Anders’ hand into his own and his face twists. Hawke shifts, uncomfortable. Everyone has their tragedy, but it is harder to synthesize and react when the stage itself has been removed. Kirkwall is gone. What is the next act? Varric says testily, “We can’t live on the run forever.” Bethany snorts. They have, from the Marches where their parents met, to Denerim and the Hinterlands back out to Lothering, across the Waking Sea and Kirkwall again. The Hawke siblings can. Varric, though, hates moving. He is as solid as the Stone that birthed him, though he would never admit it. Kirkwall is their home, but for Varric, it is part of him. Hawke feels guilty. They cannot ask him to leave. They cannot ask him to go. Bethany, though, is irritated. “We can. I can. I don’t like it, but it’s better than letting the templars make me Tranquil.” She picks up the cards they have put out and shuffles them anxiously, fans them out, then shuffles them again. “We all have had to run, Varric. All of us except you.” Varric is taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sunshine?” His tone is less testy and more surprised. Bethany gets bitter, Hawke knows that better than all of them except maybe Anders, but she tends to keep that anger to herself. Merrill murmurs, “Oh, don’t start.” “Maybe I should,” Bethany says. “Maybe we need to be honest about what the next week is going to look like.” She turns around. “Aveline! Come back here. We all need to talk.” Isabela says, “I think you and I define ‘need’ differently, sweetling. Is there really anything more that needs to be said?” Aveline stalks over. She stares at Fenris warily, but pushes herself between Merrill and Varric.  It’s weird to see her without her armor, her hair unkempt, and tired. Even after they buried Wesley, Aveline kept herself clean. “What?” she says. “What now?” Bethany says, “We need to decide now if we’re going to split up.” “No,” Hawke says immediately. “Hawke,” Aveline starts, but Hawke’s heart is pounding in their chest, and they feel like their sister has punched them in the stomach. They cannot think to lose them all. Merrill and Bethany aren’t enough, not after fleeing Kirkwall. They need more. They want their friends around them like a bulwark against the storm. The rain picks up outside, thunder shaking the woods, and Hawke feels momentarily reassured. They cannot split up just yet. “Ma vhenan,” Merrill says, “calm down. We’re here, right now.” Hawke looks at her. She looks so weary, so deeply sad. She left Clan Sabrae behind, or they left her, and who knows what they will face, with Sebastian occupying the city? Andrastians don’t like the Dalish, however hands-off and kind Sebastian’s missionary approach is. “Bethany, go on.” Bethany’s eyes flick to Hawke, then to Varric, and then to Avelien. Staring at Aveline, Bethany says, “We’re three mages, two elves, a dwarf, a pirate, and the Champion of Kirkwall. Aveline, you’re the only one of us who can move relatively...unmolested. And together we stick out. When we’d have to pack up, we were able to pass because we were a family, and Andrastian, and Mother was always good at talking to guards and templars. But everyone knows who the Champion is. Everyone knows they travel with a Dalish elf and the apostate who set the mages alight.” Hawke says, “When did you become a poet? Is that what they teach you in the Circle? And here I thought it was just blood magic.” Bethany scowls. “You know I’m right. Stop deflecting. You always do that, since Father died. I wish you wouldn’t. You can’t laugh this off this time. Our house has been destroyed. Our parents are dead. And there’s a warrant for your head, and mine too. And I don’t think that dragon lady is going to save us this time.” Hawke pushes Merrill off and stands up abruptly. “Then what do you suggest, Bethany?” they snap. “I got us out of Lothering, I got us into Kirkwall, I got us fucking out! With the help of a few miracles. So what do you think? Can you conjure something up?” “Hawke, sit down,” Aveline says. “Oh, come off it, Aveline,” Hawke says, exasperated. “You had your tantrum earlier, it’s my turn now.” They laugh at the sour face Aveline pulls. It is all utterly ridiculous, and they rejoice viciously as they make it all worse. “Stop joking? We’re a bad joke. A pirate, two apostates, and the Champion of Kirkwall get stuck in a cave. Got a punchline?” Aveline pulls herself up, and Hawke laughs again. “What? What are you going to do? Hit me? I thought you delegated that to your subordinates. Anybody know what happened to those elves who killed that guard who raped their sister? Aveline? Any guesses?” They step closer, staring right up in Aveline’s face. “Come on, it’s a helluva punchline!” And then Anders croaks, “Enough.” He paws at the collar of his robe. “I can’t breathe.” Fenris hurriedly unbuttons it for him, and Anders smiles at him. Fenris caresses the edge of his jaw, and Anders grabs his arm to level himself upright. Hawke deflates, relieved that he has woken up, and that it is him staring sternly at the lot of them, not Justice. Perhaps they can make it through this after all. “Well,” Aveline says, smiling despite herself. “The revolutionary himself. And not possessed. For once.” Anders grimaces, and gestures. Bethany gets up and pours him a glass of water. He downs it and clears his throat. “Din’mean to interrupt a good screaming match. But.” He rubs at his chest, over his heart, where the templar raised his Smite. “Hi?” He smiles awkwardly. None of them have planned this far. None of this saw this coming, except, perhaps, Anders--and Hawke knows for a fact he was hoping he was going to die in the battle, that fucking fool. Hawke swallows hard, tears springing to the edge of their eyes. These fucking fools: they all thought they were going to die before they got this far, didn’t they? “Don’t be cute,” Hawke says, voice breaking. “I’m mad at you. You were going to fucking let them kill you, you asshole.” They wipe at their eyes, cursing themselves. Bethany is looking at them in shock. Hawke musters a smile, casts about for a joke. “None of us planned this far, did we? None of us thought we were going to survive what Kirkwall was going to throw at us. But we did. And I for one think it’s more a miracle than that dragon dropping out of the sky to save us from the Blight. That we made it out alive. So let’s not throw that away. I don’t want us to separate.” They look at them all, their friends. “You lot are all I have left. All I want. And I don’t want to leave you behind.” Isabela bites her lip anxiously. “Aw, Hawke! And here I was going to sell you all to the Blind Men.” “Shut up and stop ruining the moment, Isabela,” Aveline says wearily. “Can we salvage this?” Varric offers, “Group hug?” Fenris says flatly, “No.” 17. “Hey, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” With that, the tension dissolves, and Hawke begins to laugh. They throw themself down next to Fenris and pull him into a hug, messing his hair. “Gimme a hug!” they say. “I deserve it, I saved your sorry ass.” Fenris says, “Ugh.” He scowls but does not pull away. Aveline huffs and moves to Varric. Hawke can feel Varric glaring at them. They purposefully turn away from the two of them, grinning a tad maniacally at their other friends. The fissures are obvious. Hawke thinks, maybe it’s like the Fade, and they’ll go away if I don’t look at them. Merrill gets up and begins moving around the shelter, pulling together a meal. Bethany follows. Isabela creeps closer to Hawke, Fenris, and Anders, watching the others fondly. “Damn, Anders,” Isabela says. “I didn’t think you were going to be there when you woke up.” Anders winces. “I wasn’t so sure either,” he says quietly. Fenris tightens his grasp on his hand. Hawke worries that he is hurting him. They aren’t quite sure about the two of them, though they had almost felt themself falling off the precipice into love with both men. They have that intensity, that fervor, that adoration that feels akin to worship--but Merrill’s love is calm like the surf lapping at the shore at low tide, and Hawke is not yet another ship to wreck in the storm. Anders and Fenris seem tender, anyway--desperate, but tender. Hawke says, “So. Still alive then?” It comes out more sour than they intend. “Despite your best efforts.” Anders looks guilty. “I didn’t want to die,” he claims. Fenris looks away sharply, hair hiding his face. Anders bites his lip. “It wasn’t--well, I made it. You got me through. The wardens always said I’d go out with a bang.” Hawke starts to laugh, which is better than crying. “Wait until they hear about what you did in Kirkwall!” “Which was not a suicide attempt,” Fenris says meditatively. “So you say.” “It wasn’t. Fenris, you know it wasn’t.” “I do not want to discuss your propensity to self-destruction right now,” Fenris says, voice strained. “But we will.” Anders looks irritated. “It’s not self-destruction, it was basic self-preservation and you know I had no other option--” “Maybe I should leave you two alone,” Hawke suggests. “Somehow. Because we’re stuck in this cave until the rain lets out. And it’s the sort of situation where we need to rappel down, so we’d need to do it together.” “No,” Fenris says. “Hawke, back me up in this.” Hawke really does not want to get involved in this, but they have never been able to tell their friends when to learn some emotional continence. They sigh. “You let us know you were planning something. You told me we needed to prepare to flee. You did not tell me you were planning to blow up the Chantry!” Hawke shrugs. “To be fair, it was a little obvious, with the sela petrae.” Fenris gives them a dirty look. Hawke spreads out their hands. “What? Come on. Sela petrae, drakestones, all those dark murmurings in the sewers--I just thought it was more than a one-man show.” Anders smiles slightly. “Well, you know me. I like to hog the stage. I didn’t want to bring anyone down with me.” “Don’t I know it!” Isabela snorts. “And you were only three drinks in, too….” One day Hawke will have the bravery to ask exactly how the two met, and what they did. Today is not that day. They love their friends, truly, but they are so much, and today is too much, and they do not want to know. Fenris says, “I take exception to that.” He is very still. “‘Bring anyone down with you’--who do you think we are, then? Mere incidental acquaintances?” Isabela bumps Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke blinks. That means she wants them to make a joke. “Acquiantances to murder, you mean,” they try. “Uh. Accessories.” Isabela rolls her eyes. Everyone’s a critic, especially when your friend has tried to kill himself. Anger lights itself in the pit of their stomach. They swallow it, it isn’t productive, but testily, they say, “I helped you find the materials to make the bomb. You should have just told me, instead of trying to be a martyr. You’re my friend. I care about you. If we hadn’t done anything to stop Meredith, Bethany would’ve been made Tranquil too. I thought I made it obvious I supported you, we could’ve worked in tandem with the last of the Viscount’s family--it didn’t have to end like this. There could’ve been another way.” “No there couldn’t!” Anders stands up suddenly, eyes flashing blue. Merrill and Bethany turn around simultaneously from the mouth of the cave, and everyone’s attention is glued to him. Hawke notices Aveline’s hand drift to the handle of her sword, Varric fingers a bottle of knock-out powder he keeps at his waist, even Isabela already has a dagger in her hand. Anders wrestles Justice back. “There wasn’t,” he repeats. “I tried all other ways. Orsino too. Endlessly. When the Left Hand of the Divine came, I knew it was over. The Chantry would rather kill us than let us go. And I wasn’t going to sit down and let them brand me--” “I’m not disagreeing with that!” Hawke snaps. “I just--I’m your friend, Anders. We all are. I’ve known you for almost a decade. You did not have to do that alone. We’re just as implicated as you were ever going to be.” “Leliana used to be better,” Isabela says. “Before the Chantry got its claws in her again. But--we’re here now, aren’t we? Together?” She looks at them all pleadingly. “So do we have to fight? The decision was already made, why talk about it now?” Anders’ eyes flash again, but Fenris grabs his arm in a bruising grip, and Hawke winces. Isabela tends to agree with them, she hates anything that restricts herself and has enough empathy to hate prisons for other people--but Isabela hates conflict, and hates being trapped into defending a position. Anders and Fenris both need clear lines. Hawke puts their head in their hands, frustrated. Varric shakes his head angrily. “Because some of us didn’t want to be driven out of town,” he says. “Because some of us think killing a grand cleric is a fucking stupid way to try to convince people you’re not an evil abomination. Because some of us believe in using our words.” Hawke thinks, well that’s not where I wanted the conversation to go. They open their mouth to disagree, to defend, to protest, but Merrill gets there first. “Varric, please,” Merrill says. She is vibrating with tension. Hawke reaches for her, but Merrill brushes them off. “If it wasn’t going to be Anders, it was going to be me. Or Feynriel. My clan. That lyrium. Or even Hawke, you know Meredith was trying to push them out since they killed the Arishok. Varric, don’t do this. Please.” Varric’s face twists. Hawke is terrified again. He comes across as easy-going, but he disagrees with Anders on most things. Hawke had been afraid Varric and Aveline wouldn’t have fought with them against Meredith; both of them knew she was crazy, but neither of them like risks. They love Kirkwall and its structures, oppressive or not. But both of them are the reason why Hawke has made it thus far, from Lothering to a hole in the wall in the Free Marches, as it pours outside. Aveline got them to Kirkwall, Varric got them out of Lowtown. They’ve only made it this far because of them, and they don’t want to know how far they can go without them. “The pillow,” Varric says. “The fucking pillow.” He laughs shortly. “That’s what gets me, every time. You gave me it. And why? Because you didn’t want to deal with the fucking consequences. Your little revolution, your fucking lover, your clinic--you were ready to give it all away. Because you were done. You wanted your blaze of glory--and now we have to deal with it. Kirkwall, Kirkwall’s gone. The Hanged Man? Probably burnt to the ground. I know they went for your clinic. And Blighted Prince Charming’s seized all our assets and is tracking us like a bloodhound. Because you were pissed at the grand cleric. At the Chantry. So you decided to burn it all down, and leave us in the ashes.” Hawke says, slightly impressed, “Damn.” It is slightly better than what they were expecting, and at this point they are just relieved no one has hit anyone yet. Next to them Merrill relaxes slightly, and she slides her hand into theirs and squeezes it comfortingly. They are upset Anders prepared to die. They are upset he treated his revolution like suicide. They are so utterly relieved Varric is angry about that too, and not that he is still alive. Anders closes his eyes and sags visibly. He hugs himself, nails digging into his arms. Fenris says, “Don’t do that, you’re hurting yourself.” Anders gives him a wretched look. “Isn’t that all I do?” he murmurs. “No,” Varric says. “It isn’t, you asshole. You hang out with me, and that was a good choice. And I suppose Broody was a good idea too. How old are you know? Past the fucking age to know that when you hurt yourself, you hurt the people around you. Us. And I might not agree with you, I might really want to hit you right now--” “Varric,” Fenris says warningly, and Varric puts his hands up. “I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he says. Hawke shoots him an amused look: while Fenris is around, they finish silently. “But, anyway--I don’t actually want you to hurt. Else I wouldn’t have sunk so much cash into keeping the Carta off your back. Especially when you helped out with the strike. You owe me your fucking life. Live it.” Anders says, “I didn’t know you cared.” Varric says, “Fuck you. Hawke, I have terrible taste in friends.” “Don’t look at me,” Hawke says mildly. “I’m terrible too. I’m the one who went digging around in shit to get the explosives for him.” “So what now?” Isabela says. “Are we all good? Because the rain’s stopped, and we should get moving. Anders? You’re not going to blow yourself up? And Fenris, you’re not going to tear out Aveline’s throat? And Bethany--” “What?” Bethany calls from deep in the storeroom, where she is packing their bags with Aveline. “I’m staying out of this!” “You do that, carry on,” Isabela says. “Keep doing that.” They pack up, Fenris and Merrill fretting quietly over exactly how to write the apology in Elvhen and what wall on which to pin it up. Fenris speaks the dialect the clan whose storeroom they borrowed uses, but doesn’t know how to use their alphabet, and while Merrill knows the characters, she puzzles over the words. Hawke has managed to pick up over the years that Elvhen and its dialects are based on intent, and change according to the context. The two of them can’t seem to decide on how to convey the context of the situation, and disagree on what they are enmeshed in anyway. As the others bustle about packing, Varric walks to Hawke and gestures at the two arguing elves. “If I write about this,” he says, “I’m skipping over this part. Because I have completely lost the plot.” Hawke heaves their pack onto their back and whistles for their mabari to join them. “We’re all fucking pissed at each other, but we know that’ll pass. We’re not separating.” They smile. “We’re getting through this together, somehow.” Varric says, “I hope you’re right, Hawke. Because I’m not so sure anything is resolved.”