#and my Lavellan would be RUNNING up the stairs to Leliana to ask her if she knew this

[wylldebee]

I admit, in a majority of my past playthroughs I have Alistair as King (mostly with Anora because fuck you Eamon) because it never stops amusing me that Fereldan is being unknowingly ruled by a half-elf. An elf can save Fereldan from the Blight. An elf can save the world from the Breech. And a half-elf can be sitting on the throne of one of the biggest kingdoms in Thedas. It's hilarious, and a big fuck you to the anti-elf racists in the game.

[greypetrel]

For the intimate moments prompts: "reassuring touches" with the pairing of your choice? ❤️

Hello!✨ Thank you for this prompt, it just falls perfectly on time!

An extract from the fic chapter I'm writing, with my Lavellan (Aisling) and Dorian. Context: back from Adamant, she's struggling coping with everything that happened...

Tis the prompt list

19. Reassuring touches

“Can I-”

Dorian looks at her from his armchair, closing the book he’s reading on his pointer finger and leaving her space to finish her request. He’s stressed as well, she can see it in the harshness of his eyes, unusual except for when he’s tired, a deep crease between his eyebrows and lips contracted. He does look like his father, she muses. But, seeing her twisting her fingers on themselves, shoulders contracted to reach her ears and eyes darting between him and her feet, nervous, he doesn’t do anything much but attempt a smile and nodding, silently inviting her to go on as soon as he’s sure she’s watching him.

Adamant has been… Hard would be an understatement. The siege itself wasn’t easy, all that happened in the Fortress, the showdown with Erimond and the desperate trial to have Clarel see reasons. And then walking into the Fade, physically, facing the Nightmare demons, her missing memories -knowing for certain she didn’t kill the Divine nor was the Herald of Andraste has been good… But the price too high. Knowing the exact number of casualties and… Well. Stroud. She realised how much of a toll it took on her just weeks later, when they finally made their way back to Skyhold after so long, and she found herself alone in a room far too big and far too empty. She regretted telling Radha that yes, she could finally take possession of the room that has been assigned to her, it was no trouble. She has laid awake with her thoughts running fast through her mind, making her heart run faster and faster and taking her breath away. She hasn’t been able to sleep all night, there was no Dorian sans-Felix drinking it away in the main hall not in the kitchen -she checked- and the day hasn’t been kinder yet.

Oh, she knows people need her. She know that she’s the Inquisitor, she’s the one in charge, and that people around her are suffering as well, have been affected by the events as much as she was, and she doesn’t blame any of them for asking for her help, today. A part of her, under the panic, bone-tiredness and exhaustion, is really grateful to see that they all put enough trust in her to share their burdens and ask for help. It’s just too much, right now, with her personal emotions to cope with and that she had to sweep back under the carpet to be the caring, calming and reliable presence that was requested of her. And she feels terribly alone.

Aisling has felt alone when she popped in the Rotunda, and Solas still gave her the cold shoulder. He and Radha were chatting over this and that, and she wanted to bid the both of them -the closest she got to a proper family, beside Dorian- good morning. Solas stopped smiling, schooled his expression in a way he has never done with her, not even in the first days, and called her “Inquisitor”. Before the siege it was “Lethallan”, not even “da’len” anymore. She buried how hurtful it was under a smile, greeted them as she had planned to, and forced herself not to run up the stairs to the mezzanine, assuring her clanmate that she needed not to follow, she was just there for a round of good mornings before heading to the morning Council anyway. It hurt.

Aisling has felt alone when, after that Council, Josephine has stopped her in her office. And when all sweet, lovely Josephine could tell her was asking for her help in a serious family matter that indeed needed some quick intervention and must have been worrying the Ambassador a lot, if she couldn’t put up a calm and collected face talking about it.

She has felt alone when both Cassandra and Leliana asked for what happened, but not how she felt about it or how she’s coping right now. And of course, it was obvious, they needed time to mourn Justinia, their Divine and their friend who has chosen to speak with her, a Dalish elf who was there on a fortuitous chance, and not with any of them two.

She has felt alone when the Iron Bull has needed reassurance, in a way she has not really understood, but let on that he was phased by the whole matter. Always so reliable, always so caring for everyone, Bull needed the same today, and to calm down.

Sera has been scared out of her wits, she could read her better now after month of being patient with her and trying hard to understand what was under all those walls and pushing people away. She mainly found fear of magic, and how could she blame her? She mustered a brave face, pretended to be confident and collected and hoped the archer couldn’t see right through it. One of them openly scared was enough, and it wasn’t a luxury Aisling could allow herself anymore.

 Varric too needed a moment on his own -she has hoped on another time snacking puff pastries together on the floor but… Not today, apparently, the dwarf needed time to think and she has respected his spaces, letting him get used to the idea of his three friends headed to Weisshaupt on a dangerous mission, and of Raina that left without being fully over what happened in the Fade. Varric stayed, Aisling has been seriously moved by his decision, but needed a little time to himself. She could respect that.

Her heart clenched when Cole was nowhere to be found, and Cullen just excused himself telling her it was a “bad day” and he wouldn’t have been of much company for lunch today. He had apologised, of course, and she had nodded and smiled, switching the way she wanted to beg him to please let her help, let her try something, with a more respectful and neutral suggestion to come look for her if he needed anything. He nodded to her, but she just knew he would never have.

“They are hurting, da’len. Be patient and they’ll come around.” Keeper Deshanna would say, and she can hear her as if she was there with her, walking slowly beside her and leaning faintly on her arm. “You can’t expect them to focus on you if they’re bleeding. That’s the burden of your role, be strong and patient.”. Keeper Deshanna would be right. Keeper Deshanna isn’t there, and she just wants to cry. But she cannot cry. Not now, not in public. She has to let the afternoon pass, and then she can close her door and flood her own stupid huge room with tears and sobs. For now, she must endure.

When Vivienne -whom she respects but can’t agree with and really, really doesn’t want to face today of all days- requested to chat with her, she hoped that maybe there would have been one silver lining in this shitty day. Maybe a success was all the Enchanter needed to start respecting her as Aisling wanted, bridge the gap between them, stop the game of backhanded insults, start treating her like a peer and not as an unruly and stupid child. And instead, things went even souther than they already were. Because the Enchanter didn’t want to chat, oh no. The Enchanter wanted to know, with a sparkle of joy in her eyes that Aisling couldn’t convince herself was just staged and a performance, how it was to physically walk in the Fade. Because that was the success that could break the hard façade and win the respect of Madame de Fer who was, I’m jer own words, envious of her. All Aisling wanted to do was puke, there and then.

But Josie taught her good. She excused herself as politely as she could, faking a former appointment she was getting late to, and ran to the mezzanine in the Library.

Dorian has been the one that shared her distress. He was coping badly, and when she came to greet him this morning, he was trying to mask his real feelings and failing spectacularly, as irritable and angry as he was. He had thrown himself into work sorting books and treatises in a “sensible order”, complaining more and worse than his usual about a thousand little, easily fixable things, and lashing out on her when she tried to calm him down. He had realised as soon as he stopped talking, and apologised profusely. And he had been the only one in the whole day -now slowly falling into afternoon- to ask her how she was feeling.

Rationally, she knows well that Elves and Tevinters shouldn’t get so along. Rationally, she knows he most likely had slaves back home, or knew people who had them, and they never discussed it, as they never discussed the reason why she decided to have her clan learn some Tevene in the first place. They both knew. But she didn’t care one bit, honestly. Radha too warmed up some with him, in the Western Approach, and stopped gawking over them like a protective vulture when they were together. He saved her butt more than once, opened up and let her see where it hurts, didn’t judge her when she did the same. Took on her relying on touch to express affection with remarkable speed and shared the same way, now. She started to just hug him randomly once a day (“To compensate all the hugs you never got”) after the meeting with his father, and he let her, welcomed the gesture with a snarky remark that told the opposite that it really meant. They shared their stories and opened up, he taught her Tevene and maths and always involved her in his experimenting, they worked so well together, she helped him when camping and was helping him getting decent at riding -and overcome a weird fear of horses. They were birds of a feather, or “culo e camicia”(1) as he defined them.

And still, right now, standing before his nook, words are escaping her, her request stuck in her throat with the Nightmare still caressing her mind and convictions and seeding doubt. Aisling Lavellan, Abandonment. Her grave has said, in the Demon’s realm. And she is running on too little sleep and too many things bottled up to distinguish clearly that he wasn’t Solas, there probably won’t be any need to beg him to let her stay, please don’t leave her alone.

He doesn’t do anything, still waiting patiently for her to go on, with a delicacy Aisling loved him for, and at the same time resents greatly in the moment. It would be easier if he just decided to tell her what to do with some sarcasm, but none escapes his lips.

The nook he has claimed for his own is private as it can be, but not closed off and invisible, and she cannot afford to start bawling like a child there and then.

“Uh… I…”

She tries to continue, forcing herself, one word after the other.

“…Everyone is… Everyone is hurting and having a bad day, and a thousand things are happening together and-”

She won’t cry.

“-and I am glad people trust me enough to confide in me. I really, really am! But-”

A couple of traitorous tears rolls down her cheeks, fat and wet. She fixes her glance on her toes, curling them on the stone of the flooring in a last trial to get a grip on them and also on herself, and hopes Dorian failed to noticed.

“-but I need a minute. I feel awful. And terribly alone.”

There, it’s out, all in one breath. More tears follow the first two, damn. She frowns at the pavement and bites her lower lip, refusing to hiccup.

“Can I…?”

A moment of silence. She can’t force down a hiccup, dammit.

“I believe we can both fit in this armchair.” He finally speaks, in a casual tone. “If you don’t mind me going on reading, that is. I think Mother Giselle is busy in the garden, so…”

He scoots a little over on the sitting, as much as the narrowness of it allows, and pats the pillow left free beside his hip, loud enough for her to hear even if she’s not looking at him.

“Just don’t snot all over my clothes, darling, would you?”

She wants to punch him for recovering his smugness now. But, she giggles a little, watery and sad, so she walks all the way that separates them and settles herself on the armchair beside him. They move around, sticking themselves in a tangle of arms and legs that in theory couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but it is.

She drapes her knees on his thigh, and tentatively hugs his midriff, waiting for any signal to stop or move to another more comfortable position. He lets her do, and even slips his arm over her shoulder, tucking her in his side and hugging her back without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing to do. It surely feels like it. He doesn’t say anything when she lets go and starts to cry on his shoulder, biting her lip to muffle the sobs. He just starts reading aloud to cover her, starting from mid-sentence and mid-chapter, putting all his emphasis on the phrasing and making it sound like drawing mana from corpses is not anything boring at all. Talking to fill the silence, in the present, feels very nice.

She thanks him in Tevene, amidst the tears. He hugs her tighter.

Mother Giselle does find them, in the end. They’re both asleep on the same armchair, curled on the other in a position that surely will grant the both of them a massive back ache when they’ll wake up. She laughs under her breath, covering her mouth with a hand to muffle the sound and avoid waking them: they make her think of a couple of kittens sharing the same basket, snuggling together as close as they can to fend off the winter chill. She tiptoes softly close to them, spreading a blanket over them to keep them warm. Spring is just there, but the Keep still hasn’t warmed up. They luckily don’t wake, too tired for it. The Inquisitor, she notices with a smile, drools in her sleep.

This time, she doesn’t spread any rumour.

[w-h-4-t]

Oh Sweet Maker, there’s two of them

Basically @mfmoonbear​ has an OC (an elf mage named Yelisavita Lavellan) and so do I (an Qunari elf mage named Fen’Harel Adaar). Now they’re here together in a story. A n g e r y co-Inquisitor AU here. Rivalry +100.

They get along. Sometimes.

LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!

***

Due to its Andrastian nature, Skyhold was more than just a battle fortress. It was also a tribute to the Maker; the garden was often peaceful as the Chantry mothers swung censures while muttering the Chant of Light. However, Skyhold was also a refuge for all kind of people, including the polytheists of the Dales. 

“DIRTHAMEN’S SHADOWY NUTSACK WHAT THE FUCK”

One such example rang through the courtyard as four pairs of feet kicked up dust mid-run. There was a race happening, as usual, between two very competitive people, both dubbed Inquisitor. Yelisavita and Fen’Harel got along well enough at first. Though their time together in Haven was drought with cat fighting they grew to mutually respect each other.

That, however, did nothing to stop their competitive nature. 

It all started as a simple ‘race you to the War Room’ which was turning into an all-out mage battle royale. Both Harel and Yel made their way up the steps leading to the Main Hall, shoving each other before Harel caught the small elf in a headlock.

“YOU CHEATING BASTARD!” she screamed, making her face as red as her Valaslin, “LET ME GO!!!”

Harel switched her tactic, looping her arms around Yel before throwing her from the steps, “Make a barrier this time else you’ll get some bad bruises!” 

Giggling like an ass, Harel continued up the stairs, hopping over several steps at a time before she felt something cold take hold of her legs. At once, the Qunari elf listed forward before catching herself, attempting to yank her legs from its new icy prison.

“You little fuckin-” Harel started.

“Fucking what? Cheater? I didn’t cheat first, remember?” Yel interjected with a smile as she jogged back up the steps, taking her time before stopping by Harel, “Aw is the Dread Wolf stuck? Do you need help puppy?”

A menacing stare shot from the half-Qunari as her body began shaking. Soon enough, the ice began hissing as little wisps of flames licked out from Harel’s skin, eating away the ice.

“I’m a mage too, you fuck,” Harel growled

Yel simply smiled, coating her hand in a slick sheet of ice before reaching up to pat the angry co-Inquisitor’s cheek, “Uh-huh, I see that. Have fun with that ice, it’s extra reinforced for shitheads like you.”

Flinching at the cold touch, Harel pulled back before focusing to burn the ice away; Yel jogged up the stairs, only turning around for one second to mouth I win.

Oh that fucking does it.

Summoning every drop of magic in her bones, Harel blasted the ice chunks away, scaring quite a few people and earning a far away cheer from someone in particular.

“BEAT HER ASS!!!!” Sera yelled from the tavern rooftop, “SORRY YEL BUT I’M ROOTIN’ FER THE TALL ONE!!!”

Hearing the aftermath, Yel turned around slowly, green eyes shining with surprise. Harel shook the chips of ice from her feet before giving her signature wide-eyed, wide grin. 

“You heard her,” Harel said as she began clomping up the stairs, “I’m gonna beat YOUR ASSSSSSSS!!!!”

Now,  Yelisavita was a powerful and highly dangerous mage. She survived a great deal of trauma and death. Crawling out of Haven’s ruins, she proved she was indeed walking in the Maker’s Light despite being an Alienage elf. 

In that moment, however, Yel was a fennec in the eyes of a hyena. One would think she’d be careful now that she’d angered the other mage.

“Says the idiot caught in a simple ice spell.” Yel antagonized before leaping away, breaking into a sprint. 

Summoning another bout of magic, Harel brought forth ice, Faade Stepping in a blue blur past the stairs and into the Main Hall. Unfortunately for Harel’s dumbass, Yel had caught on, Fade Stepping in tandem past her. 

Varric had to hold down his many Merchant’ Guild letters as the two flew past, his hands gripping the many pages tightly, “HEY! Can’t a dwarf do some paper mache in peace?”

Back to shoving each other, Harel and Yel scrapped with Yel’s hands around Harel’s horns and Harel’s own trying to push the elf away.

“NO!” they shouted together at Varric, on the same page for once.

The black bones of Harel’s horns began to smoke as Yel funnelled fire into her hands.

‘YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Harel said before finally pushing her off, “Did you just try to burn off my fucking horns??!!!”

Harel in turn pushed the office doors open, noticing the absence at the desk before breaking into a sprint. Kicking in the office exit, Harel opened the door just in time to see Yel cracking the War Room entry open. 

Using the opportunity, Yel took off once more, diving through the Ambassador’s office towards the War Room.

“GET BACK HERE!!!!”

Instead of saying some crude quip, Harel continued running, pulling magic from her body once more to Fade Step, meeting Yel halfway as she flew forward in a blue streak. The Alienage elf turned back at the last second, her green eyes once again wide in surprise as Harel leapt forward, grabbing Yel and sending them both tumbling through the door. They rolled, pulling each other’s hair and scrabbling like wet cats before someone cleared their throat.

“Good day, Inquisitors,” Cullen said, raising his voice to cut off the tail end of their argument, “I see everyone is in high spirits.”

For a moment, the two stayed the way they were with Yel’s hands around Harel’s throat and Harel’s hand pushing Yel’s face back. 

Releasing her grip, Yel pushed Harel’s face back, shoving her into the ground before getting up. She gave a great smile as she dusted herself off, moving to take her place at the War Table. 

“Good day, Commander,” she said with a smile, a light blush painting pink shades around her Valaslin. 

Cullen smiled back, gripping the pommel of his sword before looking away, also blushing just a bit.

“FUCKIN-” Harel shouted as she moved off the ground, interrupting what was supposed to be a lovely moment, “I will put my foot so far up your a-”

Another throat cleared, this time, from the very end of the War Table. 

“Harel,” Josephine assuaged, “I will kindly ask that you show a modicum of decorum. Thank you.”

Scrunching up her face, Harel looked between Yel and Josephine, at first settling on the elf’s smug grin before staring at the lovely Antivan. 

“Lucky little fuck,” Harel muttered as she took her place next to Yel, “Damn fuckin lucky that Josie’s here or else I’d-”

“You’d what? Cry at me, wolf?” Yel replied, her smug grin only growing wider.

And once again, the flames of rivalry grew, fanning into an inferno as static crackled in Harel’s palms and fire spun around Yel’s body. 

“YOU ARE NOT CHILDREN” Leliana shouted, clapping her hands, her eyes glistening like vicious sapphires, “So for Andraste’s sake, stop fighting like infants! Behave yourself!”

Yel and Harel differed in many ways but there was one thing they agreed on. Leliana was scary and when that Orlesian had enough of their shit, it was time to stand straight, shut up and do their job.

“E-emerald Graves,” Harel stuttered, looking at Yel, “Thinking we could go to the Graves to do...do that thing…”

Yel nodded before staring at the map, trying her best not to look up at Leliana, “We should go to the Hissing Waste’s actually but sure….sure….The Graves sounds...important too.” 

At the opposite end of the table, Josephine sidled up to Cullen, finishing the last flourish of her letter before whispering, “ Our paramours continue to be interesting, do they not?” she dips the quill in ink, writing another line, “However, it would be preferable if they did not fight so much. It is indeed troubling for our reputation when they scrap in the public eye.”

Cullen sighs as he looks at Yel, watching her brush back a strand of strawberry blonde hair before pushing a map marker away from Harel’s hand, “ They’re not so bad, Ambassador. My sisters and I fought in a similar way, but because we hated each other. I think they’ll be fine.”

Turning away from her clipboard, Josephine looked at Harel who continued trying to pick up the map marker, only to have it shoved away, “Perhaps you are correct. Maybe they are growing to be friends.”

“IF YOU PUSH THAT MARKER ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR ON ANDRUIL’S SWEATY TIT’S I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!!”

“Oh, you want to lose again, pup? Don’t go crying to your prissy little bedbuddy -I mean no disrespect Ambassador- ” Yel stops for a moment, looking at Josephine before turning to Harel once more, “when I tan your hide faster than you can say Mythal.”

“Inquisitor-” Cullen starts before Harel shoots a glare at him.

“Don’t even try it, Curly!” 

“DON’T TALK TO HIM LIKE THAT!” Yel shouts back, giving the taller half-elf a shove.

And once more, a fight broke out in the War Room as all three Advisors watched the pair roll around on the floor. One would say they were akin to a wolf and a lioness fighting when in fact they were just two aggressive nugs duking it out.

Today was just one of those days where they didn’t get along more than usual. Hopefully, soon they’d be back to some kind of mutual idiocy with Yel on Harel’s shoulders, steering the half-Qunari around by the horns before they’d both fall down some hill.  

Josephine and Cullen, though different in many aspects both thought the same thing as they watched their other halves fight.

Maker help me and my competitive girlfriend. 

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

- Love Languages -

Ship: Dorian Pavus × Inquisitior Lavellan.

Mentioned Cullen x Companion Lavellan belonging to @ruinvevo.

Warnings: None

"Ellana seeks advice involving the Commander's birthday, and is surprised to find it in form of Dorian's sentimentality."

⚔⚔⚔

It was well past noon and the Inquisitior had not once gotten out of bed. Sunlight filtered in from the doors of the balcony, as shades of green and gold splashed across the floor due to the stain glass in the windows.

A winter chill was also present, a bit of cold air due to the mountains that the Inquisition called home.

All and all, the day had been dull and uneventful. This was something that Dorian wouldn't complain about, however, as they hadn't taken a moment to properly rest since returning from the Temple of Mythal.

The elf was sprawled out across the bed, back up, as he used the mage's chest as a pillow. Dorian didn't have the heart to move him and instead resigned to holding a book within one hand, while the other glided across the bare skin of the Inquisitor's back. Tracing out maps from freckle to freckle and scar to scar with nimble fingers.

He kept his touch warm with a bit of magic in order to weave the heat into his lover's stiff muscles; a natural relaxant.

Mahvir was a mess of long hair and exhaustion but he had barely stirred all morning. This was something rare, Dorian would note, but it was bound to happen eventually. You could only go so long before your body gives up on you- he didn't think the the old warrior would have been able to stay awake even if he'd wanted too.

Only Josephine had came to seek him out but upon being told of his current state, practically comatose where he lay, she had dismissed his need for duty until further notice. Something she had been promptly thanked for by his Tevinter paramour, before she departed. Not another soul had dared to disturb them since.

Until now.

A sharp knocking resonated from the base of the staircase and it shocked Dorian away from his thoughts. His grey eyes, cool as ice, rose from his book and turned instead to the man nestled within the crook of his arm. He didn't want to wake Mahvir, but he couldn't ignore whoever had come to see the Inquisitior.

He coughed to clear his throat, it was hoarse from having not spoken in hours. "Friend or foe?"

"Family!" A voice called back and he relaxes, closing his book and setting it aside before continuing to glide his other hand around the grooves of Mahvir's shoulder blades. The elf makes a small noise in his sleep, it sounds almost like a purr, and Dorian is fighting a fond smile as he watches Ellana turn the corner at the top of the stairs.

"He's still asleep?" The woman asks, her voice a thoughtful whisper.

Dorian inclines to the couch with a tilt of his head, waiting for her to take a seat before responding, "He wasn't feeling well last night and you know how he is. He won't listen to anyone, not even his own body." An annoyed sigh escapes him, "this is what he gets."

Ellana arches an eyebrow at him. "You didn't spell him?"

He lays his free hand upon his collarbone, unable to reach his heart in an otherwise dramatic display of mock hurt. "Dearest Ellana, such accusations wound me- but no, he's just gone and gotten himself tuckered out."

"Ah." The light dulls in her violet eyes for a moment. "I was hoping to ask him for advice."

"Perhaps I can help?" Dorian offers. The maker knew that he spent an unsavory amount of time with Mahvir, surely some of his sage like wisdom had rubbed off.

Ellana hesitates, undoubtedly because she had come to speak with her father figure and not his boyfriend, who she knew to be a lot more spontaneous.

"It's nothing serious." She finally says, biting her bottom lip in concentrating thought. "Cullen's birthday is coming up and he is refusing to talk about it."

"The Commander, stubborn? I never would have guessed."

"I want to get him something anyway, something that will mean a lot even in the years to come but he isn't a materialistic person."

Dorian considers this for a moment, his touch now linging at the curve of Mahvir's hip, tracing along the sharp bone- his lover was scrawnier by the day- he thinks, but then he remembers a conversation he's had with Josephine about the upcoming birthday.

"Believe it or not, you're not the only one struggling, our darling Ambassador has tried all sorts of ideas but finally settled on some tasteless Fereldan desert. Leliana has gotten him a gold chess set and I have a copy of his favorite book from childhood tucked away in here somewhere. I believe Mahvir has sought out something to alleviate his headaches and is sending a care package to his sister and her children. "

The woman on the couch seems to take this in for a moment, disappointment dancing across her expression. "You all seem to know exactly what he wants."

"Not at all but we do know things that will make his day easier."

Ellana groans and leans her head against the back of the couch. "You've all taken the best ideas." She complains, before tipping her head to the side to meet the mage's gaze. "What about you and Mahvir? What kind of gifts do you two give?"

Dorian considers this silently for a moment. "Without getting unsavory; my gifts usually include giving him refuge. He is an anxious person by nature and lives with a lot of physical pain as well. I order potions for him, make sure he has a bath drawn each night and I force him to see a healer at least once a month."

"Those seem more like chores than gifts."

"One would think so, but the greatest gift I could give him right now is being there to help him up when he falls. Like Cullen, he isn't materialistic. Sometimes actions speak louder than words."

Ellana furrows a brow, "So should I do something for Cullen? A gesture for how much I love him?"

"But with me," Dorian continues, "I find notes written in the margins of my books, or roses left by my desk in the library. My favorite brand of wine is always stocked in the cellar and I always have someone who listens to me just for the sake of listening."

"So actual gifts?" The poor girl seemed more at a loss than she was when she first arrived.

The mage can't help but chuckle. He was sure that he and Ellana shared the same amount of experience when it came to relationships, nothing serious prior to who they were currently with, and a few months ago he would have been just as put off as she. "The moral of this is, it all depends on the bond you two share. You are the only one who knows how Cullen gives his love and how you give yours. It's all very precious, if you think about it."

"He gave me his good luck charm." She slowly says after a moment as if the beginning of an idea was finally forming within her mind. "He used to keep it with him everywhere he went but then he chose to give it to me."

"The Dalish make each other tokens, do they not? You signify engagements with betrothal necklaces rather than rings?"

"Yes!" She sits up in excitement, eyes wide and ears perked. "I can make him something similar, so he can have a charm from me."

"A perfect choice." Dorian congratulates, offering the elf a smile as she springs off the piece of furniture and moves back to her feet.

"Thank you Dorian." She says, "You're really good at this."

"What is this?"

"Being a friend."

The man in bed, curled up among another body, blankets, and books, is at a loss for words. Straightforward sentiment had never been his strong suit. "Yes, well, don't go telling the others." He says. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She responds, with plenty of her own mirth.

"Go on would you, why wait around here all day when you have a Commander to charm?"

Ellana took his dismissal as her cue to leave, she'd hit one of his nerves, but neither of them seemed to actually mind it.

Her bit of farewell was a small wave, before she turns to the stairs and is gone a moment later.

"She's right you know." A gruff voice breaks through the renewed silence and Dorian turns his gaze away from the staircase to the elf at his side.

Dorian sushes his lover softly, turning on his side just enough to run his other hand through the length of his chestnut hair. "Go back to sleep, Amatus."

"You go back to sleep." The inquisitior retorts, almost grumpily, but a moment later his breathing had slowed once again.

Dorian sighs fondly, bends his head to leave a kiss on the other man's temple, and then returns to his book.

[scharoux]

Stripped Confessionals Pt. 1

Starting off the ‘Spring Into Love’ prompts event with a bang. For prompts number 7 through 10.

Huge thanks again to my usual Trio ( @bearly-tolerable​ @buttsonthebeach​ & @lyrium-lovesong​ ) and also to @velannas​ for letting me borrow Mihren again!

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford x Meara Lavellan

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

The warm sun of the new spring shone brightly in the Skyhold gardens as Meara Lavellan sat enjoying a game of chess with her sister Mihren. Since Mihren had been officially given the title of Inquisitor, it seemed like she rarely had a minute to herself, let alone to spend some time with her only sister.

"Meara! Are you cheating again?" Mihren scolded her as she leaned forward, giving her a knowing scowl.

Meara bit her lip and tried not to laugh. This wasn't the first or the last time her sister had given her this familiar scowl. She'd been used to seeing it since she was a small girl, up to no good, with Mihren on her heels trying to keep her out of trouble.

"I would never!" She placed her hand over her heart dramatically, acting wounded at the accusation.

Mihren's scowl remained fixed on her as she made her move, then leaned back into her chair. "Why, do I not believe you?"

Meara couldn't hold back her laugh then. She genuinely wasn't cheating, or at least not this time anyway. In fact, she was actually taking it easy on her worn-out sister. She'd noticed that Mihren was missing obvious strategic moves that she would have never missed if she wasn't stretched so thin with everything going on.

 The winter at Skyhold had not been kind to them. The harsh weather, plus the constant influx of new recruits and refugees, meant there were always more mouths to feed and bodies to train for the battle against Corypheus. Mihren had needed to step up to her new role, and she had without question. Only Meara couldn't help but wonder what it had cost Mihren. What it was still costing her. Her sister was tired and needed a break more than anyone she knew. Unfortunately, Mihren carried the same stubbornness she did and refused to let anyone help her shoulder her responsibilities, even Meara.

Meara deliberately made a move that would lose her a valuable piece, watching to see if her sister would notice how she'd set it up for her to take easily. She didn't.

Meara muffled a concerned sigh as she watched Mihren struggle to make her next move.

"Mihren?" Meara reached forward and tipped over her King. Mihren looked up at her, eyes wide with surprise. "When was the last time you slept?"

She made to reply, but Meara cut her off knowing the argument that was coming. "No! I mean more than a few hours here and there."

Mihren's mouth shut, arms crossing across her chest like she always did when she was guilty of something.

She gave her sister a stern look. "I mean an actual full night's sleep, where you go to bed shortly after dusk and stay asleep until dawn?"

Mihren sighed, annoyed. "I can't remember." She replied, waving her hand dismissively.

Meara nodded, and stood, shoving her chair out from behind her. "Get up, Mihren."

"What? Why?"

She stood up regardless and gave Meara a quizzical look as she came and took her by the elbow, leading her out of the gazebo.

"Go find Solas. Tell him you need a sleeping draught, and most importantly…" Meara paused, pulling her sister to look her in the eye, "tell him I will be checking on you later to make sure you took it." 

Mihren rolled her eyes but nodded in agreement. "Fine! You're right, I need to rest. I'm not myself, and I haven't been for a few months." She let out another deep sigh as she pulled Meara into a big hug. "Thank you for making sure to take care of me when I can't take care of myself."

Meara gave her sister a tight squeeze in return. "Always." She pulled away and reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Mihren's ear. "Now, go find Solas and get some sleep. I'll be checking on you later."

Her sister smiled in farewell as she made her way across the soppy earth, still wet from the melting snow.

Meara hoped that she would see her sister return to normal after a much-needed rest. She couldn't help but wonder if Solas had tried to convince her to take time to rest as well, and if he had, why he hadn't been successful.

She turned and was about to walk to the stairs leading to the ramparts, but a familiar gentle voice beckoned her.

"My Lady Mearanna?" Mother Giselle spoke melodically as she approached her. "May I have a moment of your time?"

Meara didn't really know Mother Giselle and hadn't had much opportunity to interact with her more than a handful of times, but she liked her well enough for a devout Andrastian.

"Of course, but just Meara is fine." She replied politely.

The old woman nodded, gesturing for Meara to walk with her. "I wonder, if during your next journey outside of Skyhold you might be able to procure more medicinal herbs for Skyhold's stores? Specifically, more elfroot and witherstalk."

"Why ask me? Surely Leliana's scouts will be able to procure these for you?" she asked curiously as they made their way about the gardens, the waterlogged ground heaving up under the weight of her boots.

Mother Giselle gave Meara a knowing grin, "The fertile Earth gives birth to new life."

Meara was even more confused now. Did she always have to speak in riddles?

"I'm not sure I understand, Mother Giselle?” 

The old woman's grin spread into a broad smile. "It is spring, my child. Soon there will be an abundance of new life amongst us in all shapes and forms. With it will also come the need and desire to keep more seeds from sowing."

When she didn't respond, Mother Giselle cocked her head and gave her a curious look.

"Surely you must have noticed that our stores of witherstalk had almost run out? You and the Commander are still - intimate - are you not? I was merely thinking that you would perhaps make it more of a priority than Sister Nightingale's scouts, given your need of it."

Suddenly the last few weeks were a blur. She began counting back in her head. Desperately trying to recall the exact day it was, and realization hit Meara like a rampaging druffalo, knocking the wind from her lungs in an involuntary whoosh.

"Oh, fuck."

Meara ran for the stairs that lead to the ramparts, ignoring Mother Giselle's shocked gasp at her outburst and sudden departure.

She needed to find Bull right away, and there was one place she knew for certain to look. She took the steps two at a time, then sprinted across the ramparts towards Herald's Rest once she reached the top. If anyone could help her it was Bull, or maybe Dalish, but she needed answers and she needed them now.

She flew across the ramparts, hoping like hell she wouldn't cross his path on the way to the tavern. Prayed silently to the Creators for the first time since she was a young girl that her path would be clear. Meara wasn't afraid of anything, but right now, in that moment, she was absolutely terrified of seeing Cullen, and the fear turned her stomach to rot.

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

Meara had found Bull exactly where she'd predicted he would be, tucked in the back corner of the tavern having a drink with Krem. She'd let out a relieved sigh as she'd come down the stairs and spotted him in his regular spot.

"I need you!" Meara huffed, pointing a finger at the massive Qunari sitting before her. "Now!"

Bull gave her a curious look, then shrugged at Krem's questioning glance as he placed his tankard on the table. "What's up little Boss?"

"Somewhere - more private." Meara cast a look over her shoulder, afraid someone might hear them. "Please?"

Bull must have sensed her urgency, or maybe it was her unease. Whatever it was, he stood and directed her out the back entrance of the tavern. Meara breathed a sigh of relief when the noise from the patrons inside died as Bull pulled the door shut behind him. They stood alone in the small gap that separated the infirmary and Herald's Rest, hidden away by the overgrown bushes that grew there.

"Alright," Bull said when she turned to face him again. "We're alone now, so what's on your mind?"

Meara swallowed down the sour taste of unease that coated her mouth. Oh Creators, I've really fucked up this time.

She took a deep breath and tried to tamp down on the waver in her voice. "What do you know about witherstalk, and do you know if it can stop working?"

Bull frowned, "Obviously I know what it is, and what it's used for. I don't know if it's always effective though. Maybe you should ask Solas, or maybe the surgeon at the infirmary?" He gestured to the building next to them with a cock of his head.

"No, and I would rather not." Meara groaned as she started pacing nervously.

Bull watched her silently for a minute, his good eye followed her every movement.

"What's going on with you Meara?"

"Nothing! Why?" Meara asked, a bit more defensively than she intended.

He scoffed at her, rolling his eye as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, I know you, and I can also read your body language. It's definitely not nothing."

She groaned again. "Fucking Ben-Hassrath!" She cursed under her breath, and she's sure she saw his mouth twitch.

"I can either guess, or you can tell me what's going on and save us both a lot of time. Your choice." Bull leaned back against the tavern wall, waiting for her like he had all the time in the world.

"Ugh!" Meara growled. She took another deep breath, trying in vain to steady her nerves.

"I stopped taking witherstalk a few days before my monthly bleeding was supposed to start, but that was two weeks ago, and I still haven't started my cycle!"

She blurted it out in a rush of breath. She genuinely hoped that Bull had managed to catch it all, because she wasn't sure she could bring herself to repeat it.

Bull looked a little perplexed at first, like he was trying to process what she'd said.

"Please don't make me say it again." Meara pleaded as she clenched her hands anxiously at her sides.

She'd never once missed her monthly cycles. Not since she got them for the first time as a girl. She'd always been careful to never miss a dose of witherstalk when she became sexually active. Meara knew to stop taking it a few days before her cycle was set to begin, and to start taking it again as soon as her bleeding had stopped. It was like second nature for her.

Only, she'd never been on the front lines preparing for an inevitable battle against a blighted magister hell bent on destroying the world before. No, that was definitely new.

She'd also never been in what she would consider a relationship before either.

What she had with Cullen, and everything they were facing was foreign territory to her in every possible way. Being in a relationship was scary enough for her, she couldn't possibly imagine being a parent or having a child. Especially not right now when they were at war. Mihren could do it, but Meara was afraid she didn't have the same nurturing side that her sister did.

Meara felt her palms getting sweaty as a wave of nausea rolled over her stomach. What the fuck is wrong with me? Get it together, Meara!

Bull was still leaning against the wall, watching her, and she couldn't handle the scrutiny. "Say something! Say anything!"

Bull gave her his typical know-it-all grin then stepped forward and put his huge hand on her shoulder. Creator's, his size never ceased to amaze her. He was a giant in comparison to her. His hand completely encompassed the top of her arm, his fingers draping over to touch the lower part of her shoulder blade.

Meara remembered the way his hands had felt huge when they were everywhere on her body. She remembered the way his touch was gentle, but also rough when she needed it to be, and how he just knew when to shift between the two. She'd have given anything to go back to the easiness that they'd had. To just fall back into the routine of having sex to scratch that itch when it flared up, and not having all the feelings and emotions tied to it.

Meara would be an absolute liar to say she didn't enjoy what she and Cullen had. Unfortunately, it was this exact reason that she didn't like to let people get close to her on this level. Sex for sex was easy - comfortable - and definitely safe. Feelings complicated things. They made her feel vulnerable.

Meara longed for the familiarity and security of her former habits. Bull looked down at her, the same way he had when she'd first mentioned that they should have sex. The same look that made her feel in control, while also asking for her permission. All the while he knew exactly what it was she wanted. What she needed from him.

It was then that she realized it was the control she missed. Control over her life, because right now she felt like nothing was in her control, and it was sending her spiraling.

"What do you want me to say?" Bull asked her quietly, almost a whisper.

Meara looked up at him, feeling that familiar surge of fierce intensity rise in her as she took his hand off her shoulder. He gave her that fucking “I already know” look, and her need for control erupted within her.

"Nothing."

She leapt at him, Bull catching her easily, as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She crushed her lips against his as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Their kiss was carnal, mouths clashing against one another, tongues melding together between hot breaths. Meara moaned as Bull's strong hands gripped her ass, lifting her higher. There was nothing to complicate things. Just hands on bodies, feeling and searching out the means to an end.

Bull bit her lip, sharp teeth nipping at the plump flesh as she sucked in a shaky breath. Meara couldn't help but compare his touch to Cullen's. How Cullen was gentle, eager to please her, but also how he wanted to take his pleasure with her. Always with her. How he was never selfish in his need, even when she wanted him to be. How he'd wake her in the mornings with gentle kisses on her bare shoulders. How he'd make love to her passionately, letting her pleasure build slowly until she would keen longingly into his touch.

Meara's heart fell as it dawned on her that what she needed, and wanted, wasn't something she could find with Bull. It was with Cullen. And in her hopelessness and fear at the thought of becoming a mother, she'd allowed herself to stray from him. Even worse she'd strayed into the arms of the one person Cullen felt menial next to.

Meara pulled away, ending the kiss. She looked into Bull's eye, placing her hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry, Bull."

She was prepared for his face to fall with rejection, or maybe to act like this was familiar ground for him, which it was. She was ready to apologize again to her friend for hurting and using him, to atone for her mistakes. She'd earned the hurt that was about to come.

Meara, however, was not expecting a huge grin to spread across Bull's face as he dropped her back onto the solid ground. "About fucking time." He said clapping her on the shoulder.

Meara was aghast. "What?!"

"I was afraid I was going to have to go all the way before you'd come to your senses." He laughed.

"Are you fucking serious?" Meara gaped at him, "How could you possibly know I wasn't going to go through with it?"

"C'mon, Meara" he gloated happily. "Everyone - except you - can see how much you're in love with Cullen. I knew you wouldn't go through with it once you got your head out of your ass."

She didn't know how to reply. She could only stand there shell-shocked, staring up at him as he gave her a shit-eating grin. "Or, at least, I figured you would stop," he added with a off-handed shrug.

"Really?" She challenged him, hand on her hips. "And just how far were you going to let me go before you let me come to my senses?"

Bull coughed then, "Well I can't say it wasn't a tempting idea to take you to bed again, but I'd have stopped you... eventually." He added a wink, goading her on.

"Fuck off, Bull." She punched him in the center of his exposed pec, and he let out a big bellowing laugh. She smirked despite her lingering annoyance.

"Seriously though. Why didn't you stop me?"

Bull's smile faded. He reached out and took her hand, encompassing it with his own. "I didn't stop you because you're stubborn. If I'd tried to stop you, you would have wanted to keep going to establish the control you thought you wanted. What you needed was the push to figure out for yourself that what you really wanted was Cullen."

Meara knew he was right. Hated that he was. She knew in her heart that if he'd tried to talk her out of it, she'd have wanted to show him he was wrong even if he wasn't. He hadn't forced her, hell, she'd initiated it. She had been sure it was what she'd wanted, but damn if it wasn't the furthest thing from the truth. She continued to lie to herself over and over again. Tried in vain to convince herself that what she and Cullen had wasn't as serious as it really was, and now she might be carrying his child.

"Fuck." She hung her head, hiding her embarrassment. "What the fuck have I done?"

"You asked me for my advice before." Bull stated. "Do you still want it now?"

Meara nodded. He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"You don't need to be so strong that you can't let anyone in. You know that in the Qun we don't make relationships a thing, but that doesn't mean they don't exist." Bull released her hand and turned towards the tavern door again.

Meara watched him go, trying to decipher what he was telling her. Why was everyone speaking in riddles today? He paused, giving her a quick look over his shoulder, "The real strength is being brave enough to let that one person in, and letting them stay no matter how shitty things get."

Meara looked at her friend with glassy eyes. She finally understood. Knew what he was trying to tell her. What Mihren and everyone else had been trying to tell her for months, but she'd been too damned stubborn to hear.

Bull nodded to her, pulling open the door and letting the noise of the tavern patrons spill out before he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Meara smiled, took a deep breath to compose herself, then took off around the corner of the building. She needed to find Cullen, and she hoped like hell that she would have the strength to say what she needed to. Hopefully together they would be able to weather this storm if it came to a head.

******

Meara thought she was going to be sick. Cullen's quarters were empty when she'd arrived, and she paced nervously back and forth across the room, waiting anxiously for his return. Her stomach churned angrily, and she felt the bile rise in her throat.

She forced herself to swallow. She took several deep breaths, trying desperately to steady her nerves. She'd never been this nervous in her life. Not even when she was competing to become the leader of clan Lavellan's hunting party. No. Meara could track a deer faster and more efficiently than any man in her clan. Could clean and carry out the carcass of her prey faster than any of the people who told her she couldn't because she was too small, even for a woman. She had stared them all down fearlessly when she'd emerged from the forest - a large buck over her shoulders - bright red blood still running freely from it and staining her clothes.

Meara tried to remember what Bull had said. Replayed the words over and over in her head.

"I am not weak." She said aloud, continuing to pace the length of the room.

"I am strong." She tried to remind herself.

"He gives me strength."

"Who gives you strength?"

Meara spun around as Cullen's voice broke her from her nervous spell. She'd been so distracted she hadn't heard the door open behind her.

"Cullen!" She swallowed anxiously, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I - I didn't hear you come in."

He smiled at her, dropping a stack of papers on his already crowded desk. "Nor would you have. You were speaking quite loudly."

Meara felt the blood rush to her cheeks, "Oh - right. Yes. I guess I was," she rambled off, embarrassed that he might have overheard her personal pep talk.

Cullen bridged the gap between them, pulling her against him. His arms wrapped tightly around her as he leaned in, kissing her forehead affectionately.

Meara took a shallow, shaky breath, winding her arms around his waist, letting her cheek rest against his chest. She clutched the fabric of his tunic tightly in her hands, holding him close while she tried to build up her courage again.

“Is everything alright?” Cullen murmured into the top of her head, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine before coming to rest in the tips of her toes.

Meara closed her eyes. She wished like hell she could tell him everything was fine. That she could take him up to the loft and take a few moments of pleasure together like they would any other day. She knew better, though. Knew there was a very real possibility that she carried an unexpected secret within her. Knew she had two confessions to make, and that one was sure to cause him a hurt she wished she could spare him from.

“Meara?” Cullen’s strong hands pulled her away from the safety of his arms, and she had no choice but to look up into his soft honey-brown eyes.

Meara’s heart lurched. “Cullen –“ her voice wavered heavily as she forced herself to say the words. “I am so sorry. So very, sorry.”

She felt him stiffen under her touch. Saw his face fall and her heart fell.

“What’s happened?” His gentle voice had faded, in its place was the stern voice of the Commander of the Inquisition's army.

Meara decided then she needed to just tell him. He deserved to know the truth of what happened, and that the best way to do it was to be blunt.

She held tighter to his clothes. Her grip turning her knuckles white.

“I kissed Bull.”

Cullen's face went from a pale white to a deep shade of red. His expression turned from hurt to anger. He tried to pull away from her, but Meara held tightly to him. Her hands still wound tightly in the folds of his clothes at his back.

Meara struggled to keep her own cowardice at bay, even though it screamed at her to let go. Urged her to release him and run. To save herself from the pain she felt knowing she had hurt him so deeply.

Cullen was rigid against her, trying to detach her hands from his clothes, refusing to look at her.

“Release me,” he said flatly, looking anywhere but at her.

“No.” Meara shook her head. “Not until you let me explain.”

His eyes snapped back to her face. He looked like a man undone. His expression was something between rage and absolute agony, and Meara’s heart bled with the regret that overwhelmed her.

“Why?” He exhaled; his voice full of pain. “I just need to know why?”

Meara blinked back the tears she was trying desperately to keep at bay. She didn’t deserve to cry. She deserved the pain she felt. She’d hurt Cullen in her moment of weakness, and she needed to atone for her mistakes.

“I fucked up.” She spoke shakily. “There was something I thought I needed. Something I thought Bull could give me.” Cullen pulled against her again, and Meara held tight to him. “I was wrong, Cullen. I was so very wrong.”

Cullen scoffed, casting his gaze away from her again. “Is he the one who gives you strength? Did he give you the strength to come end things with me?”

Meara shook her head, “Cullen, I- “

“Did you fuck him?” Cullen snapped at her, and her strength crumbled.

Meara let the cloth fall from her hands. Felt the blood return to her tingling fingers as he pulled away from her at last.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Felt like her lungs were frozen and she would never be able to thaw the icy hurt that filled her core.

Meara brushed away a single tear that had trickled down her cheek. She didn’t know if he would listen to her. Didn’t know if he even wanted to, or if he would forgive her even if he did. She only knew that she needed to explain, even if it meant he didn’t want her anymore in the end.

“You give me strength,” she muttered in a shaky breath.

He turned, staring at her coldly. “What did you say?”

Meara took a deep, wavering breath. “I said, you give me strength, Cullen.” She spoke as clearly as she could manage, fighting the overwhelming urge she still had to flee.

Cullen’s face softened, he took a step towards her but hesitated, catching himself. “Then why did you kiss him? I don’t understand, Meara.”

He ran his hand through his golden curls, his frustration coming off him in waves.

“I kissed him because I was afraid!” Meara blurted, ashamed that there was no other reason for her indiscretions.

She hid her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing and hoping the knot that had formed in her stomach would release soon, or she could very well be sick on his floor.

“Afraid of what?” Cullen pressed.

Meara dropped her hands and looked up into Cullen’s eyes. “I – “

She faltered.

“Ah, fuck!” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration at her own stupid cowardice.

“Afraid of what, Meara?” Cullen asked again sternly.

“I love you, alright?!” Meara barked emphatically.

Cullen stood there with a stunned look on his face. His eyes were wide and locked onto her.

Meara groaned, “I love you, and that honestly scares the shit out of me!”

She started pacing again, wringing her hands together anxiously, because finally confessing her feelings out loud was fucking terrifying. Acknowledging that she had allowed herself to openly love someone was terrifying, and now she was terrified of losing the person she’d only just admitted to loving.

“I’ve never been in love, Cullen. Not with anyone! I don’t know how to process these feelings, or what it means, and it’s terrifying!”

Cullen ran his hand over the back of his neck, lost in thought or maybe just for lack of words. Meara watched him with bated breath, waiting for him to say something. Hoping he wouldn’t ask her to leave.

“Say something!” she pleaded anxiously, the moments of silence between them becoming too much for her to handle.

Cullen opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again and began rummaging through the papers on his desk. Meara watched, dumbfounded, as he circled his desk, looking under it and scanning the room.

“What the hell are you looking for?!” she demanded. She’d just told him she loved him and he chose now of all times to go looking for some lost treasure?

“Empty bottles,” he remarked casually over his shoulder as he continued to search the room.

Empty bottles? Meara groaned in frustration, “Are you suggesting that I’m inebriated?”

Cullen looked up at her then, his face turning a subtle shade of pink. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “No – never mind, it’s nothing.”

Meara crossed her arms, giving him a quizzical look. If she’d known he’d think she was drunk when making her confessions of love, she would have gone to the tavern for a few ales first to steady her nerves.

Her breath caught as Cullen stepped towards her. The frustration she’d felt vanished, replaced with the familiar knot of unease.

“I still don’t understand. Why - if you feel that way - would you kiss him?”

She wished she could shield herself from the look he was giving her. “Is loving me so terrible that it would send you running into the arms of another man?”

Meara’s heart thudded heavily at his words. Creators, she had immensely fucked this up.

She took a slow, careful step towards him. “It isn’t that. It’s just that - “

Cullen looked at her, eyes pleading her for something she hoped she could give him.

“I was – am – afraid that I won’t be able to give you what you want.”

Cullen gave her an inquiring look, “Meaning?”

Meara sighed, “Meaning, I love you, but I don’t know if I will ever want to get married.” Meara paused hesitantly, “Or have children.”

Creators, that’s a loaded statement, Meara. She cringed as the words fell from her mouth.

She watched his expression change, and she quickly continued before he said something, and she lost her nerve. “I don’t want you to give up any of those things because I don’t want them. I don’t want you to change because of me, and I kissed Bull because it was the only way I could I feel like I had control over my life anymore!”

Meara paused again, catching her breath, trying to gauge his response to her confession.

“Loving you is - exhilarating,” she continued exhausted, “but it makes me feel like I’m not in control, like I’m only watching my life play out. Most of my day is spent wondering what you’re doing when I’m not with you, or wishing I was with you.”

She paused, running her hands through her long, thick locks anxiously, “I don’t know how to handle feeling this way Cullen!”

Meara swore she saw the corner of Cullen’s mouth twitch slightly. He took another step towards her, making her heart jolt nervously.

“For years I’ve been content to be alone, because being alone meant being in control and only ever having to worry about myself. So, in a moment of selfish weakness, I wanted to go back to not feeling like I needed anything or anyone. Like I was strong enough that I didn’t need anyone else. Only, I was wrong.”

Meara felt the tears start to trickle freely down her cheeks, unable to hold them back anymore.

“I need you, Cullen. I love you. Except that loving you makes me feel selfish. Horribly selfish, because deep down I think you deserve that life with a little house on a hill, and a wife and children. I want those things for you, but I’m terrified that I won’t be able to give them to you, because it’s not in me to give.”

Her breath caught as he reached out gingerly and took her hand in his. She shivered, as his hand reached up and gently wiped away the tears that had spilled down her face. She felt her heart skip as he gave her the familiar smile that she’d come to love in their time together.

“Perhaps, you could let me decide for myself if I want those things as well?” he asked softly, almost a plead.

Meara cried in earnest then as Cullen pulled her against him. Arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, holding her close as she poured silent sobs into the soft folds of fabric that covered his chest. She cried until the material was laden with spilled tears.

She knew she had to tell him. Knew he had a right to know that she might be carrying his child, but she was terrified that she would disappoint him. That she would hurt him again, and even deeper, when she admitted she didn’t know if she wanted a family. Not only now, but maybe ever.

She’d seen Cullen with children before. Seen how they flocked to him, and he just seemed natural with them. How easy it came for him. She knew in her heart he would make a great father. Knew that he would be patient, but firm, but also would be willing to have fun with his children. Much like her own father had been with Mihren and herself.

Meara didn’t want to deprive him of that choice simply because he loved her, or because she loved him in return.

She continued to cry into his chest. Letting him hold and comfort her, as he whispered soothing words of endearment into her hair, all the while hating how weak and vulnerable, she felt. Yet she leaned into his touch, longed for the security she felt wrapped in his arms, breathing in his warm scent.

She cried until she could cry no more. Until she felt exhausted from it. She tried to remember the last time or recall if she had ever cried like that. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall a single time she’d allowed herself to cry until she had no more tears to shed.

***********

[nerdierholler]

OC Interview Questions

I was tagged but @heraldofwho​ (thank you!) and I’m tagging @slothssassin​, @katajanokka​ , @dickeybbqpit​, and @bronzeagelove​ plus anyone else who just wants to!  I’m going to go with post-Trespasser Ithlen, because I miss her.

In a camp, somewhere near the Teviner border with a small band of scouts from the former Inquisition.

name ➔  Ithlen Lavellan Mahariel are you single ➔  There’s a sad smile, “Yes, I am.” are you happy ➔ Happy as I can be, given the circumstances. When your work consumes your time and identity, happiness can be hard to define. Things are going well, plans are being made, and I still have the luxury of enjoying the small things in life. are you angry ➔ At the moment, no. In general, sometimes. It’s always there under the surface, anger about the way parts of my life have played out, the reasoning leading up to our current state of affairs, the fact that I have once more taken on another seemingly impossible task that few will fully comprehend or thank me for should I be successful. It’s too easy to be consumed by those thoughts, and there have been times in my life when that has been the case. I try to stay focused on the task at hand these days. are your parents still married ➔ Still? They never were. I wonder how much different my life would have been had they been allowed to. The world might be a very different place as a result.

More under the cut!

NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ Brecilian Forest, Ferelden hair color ➔ black, with an increasing number of grays mixed in. eye color ➔ gray birthday ➔ late fall mood ➔ Tired, always tired. Other than that, content I suppose. gender ➔ female summer or winter ➔ Summer. It probably goes back to growing up in the forest. Summer was a time of plenty. Long days where you could get so much done and still have time to enjoy yourself after. Winter was a time of patience. Watching food stores, being even more careful stalking prey, cooped up crafting or weaving in the aravels to pass the time. I liked the soups and storytelling around the fires with warm mugs though.

morning or afternoon ➔ Morning. Get up, get going, hopefully get enough done to enjoy a little break for tea later.

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ I...don’t know. ‘It’s complicated’ would be the understatement of the age. But there is someone out there I care very much about and who weighs heavily on my mind. I’m not sure I’d call it love, but it’s something. do you believe in love at first sight ➔ For myself, no. I’m much too practical for that. I’m also so focused on my work that it’s usually the last thing I would ever think of when meeting someone new. who ended your last relationship ➔ We both did, him maybe more than me. We were heading down different paths, though at the time I had no idea just how different they really were. have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ *She sighs* Probably, when I was very young. I didn’t mean to and we both thought I might change my mind some day. I loved Tamlen, just not in that way, and I’m not exactly sure how he felt about that. It wasn’t something we discussed. I know we were expected to marry and he was more at home with that than I was. are you afraid of commitments ➔ Not at all, although some may look at the patterns of my life and say otherwise.

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ This week? No. But it depends on the week and who I’m with. There are times where I may hug several people in a day quite happily. have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ It’s very likely, though no one has ever approached me or sent me mysterious notes and gifts if that’s what you’re asking. have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ Yes. *the word is barely a whisper*

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ I don’t see why it can’t be both, but if I have to pick one, love. Even if we aren’t in a romantic relationship, we still need love, and there are so many kinds of love. Love is important. lemonade or iced tea ➔ Neither. Hot tea is my preference year round. cats or dogs ➔ I’ve had wonderful companions of both over the years. My current situation prevents me from having either with me, but I always stop to visit with the friendly ones when I’m on my travels.

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ A few best friends. Apparently I have a long standing reputation for being distant. It’s not entirely untrue, but I have my reasons for keeping most people at an arm’s length. wild night out or romantic night in ➔ I can probably count the wild nights out I’ve had my whole life on one hand and haven’t had one in well over a decade. Romantic night in is my choice. day or night ➔ I don’t quite understand what I’m choosing here, but day I suppose if only because sometimes unpleasant things lurk in the quiet dark, especially when we’re alone.

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ Caught leaving to go do something I wasn’t supposed to be doing, not that I can recall. Gotten caught after the fact? Frequently when I was growing up.

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ Are there people out there who haven’t? Not to mention, I lived in a keep for 10 years, anyone who says no is lying.

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ So many things. And I’ve learned that sometimes that hurt never fully goes away. wanted to disappear ➔ Many times, sometimes just to avoid getting in trouble with the Keeper, but there are still times where I want to wander away and stop being the person everyone is depending on. If I really wanted to, I probably could, but I’d never be able to look at my reflection again.

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ Both. shorter or taller ➔ Most people are taller than me so this one’s not that difficult. But to tell the truth, it doesn’t matter much to me.

intelligence or attraction ➔ A pretty face can only take one so far if there’s nothing to talk about and all you end up doing is staring at each other for hours. hook-up or relationship ➔ Relationship. Hook-ups are not in the best interest of a person in my position, but that’s also just not who I am. I’ve always been too serious about things like that.

FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ I've never had a family in the traditional sense. Growing up I got along well with the clan and those in it. Then the wardens were my family and it’s always a good idea to get alone with one’s commander. Seriously though, I was proud to oversee those men and women. The Inquisition was a messier family, I think that’s usually the case when politics get involved. There were good people there, but it was a huge organization and it’s probably best that most have a little more space now. would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ Surprisingly, no. If you list the many turns my life has taken, I suspect most would say it is, but it’s just life to me, and the only kind I’ve known for a very long time. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else though. have you ever ran away from home ➔ No. In fact the Keeper practically had to throw me out to get me to go with Duncan. I’ve had to leave homes since then, but I’ve never run away from them.

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ I wouldn’t say she kicked me out, but the Keeper was very firm in her insistence that I join the Grey Wardens. In fairness, I would have died, or worse, if I hadn’t.

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ No? Is that a thing? do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ Yes. I keep a small circle of friends and they are all close. who is your best friend ➔ Leliana and Nate. Though now I’m usually out of contact with both for longer periods. I miss them terribly.

who knows everything about you ➔ See my previous answer, though Leliana probably edges out Nate just because she’s Leliana. It’s to be expected when you choose to have one of the best spymasters in the world as your best friend.

[kita-lavellan]

OC Interview - Kita Lavellan

[For Context, I imagine this interview taking place sometime after the end of Inquisition, but before Trespasser]

Name ➔ “Kita Lavellan,” the Inquisitor answered with a small smile, hands folded in her lap before awaiting the interviewer’s next questions.

Are you single ➔ Kita blinked, seeming startled by the question. “I... suppose I am. Yes.” Her answer was stilted, and a small frown appeared between her eyes for a moment before she quickly banished it, still her welcoming smile had gained an edge of sadness that made the interviewer move on swiftly

Are you happy ➔ “What’s not to be happy about?” Kita offered back, an eyebrow raised curiously, “Corypheus is dead, the Rift is sealed, Orlais and Ferelden have, with the help of the Inquisition, been in deep negotiations for future trade agreements and alliances, and the nations to the North are slowly stabilizing with the lack of new rifts opening up.” “There’s also the new Divine to head the Chantry, from the Inquisitions own ranks, yes?” The Inquisitor smiled and gave a single confirming nod at the follow up question, “Yes, there’s that too. Leliana will make a wonderful Divine, I’m sure.”

Are you angry ➔ Her head tipped to the side curiously before shaking her head and answering with a simple “no”.

Are your parents still married ➔ The Inquisitor’s eyebrow raised a moment before she answered, “That’s... Both my parents have passed beyond the veil.” She appeared to spot the interviewer’s confusion before clarifying, “they’re both dead.”

NINE FACTS

Birthplace ➔ “I was born in the Freemarches, although exactly where I can’t be sure.”

Hair colour ➔ “It’s naturally this shade of black. No dyes or stains used to get it this dark, I promise.”

Eye colour ➔ Kita laughed softly, “Well... As you can see they look sort of... colourless. There’s some blue tones in there, though. My sister calls them crystalline, and that’s as good a description as any.”

Birthday ➔ “9th of Parvulis, 9:9 Dragon,” Kita answered quickly. There was a moment of pause before she frowned and shook her head “Oh, sorry... That would be... 9th of Kingsway, by the Chantry Calendar.”

Mood ➔ “My... mood? You mean right now?” the Inquisitor clarified, seeming surprised, and her eyes shifted off to the side for a moment to consider the question, sighing softly. “Tired,” she said eventually, her eyes returning to the interviewer, “There’s still a lot to manage, even now that Corypheus is no longer a threat...” a shadow passed over her features before clearing quickly.

Gender ➔ The interviewer’s response was a flat stare for a long moment, before she simply shook her head in resignation, and answered softly. “Female”.

Summer or winter ➔ A soft laugh surprised both the interviewer and the Inquisitor, “Can I be annoying and answer with Autumn instead?” she asked, a light grin across her features for the first time since the questions began, “I like the warm days and the crisp cool winds that signal the changing of the seasons.”

Morning or afternoon ➔ “Afternoon,” the Inquisitor answered quickly, “Not that I’ve had many opportunities to sleep late since the events at the Conclave. It’s something I miss most from my time with my Clan.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

Are you in love ➔ While the Inquisitor had been opening up over the last few question, this particular one slammed her walls back in place, and Kita’s features turn very carefully neutral once more. “I am, yes,” she answered a moment later, but her tone said very clearly that she wasn’t pleased with the direction the interview was going in.

Do you believe in love at first sight ➔ The Inquisitor took a deep breath as she considered her answer, “Certainly, I think it’s possible... But I wonder if a ‘love at first sight’ wouldn’t burn hot and fast and flare out. Personally, I believe more in a connection at first sight. Something that you can build upon, and develop into a deep reservoir of emotion that will never run dry, whether that emotion becomes friendship or love... ” she shrugs one shoulder.

Who ended your last relationship ➔ “That is nobodies business but my own,” the Inquisitor answered sharply, her voice brooking no argument, and a single hand wave silently insisted that the interviewer move on, and to ask their next question.

Have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ Her eyes dropped to her lap for a moment, and Kita moistened her lips before sighing, “Not intentionally.” The Interviewer paused, as though to ask further, but when Inquisitor Lavellan said nothing more, they cleared their throat and continued.

Are you afraid of commitments ➔ Finally, a glimmer of amusement returned to Kita’ features, and her lips twitched into a small smile, “If I were, do you think I’d still be here at Skyhold, in the position of Inquisitor?” “I... uh... I think the question meant in reference to your... relationships?” the Interviewer pressed hesitantly, and Kita nodded, still smiling slightly. “I think you’re right, but the answer is still no. Rather the opposite, truth be told. If I intend to be in a relationship with someone, I intend for that relationship to be one of my highest priorities.”

Have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ Kita laughed softly, “Have I!” she exclaimed, amusement colouring her voice, “Between my sister and Dorian, I can’t go a few hours without someone hanging all over me, smothering me with copious amounts of affection,” she said, her words full of complaint, but there was a glow of happiness around her that belied her words.

Have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “I recieved several anonymous letters after the Inquisitions visit to Halamshiral, but I believe Lady Montilyet handled those for me,” Kita explained. “Other than that, not that I’m aware of.”

Have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “Broken my own heart?” the Inquisitor asked, surprised, before shaking her head sadly, “No,” she said before pausing, “Well, only in-so-far as loving someone who does not love you back.”

SIX CHOICES

Love or lust ➔ “Both,” she answers, lips twisting into a dangerous smirk, “and neither without the other.”

Lemonade or iced tea ➔ “Lemonade... Tea should always be served hot, preferably with a slice of lemon... and a small Orlesian frilly cake, lemon flavor...” Kita answers softly, voice softening as she seemed to get lost in a memory for a moment, before blinking and returning her attention to the Interviewer. “I’m sorry, what was the next question?”

Cats or dogs ➔ “There’s talk of a Mabari Kennels being built into the Undercroft, so if I say anything other than dogs I’m sure I’ll be told off later my Lady Montilyet,” Kita offers with a grin.

A few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “As I mentioned earlier, I prefer to connect deeply with a few individuals... but that doesn’t mean a large group of friends is a bad thing either,” Kita said softly, “I’ve met many people I consider my friends since the events at the Conclave, and I wouldn’t trade any of them”.

Wild night out or romantic night in ➔ “It’s going to sound terribly boring when your readers see this but... romantic night in, absolutely,” Kita answered with a sheepish smile, “Ideally with hot drinks, and a fire, and books of magical theory to debate over.”

Day or night ➔ “Night,” the Inquisitor answers with a smile, “Varric doesn’t call me Satina, after the moon, for nothing you know,” she said with a soft laugh.

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

Have You Ever; Been caught sneaking out ➔ “Yes,” Kita answered slowly, eyes glittering with a suppressed laugh, “and my Grandmother was not pleased.”

Have You Ever; Fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “That, I can thankfully say, I have never done.”

Have You Ever; Wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ The Inquisitor paused at the question, and after a moment the Interviewer realised she wasn’t breathing, startled into absolute stillness. “Inquisitor...?” Kita blinked, and swallowed hard, having to look away from the Interviewer for a moment to gather herself. “My apologies,” she offered after another moment or two of silence, “You... caught me by surprise. I... Yes. Yes, I have.” she finally answered simply, and the glisten of tears barely held in check stopped the Interviewer from pressing for more answers.

Have You Ever; Wanted to disappear ➔ Kita was clearly still shaken from the previous question, but she let her eyes settle on the interviewer and forced a small smile onto her lips before she answered, her voice still soft and reserved. “Not recently.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

Smile or eyes ➔ “Apologies, but I’m going to be difficult again... eyes that smile.”

Shorter or taller ➔ “Taller.”

Intelligence or attraction ➔ “Intelligence is attractive,” Kita answered, before pausing and huffing a soft laugh, “I’m sorry, I keep doing that to you don’t I? Making the simple questions more difficult... I’ll try not to do it again.”

Hook-up or relationship ➔ “Relationship.”

FAMILY

Do you and your family get along ➔ “Well... both my parents are deceased, as I mentioned earlier. My grandmother and I don’t always see eye to eye, but we get on well enough. As for my sister, Nel... Simply put, I love her. I’d die for her,” Kita offered simply, her voice holding a quiet confidence.

Would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ Kita frowned at the question. Her eyes lower for a moment to settle on the green glow of magic on her left hand before she shakes her head. “No... no I don’t think so,” she answered slowly, “None of this is what I had planned for my life, of course it isn’t but...” She paused, lips pressed together and a frown pulling her eyebrows together, “I am not the ‘Herald of Andraste’ as so many claim, it was not the Maker that saved me from the Fade, nor any Elven gods... but neither can I easily dismiss the fact that I was in the right place at the right time. Was it fate or chance? I don’t know, but... but what I do know is that I’ve done the best I can with what was given to me to work with... and I don’t consider that ‘messing up my life’, even if it’s not what I imagined for myself as a child.” Kita paused, before shrugging, “After all, how many of us have our lives tun out exactly as we imagined them as children?”

Have you ever ran away from home ➔ Surprising the Interviewer, Kita ducked her head with a soft blush and a laugh. “I sort of... ran away from home to go to the Conclave,” she explained, head lifting again and eyes sparkling with mirth. “My Clan sent my sister, but I wasn’t about to let her go off alone... so I followed.” Kita shrugged a shoulder, looking particularly sheepish, “The things we do for family, yes?”

Have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “No,” Kita answered quickly, “No one has ever been kicked out of Clan Lavellan, not since Keeper Deshana took over, anyway.”

FRIENDS

Do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “Of course not,” Kita answered with a frown, “For a start, if I hated one of them they wouldn’t be my friend, but even if you ignore that fact... no.”

Do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “What do you mean by good friends?” Kita asked, as her head tipped to the side curiously. “Do you mean, they are have a good quality of friendship with me. Will help me when I need it, do I trust them? In which case.... yes, I do. “If you mean, however, do I consider all of them as equally close to me? Then no, of course not. Each friendship is unique and different... like snowflakes. The connections are custom built for each of my friends and our relationships are all different. That doesn’t make any of them any less valuable.”

Who is your best friend ➔ “That’s a difficult one to answer,” Kita offers with a laugh, “I did just explain how all of my friendships are unique in their own way...” “There must be someone you connect with easier than the others though?” the Interviewer pressed slightly, and Kita rolled her eyes but eventually nodded, conceding the point. “True... and in that instance I would have to say Dorian Pavus-” “The Tevinter?” The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow, her expression cooling quickly, “Yes... The Tevinter, although there is much, much, more to him than that.”

Who knows everything about you ➔ Kita grinned, “My sister, of course... and not another soul alive.”

Link to Kita’s Masterpost

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Tagged by @faerieavalon Thank you hun ^_^

Tagging; @rivainisomniari  @lyrium-lavellan  @schoute @elveny @perhapsrampancy @in-arlathan @solas-disapproves @pikapeppa @cornfedcryptid @skekiss and leaving the tags open for anyone I’ve forgotten. I’m still getting used to tumblr ^_^

[impossible-rat-babies]

For DADWC “I’m scared” off the two word prompts

Thank you Madison! I’m gonna go with Darva and Dorian for this one!

Pre-Relationship Pavellan | 1731 words | sorta fluff | mostly below the cut

for @dadrunkwriting!

--

Darva isn’t a stranger to nightmares. He’s had them all his life, since he was young enough to fear the idea of his father getting hurt or killed by nearly anything his brain could come up with, which was anything in the world. It was easy to crawl out of his own bedroll and climb up next to his father, his gentle words enough to send him back to sleep. None of the dreams were real, at least in the sense of his father dying by a pack of wild mutated wolves with twenty pairs of fangs. It was people who killed him and after that the nightmares were much too human. 

Sixteen years and he still isn’t used to the visceral image of a sword cleaving his father from neck to shoulder, the rest of the nightmare lost as he roughly startles awake each time, chest heaving and tears stinging his eyes. He knows what happened after that, trying to scrub it away from the backs of his eyes; it never works, only leaving white spots and the hard fact that his father is dead. A sigh of defeat and curling up too tight in the blankets, hoping he can get back to sleep.

But the nightmares have changed since he was dragged into the Inquisition, since he had been given a crackling green magical mark on his hand. Since the venture into some dark and twisted future, the world marred and destroyed without the mark on his hand to stop it. Just like packs of wolves with twenty pairs of fangs, his head imagined all sorts of terrible things. Piles and piles of bodies heaped along the walls of Redcliffe Castle, the lake around it filled with the viscera and blood from their decomposing bodies. The screech of demons far off in the distance, setting the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. The very real and actual feeling of the bones in his hand twisting and curling, the Mark trying to flay his hand apart.

Days later and the feeling still grips him in waves, the sensation strong enough to convince him for a few agonizing minute that he is actually going to lose his hand. But a glance at the Mark only reveals the crackling lighting across his fingertips and wrist from the gash across his palm. His fingers still work, all twisting in time with him directing their motions. The pain continues, but he could manage that over the overwhelming sensation of his hand turning itself inside out.

He watches and twists his hand in the dim light of the cabin, watching the light jump across his hand, the little strikes slipping down his fingers and back to the Mark. It stings, like the energy digging itself through his muscles and bones. A disconcerting thought, one that drags him out from under his blankets. His boots slip on easily, only half tying them before he grabs his thick coat and shawl, pulling them tight over his nightclothes. The cabin door opens with his shoulder and the air is sharp and cold on his lungs. Good enough to distract from the pain. The sky above is clear, both moons lighting up the camp with a blue glow, dispersed by the orange warmth of fires. A few soldiers linger about on their shifts, none of them paying Darva any mind. Right now he looks nothing like the images already spreading about him--his heroics already bigger than his shoulders can bear.

The snow crunches underfoot and he’s careful on the few stairs, circling his way around to the fire near the front of the Chantry. It easy to spot others around it, but it’s curiouser than Dorian is sitting on one of the logs scooted close to the flames.

Darva hadn’t been spared the time to talk much since their travel from Redcliffe back to Haven with a Mage alliance in hand. Dorian’s reasons for being in the South were admirable, from what Darva had gathered. He wasn’t shy at all about talking about himself and he did it with pride. A highly amusing quality to Darva, but he still didn’t really know the man. He would talk and talk, but it was all hot air, things that didn't say who he was. Darva knew that looping sort of conversation--he used it himself on more than one occasion. Well, more times that he could count on his fingers.

“Are you cold?” Darva asks on his approach and Dorian turns his head, his frown curling his mustache.

“The South was wretched enough without mountains covered in snow.” He huffs and Darva hums, sitting down on the neighboring log, pulling his shawl and jacket in tighter.

“I hope you get used to it since we’ll be here for a while.” Darva scratches the side of his nose and Dorian rolls his eyes.

“Oh goody. I’m already regretting my choice to stay with your Inquisition.” Dorian mumbles.

“It isn't mine.” Darva replies, tucking his hands into his armpits. “I’m just the one with the fancy mark on my hand which is fun to wave at people and demons alike.”

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who settled the deal with the mages.” Dorian point out.

“I couldn’t leave them hanging there, not with Queen Anora giving them her well wishes. Besides, sending anything back would have made for a squabble between Josephine, Leliana and Cullen and then we’d be nowhere.”

“Most likely sitting off in some camp with neither mages or templars.” Dorian remarks and Darva snorts, half a smile twitching on his lips.

“Can’t deny that. Still, that doesn’t make me any sort of leader of this...organization.” He waves his hand.

“You don’t want to lead them?” Dorian asks like he genuinely wants to know and Darva snorts.

“No, I don’t want to lead them. I barely like being toted around as a symbol of Andraste; being seen as the leader of this organization...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“I do admit the idea of a Dalish elf at the head of an organization the Chantry hates would be nice icing on the cake. Add in a supposed Tevinter Magister and I don’t know how the Chantry mothers will sleep at night.” Dorian snickers and Darva shakes his head, chewing his lip.

“Not as if they don’t sleep at night anyway. Should have seen them in Val Royeaux.” He clicks his tongue.

Darva is used to glares and stares of humans; he got used to it thirteen years ago. Their care or lack of it never mattered much to him, more than capable of taking care of himself. But to have all those people staring at him, listening to him talk, hanging on every word and passing the judgment based on that. The memory still makes his skin crawl. He’s not meant to be noticed, to be seen. He likes the shuffle of a crowd or the dark of a alleyway or back corner in a tavern where eyes slide right off of him like water off a roof.

Being around, being remembered, staying in one place...

He stares down at his boots, shuffling the snow around his cold toes. The pain flares in his hand, bringing him back to the present. 

“Lavellan, are you alright?” Dorian questions and Darva looks up at him briefly, eyes sliding back to the fire.

“No.” He admits softly and he picks at his lip, the green glow a sharp contrast against the orange flames. The same green crackles high above in the sky, scattering light across the snow covered peaks. The place that started it all, the trip he had been foolhardy enough to take from Fisk and Livonah. The one that gave him this constant pain in his hand and made him so memorable.

“Do you....need anything?” Dorian leans in closer from his own log, his eyes settling on his hand. Darva tucks it back under his arm; he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

“I’m scared--frightened.” He continues, staring at the fire still bright and comforting, but he feels the cold air against his back, the pain of his hand. Darva glances off towards the mountain peak, where the Temple is--where The Breach still remains. The Mages will arrive soon and then there will be no more reasons not to seal the Breach. Not even if it could kill him.

“Frightened? Of the Breach” Dorian asks and Darva squeezes his lips together.

“Frightened of failing, frightened of the pain.”

Pain in the moment is easy to grasp, to compartmentalize to agonize over later. He can’t lose himself in a fight, lose his nerve because the enemy that wants his head won’t stop. The stumps where his pinkies once were a testament to how if someone wants pain, they will create it.

But seeing pain coming, playing it out in his head over and over again, turns his gut to jelly and his legs stiff to run. It can’t hurt him unless it catches him. But here he’s trapped in a cage with only one way out.

“Darva...”

Dorian’s voice is soft and it’s his name; not Herald, not Lavellan. Darva. The name he picked, the one that tastes right on the tongue. Darva looks and Dorian is half smiling at him and it even sparkles in his eyes.

“You’re not going to fail. We’ll get the Breach sealed and then be off to solve all the smaller, littler problems about. I’m sure there are dozens of them that they can’t solve on their own, ones that need heroes to solve.” Dorian waves his hand and Darva snickers.

“You? A hero of the South?” He asks incredulously and Dorian almost is convincing enough to look genuinely offended. Convincing enough for Darva to laugh, the sound loud enough to push away the dark clouds lingering, to bring the warmth of the fire back all over him, soaking back into his bones along with a bit of hope. Just a bit of hope is all he needs.

“Well, I can't give the people of Southern Thedas too much credit. Half of their countries smell like dog.”

“Wet dog, and you still aren't used to it yet?”

“You have gotten used to it?”

“It’s....grown on me.”

“Grown on you like some awful tumor more like it.”

[buttsonthebeach]

The Long Road Back

@scharoux has once again graced me with the opportunity to write about Rhaella!! This time we focused on Rhaella’s reaction to losing her clan. Thank you, dear friend, for trusting me with your vision once again!

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots reopening around June 10th)

Pairing: Rhaella Lavellan x Solas

Rating: Mature. No actual smut, but things get hot and heavy. Trigger warnings for death and some brief, gruesome imagery, as well as grieving.

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

Leliana was the one who brought Rhaella the news that Clan Lavellan was dead. She delivered it perfectly, awfully - her tone calm and her Orlesian accent just barely concealing the savagery, like wallpaper over wood rot.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor," she said at last, her voice dropping from the careful, formal tones of a spymaster to those of a friend. "I am - we did everything we could."

One of the other clan children had nearly drowned when Rhaella was young, not more than six or so. Thankfully, he lived to tell the tale, and tell it he did, over and over and over again - how the water had closed over his head, how it had filtered the light down to something thin and insubstantial as gauze, how his parents' voices as they screamed for him grew fainter and fainter and more distorted, how his vision dimmed, how he was convinced even as his lungs burned that he wasn't the one dying - that it was the world itself that was ceasing to exist.

That was how Rhaella felt, standing there in her nightgown in the cold of her bedroom, Leliana before her, her face still hooded, as if this was her shame to bear. Rhaella felt like the whole world was slipping away. Like she was six feet underwater and falling further.

My agents report that there are no survivors. The people of Wycome did not show any mercy. Inquisition forces could never have gotten there in time. Inquisitor? Inquisitor?

It did not matter what she said. Leliana's voice was as unreal as the underwater realm her clan mate had described after they pulled him from the water and forced it from his lungs. It was not possible. It was not possible that they were all dead. It was not possible that she had chosen this poorly.

"Rhaella."

Leliana's hand was soft and cold on Rhaella's own. Rhaella drew away on instinct.

“Rhaella, I cannot imagine what it is like to hear this news. Please - say something. Tell me what I can do. You know I will not rest until we have brought all of them to justice. My agents are already in motion. But please, Rhaella, as your friend, tell me what I can do right now, and I will do it."

"That will be all, Sister Nightingale."

Her own voice was soft and cold as Leliana's hand had been, as distant as Wycome, as unreal as the image of her entire clan lying lifeless among the wreckage of their aravels. There was a hard knot deep in Rhaella's throat and that was the only thing that was real. Leliana left, saying something about seeing her at the morning council, and then there was just Rhaella and the moonlight and the knot in her throat and Creators they are all dead, and it is all my fault.

And they would have me stay here, and continue to lead the Inquisition? They would still trust me after this?

Her quarters had seemed absurdly large when she first moved into them but now they were abruptly too small, so small she could not breathe, so she burst through the doors leading to her balcony and stood there in the cold, a thin snowdrift chilling her feet until they were numb, her breath coming in harsh pants that puffed around her like clouds in the frigid air. The Anchor snapped and sparked in her hand, casting the ancient stone around her in a sickly green light. Her stomach turned.

Dead. They are all dead. And any one of the people in this castle could be next.

Rhaella went back into her room and began to dress. Every movement was mechanical. The Anchor sparked again, harder this time, and her mana responded, raising gooseflesh all over her body as she stripped naked and then clothed herself in armor. She paused halfway through that process, her chest heaving, her fingers twitching. Then she finished the job, and took the stairs out of her tower two at a time until she was in the grand hall, and then moved swiftly through the grand hall and into the piercing cold mountain air once more, and then down the steps of the keep into the courtyard, past the drunken soldiers stumbling home from the Herald’s Rest, and down into the lower courtyard.

Master Dennet was asleep but Rhaella was more than capable of getting her own mount. Her hart, Thistle, pricked up his ears when he saw her, letting out a soft, low whine of excitement. She ran her hands over his deep brown fur as she saddled him, trying not to think of the halla and harts that had been with Clan Lavellan when they died, of what might have happened to then. Once she was seated in the saddle and ushering Thistle forward she bent down and scooped up one of the ready made packs they left by the stable’s entrance for just such moments as these. Moments when a soldier or scout or dignitary was called away suddenly and had to leave at once. It would have all the supplies she would need.

Rhaella did not hail the guards at Skyhold’s gate as she left. They recognized her at a distance and lowered the gate without her asking. She was grateful for her authority for once. Grateful that she would not have to explain herself to them, to speak those awful words herself. Clan Lavellan is dead. I have failed them the way I will one day fail all of you, every one of you who chose to come here, to believe in me.

Her authority hadn’t saved the clan in the end. It had painted the target on them, lit them from within like veilfire so that the humans of Wycome knew exactly where to go. It would do the same to those guards on the wall.

Rhaella rode on, down the mountain, like it was all something she could outrun - as if her guilt, her grief, her past would melt away if she just lost herself in the pine-strewn slopes of the Frostback Mountains. She rode until she felt like her lungs would give out, until she could not hold herself upright on Thistle’s back. Then she found a rocky outcropping that would shield her from the snow, drove a stake into the hard earth and tied off Thistle’s reins. Then she sank down to her knees, and for the first time since Leliana came to her chambers and delivered the news, began to cry.

*

Rhaella had never felt particularly at home in her clan. She was an outsider in so many ways, and once both of her parents were gone she felt her lack of belonging even more keenly. It was part of why she had gone away to the Conclave. If someone had to go, it should be someone who was not missed. And it would give her a chance to see the world beyond the forests and the aravels and the halla she had always known. But she had always, always believed in the back of her mind that however far she got from them, she would be able to go back. She might not want to go back - and the longer she spent as Inquisitor, the more the doubt crept in that she would ever be able to go back to anything resembling a normal life - but at least the idea was there.

And however much she had felt like she had not belonged, she had never wished anything but the best for her clan.

And now, lying alone on a thin bedroll, Thistle wickering softly nearby, staring up at a cloudless blue sky, Rhaella was so crushed by her failure that she couldn’t find the strength to stand.

Whatever her feelings had been, her clan had been home. She had been one of them. They had fed and sheltered one another, hurt and healed one another, loved and hated one another, celebrated and mourned together. They were the last of the Elvhen. Now the next Arlathvhen would be one clan smaller. Her people were dwindling and fading away and she was part of that story now, part of that history, part of the reason it was happening. She was not a defender or a protector of the last of the Elvhen. She was part of the reason for their demise.

And they still expected her to lead the Inquisition after she'd committed a failure so grave?

It was better that she left.

That thought gave her enough energy to lurch up, to bunch up the bedroll and shove it into the pack, to untie Thistle and mount him once again and to continue heading down the mountain.

She was only vaguely aware of where she was headed. She knew she was going west, down into Orlais, but she did not have any particular destination in mind. She knew vaguely that people would be wondering where she had gone now. Judging by the height of the sun it was past time for the morning meeting, where no doubt Josephine and Cullen and Leliana were waiting anxiously to discuss the fallout of what happened with her clan. How would they react, she wondered, when she did not arrive? When they realized that no one had seen her at breakfast? She knew she should feel guilty for running, for not telling anyone, but she couldn’t bring herself to. They didn’t need her anyway. It was all clear now. Her leadership had gotten an entire clan killed. Her entire clan.

Every time she thought the words a wave of nausea rose up from the pit of her stomach. It had been hours since she ate but she knew the nausea would stop her, over and over and over again. She ignored it and kept riding, until the sharp slopes of the mountains gave way to the gentler slopes of rolling hills. She did not make it out of those foothills before night settled in, before Thistle was tired and honking irritably at her whenever she tried to urge him to greater speed, until her hands were shaking on the reins anyway. She lay on her bedroll beneath the stars and remembered the stories the hahrens told about them, tried to recall each and every word, the cadence of their voices. She was the only person alive who would remember them now.

It was that thought that made her decide on the Emerald Graves. There were rifts there that still needed clearing out. She might even be able to pull that off alone if she was careful enough. She could not abandon Thedas entirely. She could serve in this small way. She just was not meant to be a leader again. Perhaps standing amongst the cathedral-like beauty of those ancient trees, the statues of her people dotting the landscape, she could mourn properly. She could find a way to consign the clan she had known to history, to accept that they would never again wake on a misty morning to make food, to tend their animals, to love one another. She could find a way to reconcile herself to her guilt and her grief.

She made it through another day of travel, avoiding the roads and towns, and had just reached the edges of the Emerald Graves when Solas caught up with her.

She was at a stream, splashing water on her face, letting Thistle drink his fill, when she saw him on the opposite bank, emerging from the treeline like a ghost, his own hart’s reins in his hands. His face was pale as bone in the shadows of the forest and his eyes were full of sadness and anger and all of Rhaella’s breath left her at the sight of him, so near, and so unexpected.

You should not have come, she thought. I am as much a danger to you as I was to them.

She froze like any woodland creature caught in a predator’s sights as he crossed the river towards her. His eyes did not once leave hers. He was utterly heedless of the cold running water splashing over his bare feet, the sharp rocks beneath. His hart’s sides were heaving, foamy with sweat. She could only imagine how hard he had ridden to catch up. She stood, but he still towered over her once they were face to face. There was silence for a moment. Then Solas dropped his hart’s reins and cupped her face in both his hands.

“What were you thinking?” he said, voice harsh.

Rhaella had not spoken a word other than slower or faster or there now - whatever simple command Thistle needed from her - in the days since she left Skyhold. Her throat stuck at first, and when her voice did come it was raspy. An alien thing in her own mouth.

“They’re all dead, Solas. Every single one of them.”

Solas looked at her a moment longer. Then he held her, pressing her face against his chest, cradling the back of her head, his other arm wound tight around her. Rhaella wanted to resist, to push him away, to tell him she did not deserve tenderness, but his arms were strong and she was so tired and so alone and so she went limp against him, let him take her weight entirely. She did not cry again, but her breath came in loud, wracking pants that hurt her chest.

“What were you thinking?” Solas said again, his lips pressed to her ear. “You were the one who told me I did not have to mourn alone, vhenan. Are you so different from me?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Rhaella said. “Wisdom. Her death wasn’t your fault. This is all my fault.”

“It is not,” he said at once. He pulled back, held her face again, rested his forehead against hers so that she had nowhere to look but into his eyes. “It is not your fault, Rhaella.”

“It is.”

“It is not. I will not hear otherwise. The people who killed your clan were fanatics, violent fools who would have committed this atrocity given any opportunity. And do not forget the other forces at work manipulating events, here. This lies at Corypheus’s feet and not at yours. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

Rhaella pushed away at that, incensed by his anger, took a step or two away from him. “You can’t tell me how to feel.”

Solas made a frustrated sound. “I cannot. But I can attempt to offer you comfort and guidance, unless you wish neither from me, as your determination to fly from Skyhold without so much as a farewell would seem to imply.”

She saw it then, the hurt that warred beneath the anger and the exhaustion. She had frightened him. She had done the very thing that she had asked him not to do to her. She had pushed him away, shut him out, and now she was doing it again. But she did not deserve his kindness. She did not deserve comfort.

"Corypheus did this," she said. "But I gave the orders that made the situation in Wycome worse. I chose wrong. There is nothing to say that I won't keep choosing wrong over and over again."

"You are completely discounting every choice you made right," Solas said, his hand cutting through the air in a sharp, frustrated motion. "You are discounting every person you have saved, every person whose life you improved -"

"What if it's you next time?" She burst in, finding her voice now. "Solas - what if I lose you because of a mistake I make? I can't bear it. I won't. I won't put you or anyone else in the Inquisition in danger."

Solas raised his hands, ran them down his face, and when he was done, he looked like a different man. The anger was gone entirely. Instead there was a strange, wounded desperation.

"I would rather live the rest of my life in danger at your side than have you gone from me," he said.

And just like that, her resolve went out of her. Rhaella closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, though she did not look at him, watching the fractal patterns of light on the water instead of searching his face.

Solas closed the distance between them again. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tight.

“As am I,” he said. “I should not - your grief is your own. Your feelings about your role as Inquisitor are your own. How you choose to react to it is your own. It is selfish, perhaps, to feel that I should have been included in it. That you owed me an explanation before you left.”

“It’s not selfish. I would have done the same thing if our positions were reversed.”

They stood quietly, letting nature fill the silence. The rushing of the water and the quiet noises of their harts as they greeted one another and began to graze at the scrub lining the river, and the birds trilling as they leapt from tree branch to tree branch. It was all so ordinary. Life had not ceased just because Rhaella was the only Lavellan left who drew breath. It sickened her.

“You are exhausted,” Solas said softly. “Let us make camp. You need to rest.”

Rhaella let Solas guide her to a fallen log as he cleared space for the tent and bedrolls he had brought. He had packed more judiciously than she had, she saw quickly. The bedrolls were the padded kind they brought on longer journeys, and he’d brought a thick blanket as well. He also had several waterskins in addition to salted pork and dried apples and plums and even what she suspected was a skin of wine. She watched him preparing everything numbly, passively accepting the plate he brought her when he was done.

“Did they send you to bring me back?” she asked as he ate.

“No,” he said. “I left of my own will. I told your advisors as well as Seeker Pentaghast that I was going after you, that they did not need to send anyone else.”

Rhaella chewed on a dried plum, unimpressed by its sweetness, hardly tasting it at all.

“I don't want to go back,” she said.

“You are not the kind of woman who abandons people when they need her.”

“I abandoned my clan.”

Solas sighed. He waited a moment before speaking again.

“I am certain it feels that way. But I hope you can see someday that that simply is not true.”

They kept eating. Thistle and Solas’s hart began to stray and Solas whistled sharply, drawing them back. He offered them some of the dried fruit and they approached, eager for the treat, and Rhaella’s nose filled with the damp furry smell of them. There was something grounding about that animal smell, about their big placid eyes. She allowed herself a small smile at the sight - Solas murmuring to them in Elvhen, scratching their ears, chastising them when they did not take turns eating from his palm. If only she could make good on those words - could refuse to go back to the Inquisition, could refuse to ever be in a position to hurt so many people again. If only the rest of her life could be this - Solas and the open road. But the Anchor burned in her palm, a silent reminder, and she had to let the fantasy go.

The light was waning by the time he tied them up, and a chill was settling into Rhaella’s bones. She could see that Solas’s skin was prickling too as the breeze chilled him. He’d rolled back the forearms of his tunic when he set about driving the stakes in and tying up their mounts, and the skin there was covered in bumps. She longed for that skin suddenly. For him to hold her, to ground her, to pull her back out of the depths of the water she’d found herself in ever since Leliana came to her room and delivered the news.

She went into the tent and stripped down to just her smallclothes. She was aware when Solas entered the tent, and could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she took a cloth, wet it with her waterskin, and began to clean herself off. She wanted to ask the question that danced through her mind, but language and speech were beyond her once again, because the heaviness was back, the guilt and sadness and anger so real they were physical things, so she just turned to him and hoped her eyes would say it for her.

Solas swallowed, his throat bobbing.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, but the tent was small and the words felt large. “You need your rest. I will join you soon.”

She lay down on top of her bedroll and watched as he undressed and went through the same motions of cleaning the grime of travel from his body. She’d seen him do this a hundred times before and yet her gaze still lingered, still traced the planes of muscle on his back, the smatterings of freckles that cropped up in random places on his body, the faint blush of auburn hair that ran from his belly button towards the waistband of his smalls. Then he was beside her on top of his own bedroll, drawing the thick woolen blanket up over them both.

“Come here,” he said, his arms open.

Rhaella crawled into that warm circle and for the first time truly allowed herself to grieve everything that had been lost. The family she had never been close enough to. The place she had never really belonged and now could never go back to. She let Solas hold her as tightly as he could. They were belly to belly, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, cheek to cheek, constantly shifting to get as close as they could to one another. He rained kisses down on her forehead and eyelids and cheeks and shoulders - whatever he could reach.

“I know, I know, I know, vhenan,” he murmured over and over. “I know.”

She knew this was another one of his secrets. How did a hermit who had no one know what it was like to lose so much, to be so guilty, to have so much blood on your hands? But he said the words with such surety. He did know what she was feeling. It was a question for another time. For now, Rhaella wanted only to kiss him, to fill herself with him until he was her beginning and her end, and there was nothing else.

She did kiss him at last, a long, hard kiss, her fingernails digging into his scalp. He groaned into it, held tight to her hips. He came with her when she rolled onto her back, and lay on her when she pulled down on his shoulders, letting her feel his full weight. She was shocked as she always was by it - how much bigger, how much more solid he was than the other elven men she knew. She thrilled at the heaviness of him, how he could pin her to the earth, how there was nothing more real than him. She clung to him, kissed his shoulders and his neck and his chin and his ear, and felt him shudder.

Rhaella had wanted Solas for months now, but she did not think she had ever wanted him as fiercely as she did in that moment. She needed him to surround her. Needed him to make her feel like she belonged in her skin again. Needed him to move into her and fall apart so she could build him back up too. If they were both wounded - if they both hard scars - then she needed to measure every single way those scars matched up, and she needed to heal them, and she needed him to heal hers.

She knew Solas wanted it too, in that moment. She could feel the thick length of him resting against her belly and she was warm and wet at the thought of it, and he could not resist flexing his hips down, rubbing himself against her. But when her hand slid downwards, towards the waistband of his smalls, he went still.

“Rhaella,” he said, very quietly.

She went still, too.

“I want you,” she said, her voice small.

Solas hesitated. She could feel his hesitation like it was in the tent with them. Then he eased himself away from her, and the loss of his body against hers closed up her throat.

“My heart,” he said. “This is not the time. If we were to lie together I - I would want it to be under different circumstances. I am sorry.”

It hurt to be denied. Rhaella would not dispute that. But looking up at him, his eyes glinting in the darkness, her love overwhelmed any disappointment.

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. Truly.”

He kissed her forehead, his lips soft and plush and perfect, and then he kissed each of her eyelids, and he retreated to his side of the bedrolls.

They still slept with their bodies entwined, still kissed one another in the twilight hours as they awoke to the different sounds of the forest, but they did not let the heat build at any of those moments. They lingered in the tenderness and comfort of it instead.

Rhaella woke before Solas the next morning, and her first thought was still of Wycome, and the fields of blood and broken aravels just outside of it. None of the edge had come off of the horror of that image. It was still jagged in her mind. She had not slept well, for all that Solas was there with her, and when she dressed and went out to the stream to study her reflection, there were dark circles around her grey eyes. Her black hair was frizzy and mussed with sleep. She did not look like a leader, or even a lover. She looked like a woman in mourning. And that was okay, she decided. She was in mourning. She would find a way to be all three things. Lover, leader, and survivor. She would find a way.

She'd scrubbed her face and combed through her hair as well as she could, and was in the middle of plaiting it when Solas emerged from the tent.

"I have come to report a theft," he said. "My tunic seems to be missing."

He was indeed bare chested, and she was swathed in the smell of him, and she allowed herself a smile.

"Yours is softer than mine."

Solas reached out and tucked a lock of hair she'd missed behind her ear.

"I do like the sight of you in it."

They sat on the banks of the stream in silence for some time after that. The sun warmed their faces and Rhaella did her best to draw strength from it. She had to go back. There was no way around it. However much it frightened her, however certain she felt that she did not deserve her authority, she had to go back. Solas was right. She was not a woman who abandoned people. Her mother and father had not raised her that way. Solas would not love her as he did if she was.

She laced her fingers with his and took a deep, deep breath.

"We should start heading back," she said.

Solas leaned forward and kissed her forehead as he had the night before - slowly and gently, as if they had all the time in the world.

"Let us go," he said.

They readied their mounts and started off, and Rhaella let herself believe in the fantasy that it could just be this - that it could just be them - all the way back to Skyhold.

[elellan]

Chapters: 22/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games) Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford

CHAPTER 22. THE BATTLE OF ADAMANT - PART ONE

Nothing had prepared her for what she saw that day. Not even the full two weeks of frenzy battle-preparation had been enough. They held endless war councils, the advisors had little time even to breathe. It was vital that they strike Adamant, and soon, as there was no time to elaborate a refined battle technique or to wait for other forces to join them. Josephine pulled her strings and managed to convince some orlesian nobles to lend the Inquisition trebuchets for their assault; Leliana unleashed her agents who sent back maps and information concerning the Warden’s fortress and situation; Cullen started special training for his troops and spent his remaining time studying all of Leliana’s and Josephine’s material with his lieutenants, trying to elaborate a tactic that could bring the Inquisitor and a small party inside the fortress. The others trained every day, trying to balance the necessary physical preparation essential to withstand a probable heavy battle with the much-needed rest and focus that they would require that day. When she wasn’t involved in war councils or in training, Riwan kept to her room, studying the every day more detailed floor-plan of Adamant as she had been instructed to and reflecting on who would be best to bring with her inside the fortress. She was beginning to become each day more agitated, as the advisors came and went from her room ever more frequently to bring her news and keep her up to date on the development of the situation. Even Cullen, who had barely learned to cope with Riwan popping up completely unexpectedly into his quarters, was now coming and going freely from her bedroom without any ceremony needed. She felt something tug at her heart every time she saw him: everything that had happened between them had been put aside. Time to work had come and the Commander was under a huge amount of it and suddenly it seemed like she was seeing him again for the first time, cloaked with the aura that had permeated him during the first days that Riwan had spent in the Inquisition: he was grave and concentrated, tall and broad, his steely gaze focused into matters that did not concern her. She was intimidated and somehow proud, but couldn’t push away the worrying feeling that the incoming battle would turn in a real hazard for them all. The bulk of the army had already departed, commanded by the most skilled lieutenants, while the Commander would be the last one to leave, accompanied by a smaller bulk of heavy armoured soldiers and Riwan’s party. She had been asked to attend to the departure of the first bulk and she was left speechless: how many people were down there, marching in Silverite and steel? How many soldiers ready to serve their cause? While they marched and paraded out of Skyhold, Cullen had stayed at her side with Cassandra and the other advisors. He had explained to her in detail how they had divided the army into blocks of men guided by block-commanders and how each line of men had a line head. Trumpeters, drummers and messengers were departing with them and a banner was held for each block. There were archers too and they would use the cavalry only if strictly needed. As Commander and general of the army, he would stay in the rear-block, surveilling the battlefield and striking when needed, as their developed tactics required. When the army disappeared behind the white mountains, Riwan tried to gulp, only to find that she had no saliva in her mouth and that her eyes were filled with tears instead. “Very well, then. Are you sure you don’t need to know anything else? Do you remember that-”. “That I cannot stop and that whatever I see and whatever happens I will need to stick to the battering ram? Yes, I do.” Cullen was pacing Riwan’s room the day before their departure, going over the war tactics with her for the umpteenth time and making sure that she remembered Adamant planimetry and that she had finally decided who to bring with her inside the fortress. The others would remain with him or at the sides of the battlefield, covering the soldier units as best suited. “Good”, he said. He seemed ready to leave her when he returned on his paces and said: “You will not be allowed to exit cover until you are safely inside the fortress, do you understand?” “It’s the fifteenth time you’ve told me, I think I’ve quite understood it.�� “Good. Soldiers will be there to protect you and the others. Once inside, it’s up to you. The priority is-”. “Reach Clarel, I know. Don’t worry, Cullen. I have made my homework.” He sighed and passed a hand on his tired face. “All right. I will bother you no more. This time will not be like Haven, you’ll have your back covered. We will all be there to protect you.” Riwan got up from her desk and tentatively got closer to him. “I’ll be fine”, she said, trying to sound confident in herself. “I’ve seen many soldiers remain so shocked by their first battle experience that they were struck down on the spot because they couldn’t react. You must be prepared” he said, his stern expression unchanged, his gaze wandering nervously around her. “You’ve done everything you can. I’ve been picturing in my head the worst possible scenarios in the last couple of days. I’m ready” she said. The truth was that she was totally terrified, but there was no point in saying it now. She tried to master a smile. “Good. I’ll leave you then. We’ll be departing tomorrow morning, it’s best that you rest as long as you can, it will be a long march”. He smiled and quietly turned and started to descend the stairs that led to the main hall. Riwan remained there, confused and tired. He went away and shut the door. ‘Fenedhis’, she thought. She let herself fall on the couch and cupped her face between her hands, sighing. Yes, saying that she was terrified was an understatement. She jumped on her seat, hearing the door being opened brusquely and footsteps running up the stairs. He stopped for a second looking at her, then swiftly kneeled in front of her and said softly: “I’m sorry, I- I forgot something”. He took her face between his gloved hands and hurriedly kissed her. He rested his forehead on hers for a moment, then said: “See you tomorrow”. She chuckled and managed to reply a feeble response, while he got up smirking and disappeared again.

CONTINUE ON AO3

[chaotic-good-hawke]

Scavenger Hunt, 2486 words

This is a (belated) birthday gift for the lovely and talented, @mocha-writes​! Featuring her OC, Solomon Trevelyan, and my own two OCs, Hela Lavellan and Ronan Trevelyan. I wasn’t planning for it to be so long, but I got a little carried away...anyways, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOCHA!!!!

**

Hela and Sera had gotten up very early that morning, before the sun rose. The air was crisp and brisk, the autumn winds cold off the snowy mountains.

Together they had managed to sneak into the Solomon’s quarters, planting a letter beside his bed, before hurrying away.

They couldn’t wait for him to open it.

The first clue to their scavenger hunt.

**

It took much longer than they had hoped, waiting for the sun to rise, meeting up with Ronan and checking that everything was in place, running here and there putting the finishing touches on things. It had to be perfect.

Hela and Sera currently hid behind Varric’s table in the great hall, mostly whispering as they waited for the Inquisitor to descend. It was hard to keep quiet, since boredom was instigating tickles and jabs. Their elf ears twitched when they heard the tell-tale creak of the door at the end of the hall. Peeking over the table, they saw the inquisitor approach the throne, twining a multi-colored scarf around his neck.

He had found the first surprise, obviously. Cole had not really hidden it so much as draped it across the door into the great hall, with the second clue tucked underneath it. It was made from scraps, a thing made from cast-offs, but lovely sewn together by the spirit boy. Cole had a matching one himself. He had said it was to keep the inquisitor warm.

They watched as Solomon found the basket behind the judgement seat, inside, Hela knew, was a book of romantic poetry, scandalous for its positive portrayal of elves and elven/human relationships. Ronan had looked hard for a copy, Cass finally pointing him to a dealer in rare books, that she blushed when asked teasingly why she knew the person sold near-banned romantic texts.

Solomon paused against the chair, adjusting his glasses, reading the third clue left with the book. His face held an air of concentration, but also surprise, perhaps bewilderment even.

“Y’think he needs a hint?” Sera whispered.

“Shh!” Hela replied, “Give him a minute.” Her tone was teasing, ears flicking in her excitement.

They didn’t have to wait long for the inquisitor to nod to himself and head for the door to the undercroft. So far so good.

**

The Inquisitor was gone long enough for Sera and Hela to relocate to behind the door to Josephine’s office. They were lucky it was still early and the hall wasn’t full up with dignitaries and ambassadors, so peering out into the hall they were able to see Solomon enter again, this time with a large purple silken handkerchief tied around the handle of the basket. Sera had embroidered it with little yellow bees, naturally exploding from a bee bomb. She had sworn a lot when she sewed it, pricking her fingers more often than not, but Hela had encouraged her and she was determined to finish it for Solomon.  

Solomon next wandered over to Varric’s hearth, easily finding a tome on archaic magic that Solas had found hidden away in the old library downstairs. It was leather-bound and pages were illuminated with diagrams and illustrations. It was a bit dense for Hela’s taste, but it was just the kind of thing the Hahren would like. The two tricksters watched him set it in the basket and pick up the next note. He read quickly and thoughtfully, sure steps leading him through another door down to the kitchens.

“See, he’s got this.” Hela said, standing up and stepping into the hall.

“Hope he likes the cookies.” Sera said. They had baked cookies last night, which he would find waiting for him in the kitchen. The ones they had made should be edible, which hey, it was only the third batch they had made together. And well, if they weren’t, they could work as impromptu projectiles, so win-win.

“Come on, let’s go let Ronan know it’s his turn.”

“Race you!” Sera said, speeding off towards the library, Hela laughing to catch up to her. It was going perfectly.

**

Ronan heard them before he saw them, spying the two rambunctious elves at the bottom of the rotunda, cackling and pushing each other. Hela gave him a salute and whistle, before pulling Sera out again, stumbling back in a rush.

Taking his cue, he exited to the balcony on the third floor, getting a view of the lower courtyard and stables.  If everything went as planned, Solomon would be emerging there in a few minutes.

As the wind ruffles his hair, he used a spell to warm his hands and considered what brought them here. It had been chance that had them all back at Skyhold. When Hela and Ronan had realized what day it would be, they had plotted together, recruiting other around Skyhold to their shenanigans.

And it was working, as he saw Solomon below. His cousin, however distant. Besides his grandmother, Solomon was about the only Trevelyan that Ronan would claim as kin. He was a good man.

Solomon made it to the stables, hidden from view, but Ronan had little doubt that he would find the carved owl paperweight that Warden Blackwall had carved. He had painted it white, with delicate plumage outlined and bright violet eyes. The burly man was surprisingly talented, a deft hand at crafts.

Ronan tapped his fingers against the stone, a smile on his face. He had found much here with the Inquisition. Freedom, friends, something to believe in.

His thoughts must have wandered farther and longer than he realized, for Solomon had slipped past his notice and was in the library, finding the gift wrapped in the seat he usually sat in when reading there.

Hela had sneaked a peak at what Leliana had gotten him. She was surprised, for they were a set of small elven ear cuffs, pointed and delicate, simple, yet elegant in design. Small enough to hide under long hair, as the inquisitor was wont to do with his ears, if he chose to. Hela wouldn’t tell him what the personal note said, uncharacteristically tightlipped about it, simply saying it was what the hahren needed to hear.

As soon as Solomon left the library, Ronan booked it down the stairs, entering the great hall, but sliding along the wall so that the inquisitor couldn’t see him. He was in Vivienne’s alcove, surely finding the new traveling alchemical set that she had imported specially for him. Practical, a shared interest. It was expensive, but Vivienne had waved away the cost, saying a favor was owed her.

Ronan barely managed to reach the large doors when Solomon descended, crossing to Josephine’s office.

In the War Room, set on the map, he would find a book of artistic landscape etchings from across Thedas. Ronan knew how much his cousin loved the scenery of Thedas, loved travelling and exploring. He hoped that he would enjoy have a stand-in for when he was stuck at Skyhold or at noble functions.

Ronan moved to shadow Solomon when he left, albeit with only a little success. The mage was not known for being stealthy. However, he was able to witness the inquisitor find the mug of hot chocolate from The Iron Bull, left at the bar with Cabot and kept warm with a minor spell from Hela. It also included a note that the man could raid Bull’s stash whenever he needed, a generous offer from the qunari, given his love of the stuff.  

He couldn’t quite see Solomon uncover the bundle left by Hela in the place Cole usually frequented, but since he headed out the door towards the mage tower, he must have found it. Hela had it made special, had her cousin Fenrir send it from her clan in the Free Marches. From her stories, Ronan wasn’t sure what to really expect from the clan. They were either the friendliest and smartest Dalish in all the world or the strongest and most likely to roast a lone human over a spit…most terrifying was the possibility that it was both. It was difficult at times to shift truth from fiction and exaggeration around the elf.

But anyways, she had requested and received a Dalish hair comb, carved with a Halla and an Elvhen blessing. And, because she felt that was not enough, she also scaled the apple tree in the garden this morning to pick a half dozen of the best ones she could find. More like used it as an excuse to climb the tree, but the sentiment was there.

The final gift, left in the mage tower, was a set of vanilla scented candles and bath salts from the Lady Josephine. She had noticed that the inquisitor enjoyed the scent, as the gifted woman noticed many things. But most importantly, the final gift included a map drawn by Hela and Sera that showed a path from the tower to the garden.

With Solomon now headed for the final gift and clue, it was time for Ronan to meet up with Hela and Sera. They wanted to see his reaction to the final surprise.

Ronan smiled broadly to himself. He hoped his cousin enjoyed it.

**

Dorian sat in the garden, in the shade of the gazebo, the chess board moved there, out from the sun. He had been there for most of the morning, Ronan escorting him to the place and showing him what they had set up. About ten minutes ago, Hela and Sera had arrived with food and drink, setting it up…artfully before running off, Hela blowing a kiss towards him as they ran.

The garden was still warm, even in the Autumn morning. There was some ancient enchantment that would likely keep it so year round, a subject that Solomon, Solas, and he had discussed in depth several months ago.  

Dorian fidgeted, the waiting agitating him. He hoped that Solomon appreciated what they did. When he was first approached about this whole convoluted endeavor, he was hesitant, not sure if it was something Solomon would truly enjoy, but Hela, and to some extent, Ronan, had convinced him. And he had to say, the gifts were well chosen.

He hoped Solomon didn’t notice how crowded the great hall was going to be, when he passed through. They had arranged to empty the gardens for the morning and afternoon, giving them privacy, so many more would be lingering inside.  

Dorian straightened his outfit again, checking that his hair was still in order, that a stray wind hadn’t upset it. He wanted to provide the best picture for his Amatus.

And he was his amatus. That tall, gangly man. Learned, intelligent, a secret sense of humor, an understanding that he loved. And it was no easy thing to think of it as love. It wasn’t something Dorian had thought to have, truly have. And it was still a new thing, really…

Dorian’s thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, loud in the peaceful courtyard, which heralded the arrival of his love. Solomon stepped into the garden, squinting through his glasses slightly in the sunlight, as he was wont to do. His long white hair was pulled back, but it shone in the sun. Dorian thought it beautiful, as he found many things about the inquisitor.

Finally adjusted to the light, Solomon saw him and walked over, a brimming basket of things held in his arm. He had found them all, of course.

“Amatus! What a surprise to see you!” Dorian exclaimed, a wide smile forming freely on his face. Solomon raised an eyebrow at him.

“Really? I was given a map with a very explicit path marked to this location, with hearts drawn around the destination.” Solomon had a small grin at least.

“Ah, that would be Sera’s work, or Hela’s, perhaps both.” Dorian amended. “But, you have found me, just in time for lunch.” Dorian swept his arm out to the array of foods, a carefully selected offering of several of their favorite foods. “And you have found all the clues, well done, Amatus. Please, have a seat.”

Solomon looked hesitant then. “This was really too much.” He lifted the basket. “I hardly deserve this effort. The time alone and the cost of some of these gifts…”

“Nonsense! This is entirely what you deserve!” Dorian exclaimed. Apparently loud enough that the until then hidden trio of Ronan, Hela, and Sera, from their place on the balcony above, could hear.

“You deserve it all, Hahren!” Hela yelled, before Ronan could clap his hand over her mouth. Solomon turned quickly to look up at them, while Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Oy, you do!” Sera added, causing Ronan to elbow her as he was wrangling Hela. The display above was a comedy of sorts, before Ronan managed to shove them towards the door, the pair of elves cackling all the way. They all waved, before slipping from sight.

Dorian sighed. “We should actually be alone now.”

“I deduce that they were the primary parties responsible for this?”

“Yes. When they heard it was going to be your birthday, they wanted to do something about it. They did manage to throw it together rather quickly.” Dorian said.

“Yes, they must have. I would assume they found out the information from the ambassador?”

“The spymaster, actually.” Dorian said. “I believe she let it slip to Ronan. And then once Hela found out, the plan was in motion.”

“I cannot believe you all went to this trouble over me.” Solomon said, he opened his mouth to continue, to likely say how he didn’t deserve it, to put himself down again. Well, Dorian wouldn’t give him the chance.

“We were all eager to do so, Solomon. We care about you. No one was pressured to do anything. And really, it is what you deserve, and I won’t hear another word about how much you don’t deserve the things or the effort or the care. We would be frightfully offended if you refused any of the gifts.”

“I…thank you.” He was blushing, breaking eye contact, showing that he really was embarrassed, but taking a seat across from Dorian. “I should thank the others.”

“There is time for that later, Solomon.” Dorian set his hand lightly on Solomon’s. “Their will be a gathering later at the tavern, if you wish to join it. Hela described it as either a chance to toast the success of our endeavor or drown our collective sorrows if it failed. But, we have the garden to ourselves for now. Leliana and Josephine have cleared your schedule, we have food, a chess board, and all the time in the world.” Dorian ran his thumb over his love’s knuckles. “Happy Birthday, Amatus.”

Solomon met his eyes again, a hint of tears forming, a humble smile on his face. Dorian smiled at him, before leaning back. “Now, I believe it is your move.”    

[5lazarus]

Hey Laz! I'm very curious a about Fire in the Empire and Josephine, Leliana, the panties 👀🔥

And also Hilda if you feel like it because I love the name ❤️

hey!! thanks for the ask :) Fire in the Empire is the next chapter of Fen’Harel’s Teeth, based off this song. I like it because I think it describes every character’s state of mind as they tear through the Exalted Plains--Briala, Lavellan, Hawen, Solas, Blackwall, and Iron Bull. Especially Solas, Blackwall, and Iron Bull. here’s a snippet. I’ve always been fascinated with how you find the Soul Canto in the trenches, so I opened the chapter with it:

The girl is bleeding out all over the table, but under her is a leatherbound book that remains dry. Imladris tugs it out from under her, gently pushing the still-warm corpse aside. She can see the girl’s eyes through the grill of her armor. “What was she reading?” Iron Bull asks. Imladris examines the title. “The Tome of Koslun. Is she viddathari?” “Nah,” Bull says. “We moved all our spies out when the demons came.” The book is battered and the pages are thin and cracker-hard; it’s been left out in the rain before, and carefully dried. Carefully Imladris turns the pages, staining them with the grime and blood of her gloves. She reads aloud, “You have seen the greatest kings build monuments to their glory, only to have them crumble and fade. How much greater is the world than their glory? The purpose of the world renews itself with each season. Each change only marks a part of the greater whole. The sea and the sky themselves: nothing special. Only pieces.” She snaps it shut, thinking-not-thinking where she has heard it before, a Qunari woman in prison once, intoning those four words like a prayer to an atheist god, nothing special only pieces nothing special only pieces. The sounds of the fighting stops abruptly, and Blackwall comes crashing into the barracks. “That’s the last of them,” he says, panting. “The last of the demons. And the fucking Orlesians. Are you alright?” Imladris glances at the corpse, who turns its sightlesss eyes to gape at her. She blasts it with fire, leaping back towards the stairs as Iron Bull cleaves it with his huge greataxe. When they are done the girl is eviscerated, but whatever took her has returned in tatters to the Fade. They leave the room behind, but Imladris takes the Soul Canto with her.

For the Josephine/Leliana story, I signed up for Sapphic Solstice and my girlfriend ended up getting assigned me. This is the story she’s not writing, because I decided I wanted to do it. I decided I wanted to write more femslash in DA after she told me it accounts for less than 10% of fanfic, and why not them? I have only one line: “The food was bad and the shoes were worse.” Hilda, though, is a short story I’m working on, loosely based off my own grandmother. It’s about a whole host of things--how Eastern Europeans assimilated into USA whiteness & thus respectability, the rage of older women who have cut themselves into pieces for an ideal that has always lied to them, the sex work of bad marriages. I’ll put the rest under a cut. My original work tends to be very, very intense, though I've written some sillier stuff ("Nice Try, FBI" is the fucking funniest thing I've ever written, and I'm very proud of it). This one, though, is very much serious. Probably one of the nastier things I've written about, though I hope the fact that I'm writing it with compassion comes through. (but that's another conversation--I don't believe in writing with dislike!)

My grandmother was a Czech and Russian Jewish woman whose first language was not English, who told everyone she was Irish Catholic like her first husband, my grandfather, who died when my mother was a child. She kept having children to try and get that boy, put kept pushing out daughters, even as the family fell more and more into poverty. They’d move every month to avoid avoid getting evicted by the landlord when the rent was due, for example. And then my grandfather died, and my grandmother put herself to work as a secretary to explicitly seduce and marry her bosses, and netted three of them. She once told my mother, “Some women are meant to be secretaries. Others are meant to be married. I’m meant to be married.” That was the only two options she presented, and the only two options she still considers acceptable.

So it’s about those angry, hateful old women who never had any chance to be anything besides a helpmate for a man, who refused any chance to be anything besides a wife, who actively sabotaged her daughters and granddaughters who tried to be anything besides wives. There’s been this tendency in recent family epics I’ve seen from other white Americans writing about their ancestors’ “immigrant & assimilation experience” in very romantic terms, though the Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna pushes back against that for the Italian-American experience, and was what made me think that maybe it’s time to tell these stories that before, only get whispered after a few drinks while the women are cleaning up after Easter dinner in the kitchen. It’s experimental, and I suppose it's a very USA story! I want it to be fully drenched in its time--a small town half an hour outside of New York City, from the perspective of a woman who was born a bastard in 1938, raised by drunks and who married drunks. I’m writing it in the 2nd person and in stream-of-consciousness, and I took a break before I get to the climax. Here’s a snippet, content warning for the protagonist’s memory of antisemitism:

You do the dishes and run the water too hot, and you think about how you want a new kitchen, with enamel finishings, and little hens to pretend you have the comfort of a country life. Your mother was from the country, in the old country, and she hated New York. Too dirty, too loud, too prying. The neighbors would listen when she cried, and the whole neighborhood knew about the traveling salesman, and that he was a Jew, too. She’d cry over your curls; she herself was a perfect blonde, just like Jayne Mansfield, with the swoop of hair and a birthmark too. You hated it, you hated your hair, and so did your mother and she burned you and the kitchen too when you were a girl, trying to iron it out. The fire department all came and they laughed and they were rude to your mother, and the neighbors heard, and all the girls at school did too, and even after the birth of your third daughter, the women would smirk when you’d go by. You’re angry, you’re angry that you bleached your hair and you’re losing it, you’re angry that Shirley Temple had those curls and she never straightened them, everyone loved them and you had the same exact curls and nobody loved you, did they? Except those men. They loved something. At least you kept them away from your girls. Better than your mother, that’s the truth.

[pikapeppa]

Abelas/Lavellan smut: Ma’av’in

An older piece that I never posted on Tumblr! 

Ma’av’in: an elvhen term, from @fenxshiral​, that literally means ‘my mouth’, but is also a very personal and slightly sexual endearment meaning “I love and desire you so much that my mouth tastes like yours,” but also “we understand each other on such a personal level that you could talk for me”.

In which Athera Lavellan and Abelas sneak into the kitchen for some cake and run into Solas, who is doing the same thing. Oh, elves with a sweet tooth.

Read on AO3 instead. 

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

Athera poked her head cautiously into Skyhold’s kitchen. “Hello?” she called softly.

When no one replied, she relaxed and turned to Abelas with a smile. “It’s clear. Everyone’s gone to bed.” She scurried into the kitchen and made a beeline for the large icebox that held the leftover sweets.

Abelas followed her at a more decorous pace. As Athera opened the icebox and poked around, he studied the icebox itself with clear disapproval. “This cooling spell is inefficient,” he said. “The magic is slowly dissipating. It will need to be recast in less than a year.” He frowned at her. “Who was the spellcaster here? Someone on your staff is in dire need of training.”

Athera shot him an exasperated look. “Who cares about the icebox? Look at what’s inside!” She enthusiastically pulled out a platter, then removed its metal lid with a flourish to reveal a selection of bite-sized desserts.

Abelas’s disapproval melted into a tiny smile, and Athera’s cheeks warmed with pleasure at having wiped away his frown. She happily set the platter on the table. “Those cakes I gave you were the first kind of Orlesian dessert I tried when I first started hanging out with humans,” she said eagerly. “They all have funny names.” She pointed to each of the desserts in turn. “This is a macaron. Chocolate-raspberry, it looks like, and this one is… a blackberry macaron, maybe? This cake is called ‘le coup de grâce’. It’s made with a lot of brandy - they’ll actually make you drunk if you eat enough of them. This one is ‘la langue fourchue’ - I think it contains dragonthorn, it’s weirdly spicy - and this one is ‘la belle rose’. It’s made with rosewater. That’s what Josie said, at least.”

Abelas listened carefully as she named the various cakes. Then he selected a small square cake with pink fondant icing and a tiny flower on top.

Athera wilted slightly in disappointment; the cake he’d picked was the same kind she’d given to him when he first arrived at Skyhold. “You don’t want to try something new?” she asked. “You’ve had that kind already.”

He settled his gilded gaze on her face. “I am fond of this kind. They remind me of you.”

The tips of Athera’s ears suddenly felt hot. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her stupid grin, then selected a rosewater cake for herself. “Well, I guess that’s all right then.” She lifted her cake and gently touched it to his. “Cheers.”

“On’enansal,” he murmured, and Athera smiled and popped the whole cake into her mouth.

Abelas, on the other hand, took a small bite of his cake. Athera covered her full mouth self-consciously while she chewed, feeling boorish compared to her lover’s dignified munching.

He studied the cake as he chewed. “What is the name of this confection?”

Athera swallowed hastily. “It’s called ‘la petite bise’. Leliana said it means ‘the little kiss’.” She leaned back against the table as she watched Abelas enjoy his cake. “It’s named after this weird thing the Orlesians do. They kiss each other on the cheeks as a greeting. They even do it to people they’ve only just met.” She remembered the first time someone had greeted her this way; it was one of Josie’s contacts from Val Royeaux, Madame la Marquise of Something-Or-Other, and Athera was shocked when the woman leaned in to bump her cheekbones against Athera’s face. She was still grateful that her surprise had made her freeze like a rabbit instead of flinching away from the Marquise; she didn’t want to imagine the kind of unintentional offence a flinch would have caused.

Abelas’s gaze slid from the cake back to her face. “The little kiss, you say?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Athera bit her lip coquettishly. “Yes,” she confirmed.

He swallowed his tiny bite of cake, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “I would like a demonstration of this strange custom.”

His face was serious, but his golden eyes were warm and playful, and Athera grinned. “All right,” she said. She took a step closer to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, then lifted herself onto her tiptoes and leaned in to graze his sharp right cheekbone with a kiss.

He turned his head at the last second and met her lips with his own.

Athera smiled against his mouth, then wrapped her arms around his neck as he deepened the kiss. His sculpted lips gently coaxed hers apart, and Athera released a shivery little sigh as he lightly nipped her lower lip with teeth.

His unoccupied hand curved around her waist, then up along her back to pull her flush to his body, and Athera happily pressed herself against his chest. He tasted sweet and fruity, a warm reflection of the cake in his hand, and she shamelessly savoured the smooth feel of his tongue caressing her own, the exciting feel of his hard and muscular thigh sliding between her legs-

“Oh,” a surprised voice said, and Athera sprang away from Abelas as the mild-mannered voice continued. “My apologies. I, er, I did not think anyone else would be here.”

“Solas!” Athera gasped. She covered her burning cheeks with her hands and stared at the apostate in complete mortification. The pinkness of his cheeks was evident even in the warm orange light of the hearthfire, and Athera couldn’t decide if she was more or less horrified to find him looking as embarrassed as she felt.

She glanced up at Abelas, and was further ashamed to see him looking as discomfited as Solas. Desperate to smooth over the awkward moment, she focused on Solas again. “What, er, what brings you to the kitchen?” she stammered.

Solas cleared his throat. “I believe the same thing that brought you here,” he said, then gestured at the platter of desserts on the table. “An insatiable taste for all things sweet.”  

At his words, the thought of Abelas’s sugar-laced tongue in her mouth flashed through her mind, and Athera cringed as her face became even hotter.

Fortunately, Abelas seemed to have recovered his aplomb. Unfortunately, his aplomb was far too polite for Athera’s liking. “Please, join us,” the Sentinel said, then gestured to the platter of sweets.

Solas shot her a quick glance, and Athera’s face and shoulders performed some kind of strange combination of grimace-and-shrug. Solas slowly made his way into the kitchen. “Thank you,” he said with a gracious nod to Abelas, then selected a small cylindrical cake enrobed in dark gray fondant and painted with intricate red curlicues.

Solas took a delicate bite of cake, and Athera watched the two men with increasing discomfort as they ate their cakes in excruciating silence. She twisted her fingers together as she desperately cast around for something to say.

“How about the paint job on that, huh?” she finally said with a nod to the elaborate swirls on Solas’s little cake. “Must take a long time to paint each one. No wonder they’re so expensive.”

“Yes, it is its own form of artistry, is it not?” Solas replied eagerly, clearly relieved that she’d broken the silence. “I must admit that this particular kind is my favourite. Do you happen to recall what it is called?”

Athera narrowed her eyes. “That’s the one with the slightly bitter filling, right? I think it’s called ’le souffle du loup.’ It means ‘breath of the wolf’.”

Solas suddenly went still, and Abelas coughed loudly. Athera turned to him in alarm as he continued to cough into his hand. “Are you okay? You’re not choking, are you?”

“He is fine,” Solas said hastily, then patted the coughing Sentinel on the back in an oddly fraternal manner. “Perhaps I will leave you in peace. It was not my intention to interrupt. Not that you were doing anything that - I mean, that is -”

“No, you stay,” Abelas rasped. “Please. I insist. The Inquisitor and I will go elsewhere. It would not do for us to, er - that is, we will take ourselves to a more private, er…”

Solas’s cheeks reddened further, and Athera wondered wistfully if she could just melt into the floor right now. “Yes, perhaps that would be wise,” Solas replied weakly, and Abelas nodded brusquely before taking her hand and tugging her toward the door.

Athera glanced over her shoulder at her apostate friend. “Sorry,” she squeaked. Then Abelas pulled her out of the kitchen.

The Sentinel whispered a quiet word in Elvhen, and goosebumps ran down Athera’s arms as his fade-cloak spell settled over them both. “Come,” he muttered, and he laced his fingers with hers as he led her back up the stairs.

The further they got from the kitchen, the more her humiliation began to melt into humour. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as they traversed the Great Hall. By the time she had unlocked the door that led up to her quarters, her shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

She opened the door and let Abelas in before her, then closed the door behind them both and slumped back against the wall, her hands clapped over her mouth to prevent an outburst of glee.

“Dread Wolf take me, that was horrible,” she wheezed. “It’s like being caught in the act by an older brother. Oh gods.” Then she finally broke into a storm of nervous laughter.

A reluctant little smile lifted Abelas’s cheeks as she continued to helplessly laugh. “I can see how it would feel that way,” he murmured. He slowly stepped close and brushed his thumb over her smiling lower lip. “We should be quiet now,” he whispered. “I do not think you want to wake the rest of the castle.”

Her laughter hitched in her throat as his knee brushed against her thighs, and her amusement slowly faded and deepened into the foiled desire that had begun to brew in the kitchen. “Maybe you need to find a way to keep me quiet,” she breathed.

She watched with interest as he inhaled deeply, then smiled more broadly at her. “Veraisa,” he whispered. Then he slanted his mouth over hers.

She parted her lips instantly, granting access to his delicious tongue. He still tasted of fondant, a hint of fruit and sugar, and Athera eagerly suckled his tongue as though to steal his sweetness for herself.

Abelas groaned against her lips and pressed his knee between her legs. She gasped and released his tongue as the hardness of his leg rode against the vee of her thighs, sending a shock of sensation from her groin up to her nipples and throat.

His hands were suddenly cradling her neck, his fingers cupping the back of her skull as he stole her breath with another kiss. Athera wrapped her arms around his lean body, pressing her chest against him and spreading her legs more widely to welcome the muscular bulk of his thigh. He delved his tongue into her mouth, and with every lap of his tongue and every gentle pull of his lips against her own, her desire surged like the eager rising of high tide.

Finally Abelas broke their kiss to gasp against her cheekbone, his fingers still tight in her hair. He breathed hard for a moment, the heat of his lustful breaths sending a delicious shiver down her spine. Abruptly he lifted her chin with his fingers and kissed her hard once more, then knelt at her feet.

A mewl of desperate want escaped her lips, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself as Abelas slid his hands under her nightshift and peeled her smallclothes down to her ankles. “If this is your idea for keeping me quiet, I’ll have you know it’s a terrible idea,” she whimpered.

Abelas shot her a quick look, and the intensity of his expression stopped her breath again. “Solas was right,” he told her. “I hunger for something sweet. But it is not some mere shemlen confection that I want.” Without further ado, he gathered the fabric of her cotton shift in his fists and pinned her skirts to the wall, then slicked his tongue between her legs.

Heat and pleasure rippled through her blood at the sleek stroke of his tongue. Athera took a shuddering breath and fisted one hand in her hair, then bit the back of her other hand as Abelas diligently stroked her plump folds with his full lower lip before sliding his tongue over the swollen button of her clit.

Her hot breath ghosted across the back of her hand as Abelas continued to work his talented mouth at the apex of her thighs. The lapping of his tongue was voracious yet tender, very much as though he was savouring a favoured treat, and Athera’s thighs began to tremble with the strain of holding herself upright as he stroked his tongue along the length of her cleft, caressed her clit with his lower lip, drank in every drop of her heated arousal from her exquisitely sensitive folds-

She gasped in a faltering breath, then muffled her pleasure against the back of her hand as Abelas brought her to a scintillating peak. Her fingers were twisted painfully in her hair, her teeth pressing ruthlessly into the skin of her hand, but she was numb to it all, numb to anything but the blissful feel of her lover’s tongue between her legs.

Finally Abelas rose to his feet and wrapped her in a tight embrace, his body hard against her own as he kissed her. His lips held the perfume of her own arousal, tangible and earthy evidence of his carnal devotion, and the familiar musky scent drove her desire to a fever pitch.

Her fingers clutched his arms convulsively; she was internally at war, mired in the dual desires to have him right now and to have him as freely and loudly as she liked. Finally she pushed him away, only to tug him toward the stairs up to her bedroom. “I can’t keep up this quiet thing. Let’s hurry,” she urged.

He huffed with amusement as he followed her hasty steps up the stairs. “I admire your discipline,” he said.

She stopped on the first landing, then pulled her shift over her head and flung it to the floor. She shoved her long dark hair back, then faced him boldly. “Trust me, my discipline is hanging by a thread,” she said bluntly, then turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

Abelas caught her on the second landing. She gasped as he penned her against the wall, his hands cradling her neck as he pressed his forehead to hers. “As is mine,” he breathed. “I want for you so strongly, and it… it is not enough.”

“What’s not enough?” she asked breathily, her fingers digging into his arms.

“Everything,” he replied instantly. “Every moment. Your skin, your taste, your voice. Every moment we spend together until… until the time comes. It will never be enough.”

Athera closed her eyes to block out the reminder of his eventual departure. She knew ecactly how he felt, and it was so incredibly bitter.

She shook her head, then gently pushed him away. She wrenched open the door to her bedroom, then she strode up the final set of stairs and waited impatiently until Abelas drew level with her. Then she flung herself at him in a storm of longing and lust.

He grabbed her naked body, lifting her and wrapping her legs around his waist. She gripped the back of his neck and stared desperately into his eyes as he walked them toward the bed. “Abelas,” she pleaded. “I… maybe I shouldn’t say this, I don’t want you to think poorly of me, but… You make me want to throw this all away. I can’t do that, I know I can’t, and I know you can’t either. But it’s my imagination, it’s a fantasy or an amazing dream or something, and I just…” She gulped in a breath and stroked his face. “I hope you don’t think less of me. I just-”

“No,” he interrupted. Then Athera’s breath left her in a rush as they tumbled onto the bed, his reassuring weight between her legs.

“I understand how you feel,” Abelas breathed. “I…” He pressed his lips together in a seeming struggle for words. “Ma’av’in,” he finally blurted. “This is the only term I can think of. I do not know the word in your language for this. Just know that I feel as you do.” He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I see this dream, just as you do.”

A scalding tear wended its way down her cheek, and she gasped in a tiny sob as he wiped it away with his thumb. “No more talking,” she begged. “No more, please. Just…” She trailed off and tugged futilely at his strange ancient armour.

He swiftly responded to her wordless command, sliding off the bed and shedding his armour with practiced ease. When he settled himself between her legs again, Athera didn’t hesitate; hesitation left room for words and heartache, and she couldn’t have that right now.

She reached between his legs and grasped his cock, then slid his length against her cleft to spread her heat across him. Abelas hissed in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in her hair as he rocked against her slick folds; then, with a quick shifting of his hips, he sheathed himself inside of her.

He moaned longingly against her neck, and Athera mewled in kind, a long and pleading keen of pleasure as she savoured the perfect pressure of his cock. He moved against her in a slow and sinuous thrust and she happily arched into him, her hips a perfect cradle to meet the confident curving of his hips.

Within seconds, she and Abelas were moving together in perfect harmony. His palms were hot against her own as he pressed her hands into the bed, her fingers laced and clenching against his own as she lifted her hips to meet his every careful thrust. Even their breathing was synced: they gasped with need as he withdrew, then burst out an exhale as he tenderly delved back into her heat. His cock was utter bliss, the perfect length of steel to fill her up and stroke the pleasure from her core.

When he began to increase his pace, his fingers tightening in her own and his face twisting with rapture, Athera eagerly met and matched him, the hardness of his thrusts wringing her nerves beautifully raw. “Kiss me when you come,” she begged. “Abelas, please-”

“Yes,” he gasped, his hips pistoning into her with passionate zeal until he finally groaned and captured her mouth in a ferocious kiss. He thrust his tongue into her mouth while thrusting his cock as deep as he could reach, and Athera wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to his lean muscled shoulders as he shuddered in completion in her arms.

He pressed his cheek to hers as he grew still, but his fingers remained clenched between her own, and an overwhelming burst of tenderness bloomed in her chest as he braised the pointed line of her ear with gentle kisses. This perfection couldn’t last, and she knew it; they were doomed to end, and that fate was far too close for her liking. But this ancient warrior filled her heart as readily as his cock filled her body, and she was suddenly desperate to tell him so.

I love you, she thought with a heartwrenching burst of longing. She wanted to say it, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t shake the sense that saying it would only hurt them more.

Then Abelas spoke against her ear. “Ma’av’in, ma vhenan,” he whispered. “I cannot explain it better than this, but I promise you, I feel as you do.”

Athera swallowed hard, then hugged him closer. He might as well have been reading her mind. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll take your word for it.”

[kibuto]

Fictober 2018 - Prompt #15

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Pairing: Dorian Pavus/Tamvir Lavellan Prompt: "I thought you had forgotten"

Tracking it down had taken longer than Tamvir had expected, but finally he'd managed to acquire it. The amulet was larger than he thought it would be, intricately carved with symbols that undoubtedly meant something in Tevinter. To a severely non-magically inclined Dalish, however, any arcane meanings behind them went completely unrecognized. But it was heavy, gold and onyx except for a single ruby set into the eye of a serpent. Unsettling but beautiful in its own way.

Tam wrapped the amulet with a piece of cloth and tucked it into one of the pouches on his belt. He couldn't hide it in just one hand, and he wanted it to be a surprise. It had been long enough since Dorian had last mentioned it that Tam doubted he had any indication that Tam had continued looking.

He paced his quarters, working to gather the courage he needed. It was just Dorian - how difficult could this be? But Dorian had also explicitly asked Tam to not do exactly what he'd gone and done. The possibility that Dorian would be angry was what gave Tam pause, making him anxious about delivering something that both he and Dorian knew Dorian ought to have.

A knock at the door make Tam jump. He pressed a hand to his chest to try to calm his suddenly pounding heart and called, "Come in!"

"While I do quite like our Lady Leliana, I must admit that her cryptic comments can be a touch unnerving," Dorian said as he let himself in.

Tam quickly dropped his hand. There was no helping his runaway heart now. "Oh?" At least there was no longer any need for him to work up the courage to find Dorian. He just needed to hand the amulet over.

And pray to each and every one of the Creators that it wasn't thrown back in his face. No pressure.

"Yes," Dorian replied. He walked with incomparable grace up the stairs and came to stand before Tam. It was all Tam could do not to reach for him and hold him tight. That would be so much better than possibly angering him. "She said I'd find something good if I came here. Which is always true, of course, but first of all I don't like the idea of her snooping, and secondly the way she said it was simply ominous."

"Oh." Tam fidgeted, his fingers tangling together in front of him and his bare toes digging into the rug. "Well, she wasn't telling you falsely. I have something for you."

At Tam's nervous tone, Dorian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't another letter from my father, is it?"

"No!" Tam yelped, lifting his hands in defense and shaking his head. "No, any letters from your father should be brought immediately to you. It's none of my or anyone else's business, only yours."

"I was mostly joking, but thank you for trying to be so considerate of my privacy." Dorian smiled, reaching through Tam's lackluster defenses to cup his cheek, thumb running lightly over his lower lip. "What is it you have for me, Tam?"

Tam shivered, his skin heating as a full body blush rose to show in his face and back-slanted ears. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. Rather than a verbal response, Tam withdrew the fabric-wrapped bundle and held it out with both hands and his head slightly bowed.

Startled, Dorian took it. "What's this? I didn't actually expect a prese--" The fabric was pulled back and Dorian froze. "I thought you had forgotten all about this thing." A crease appeared between his brows. "Tamvir, I told you I never wanted this. Now I'm indebted to you."

"I wanted to find it for you," Tam said without lifting his head. "It's yours. You should be the one to have it."

There was a long moment where neither of them said a word. A glance up through Tam's lashes showed Dorian tracing his fingertips over the amulet's surface. Finally, those same fingertips hooked under Tam's chin and gently directed him to look up. "Thank you. And I apologize for being such an ass at accepting gifts."

[juniper-tree]

Wind and flame, 9 - Time and tide

Rating: chapter is Mature, full work is Explicit.  

Dragon Age: Inquisition - Cullen x Female Lavellan

Link to AO3 - thank you for reading

Summary: An admission

***

The fire, too high, too bright, scorched the night air.  A bead of sweat rolled into her hair, and she sighed, her breath heavy and hot.  Then a touch, a flame on her bare back, and she turned toward him.  She felt his eyes, in shadow, look into her.  His fingers curled around her hip and dragged her closer—she went, thrust her own fevered skin against his.  His breath licked her ear, slow, burning.  Then he whispered, loud as a howl.

"Inquisitor."      

No.  She twisted away from him, sluggish, her hands tangled in his curls.  No, she thought, but her voice would not come.  His arms were limp now, falling away from her, his body cold.  The fire had gone dark.  No.  No.

With a gasp Finn awoke, her heart hammering.      

"Inquisitor?"  It was not his voice, but a girl, concerned and hesitant.    

Blinking against the early sun, she struggled to sit up.  She had contorted herself into an uncomfortable slump on the couch by the stairs, quilts stolen from the bed knotted around her feet.  The girl stood at the foot of the couch, peering at her, a pale dwarf with worried blue eyes.  Finn recognized her—Lyra, or Luria?  She could not recall her name, a depressing thought.  Everyone in the clan and half the merchants at trade stops were known to her.  But here?  She struggled to recall a single runner.  Finn nodded to her for lack of a proper greeting, hoping poor sleep would be her cover.

"I have word from the surgeon.  She said—specifically," the runner said tentatively, weighing Finn's reaction before she went on, "that Sera thrived under her care.  But she woke grumbling and cursing, and demanded to be moved to her room at the tavern."  She looked toward the ceiling as she tried to recollect the message, which the surgeon assuredly had demanded be as exacting as her care.  "She has since elected to supervise Sera from there at regular intervals.  Since the patient is making splendid progress, the Inquisitor need not worry herself over it."

Finn nodded, acknowledging what the surgeon really meant.  You are not needed, and not wanted.  At least Sera sounded better.  "Fine," she croaked, her throat dry.  "Thank you."  When the girl left, she collapsed onto the couch.

All night she lay awake, her limbs hard with tension, her gut aching.  When dawn came, and exhaustion took her, she dreamed of him.  She gathered the quilts up to her chin, the fire and the room around her both cold.  She could not stay on her furs, where it happened.  How foolish she had been.  How reckless, and selfish.

She wanted him, and he wanted her.  There was no point denying it now, even to herself.  But there was more between them.  He wanted there to be something more, a different more.  She was afraid of it.  That, too, she could admit.  There had been no thought, no desire, for anything like this when she was taken prisoner, when she was found to be necessary, when she was made a herald.  Her only thoughts were to survive, to return home.  What had changed?  Had anything really changed?

There was not room for this.  She had done things wrong, she had encouraged too much in her own mind, betrayed herself, and him.  There was no point, either, in reciting the reasons why not.  Those she had repeated to herself through the night, a chant to brand them into her mind, her heart.  You are Dalish, he needs a healer, you have a duty.  And each time the rhythm would break upon a memory—of his eyes searching hers, of his tender, earnest whispers, of his touch.

His arms around her, not when she leapt onto him like a wild thing in heat, and he—tense, but wanting—reached for her.  Not then, but when he held her as she wept, his strong hands so gentle with her.  How he calmed her, walked her back from the cliff she had run toward.

And he called her Ellana.  The way he said it, his voice breathy and light, as though it were a gentle thing that would break under too much weight.  Like it was a secret.  Her name, the name no one ever used.  She had always been Little Finn, Valenni's girl, the healer.  To him, she was only herself.

There had been lovers in her life.  Easy, giving, sensual.  In the end, distant.  Detached.  No one who made her feel this way—aflame, but safe in his hands.  At first, she dismissed it as infatuation, as lust.  Something she could ignore, until she couldn't.  Something she should not indulge in, until she did.

As time went on, as the night had gone on, her heart told her things she did not understand, insistent and urgent, in a language she could not parse.  Perhaps she should not try.

The cold room brightened as morning warmed the windows.  Stiffly she stood and took a deep breath.  She drank water from the jug on her table, washed her face in the basin.  She changed from her leggings and tunic—her clothes, that her mother had woven and sewn—into the breeches and boots they'd given her, the undershirt and jacket.  The Inquisitor's clothes.

Scanning the empty room, she looked for something to keep her there, afraid—she could also admit—to leave the room.  To face the day.  Her eye fell upon a stack of reports on the desk, atop them a summary of reports from the smuggler routes and engagements, and a note from the captain at the mountain detachment below on the new fortifications against the Red Templar threat.

Sighing, she closed her eyes tight.  She had a duty.

Gathering up the reports close to her chest, she made her way to the war room and asked Josephine, as she passed, to call the others.

The heavy door closed her in, and echoed its lonely finality around the still room.   She put down the papers and flattened her hands against the table map.  Her eyes followed the routes she had given in her reports, and they had already begun to mark the possible paths to the source.  There were other markers, requests for assistance, calls for aid, threats and intrigues.  So many tasks left undone.  They stretched from the deserts to sea, up even to the wilds of the northern Free Marches, her home.

The door behind her creaked open, and as she turned, she saw his crimson sash, his head bent by the weight of armor.  Cullen looked up and stopped, staring, the door leaned against his shoulder.  His eyes were puffy—he had finally slept, thank the Creators—and as they softened on seeing her, became grieved, and uncertain.

Briefly she had imagined, when she saw him again, she would burn with shame and regret.  But the lightning-bright ache she felt for him nearly split in her two.  She wanted to run to him, to smooth back his rumpled hair, to take him into her arms again.

"Pardon us," Josephine's muffled, polite voice spoke from behind the door.  Finn could see Cullen blink back to reality, and she turned to the table as he opened the door.  She swallowed her feelings, fitful and tight in her throat.

Her advisors gathered, they began their discussions, and Finn gathered herself, quietly commenting when asked for her input.  Cullen, formal and stilted, muttered his short answers without emotion.  She caught herself watching him, the rigid grip around his sword hilt, the nervous shake of his head.  He did not look at her again.  Josephine and Leliana noticed, and shared a few obvious, questioning glances.  It all wore upon her nerves.  The thoughts she tried to ignore clouded her mind, clenched her jaw, and the meeting crawled on.    

"And the last order of business," Josephine declared, "is how we shall behave at the Winter Palace."

Finn's teeth ground against each other.  "Is it necessary to discuss this just now?"

"I second that," Cullen said, his voice weary.  "Can it wait?"  He did not speak directly to Finn, but all the same something in her fluttered nervously.

Josephine's pleasant face tightened with frustration.  "We have delayed this several times.  The ball is two weeks away.  Putting aside the Empress herself, this is a perfect opportunity to make lasting connections, a good impression," she said excitedly.  "The Game can be difficult but if we—"

"I'm sorry," Finn interrupted.  "There are Red Templars nearly at our doorstep, Sera could have died last night, and all we are required to do is keep Celene alive."  She crossed her arms tightly.  "So forgive me if I am less concerned about etiquette at a fucking party," she said with a nervous laugh.

Josephine stared at Finn, her nostrils flared.  "And if you will forgive me," she began, her voice cool, "I must assume you are merely ignorant, and not willfully negligent."  She set down her candlelit noteboard carefully.

"Our resources are almost entirely dependent upon the goodwill and faith of the nobles you and the Commander dislike so much," she said, glancing sharply at Cullen.  "We feed people, clothe them, house them, heal them.  Give them weapons to fight for us.  This takes enormous funds and logistics.  At the Winter Palace, we have the chance to unite ourselves with the ruling power of the Orlesian Empire, to solidify these bonds of faith which we desperately need."

She leaned toward Finn over the table, her jaw set tight.  "We can continue to take care of all the people here, and to fight our fight.  And the cost to you is one night at a fucking party," she spat.  Then she straightened, composed herself, and took up her noteboard with assured grace.

"To that end, I will schedule this discussion for tomorrow," she said.  "That is all."  Finn could only nod mutely, her face burning.

She stood in place as Cullen hurriedly left, Leliana close behind.  As Josephine went to the door, Finn stepped toward her and began to speak, but Josephine stopped her.  "I apologize for my tone, Inquisitor," she said, her manicured hand landing gently upon Finn's own, "but I do hope I was clear regarding the necessity of this."

Finn shook her head.  "No, I—"

"And I understand yesterday was very trying, though I am cheered to hear Sera is well."  Josephine would not let her apologize.  This was clearly where Finn was ignorant—in graces and manners, in persuasions, and Josephine so skilled.  She could not imagine that a trap might be laid for her in a sentence, or a gesture, at Halamshiral, but Josephine knew.

"Ah, I nearly forgot," Josephine said with a smile, though Finn was sure there was little Josephine could let slip her mind.  "I wanted to give this to you personally so it was not lost in the mountain of reports.  Notes from Wycome, and your clan.  There appears to be some discontent," she said softly, handing her a small stack of folded papers.  One at the top sealed with a line of thick amber resin.  She could smell it—buttery and sweet, fura tree sap.  Her clan used it to haft arrowheads.  A letter, from home.

Josephine left quietly, while Finn cracked open the seal.  She read the greeting:

Emma lin, emma vhenan—

Her stomach dropped.  It was from her mother.

She folded the letter into a pocket at her hip.  

***

Even before midday, the Herald's Rest was thick with bodies and raucous conversation, soldiers trading road stories and traveling merchants plying them with ales.  Finn, weighed down by a tray full of food from the kitchens, carefully swept past a group or two, head ducked, until they recognized her.  No one stood at attention, or—to her great relief—genuflected, but everyone quieted, straightened, and made room.  All eyes were on her, even those who continued their stories.  She longed for the day she could be anonymous again.  With a quick nod, she hastened upstairs, her tray wobbling.

As she reached Sera's bright corner room, laughter echoed into the hall.  "He landed right on it.  Yowled like a cat who got too close to the fire," Blackwall was saying, while Sera giggled, breathless.  "Didn't sit for a week."

Finn leaned on the doorframe.  Blackwall sat beside Sera, who was propped against pillows and stretched out on her window seat under a pile of shabby wool blankets, holding her stomach with her good arm, laughing.  The injured shoulder was thickly wrapped, her arm slung, tied tight against her.  She was still pale, lips chapped, eyes ringed with dark circles.  "Don't make me laugh, it hurts," she said, when she noticed Finn.  Sera waved to her with a shy smile.

"Brought you some food."  Finn set the tray on a small, shaky table.  It was crowded with hard cheese and flaky meat pies, bottled ale, crusty bread still warm from the oven, a jar of amber honey—and two heavy butter cakes, thick with brown sugar frosting.

"Cake!"  Sera pulled one of the plates onto her lap, snatched a fork from the tray and dove in.  She groaned with pleasure.  "Whenever I ask for cake, they tell to me to make it myself.  They said Josie sends them to the nobles," she said, licking her fork.  "Won't they be old when they get there?"

"That's where these were going," Finn said, squeezing between the worn, embroidered pillows on Sera's other side and pulling her legs up to her chest.  "I took them while the cooks weren't looking."  Sera's eyes lit up.

"Send them cakes."  Blackwall shook his head.  "Rather give them a two-fingered salute and a box of dog shit."  Finn did not entirely disagree, but after her... talk with Josephine, she thought better of agreeing aloud.

Sera snorted, mouth full of pilfered cake, which surely made it taste all the better.  "Box of dog shit, that's a good one.  Here, eat it!"  She scooped a massive lump of dense cake onto the fork and pointed it toward Finn, who barely managed to wrap her mouth around it.  She wasn't fond of sweets, but it made Sera happy.

Blackwall sighed as he stood up.  "Where do you elves put it all?"

"I can see where you put it," Sera scoffed.

Finn began to chide her, but Blackwall laughed.  "This?" he asked, hand on his stomach.  "This is cultivated mass.  Every pound makes me more powerful."

"Me, too," Sera said, patting her own tiny frame.  "Gonna get big and tough."

"Well, I think you're a fine figure of a man, Ser Blackwall," Finn told him.

Just above his beard, Finn caught the edge of a blush on Blackwall's cheeks, and he looked out of the sunny window with a smile.  "Thank you, my lady.  And now I will leave the healer to her work," he said with a short bow, and left the room.

Sera groaned.  "Ugh.  Not Beardy as well.  You'll go for any old thing, won't you?"

Finn ignored that.  "How are you feeling?"

Sera tried to shrug, but winced from the effort.  "All right I guess," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder.

"Don't touch that," Finn said sharply.  Sera was young and healthy and by all rights she would heal soon, if she didn't mess with that wound.  They had been lucky the blade was not poisoned, and she showed no signs of corruption or sickness, only pain.  Finn was struck, suddenly, by the memory of it, a visceral flash of fear.  It had not even been a day since.  A cry caught in her chest, and she held tight onto Sera's good arm—Sera, alive and warm next to her, pouting, defiant, like a child who's learned something they don't yet want to know.

She stroked Sera's hair from her face, as she had the night before, but now Sera was awake, listening.  "Please," she said, trying to hold back the anxious edge in her voice, "never do that again."

With the slightest shake of her head, Sera bit her lip.  "He was going to kill you, I had to," she whispered.  "You're the important one.  You're going to fix everything.  I'm nobody," she said with a nervous laugh, though her eyes were wet.

Words like that made their own kind of wound.  They could fester, and rot.  "You can't think like that.  You are so important."  Finn squeezed her hand.  "I need you here, Sera."

She saw Sera's eyes tremble and threaten to spill their tears before she turned away, to the window.  "Don't be stupid," she said, laughing, pulling her hand away to wipe under her eyes.

"You all right?"  Sera asked, tucking her hair behind her ears.  "You look a bit shit."

Finn had avoided the mirror today, the mirror she'd begun to inspect regularly.  Why was she so concerned about how she looked now?  She barely cared before.  "Don't worry about me," she muttered.

"Come on.  Can't sit around worrying about me."

Finn sighed, shaking her head.  "Just... it's something else.  It's very—"  What was it, exactly?  She did not know how it made her feel.  "Confusing," she said, with a grimace.

Sera looked at her with concern.  "Is it to do with Cullen?"

She blinked at Sera.  "Why do you ask?"

"He came by before."  Sera poked at the cake on her lap with the fork.  "He looked like you.  Sad.  Like he'd been wrung out."

Yes, she had seen his troubled face, his pensive eyes.  She knew even less what he felt, other than what he said: that he cared for her.  His words echoed in her mind.  They crashed through the rumble of her thoughts like thunder.  He had meant it.

"There is... something," she began, "between Cullen, and me."  Sera's eyes brightened, though not as intensely as they had for cake.  "And I can't believe I'm telling you this.  But it isn't what you think," she stressed.

"Don't care what it is.  It is."  Sera uncorked one of the ale bottles and took a drink, looking at Finn.  "And I didn't think anything.  Wanted you to think it."  She passed the bottle to Finn.

"And why is that?"  Finn drank the ale, fizzy and warm, and realized it was the only thing in her stomach.  She broke off a chunk of cheese, oilier and saltier than rock-pressed halla cheese from home.  It didn't have the same acid bite.  She missed that.

"Because I don't like Solas," Sera said quietly.

Finn quirked her brow at Sera and chewed her cheese.  Not understanding Sera was a common feeling among many, she had gathered.  

Sera sighed.  "Elves always go with elves.  So when they bang their bits they think it means something," she said, her voice mock-deep.  "You're elfy enough.  He's—I don't know what."

Swallowing hard, Finn rubbed her forehead.  "There is no banging.  There is no... anything.  I don't even know him well.  I'm not sure anyone does."

"You like him, though?"

She liked talking with him, but he could be combative, condescending.  Finn was never sure where she stood with Solas, and she feared he would be a hard person to please, if she ever tried.  She knew many people like him.  "He reminds me of home, in a way."

Sera took the ale again.  "Anyone like Cullen at home?" she said with a smile.

Finn shook her head.

Sera looked down, tapped her short nails against the brown glass of the ale bottle.  "He's good.  I think he's good," she said.  "You know, in case you're afraid.  Of templars."

"It isn't that, at all."  Finn scratched at her legs, trying to collect her thoughts.  "Before all this... my clan, all I really knew, were Dalish.  There were merchants and traders but... they were not a part of my life.  Do you understand?"

"No."

Finn sighed.  She was making a mess of her own thoughts.  It may not be possible to explain to anyone but another Dalish.

"It sounds stupid to me," Sera said defiantly.  "You don't want him cause he's... what?  Hairy, got round ears?  You sound like a shem that calls you knife-ear.  Bit sad you can't see that."  She turned to the window and bit at a fingernail.

"But I don't see it that way," Finn said, softly.  It sounded like someone else saying it.  Perhaps it was someone else.  Ideas from home—harsh as homespun wool, sour as that halla cheese.  The things they said to the young ones to discourage them away from those merchants and traders.  They will use you.  Might as well be a gutter elf in the alienage.  Might as well be a slave.

She looked at Sera, red-faced and chewing her nail.  Was she a "gutter elf" because she'd been born in the city?  And stayed there?  No.  Did Cullen want to use her?  She could not imagine it.  There were good reasons to stay apart, to stay free, to live the Dalish life.  There were poisonous ones, too.

"You know he's good, though," Finn said.

"Don't know.  You never know."  Sera set the ale bottle on the tray, and the plates shook.  "For now, he's good.  Maybe he messes up later.  Then you deal with it."  She looked at Finn.  "Maybe you mess up.  And he has to deal with you."

They were wiser words than she would expect from someone so young.  But Sera had many experiences, so much of a life, that Finn never had.  Many of those she didn't envy, but they had given Sera much in return.  They made her who she was, someone Finn admired.  "I will think on it," she said quietly.  "Now then."  She tore a piece of bread from the loaf and opened the honey to drizzle it on top.  "You must eat all of this food.  That's an order."

***

She left Sera dozing, full of food, resting like a cat in the sun of her window seat, and stepped out into the thoroughfare, painfully bright, though a chilled breeze blew.  It was quieter than the tavern, emptier, the merchants at their stalls shuffling and bored, the few soldiers unburdened by duty wandering aimlessly.  Finn found a deserted corner shaded by trees.  Slumping against the stone wall, ground cold beneath her, she took out the letter from her mother.

First, complaints about the brutish shem soldiers, the ungrateful shems in Wycome, about Keeper Istamae's insistence that part of their purpose was to help those who need it, whatever they may be.  It was clear Valenni disagreed.  Then the expected part.

If that shem army is not holding you against your will, come home.

Saran's cough is no better and he never seems to get enough air.  Nessa is poorly every moontime, with a catch in her side.  And little Tamlas, his foot is still turning.  There are many more.  Thenel is worked to the bone with you gone.

Come home, da'len.  We need you here.  Do your duty.  Let them fight their war without you.  You walk the Way of Peace.  You know how few of us there are who do this.  Do not let them force you to stray.

It was signed, Mala mamae, mala vhenas.

Slowly she walked across the thoroughfare, toward the stairs, up to the main hall, letter in hand.  There was not a question about Finn herself in it, no hope for her safety or happiness.    

It was easy to see through her mother's pleas.  She wanted Finn there, to stay in the clan—not become the healer for a new clan, not to leave to work with other healers.  To stay.  To make children.  To stay safe there, not to venture.  Valenni had been fearful for so long.  What was once caring became controlling, what was protective became stifling.  Was it like this before her father had died?  She could not remember.    

But there was also truth in what she said, Finn knew.  She felt it.  Vir atish'an was a fragile path.  Thenel had described it to her as trying to grow roses without being pricked by thorns.  Already she was testing it, trying to spread peace by wielding the sharp edge of war.

Though she knew her duty in both worlds, and would not leave this one without healing all she could, without mending the sky and those beneath it... she would leave it.  Her life, though small, was elsewhere.  And she would return to it.  It would be wrong to become attached.  It would hurt more, in the end.

Cullen was not like anyone in her past.  He did not seek anything easy, or distant.  And she did not want to be the cause of more pain than what already weighed upon him so heavily.  She could ignore it, ignore him, leave the wound she had made open—or she could fix it now, burn it shut.  She could let him know she was sorry for what she did.  That she would not let it happen again.  

She stepped into the main hall and entered the rotunda, taking the path to Cullen's office, when she was startled by a voice, so close.  "What troubles you, lethallan?"

Solas stood nearby, camouflaged by the swaths of muted color he had painted along the walls of the dim, round room.

"Forgive me," she said, "I did not see you.  I would have greeted you."

"There is no need to be so formal."  He pointed to the paper still in her hand.  "Unwelcome news?"

She sighed, folded the letter and put it back in her pocket.  "Of a sort.  A letter from home."

Solas smiled, questioning.  "Is that so unwelcome?"  The blue-flamed lamp which hung from his scaffold, a spectral blue she had seen only in spirits, set his eyes almost aglow.    

There was little she wanted to tell him of the letter itself, of her family, of the sorrow and unrest within her.  "They want me to return," she said plainly.  "And the simple fact is that I cannot, because of this."  Finn turned her left palm up, open, and she felt the anchor pulse like her blood, could nearly see the strange magic ebb, and rise, with each beat of her heart.

He stepped forward and took her hand in his, his fingers slender but strong, his skin cold.  He seemed to look into her hand, and sharp worry clouded his face.  Dropping her hand, he said, his voice resigned and low, "Facts are rarely simple."

Once, he had taught her to use the anchor.  But he had never been able to help her control it, to ease the pain it caused.  She could not hold him responsible for that.  No herb she took, no potion she created had made any difference, either.  It was an unknown.

"Would you go home," he asked, "if you could?"

Finn sighed, and glanced around the room at Solas' fresco, the wolves in shadow, the swords and flames.  "Yes.  I've known no other life."

"But you do, now," he said, gesturing around them, to Skyhold, to the Inquisition.  

If she had not become... whatever she was now, if the anchor had taken someone else's hand, and she survived the Conclave, she would have stayed.  For a time.  To heal and help, where she could.  Who could say how long her stay would have been?  "I have already chosen a path," she said.  "You know of vir atish'an.  The Way of Peace?"

Solas shook his head, his mouth a grim line.  "I know there is no such thing," he said bitterly.  He folded his arms tight and straightened to his full height.  "Long ago, the elves had a saying.  'The healer has the bloodiest hands.'  Do they say it still?"

"Yes."  She swallowed.  How many times she had heard it during her apprenticeship, had heard friends and lovers say it, when they lamented the life she chose—that had been chosen for her, by her mother.  Her mother, a weaver, she a healer.  Two sides of Sylaise.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her.  "You know what it means, I see.  How difficult the healer's path must be."

"I thought I knew," she said.  "I never imagined healing a wound so deep as the breach."

"True enough."  He smiled sadly.  "But that is not what I meant."  His arms dropped to his sides, and he took a small step closer, near enough to whisper.  "How deep does the wound go in you?" he asked.  "For you do not truly wish to return home."

She stared at him, and his pale eyes searched hers.  She wanted to deny it, and found she could not.  But her feeling did not change the truth.  "I must," she said.  "I will, when this is done."

He nodded.  "Of course you will, he said.  "But what of the meantime?"

"What of it?" she snapped, frustrated by his dancing so close to his point, never seeming to land upon it.

"You are right," he said.  "You cannot leave."  He took her hand in his again, traced his finger along her palm.  The anchor twitched and bit at her.  He looked into her eyes.  "In the meantime, find something for yourself.  A reason to stay, beyond this," he said, gently let her hand fall.  "Beyond duty."

Words caught in her throat, sputtering.  Something for herself.  What she wanted had never been the reason she did anything.  Her wants she had learned to forget.  Until recently, when what she wanted had become impossible to ignore.

She looked hard at Solas.  "And when this is over?  I go back to what I have always been?"

He looked to the floor, and shook his head.  "You do not know how this will end," he said.  "You should find happiness with the time you have."

Every day she worried.  Worried that she would die, that Cullen would succumb, that the Inquisition would fail and all of this would have been for nothing.  If any of it came true, had she already wasted time—time she could have spent being happy, giving in to what they both wanted?  Suddenly she felt even more foolish than she had the night before.  The time they had was all there was.

Finn stroked her lip nervously, her mind spinning.  "Thank you, Solas," she said.

Solas tilted his head, the glow of the blue flame shining on his skin.  "Do not thank me."

***

When she pushed open the creaking door to Cullen's office, loose on its rusted hinges, he was seated at his desk, dispensing orders to a crowd of soldiers.  When he noticed who had entered, he seemed to lose the track of his thoughts, and sent the soldiers away, his brow knit tight.  She stepped closer to his desk.  "Inquisitor," he said.  Like in her dream, she did not want to hear it.

"Could we talk?" she asked, her hands in tight fists at her side, her breath shallow.

He nodded, stood, and opened the door to the battlements.

She was quiet as they walked out into the day and the cool wind, quiet as she paused near one of the stone posts, taller than her head.  I don't know what I came here to say.  So she remained quiet, and looked out toward the snow-capped mountains.

Cullen leaned upon the stone next to her.  "It's a nice day," he said softly.  As though they were having an everyday chat.

She turned to him, incredulous.  When she caught the faint smirk on his face, she could not help but smile, shaking her head.  "You... make me laugh," she said, "though I am not always sure you intend to."

He looked at her tenderly.  "I do intend to."

The sadness in his eyes, untouched by his smile, the sweet longing in his voice, made her heart wrench.

"I thought you wouldn't want to speak to me," he said.  "But here you are, so... I am relieved."

Her pulse thundered.  "Cullen," she began, and she was unsure, for a moment, whether she had ever called him by his name, to his face.  It was intimate.  She knew now why he seemed so careful with her name, felt why his breath seemed to catch every time he said it.  Everything in her hands and her blood wanted to touch him again.

She forced herself to look into his eyes.  "I want to apologize," she said, "for my behavior last night.  I put you in a very uncomfortable position, and I am sorry to have done it."  She fisted her nails into her palms to stop her hands from shaking.

Cullen looked down at the stone walkway beneath them, unfocused and blinking.  "I—"  He turned to her.  "You have nothing to apologize for.  I am the one who pushed you away," he said, his voice cracking, "and I fear that I've hurt you.  That was so utterly far from my intention."  His eyes searched hers.  "And I only hope you can forgive me, in time."

She inched closer to him.  "No," she said.  "I am not hurt, and... you were right."

He looked surprised.  "Don't hear that very often," he muttered.

She huffed a laugh, and bit her lip.  "I would have regretted it.  I do.  I wish I could undo last night.  Start over."

After a pause, he answered, "Not all of it," turning his eyes down shyly.  "Despite my reaction," he said, shaking his head, "I have to say that kissing you was... really nice."  When he smiled at her, a warm blush colored his face, and neck.

She shivered and felt herself flush, remembering the feel of him, his body under hers, his sweet, surprised face.  "I would... regret not telling you.  I do care for you," she said, her voice fluttering in her throat.    

"You do," he whispered, less a question than a confirmation.  His lips parted softly, trembling with each breath.  She reached up to place a hand upon his armored shoulder.  The metal was warm in the sun, and she caressed it as though she could feel him again.  As though the layers between them, between these things they represented and their real selves, were gone.

She focused on her hand at his arm.  "But I—"   Her thoughts, her fears, sparked and flared in her mind like a new fire, catching everywhere.  "I don't know what to do.  I don't know if this is right.  If it's even possible."   She looked into his eyes, intense and near golden in the midmorning light, his gaze meeting hers, and his hand moving to wrap around her forearm, his grip firm.

"Neither do I," he breathed, his eyes roaming her face, and she watched the cords of his throat shifting as he swallowed.  "It seems too much to ask.  But I want to ask it."  His conviction calmed her, the fire in her steadied and burned.  He gently pulled her closer, brought his other hand to her side, his knee pressed against the inside of her thigh.  She fingered the silken rope at his waist, stroked the cold metal of his belt buckle.

"Please," he whispered.  His head dipped toward hers and her eyes closed when she felt his breath upon her mouth.

He kissed her, slowly, softer than she had kissed him before the fire, when everything was a frenzy.  Now, she could feel his lips tender against her own, feel the sharp edge of his stubble scratch at her skin.  She could hear his breath, and her own heart beating.  Though the wind whipped around them, at their feet, into her ears, it was nothing.

And she heard, from what seemed a far distance, a voice.  She opened her eyes, cloudy as though she had been asleep.  A scout approach, delivering a report, oblivious.

Cullen parted from her, his face surprised and guilty, like a young soldier caught shirking his duties.  The scout realized who, and what, he had interrupted.  He stopped, stared at each of them in turn, and began to stammer apology.

Cullen only glanced at him, and said quietly, "Not now."  The scout mumbled a stuttered assent, and hastily disappeared.

He turned back to her and leaned his forehead against hers, sighing.  "There's always something more, isn't there?"

She stroked his cheek, and brushed her nose against his.  "Something more?" she asked.  "I hope so."  

He pulled her closer, and she felt his smile against her lips as he kissed her again.

Chapter 10: Come aloft  ➳

[heartslogos]

of roses and hello [47]

A single bag.

That is what a life amounts to. That is what life should have been, should have been calculated to.

One bag of necessities that absolutely couldn’t be lost.

Ellana looks around the room she has grown to understand, want, desire, as her own. This is not one bag. This is, possibly, a cart or a wagon. Maybe even two.

She closes her eyes and her heart stings for the last golden second of the dawn over the Frostbacks, the sound of people - her people, the only people she has left - coming awake or going to bed from a long night shift - in the courtyards below, the always present thrum of the air of the mountains themselves.

When she was younger, when she was still just the First of Clan Lavellan - in training, not ready to become a Keeper in her own right for several years, decades even - she remembers the moving. Always moving. She remembers being happy and content with so little.

Everything you could want or need or love, in a single bag.

And the rest kept safe in the vault of memories, in your head, where they can always be yours. Where no Templar in armor, where no soldier with a sword, where no slaver with chains, where no man or woman with lecherous hands, where no one could take it from you.

And now here she is and the Templars and armies and Tevinter wars and betraying hands have stolen the past half decade out from under her.

Her heart closes.

Her eyes open.

“I will come back for you,” Ellana says to the stones, to the windows, to the ceiling and the sky. “I surrender nothing to anyone. I will come back for you.”

Morrigan once said that Skyhold loved her, that she could tell that Ellana had done right by the place, and that the land in turn grew to love her back. The land, the castle, would hold. The land, the castle, would wait.

The land, the castle, will stand for her.

She just has to survive to come back to it.

“Are you ready?”

Ellana turns and sees Bull standing at the stairs, hand on the railing.

“No,” Ellana says, turning and picking up her bag -

Part of a life. A shadow of a life. A ghost of a life.

A reason to return.

“Has Dorian sent word?” Ellana asks.

Bull holds out his hand and Ellana takes it after passing him her bag as they slowly walk down the stairs, away from their life, away from home.

“He’s got our papers in order, he has a guy who’ll meet us at port and bring us to a safe house,” Bull says. “Leliana has a trail of spies ready for us and we’ve got people on the ground. Our advanced fleet has already made land. Montilyet has converted most of the Inquisition’s assets into untraceable funds and deposited into trusted accounts. She’s also wired a sum over to Dorian who’s placed it under his name as well as a few of his allies. Things should be ready for you once we hit land.”

“Good,” Ellana says, “Who’s left?”

“Just you, me, and the Chargers. Everyone else has already been located and briefed,” Bull says. “Just got a message from Dennet. All of your mounts have successfully been relocated to Fereldan’s Hinterlands. They’re mostly running wild but they’r keeping to a small ground. And we have some people we’ve moved to the area for the time being who’re looking out for them.”

Ellana squeezes his hand, “It’s not too late.”

“For what?” Bull asks, “To cut loose and run?”

“You, me, the Chargers, and adventure somewhere where no-one knows our names,” Ellana suggests. She’s only half joking about it.

Bull’s hand is so warm and firm and sure as they finish their descent down the stairs, looking at the door that would lead to an empty throne room, an empty main hall, a deserted fortress.

“Half of your family is already out there,” Bull says, “And you’d never forgive yourself if you left them to it.”

-

“I miss moments more like this than anything,” Ellana says. Cole’s fingers are bony and cold, curled through hers.

“In dreams you can have everything,” Cole murmurs “Even the things you never had.”

Ellana smiles and shushes him gently, “We did have this, though, Cole. We had this. Not specifically this scene, but we had this. We will have it again, someday. I swear it.”

This.

The scene.

Skyhold’s great hall, with its long wooden tables filled with breakfast. Platters of eggs, rashers of bacon, huge plates filled with still warm from the oven bread. Bowls of beans and links of sausages. Wooden blocks of cheese and great cool pitchers of milk and cream and platters with butter and jars of honey and preserves. Pots of tea and bowls of sugar and the sounds of clinking spoons and forks and people talking.

Ellana smiles, looking around those tables at faces familiar and peaceful.

The sun shines through the window at the end of the hall and the great wide and tall doors that open out into the courtyard where more people move and work and talk and Skyhold is a hive of activity.

Ellana can hear the sound of carts on the bridge, the sound of people marching on stone, the sounds of people training, and the sounds of it all echo and mix and mingle in the air.

Did this exact scene ever play out in real life with each of these faces exactly where they are now? Perhaps not.

But did something similar enough happen?

All the time.

Ellana pulls her hand from Cole’s and walks to the empty space that is not in the middle of the dance of people, but just part of it, and takes her place next to the Iron Bull and Josephine, slipping into the sounds and the living and the laughing and the talking like she was always there.

She is always there, in her heart.

“It is a dream,” Cole says, “He was obsessed with dreams. After everything ended they were all he had.”

Ellana puts her hand on the Iron Bull’s arm and in this dream she has two hands still so with the other one she can take the platter of eggs he hands her.

“And after a while he thought, why couldn’t those dreams be real?”

Ellana hands Josephine the eggs, one hand still on the Iron Bull’s arm, she turns to Cole and raises a finger to her lips.

The door to the rotunda opens and Solas walks in, taking a seat by Cassandra and accepting a bowl of porridge that Skinner hands him.

Bull’s arm moves from underneath her hand and slides over her shoulders, loose as she leans into his side.

“Because my dreams are more powerful than his,” Ellana says, “And in dangerous times these are dangerous words and I am the dangerous person he chose to try and shape me into. And I will do the dangerous things he wanted me to learn to protect these people from the dreams of someone like him, who has never once wanted a world for the living instead of a world for the dead.”