#except dorian who keeps walking into dragon breaths

[galacticsabc]

yeah bro, can you guess who Jarvis is romancing?

[calypso707]

Dragon Age Inquisiton OS - The wolf's farewell.

I am a huge fan of the Dragon Age series, I spent hours and hours playing these games and I really love the universe so I wrote a little Solas x Fem Lavellan Inquisitor, something sad/fluff.

If you have any suggestions for me to write, I will be happy to do it !

Vocabulary :

Ma vhenan: my heart

Lethallan: casual reference used for someone with whom one is familiar

Ar lath ma, vhenan: i love you, my heart

Enjoy !

"I'm Varric Thetras, a rebellious adventurer, talented storyteller and troublemaker in my spare time. I keep telling myself that for some people, life is just a succession of bad luck. Take Inquisitor Lavellan, she was living peacefully in her low cloister, close to her kin, but now she's got herself mixed up in all this shit. And what a mess it was! A twinkling hand, a hole in the sky and now the fate of the world depends on her..." he sighed. “I can't tell you how lucky I was to fight alongside her, it was... She's an exceptional mage and a dear friend. You know, I've been through a lot and I know exactly what kind of tragic end awaits heroes. But her, damn it!," he laughed. “She always managed to get out of the biggest messes, always just barely though! So, I hoped that maybe this story would end well... The assassination of Empress Celene had been thwarted and she had been reconciled with her ambassador Briala, raising the profile of elves in society. The Vennatori had been stopped and Corypheus defeated. Lavellan deserved a moment's peace and tranquillity, some people's spirits were celebrating this victory, but not hers... Heartbreak never does you any good, does it?"

She had been listening to the stories of her companions for hours. Iron Bull was talking for the umpteenth time how he had defeated a frost dragon in the Free Marches, Sera was telling the pranks she had played on Josephine during the day, while Dorian was describing partys he had attended in Tevinter, involving sex, alcohol and conspiracy. Things she had heard before and which would have amused her, but not tonight. And everyone had noticed. She saw Lelianna making her way back to the main room of the Fort, where the thrones were held and where the current festivities were taking place. The Inquisitor rose from her chair, looking at her companions still seated at the table: "If you'll excuse me, it's been a long day. I shall return to my chambers.”

Everyone greeted her and congratulated her again on having defeated Corypheus, which was ridiculous, she thought, because it was a joint effort. She walked towards her master spy, who had a grave look on her face. Her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest, she was dreading the words her companion was about to say. "I'm sorry, but we've heard nothing from Solas, my ravens and agents have found nothing. It's as if he suddenly disappeared..."

Lavellan remained silent for a few seconds, forcing herself not to falter, constantly repressing her emotions, something she had been doing since she became head of the Inquisition. She cleared her throat as if to regain composure and straightened her back: "Very well, thank you, Lelianna”

"I can continue the search, perhaps he'll come back eventually?" added the Nightingale, even she didn't believe in what she was saying. But she didn't want to hurt the Inquisitor, who had proved to be a good friend over time.

"It's no use, he won't be back" Lavellan took a deep breath. "Corypheus is defeated but we still have work to do, so enjoy this victory too, Lelianna, you've earned it.”

She didn't wait for a reply and headed for her chambers. She climbed the stone steps slowly, alone at last and feeling as if the sky was falling. Solas had left and taken her heart with him. An emptiness had formed in her chest, an immense pain. She sat down on the bed, which was far too big for her, and let her gaze wander over the mountains that encircled Skyhold. She thought back to all the times she had spent by his side, his knowledge of worlds, what he had taught her about the Fade, his intelligence, his presence, all of which she missed. Her heart had been torn from her and broken. She looked down at the mark on her hand, which glowed for a few seconds. She lay back, continuing to stare at it, before finally closing her eyes, seeking for peace.

༄

When she was young, she had already wandered into the Fade, walking its winding paths in search of vestiges of the past. Today, she wandered there voluntarily in search of tranquillity and, above all, in the hope of drowning the grief that consumed her. It was a dangerous practice, of course, as it was well known that spirits and demons lurked there. She was standing not far from the forest where her clan had settled; there were no beings wandering around, but she was delighted to see the aravels, richly decorated with engravings and silk fabrics. She couldn't get enough of them, and came to miss her home, the clan, its members and its traditions.

As she continued to venture into the northern forest of the Free Marches, she saw a black wolf staring at her out of the corner of her eye. She wasn't worried, it was probably a lost spirit. The Inquisitor took a cautious step towards it, but it quietly moved away before she could reach it, turning to see if she was following, which she finally did. She continued to venture deeper into the woods, this wolf did not seem dangerous to her, on the contrary. But as they approached a lake, he suddenly disappeared. Two gigantic wolf statues stood nearby, like him, leading the way to the blue expanse of the lake. The view was magnificent, the lake surrounded by fir trees and behind them, the peaks of the mountains were visible, as if blending into the sky.

"Gone..." she mumbled.

"Ma vhenan" said a voice behind her.

A voice she recognised all too well, she froze in place, her heart missing a beat. With so many emotions in turmoil, she thought she was going to fall. She turned slowly, her gaze catching Solas's azure one. She took a step backwards, bumping into the statue behind her, putting her hand against it as if to hold on. He had disappeared and now he was standing in front of her, and she couldn't help noticing the armour he had put on, it wasn't like him. He had tricked her.

"The wolf.. You led me here... It’s like that dream in Haven, didn't you?" she asked finally, feverishly.

"I wanted to see you once more before..." he stopped talking, took a few steps towards her.

"I don't understand, you seem... Different..." the Inquisitor continued, examining him with her eyes. It was true, he gave off something different, something powerful and terrifying. She looked at the statues of wolves behind her; reminding her of stories from her childhood and reminding her of a particular god. Dalish legends tell of Fen'Harel, the implacable wolf, also known as the Lord of Deceit, who was vile and deceitful and showed no concern for his people. The elves turned to him for help and advice, but it always came at a price. Fen'Harel kept his promises, yes, but the way he kept them was often contested. She shook her head, as if to clear her mind of these foolish ideas. Had she fallen in love with a god?

"I am Fen'Harel," he announced. "But he came long after Solas, I inspire hope to my friends and fear to my enemies. Just like the Inquisitor"

"Was I fooled? All this time, I thought...’´She stared at him, in silence, completely lost and in disbelief.

"No, I didn't fool you, I would never have shared your bed under false pretenses" he was finally coming closer, he wanted to touch her, take her in his arms, love her but he wouldn't allow himself. He wanted to experience everything her heart desperately promised him. "I have very little time, Lethallan"

"You abandoned me, you left me. I loved you and you ran away," she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes filled with tears, she knew their love was doomed to failure but she refused to give up. He brushed her cheek with his thumb to wipe away a tear that was running down, sadness was taking hold of him, he was tortured. "Forgive me, vhenan, I never wished to cause you pain”

"We can stay together, whatever your plans are, I'll help you," begged Lavellan.

"No, this is something I must do alone. I want to save the elves, even if it means dooming this world. There is only death at the end of this journey and I can't inflict that on you" said Solas.

Lavellan looked at him for a long moment before lowering her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. The thought him alone, carrying out such a plan and destined for such a tragic end was suffocating her. She couldn't bring herself to leave him; he was the storm and she was the shipwreck that wanted to sail through the stormy waters until she sank. She loved him with a love that was immeasurable and destined to be forgotten. He closed the distance between them and ran a hand over her cheek to catch her attention, tucking a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. They exchanged a look heavy with love and pain. "My love, I'll never forget you"

And he kissed her. They kissed languorously and she clung to him desperately, not wanting him to disappear. She was terrified that she would never see him again and she prayed that he would continue to visit her in her dreams. If she hoped for a happy ending, he should have that too. They gently broke the kiss and he placed a chaste kiss next to her ear, whispering: "Ar lath ma, vhenan".

And she woke with a start, sitting up abruptly and out of breath. She looked around, she was in her room at Skyhold and Solas was gone. Her cheeks were still pink from her tears and her lips seemed moist from the farewell kiss he had offered her. As the Dalish say: "May the Dreadwolf take you away" and that's what he had done, he had taken her being and her heart with him.

[honeysofte-archieve]

mud painting.

fandom: dragon age

rating: general.

pairing: female lavellan/solas + oc.

summary: solas and the inquisitor’s son doing mud paintings, you’re welcome.

A/N: thank you pap for the prompt. ♥ i’m sick and wanted to write solavellan kid fic, byeeeee.

Most 4-year-old boys are, shall we say, messy.

It is to be expected and everyone is certainly aware of the fact, most of all Lavellan who happens to be a mother of a messy 4-year-old boy. She doesn't mind it most of the time, it's pretty hard to get angry when Yevin always looks so delighted with his face covered in mud, leaves or food-- whatever thing you can think of, he has probably dirtied himself with at least once.

Giving Yevin a bath afterwards is called parenting.

Still, Lavellan knows that dirty children are not everyone's cup of tea. Especially Vivienne's who usually adores Yevin but can't stand any mess. Dorian is also not a fan, neither is Varric or Cassandra. Though Sera naturally enjoys it as much as Yevin and Josephine is the one to wipe his face with a napkin when Lavellan isn't there.

As for Solas, Lavellan isn't quite sure what his opinion is yet. He's patient with her son like he is with almost everyone and everything he does and Lavellan knows he enjoys spending time with Yevin as well as her, but sometimes she can't help but… worry.

That is until she walks in on Solas and Yevin doing mud paintings in Skyhold's garden.

[ in ao3. ]

For a moment Lavellan just blinks at the sight of them sitting on the ground and drawing shapes on the damp mud, Yevin with his hands and Solas with a stick. He seems to be talking quietly to her son with a steadying hand on the small boy's shoulder as they paint together, neither of them noticing Lavellan leaning on one of the columns in the alcove, watching them with a fond smile on her face.

There's a tiny muddy handprint on Solas' shirt, right under his chest, another one on his shoulder. Otherwise, he has remained surprisingly clean, even his elegant hands are free of any dirt. The same can't be said about Yevin, though as he's covered with it; face, hands, clothing are all a lost cause. Lavellan sighs and shakes her head, eyes and smile gentle.

It's stupid how much she loves her son. And him. Both of them. So much she feels like her heart is going to burst apart from the seams from just seeing them together like this. Like… a family.

"Mae!"

Lavellan flinches away from her thoughts and turns her gaze to grinning Yevin who has finally noticed her lingering in the shadows. He sprints through the gardens towards Lavellan and she makes sure to catch him in a tight, loving embrace.

Lavellan scoots down and lifts Yevin to her arms, his dirty face pressed against her cheeks as he keeps blabbering about his day and the mud paintings and Mr Solas and everything else beyond.

Solas is slower to come to her, taking his time as if unsure whether he's allowed to approach her or not, but after Lavellan crooks her forefinger invitingly he walks to her side with a small smile.

"Did you two have fun?" Lavellan asks, raising her eyebrow at Solas who nods.

"Your son has exceptional artistic capabilities," he answers completely seriously as always and Lavellan laughs.

"You always say that he has exceptional capabilities no matter what he does."

Solas seems amused. He pats Yevin's blond head twice with his palm, a fond look in his eyes. "I say that because it's true. I don't tell lies, vhenan."

Lavellan shakes her head and rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss on his jaw which makes Yevin make a disgusted sound that almost rivals Cassandra's.

"You're such a suck-up," Lavellan murmurs. She feels happier than she's been in years. Maybe ever. What a terrifying thought.

"I am not."

Lavellan hums underneath her breath. "Yes, you are," she can't help but tease and takes his hand into her own and pulls him with her as they head back inside the castle.

"Yes, he is," Yevin says tiredly against Lavellan's neck.

[siribear]

7a

7b

Amell has never actually seen her cousin, and Varric had always been entirely unhelpful in his descriptions. "If you two stood together long enough, you might look related." Amell crossed her arms with a huff, and he snapped his fingers and said, "There. That look must run in the family."

Now her cousin stands before them, black hair cut short, the hint of her Hawke family crest tattoo on an arm with more muscle than the average mage would normally have. Mercenary work and life on the run have shaped her. Even the awkward pat Amell receives on her shoulder is heavy, if formal.

"Cousin." A smirk. "Or is it Inquisitor now?"

Amell grimaces before she can stop herself. She really should get used to wearing the title, if only so she doesn't make a fool of herself in front of an important ally. But it won't start with her friends or family. "You've heard, huh? Varric told you?"

They haven't been in Skyhold long, but even still it seems like more people know about her being Inquisitor than she thought. People actually putting a face to the name instead of a featureless title. "Varric told me you dropped a mountain on Corypheus. We saw the remains of Haven." We? "I don't know how I can be of any help, except..." Her cousin's attention goes to Elissa. "I have two friends who very much would like to see you."

Hunted. Elissa and Amell put it together at the same time, and while Amell wonders how the three could have possibly found each other, Elissa  demands, "Take us. Now."

-

This, she learns, is Crestwood: cold rain over a land ravaged by the Blight but recovering; the walking dead shambling from a lake, surface glowing green from a rift opened beneath, to harry a nearby village; and bandits at Caer Bronach assaulting the rest. Almost mercifully, the fragments of Corypheus's army in the area aren't as big of a threat in comparison.

The roar of a dragon, uncorrupted, sounds in the air. A large silhouette dips low into a field before capturing another, smaller, shape, and flying off behind a mountain. Beside her, Bull vibrates with excitement.

"A dragon," he breathes. "Boss?" He looks to her hopefully.

"It isn't why we're here," Amell reminds him. To save him some grief, "But if it's bothering the village, we might have to drive it off, at some point."

Dorian says it's Bull’s answering cheer that attracts the demons that attack them. Solas suggests it's the Anchor that draws stragglers. Cole, deadpan, says, "They would have attacked anyway. They lie, waiting, watching, weeding out the weak."

Vivienne makes a noise of disgust. "You could have warned us they were coming, Cole." The boy's name drips with distaste. "Inquisitor?"

Amell brushes a rogue strand of hair out of her face. "If there was a real threat, Cole would have told us."

The boy-spirit in question lifts his hand to indicate a direction in the curious way he usually does: fingers straight, palm up. "They need help." An offering, a choice. Two points buzzing in the back of her mind. With one look from Elissa, they go.

More demons, stronger near the rift but no match for the entire party, are slain just outside the nearby village. The two Amell had sensed turn out to be two Wardens, Orlesian by their accents, hunting another from the order they claim has gone rogue.

Amell steps ahead to draw attention to herself and away from Elissa as she falls back. Though the cobalt blue of Warden colors lines the underside of her collar, it's the crest of the Inquisition that is emblazoned upon her breastplate. They don't sense or recognize Amell as a Warden, and she wonders how their senses have gotten so clouded. The hum brought on by Corypheus sings quieter in her head in the Magister’s absence, but even with the distraction she can still pick out her own.

"I hope Ser Alistair comes quietly," one of the other Wardens says, clearly uneasy with his orders.

"Do you have any idea where he is? The Inquisition might keep an eye out." If these two know where Alistair is, there might be others close behind.

"No, ma'am. We know he's in the area, though."

"I see. Who gave these orders?" No one in Ferelden would make that call. No one that she knows, anyway.

"Warden-Commander Clarel, leader of the Grey Wardens in Orlais." The ones that have gone quiet, themselves.

"Hunting a Ferelden Warden in Ferelden? We can handle our own." They look taken aback at that. "I assure you, Warden Alistair hasn't gone rogue. It’s your sect that hasn't been responding to our letters."

"We don't answer to you."

Amell steps aside for Elissa to join her. The Orlesian Wardens go for their weapons, recognizing her with sudden shouts of her name. "That's Warden-Commander Elissa. Clarel doesn't give the orders here, I do. You will stand down."

They only grip their weapons tighter. The apprehensive one looks back and forth between his comrade and Elissa, debating which to fall behind. "We've been ordered to take you in as well," the other says, leveling his sword in Elissa's direction. "Come with us."

"I don't think so."

-

It feels wrong to fight other Wardens. Outnumbered as they were, the two held their own before being subdued. One Warden down should a Blight come. While their numbers are greater than they were during the Fifth Blight, and the borders open for other nations, she, Elissa, and Alistair proved a small number can make a difference.

Broken Silverite armor covered in blood and mud. A waste.

"The song they hear isn't their own," Cole says. "They're scared."

Vivienne scoffs, brushing the frost from her hands. "Scared? They seem like fools, my dear. No offense."

"For once, I must agree with the First Enchanter."

"You wouldn’t understand. Corypheus has to have done something to cause all of this." The Calling. It's enough to send the Wardens in a panic. If all of them are hearing it at once and no one knows it isn't real...

"Someone's manipulating them, at least," Blackwall agrees. "The Wardens wouldn't be so rash otherwise."

Amell holds in a bitter laugh. The problem is, she isn't surprised at all by the Warden's actions. Anything it takes to stop a Blight.

-

Bull and Dorian break off to bring the surviving Warden back to Skyhold. Amell wants to wait for Elissa to finish her conversation with the elven woman they saved from the rift, but Hawke pulls her along.

"Those Wardens got close. Your friends deserve to know they're safe, right?"

Alistair can wait five minutes if it's for Elissa, she knows. Loghain on the other hand... "Right."

Varric and Solas follow her with Vivienne, Blackwall, and Cole trailing behind. Hawke leads them into an abandoned smuggler's cove. Skulls fade from the wood supporting the cave, painted long ago.

Amell holds up a hand, signaling for the others to wait. Should Alistair and Loghain sense a Warden coming, they might think they've been caught. She opens the door slowly to see an empty room and a single table with papers scattered on its surface.

There is the sheathing of a blade, a dull sigh, and, "Well, it's about time." Amell whirls on her heel to see Alistair and Loghain flanking the door, putting away their weapons. The former wears a wide smile, and the latter looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

In a breath, Alistair has her in a bruising hug. "Maker, am I glad to see you," he says into her shoulder. "We saw what became of Haven, but I knew you weren't dead and - "

"Ali. My ribs." The tears dotting the corners of her eyes aren't just from the joy of seeing him.

"Sorry, sorry." His hands on her shoulders, he looks her over. "You're smaller than I remember. Thinner, too. Do they not feed you in the Inquisition?" He pokes her. "Careful if a strong breeze catches you, you’ll just fly away."

"You're just bigger. And what's this?" She musses his hair, longer than it was during the Blight, and she knows it was never this curly. "Did a rat make a nest up there and leave?"

Alistair juts his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout as he smooths his hair back down. "Ellie likes it. Speaking of, where...?" He looks out over her shoulder and must see Elissa because his entire expression changes. Confusion, disbelief, relief. Then pure, unfiltered adoration.

Amell steps aside just in time for Alistair to launch himself at Elissa.

"We are never separating again," Alistair whines like a mabari left out of a good fight. "Look who you left me with."

Beside her, Loghain sighs again. "It seems I'm to be babysitting you three once more."

"We're older now, Loghain. We don't need watching over like we're children." It couldn't have been easy for him after he was recruited, having to put his confidence in three Wardens shy of their twentieth year.

"Yet your cousin and I had to save Alistair. And now that these two together..." He gestures at her friends, enthusiastic in their reunion and ignoring everyone else. "But it's you I don't know what to do with."

Amell frowns and looks to him. He has more grey in his hair than he did ten years ago, and whether age or stress has added more, only he will know. Though, he's softened around the edges, jaw not to tightly set even at their fellow Warden's borderline ridiculous display of affection. He still wears his own pride on his face. Perhaps a trace of nostalgia in his eyes.

"Me?"

"You advocated for my recruitment. I doubt the young Theirin would have laid his blade aside otherwise and, given how the late Arl Howe was my advisor, the young Cousland wouldn't have suggested it. Then after Amaranthine, you just left.

It was surprisingly irresponsible of you."

Amell opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it. It's exactly what she did. Brought him into the Order, then abandoned him. "I - it was for something I'm working on." It sounds pathetic and petulant even to her ears.

"Have you made any progress?"

"I have!" Once their communications were set back up after relocating, she finally heard from Avernus and Felix. Alexius's son agreed to be Avernus's test subject, and he insisted it was only through ethical experiments. "I'm closer than I was, anyway."

Loghain grunts and crosses his arms. "Good. It better have been worth leaving me with him."

Alistair and Elissa finally part for air. Foreheads pressed together, they're lost to the world until Loghain impatiently clears his throat.

"Good to see you alive, old man."

Amell can see him physically bite back the retort on his tongue. Their following conservation is brief, catching each other up on the details of how they've all come to be here and what everyone knows. Malcolm Hawke's blood was used to seal Corypheus away once, and her cousin's was used to reseal him when the wards began to fail.

It wasn't enough.

Amell keeps quiet when Hawke expresses disbelief that her father would use blood magic. Would brand himself a maleficar, even if it was used to seal away the Magister. Amell thinks she would have liked her uncle.

She looks over to see Varric comforting Cole, the boy with his head in his hands. "Their song is too loud. There's only the song and I can't - "

"I'm gonna get the kid out of here. The way's clear. We'll meet you all back at Skyhold."

Varric and the others, Hawke included, file out of the cove, but Amell stops Blackwall at the door. Better to rip this bandage off now. "Alistair, Loghain, this is Warden Blackwall."

"Blackwall?" A look passes between Elissa and Alistair, the same that she and Elissa shared after they first met him in the Hinterlands. "Then you knew Duncan."

"Duncan!" Blackwall says heartily. Almost convincingly. "He was a good man."

Alistair's eyes still go soft at the mention of him. "He was."

Loghain looks the man over. Blackwall stands with his back ramrod straight like a soldier standing at attention. "He isn't a Warden."

Alistair sighs dramatically. "Well, good to know Warden senses aren't dulled by age, right?"

"Of course I'm a Warden," Blackwall insists. "I was conscripted."

"So," Elissa says, drawing the word out. "You aren't Blackwall. Who are you then?"

There's a subtle shift in the air as Blackwall slowly changes his stance. "It's fine," Amell cuts in, startling him. "We knew." She gestures between her and Elissa. "But I thought it best to bring it up now with the others rather than later."

"He could be a murderer," Alistair argues, albeit weakly, with a glance at Loghain.

And she could be a blood mage. Amell rolls her eyes. "We could do worse than someone who believes the Wardens are honorable, who joined us because he wants to help people."

Alistair puts up his hands defensively. "She recruited an Antivan crow," he points to Elissa, then Loghain, "that he sent. Then you recruited him. I've learned to be a little lenient."

"How princely of you."

"Shut up."

Loghain grumbles. "As long as you all know. I'm in no position to tell you what to do."

"We appreciate your input anyway." To Blackwall, "Wardens have their own secrets, and we can keep yours. Whatever it is. Just don't make a fool of us." Any more than the other Wardens already have.

"Uh," Blackwall says, mouth agape. "Sure."

"Good. We can plan further at Skyhold. Leliana's scouts can find out more about Clarel and her magister." Amell waves Blackwall forward to walk ahead of them.

"By your lead, Inquisitor."

A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Don't you start, Alistair."

"Anything you say, Inquisitor."

Behind them, Loghain doesn't even try to disguise his sigh. Ahead, she swears she hears Blackwall laugh.

-

Skyhold is even busier when they return. More pilgrims come to behold the sight, and with the help of Fergus and Nathaniel's men, more buildings have been repaired to house them all. Loghain points out a horse bearing the colors of the Empress of Orlais.

A stable hand comes to take their horses, and they're swarmed almost immediately upon dismounting. First is Cassandra to approach them like a rolling storm.

"You," she growls, Varric in her sights. "You said you didn't know where Hawke was."

"Funny how things work out, isn't it, Seeker?"

"She could have been there. She could have saved the Divine!"

"Or she could have died."

"You don't know that - "

Hawke, thankfully, steps forward, and begins to steer the Seeker away. "Cassandra, I'm flattered. But since you know so much about me, it's only fair I get to know you..." It's the only time Amell has seen Cassandra be led away willingly.

Varric gives them and exaggerated shrug before heading toward the main hall of the castle. He gives Josephine a cheery wave as she exits the castle herself and makes a beeline toward them.

"Inquisitor, I'm glad to see you made it back safely. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you," Josephine looks behind Amell with a small but growing smile. "Unless the Commander wishes to speak with you first."

Cullen looks at her like a spooked halla. "Uh, no, I just - I mean." He takes a breath. "If we could talk later...?"

Amell ignores Elissa and Alistair as they begin to whisper together almost immediately. "Of course, Cullen." She watches him turn with a nod and head back toward the battlements, almost at a run.

Josephine, still smiling, continues, "Well. My office then, whenever you're ready, Inquisitor."

Amell sighs heavily once Josephine is out of earshot. Too many places to be at once, too many things to deal with. Maybe she should talk to Dorian about harnessing that time magic just so she can handle it all. When she turns to face her fellow Wardens, it's to Elissa and Alistair wearing matching apologetic smiles and Loghain simply sizing up the fortress.

"Interesting Inquisition you've made for yourself, Annwn," says the former teyrn.

"Times are never dull," she replies, almost fondly, before bidding them farewell and making her way to Josephine's office.

-

An invitation to a ball at the Winter Palace. A great place to stop Corypheus's assassination plot against Empress Celene, for sure, but, "Josephine, I'm going to get eaten alive."

Josephine offers her a reassuring smile. It isn't. "You will do fine, Inquisitor."

"Josie, I grew up in a Circle in Ferelden. I've read about the Game, but I don't know how to play it. And I can’t even dance." Amell buries her face in her hands. "I'm just as likely to get assassinated. Or worse, ruin the Inquisition's reputation."

Josephine sets down her quill to join Amell on the other side of her desk. "First, I believe we must work on your priorities." She places a hand on Amell's shoulder. "Second, you will have the rest of us with you. There is still time before the ball, and Leliana, Vivienne, and myself can coach you on etiquette before we leave."

Amell takes a deep breath. "Okay." She isn't alone. "Okay. And what's the other news?"

It isn't much better. As Inquisitor, she has to decide what to do with their prisoners. Of course, instead of making it easy, she has to sit in judgment in their newly rebuilt main hall. "Why do we have to make a spectacle of it?"

"It is a spectacle for some. Others wish to see judgment passed on those that wronged them. Unfortunately, we must satisfy them both."

"And if we don't?"

This smile is wicked, and strangely most reassuring of all. "Then we satisfy ourselves and convince the others it is enough."

-

That afternoon Amell sits on the throne in the main hall, nobles and mages and her companions lining the walls as Alexius is dragged forward to kneel. She's glad someone at least thought to release him when the Inquisition fled Haven, though his cheeks are sunken, his eyes defeated. He doesn't meet her eyes as Josephine reads off his crimes to the room.

"Do what you must, Inquisitor," he says when it's his turn to defend himself.

"Felix is still alive, Alexius." She leans forward. "Doing well, from what I've heard."

Life returns to the man's eyes. He looks up to her, sunlight from the stained glass window behind her reflecting in the tears in his eyes. "Do you tell me this as a comfort before you kill me?"

Dorian's short huff of breath doesn't go unnoticed. "What do you think, Dorian? You saw that bleak future with me."

"Alexius is a brilliant man, when he isn't trying to help break the world."

Amell nods. "Stand, Alexius." His accompanying guard pulls him to his feet without a struggle. "Put that brilliance to work for the Inquisition."

Surprised gasps and murmurs fill the hall. Alexius stares at her in shock. "I could've... I almost..."

"I was there. I saw it." The world torn asunder for one man's love for his son. "Be someone your son would be proud of, Alexius, and I'll make sure he lives long enough to see it."

-

Days later, the same, only this prisoner she didn’t meet before he was captured by Fergus’s men and turned in to the Inquisition.

"... I was only following orders. What else was I supposed to do?"

Former Knight-Captain Denam kneels before her, an Inquisition soldier with a hand on his shoulder forcing him down. Charged with allowing the templars to be corrupted with red lyrium and the murder of his Knight-Vigilant, the man before her begs for forgiveness and leniency. All while being free of red lyrium himself.

"Commander Cullen was a Knight-Captain, like you." Cullen steps forward at his mention, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "And when he disagreed with Knight-Commander Meredith, he stood against her."

Denam's scowl turns to Cullen. "Not all of us can be so noble," he sneers.

"No. I suppose not."

"I say give him to his men. Let them decide what to do with him," Cullen suggests.

Amell almost considers adding Denam to the Inquisition's ranks under heavy watch, until, "I was to serve a higher purpose. The others were cowards too weak to accept it."

Amell stands. "Have Leliana get out of him what she can. Then turn him over to Ser Barris and the others. What they do with him after that is out of my hands."

He puts up a fight when he's led away, thrashing against his bindings and attempting to shove his guards. "They'll kill me. You can't do this!"

Denam elbows a guard and makes a lunge for the throne. Amell readies a barrier, a translucent layering over her skin should he get close enough to her or anyone in the crowd.

Drawing his sword, Cullen rushes forward to intercept and slams the pommel into Denam’s face. Blood spurts from a broken nose. The gathered audience moves in a wave toward the door.

A sucking feeling. Emptiness. A bead of cold in her chest. The spell, shattered. Amell falls to her knees and throws her arms forward to keep herself from collapsing entirely. Cullen spins in alarm, no doubt feeling the sudden absence of her mana.

"Don't kill him." She struggles to her feet, staggers down the steps from the throne. "Just get him out of here."

"My office," Cullen says, low, eying the others beginning to appear from the wings. "You can recover there. No one will bother you."

Amell nods, weakly. Already Josephine begins to calm the crowd, diverting their attention, and with a quick look of understanding between the two, Amell slips away.

-

Cullen's office holds a sizeable collection of books on history and military strategy. What walls don't hold bookshelves display swords of different styles or maps of different areas of Thedas. Amell pulls out a book at random and holds it just to keep her hands from shaking. A Study of the Fifth Blight, Vol. 2 stares up at her. She thumbs through it, glancing through an outside view of their journey.

Of course, the only one mentioned by name is Elissa, the rest of them grouped under The Wardens, at least until Alistair's name appears. Part of her wishes she could go back to the days when she wasn't even worth a footnote in history. She replaces the book and pokes a wooden carving of a mabari sitting on the edge of the shelf.

The knob of the door leading to Solas's rotunda rattles, then opens, and Cullen steps through with a heavy sigh and a bruise forming on his cheek. "Are you alright?" he asks, fully coming into the office. He hangs his coat up despite the fact that it's absolutely freezing.

"Yes, thank you. The worst part is always the fall." Nothing answers when she tries to pull at the Veil for a small healing spell. It feels like running into a solid wall. "Is Denam detained?"

Cullen walks around to the other side of his desk, cluttered with papers and books. From a bottom drawer, he pulls out a vial of lyrium and a small box. "He is. Leliana is aware of what he did, as well." Amell can't quite find the energy to feel sorry for the man. A wonder why. To her, he offers the potion.

Amell swirls the liquid before drinking it. A habit she picked up from Wynne. Helps with the taste, she said. "You just keep lyrium potions in your desk?" Magic stirs within her, little by little. Like a limb waking, except it's within her. "Thank you."

"A carryover from being in the Order, I suppose. You're... welcome to stay. As long as you need."

She considers him through the empty vial. Memories of a conversation held many years ago. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Ah. Yes." He flips open the lid of the box he removed from his desk. Within, the tools one would need to allot a dose of lyrium. "When we are sworn into the templars, we're given our first dose. It's what grants us our abilities. A gift, but also..." He stares down at the offending box.

"A chain," she finishes for him. He wasn't expecting that, it seems. "Alistair told us, after we... " A steadying breath. "After we left the Tower with the mages. Cullen, he said you were lucky to be alive."

He considers it. "It's true. I don't know how long I went without it, but by the time you found me, I - it wasn't just the demons causing me to see things." He closes the lid and returns the box to the drawer. Hands gripping the edge of his desk, gaze straight ahead, he says, "I've stopped taking it."

Stopped - "Is that safe?" He could die. Be driven mad. "For you?"

His laugh is a brittle thing. "It's only been a few months. Cassandra has been watching over me. When I told her I wanted to quit, we started slow. But I... I haven't had any in a while, now."

She wants to reach out to him, and so she does. One hand on his, fingers curling under to break his hold on the desk. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she whispers.

He finally looks at her and pushes away from the desk. He doesn't let go of her hand. "It wasn't - it didn't seem important, with everything else going on." He squeezes her hand, whether intentionally or subconsciously she doesn't know. "But I wanted you to know, now. And if my ability to lead is compromised, I will be... relieved from duty."

"To, what, retire on a farm?"

This time she knows he squeezes her hand on purpose. "Would that it could be that easy."

"Okay." She nods, mostly for herself. "I trust you, and I trust Cassandra. But if there's anything else you need, you tell me."

For the first time since he got back, Cullen smiles. "Of course, Inquisitor."

"Don't do that. I'm not saying this as your Inquisitor. I say this as your friend. And - "

Oh. She could lose him. Cullen, who has come so far and seen so much, and yet he still looks at her like that? And who is she to deserve it? With what she is... can she? She swallows.

Then, she realizes with a sudden clarity: she wants to.

" - as someone who cares about... what happens to you."

"You...?"

Someone knocks on the door.

This time, instead of jumping apart, Amell slowly releases Cullen's hand and goes to open it. Leliana stands on the other side, poised to knock again. Josephine has calmed the nobles, but Elissa and the others want to see her. Between their search for Clarel and the plot at Halamshiral, there is much to discuss.

Leliana's face lights up when she begins to speak of their formal attire. And as her spymaster and old friend leads her away from Cullen's office, all Amell can think is this: he can't know.

If she has to hide the blood magic forever, she will, but he can't know.

-

You didn't have to send all of your people, you know. But Ellie looked happy to see Cousland and Howe banners flying together again.

We found Alistair and Loghain. I haven't seen them in so long, but it seems some things never change. It's good to see Ellie and Alistair together again; she smiles a lot more. It doesn't make him any less of a pain, but I've missed him. Even Loghain is already getting along with the rest here. It's so strange!

Please, stay in Amaranthine. It wouldn't do well for all of us to be affected by whatever Corypheus has done.

Stay safe. Give the others my best.

Your friend,

Annie

An unmarked letter at the corner of her desk catches her attention. She sets aside her letter to Nathaniel and picks up the other. Holding it up against her lantern, she can't make out anything damning in the writing. Varric did say it came straight from Leliana, and she wouldn't give her anything she thought was dangerous...

She tears it open.

Almost immediately, tears cloud her vision, blurring the blocky handwriting she hasn't seen in over a decade.

Imagine my surprise when the Inquisition came knocking on my door. I thought they had worse things to deal with than a runaway apostate.

When we ran into each other in that clearing, surrounded by darkspawn, I thought that was the last time I'd ever hear from you. I asked merchants and other refugees after the Blight, but no one heard about you, so I thought...

Here, the ink is smudged and smeared, like he tried to wipe away a blot of moisture.

Annie, I'm so glad you're alive.

I wish I could see you again, but I'm far outside of Ferelden now. And I have a family. A wife and a little girl. We named her Anne, after you, so even if no one else remembered you, I would.

I miss you. Keep in touch if you're not too busy being Inquisitor, now. Stay safe. I hope to see you again.

Your dearest friend,

L Jowan.

Amell wipes away the streaks of tears on her face and runs toward the rookery. She tries to thank Leliana, but the spy master doesn't know what she's talking about.

"You-you found my friend. From the Circle. Jowan?"

Confusion shifts to understanding. "I remember. The boy at Redcliffe." She grins. "Your Commander asked me to track him down."

-

"Come in," Cullen says when she knocks on the door. She steps in hesitantly, and he looks up from his desk when she shuts the door. "Oh, In - Amell, I wasn't expecting - " He squints as she moves further into the room, and nearly trips over his chair in his haste to round the desk. "You've been crying. Are you - is everything all right? What happened?"

It almost makes the tears begin again, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Leliana said you asked her to look for Jowan."

He reaches out for her but stops short. "Did something happen to him?"

"No, no. He... He has a wife and a child that they named after me." Her heart feels so full, face hot against the cold of his office. "Why did you... do - that? Ask after him."

"I still remember what he did... " Her and Lily covered in blood. The walls, the floor, the templars, all awash in it. "But he's important to you. I thought - I... " Cullen eyes the main door. "Can we talk outside?" He gestures to one of the side doors, leading out onto the battlements.

Outside, they walk in a tense silence, the dull clack of boots against stone and the wind whistling through collapsed watchtowers the only noise around them. Amell rubs her forearms for warmth in lieu of casting a spell, and Cullen drapes his cloak over her once more.

Huddled into the fur, she laughs nervously. "Why did we come out here?"

Cullen stops. "I didn't want to be interrupted," he says. He takes her hands in his and runs his thumbs over her knuckles, the warmth seeping in even through her gloves. "I thought finding Jowan would make you happy."

"Cullen, it's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. But why?"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Exhales a cloud of air. "I care for you, Annwn. Probably more than I should, since you're the Inquisitor, but I..."

She withdraws her hands. He looks stricken, ready to step away, until she asks, "Are you sure? You were tortured with images of me. Is that - I don't want to - "

Cullen sighs and brings up a hand to cup her cheek. "I know. I'm sure." His gaze drops to her lips as he leans in. She follows suit, like a flower to the sun.

Neither of them hear the door open. "Commander. I have that report from Sister Leliana."

Amell stares into the cold, uncaring sky and wonders if the Maker hates her, in particular. "Cullen," she says when she hears the office door slam shut, "if you need to - "

One hand tangled in her hair, the other on the small of her back, he kisses her with over ten years of pent up longing and months long yearning, and Maker help her she kisses him back.

He pulls away looking only slightly sheepish and not at all apologetic. "Sorry," he says, besides. "I should have asked, but - "

Knowing her luck, if he had waited any longer someone else would have come looking for her. "Cullen." She pulls him closer by the straps of his breastplate. "Kiss me again?"

He smiles, and does.

[rufousnmacska]

This started as a little head canon list but, not surprisingly, turned into more. Disclaimer - I have not read Harry Potter or seen the movies in years. So, I’m sure I got some things wrong about the world. Please forgive me!

@kit-12 I hope you like it! 😊

(Trigger warning - physical abuse)

*****

- Manon first notices him one day at lunch. His laugh echoes across the great hall and pulls her attention from the book she’s reading. It’s about magical creatures, her favorite subject. Not one usually considered suitable for Slytherins, so she has it hidden inside a larger volume on curses. As she watches him sit down with his friends who are on the Gryffindor quidditch team, she realizes she’s seen him at practices. Slytherin practices. She realizes she’s seen him in the library quite often too. She realizes ... he is now staring at her. Manon sneers at him but he just continues to smile at her. Slamming her book shut, she leaves the hall. Knowing he watches her every step. The heat flushing her skin is from annoyance she tells herself. Nothing more.

- Dorian never cared for quidditch but he is a regular in the stands. That first match he attended between Gryffindor and Slytherin in his second year, that first glimpse of the all female Slytherin team - his house called them Witches, with a capital W, implying something more, something darker, than a normal witch - he was hooked. Something about their captain caught his attention and never let go. Even as the years passed and he had crushes on other people, acted on them, earned a bit of a reputation. They’d never shared a class, and their houses hated each other. But always, he felt her presence, watched her from afar, seeking out that silvery white hair she wore in a long braid. Finally - finally! - she looks at him across the long tables. As if she never knew he existed before. As she stares, he can’t help but grin. Seeing her full on, her eyes glowing like torches, her full red lips and long eyelashes ... He’s unable, unwilling to look away. Even when she tries to give him a nasty expression. He sees her red cheeks as she leaves the great hall.

- Manon pushes the boy out of her mind. Pushes everything out of her mind except quidditch practice. Slytherin calls them The Coven because they are almost never apart. They share a dorm room, have been on the team since their second year - they’ve been the team - take all the same classes. But as much as she loves flying and playing this game, there’s always a bubble of anxiety building in her before each practice or match. Always on the edge of bursting. As they soar around the stadium, following the patterns and directions they’d been given to a T, she can’t help but glance at their Head of House, watching through cold, narrowed eyes from the top row of the teacher’s box. The Matron’s focus is not on them however, but a small group of students on the other side of the stadium. Manon looks, knowing who one of them will be. Just as she spots his curly, dark hair, a beater strikes her in the thigh, almost knocking her from her broom. If not for Asterin nudging her up, she would have fallen. Those cold black eyes are now on her. And Manon knows what’s coming.

- Dorian used the cover of a dedicated group of students who followed quidditch as if their lives depended on it to view practices. The Slytherin team’s aerobatics are hypnotic, and even though he still can’t always see the moves and predict their plays, he loves watching them fly. But he hates the violence of it. Especially now, watching Manon limp off the field. As the other fans disperse, he breaks away and makes his way to the locker rooms. The Witches are silently stalking through the hall and he ducks behind a corner. Manon is not with them. He doesn’t miss the worried faces though. Once they pass, he proceeds, poking his head around the open door into the Slytherin locker room. The slap surprises him, but it doesn’t seem to shock Manon. She takes it as if it’s nothing new. As if the blood now dripping from her nose is common enough that she doesn’t even bother to wipe it away. Another slap and droplets of blood fly. Another and another. All while the Matron screams in her face. Dorian can’t turn away even if he wanted to. He wants to tackle the Matron and return the blows. But he can’t do that either. Manon’s eyes slide past the Matron and find him, watching. Her only acknowledgement of his presence is a slight widening of her eyes. A warning. Go. But he holds her gaze, trying to reel in his anger and magic, hoping to show her she’s not alone.

- Manon breathes a sigh of relief when the boy - Dorian, she found out his name yesterday - disappears before the Matron turns to leave. She is alone. Not allowed to use magic to heal herself, not allowed to go to the infirmary. Her nose feels broken and it throbs as she sits down on the bench a little too heavily. She thinks about trying to find some ice at least, but she doesn’t move. Even when she hears soft footsteps, she is still. “Are you okay?” he asks, taking a seat next to her. She says nothing. Dorian pulls out his wand and is about to wave it when she says, “No. If she sees it healed, it will be worse.” He clenches his jaw so hard she thinks she can hear his teeth grinding. Finally, she looks over at him. His brows crease as he looks at her face. His brilliant blue eyes belie a secret connection. Like he knows exactly what she’s feeling. “Can I at least...” He swishes his wand and she feels a cold breeze. She sees an ice drop form at the tip and understands, nodding for him to go ahead. He mumbles a spell and icy comfort spreads across her face. Manon sighs deeply, savoring the relief. Dorian is watching her, as if connecting dots. Quidditch is a dangerous sport. But she often has injuries that go untreated. Most from practices, which should be less violent than an actual match. He is about to say something when she stands, slowly, and says, “Thank you.” She leaves him sitting in the Slytherin locker room and trudges back to the castle.

- Dorian only catches glimpses of Manon over the next few days, in hallways or on stairs just as they invariably move away from him. She’s never close enough for him to see if her nose has healed. He hasn’t told anyone what he saw. But he notices the looks he gets from the Witches. Surprisingly, they don’t look like they want to bite his head off. Which they could maybe do, literally. They’re all experts at transfiguration and give themselves pointed teeth before matches. To him, they offer grateful, if hesitant, smiles. More like a slightly upturned side of their mouth. But he’s nodded back. Tonight, in the library, he is carrying a large stack of books to the check out desk when he passes an aisle and sees white hair gleaming in the torchlight. She’s tucked away in a cubbyhole, her head buried in a book. Dorian approaches, making noise so she isn’t surprised by him. When she looks up, some faint bruising remains on her face, but no sign of a still healing break. Reading his face, she says, “It wasn’t broken.” Then, eyeing up the books, she asks, “Light reading?” Dorian laughs. “Actually, yes.” Manon examines him, not the books, and asks, “Why aren’t you in Ravenclaw?” He stretches to see what she’s reading. A very old volume on dragons. The pages look brittle and he sees she’s wearing gloves. Something about that makes his heart warm. “I don’t know. Perhaps the sorting hat saw something more in me.” She wrinkles her nose. “Gryffindors. Always thinking they are the best.” Leaning against the edge of her desk, he says, “I’d be the best in whatever house I got sorted into.” This makes her laugh, as he’d hoped. “So you’re into dragons? My father knows people that work with them.” He doesn’t know why he brings up his father. But his eyes keep falling on the bruises and he tries to ignore them. If he can give her a happy distraction, he will. “I like flying,” she replies with a shrug. Confused, he asks, “What does that have to do with it? You want to fly on dragons? Why not hippogriffs or something ... I don’t know, smaller? Something people can actually ride.” She gives him a wicked grin that kindles the fire inside him. “Maybe I like dangerous things,” she says, clearly aware of the effect her smile has on him. Dorian grins right back, leans down close, only a few inches from her, and says, “Maybe I do too.” And then, the stack of books in his arms begins to slide and he fumbles around trying to keep them from falling. Several hit the floor and Manon begins to laugh, a clear, sonorous laugh that sends that heat rushing through him again. But she gets up and helps him gather them together. As they both crouch, picking up books, they are again very close. She stills and without looking at him says, “I’m sorry you had to see that the other day.” Dorian frowns, wanting to argue that she has nothing to apologize for. But he just asks, “Are you okay?” She looks at him as though no one outside of her circle of friends has ever asked that. And then she smiles softly and says, “Yes.” He knows part of it is a lie. But only part.

- Manon tries to avoid him in the halls but it seems like he’s always there, always just walking around a corner. Always in her line of sight. As if he’d appeared out of thin air a few weeks ago to be her shadow. Stupidly, she realizes maybe she’s the one watching for him. It takes overhearing Vesta whispering about him to Asterin to make her understand. She snaps at them to mind their own damn business and storms off to the quidditch pitch. The stadium will be empty this close to dinner and she can sulk in peace. As she whips through the air, feeling badly about yelling at her closest friends, feeling badly about ignoring Dorian, she wishes the wind would take her troubles away. Begs it to somehow put her in another house. Away from the abuse of the Matron. Away from the constant needling of the other Slytherins to bully and harass other students. Away from the constant eyes judging her if she steps out of line. She remembers Dorian’s words about the sorting hat and how it must have seen something in him to place him in Gryffindor. What had it seen in her to put her in the darkest house in the school? Did she have nothing more to her than cunning and ambition? Surely she possessed bravery, and intelligence, and loyalty. Didn’t she? Something catches her eye and she sees him climbing into the stands. Expecting to feel annoyance, she finds herself smiling as she flies over to meet him. Hovering at eye level, she says, “Don’t you eat?” He grins and pulls a basket from his cloak. “Only if you will join me.” She can smell the steaming chicken and fresh bread. The chocolate brownies. Her stomach growls in answer and he begins to unpack the food as she lands next to him. They remain quiet, eating in silence until she can’t hold it in any longer. “Why are you being so nice to me?” Dorian looks adorably confused. “Because I like you?” Manon blushes. She can’t help it. His expression turns serious then. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a very long time, but ... I didn’t want it to cause you any problems.” He doesn’t need to say what those problems are. She stares at him for a long moment, not sure of what to say. Until finally, she says, “I like you too.” And before she can talk herself out of it, because she wants to know if his lips are as soft as they look, because his smile sets her blood on fire, she kisses him.

- Dorian uses every excuse possible to ditch his friends each weekend they go to Hogsmeade. They suspect he has a new girlfriend but he’s managed to keep her a secret. Using an enchanted map he found in a book shelved in special collections, he sneaks back to the castle while they continue with their afternoon, thinking he’s merely a step or two ahead of them. Dorian hates that they have to keep it a secret, but he’d agreed with Manon when she’d requested it. He dreads seeing new bruises and that outweighed any annoyance he felt. As he sprints into the Room of Requirement, their meeting spot, he can’t wait to see her. Dorian stops dead in his tracks as he sees those bruises he’d feared. Manon tries to hide her face, but to no avail. “Hey,” Dorian says as he kneels down and gently pulls her hands away. Her gorgeous eyes are almost overflowing with tears. “Manon, what can I do?” She sniffs, “Nothing, I’m fine.” Her painfully swollen cheek says otherwise. Before he can think, his magic reacts, sending cold relief to her injuries. He lets her think it was deliberate, controlled. He says nothing about how her pain unleashes his magic, that it’s a manifestation of his hate and anger for the Matron. The potions professor who laughs at first years when they suffer burns or injuries in her class. The quidditch coach who beats her team captain at the slightest infraction. Too much, she reminds him of his father. The Minister of Magic who never fails to tell his son what an embarrassment he is. A man of power who hits with words almost as brutally as the Matron hits with fists. Pulling her close, he hugs her, until the shaking stops. “I hate this,” she chokes out between sobs. “I hate being punished for losing. I hate being watched. As if a Slytherin can only be one thing. I hate hiding here with you.” Dorian strokes her back. “I know.” He does know. The shame, the self hatred, the fear. Manon releases a long, slow breath, settling against him and wrapping her arms around his waist.

- Manon is rushing to her next class and almost misses the gossip exchanged between the two younger students. When it sinks in, she stops, almost running into a wall. “The matron got fired!” “What? Are you kidding? Don’t joke with me. I hate her.” “Everyone does. Or did. She can go rot now.” “What happened?” But the two disappear around a corner, leaving Manon shell shocked. Forgetting her class, she runs back to the Slytherin common room, ignoring everyone she passes in the tunnel. She finds Asterin in their room. Her best friend is grinning from ear to ear, a slightly dazed look on her face. “What the hell happened?” Manon asks. “A miracle!” Asterin calls, laughter overtaking her to the point she can barely speak. “A godsdamn miracle!” The Coven quickly join them, coming in one by one as they hear the news. Celebration is replaced by strategy as the teammates begin to discuss changes to their quidditch routines. They are a well oiled machine, so nothing much will be different. But at least they can use their own ideas for plays and techniques. Their door opens to reveal the Headmistress. Glennis Crochan eyes the young witches with a mildly disapproving look. The twinkle in her eyes does not go unnoticed however. She shoos everyone out except Manon. “I take it you’ve heard the news,” the Headmistress says. Manon forces a sober expression on her face. “Yes ma’am.” Professor Crochan sits on the edge of her bed and frowns. “I must apologize for not seeing the truth sooner, Ms. Blackbeak.” Manon feigns ignorance, but not for long. This wise, old witch is no one’s fool, despite mistaking the Matron’s evil tendencies for mere strictness. “She was an exceptional liar. I am so very sorry I believed anything she said,” the headmistress says. “I know,” Manon replies, not sure what else to say. Professor Crochan reaches out and squeezes Manon’s hand. It’s such a motherly gesture that Manon, who has no mother of her own, feels uncomfortable. Like she doesn’t know if she should squeeze back or continue to just sit there. Before she can decide, the headmistress smiles and stands. She offers her ear if Manon ever wants to talk. About anything. And then. before the crone leaves, she says, “By the way, I’ve demoted the Head Boy that the Matron assigned to Slytherin. He has learned too much at her feet. You will take his place. It’s time for some new blood to lead Slytherin.” Manon stands, her mouth agape, her heart racing. “You may say thank you if you’d like,” the headmistress says with a kind smile. “Uhh ... thank you. Ma’am. Headmistress,” Manon sputters, unsure if she is actually grateful. But when she’s left alone, when she thinks about all the things she’d change about Slytherin, she is overcome with hope and excitement. She runs out to find Dorian.

- Dorian is so far behind on his charms homework, not even Yrene’s help will get him through it. Despairing in a hidden corner of the library, he stares blankly at his textbook, not seeing or understanding a single work on the page. His mind is focused on one thing. Or, one person.  At the sound of heavy footfalls, he leans into the aisle to see Manon charging towards him. He’s hesitant, unable to tell if she’s happy or angry. It could go either way. A person might be glad that their abuser was just fired, or they might be upset that someone meddled at all. Just as she reaches him, he stands and holds out his hands in a placating gesture. “I sent an owl to the Education Minister. She is friends with my mother and I thought maybe it would help.” He cringes a little, waiting for her reaction. Manon says nothing, just throws herself against him in a hug that almost sends him toppling backwards. “You’re not upset with me?” he asks, laughing. “Never,” she says. “You used your connections to save me. To save all of us. She was terrible to more people than just me.” They return to their embrace, and he realizes there are others gathering around, watching them. He starts to pull away but she doesn’t let him. “I don’t care anymore,” she says, her breath hot and alive against his skin. “Let them watch. I’ll throw them in detention if they give us any trouble.” Dorian pulls back, an eyebrow raised. “I’m Head Girl of Slytherin now.” She says it just loud enough for the gawkers to hear and immediately disperse. He laughs and promises not to step out of line around her. She makes him take it back. Later, as they separate to head to their respective common rooms, Manon frowns. “I wish I could do this for you. Get your dad off your back somehow.” That she would offer means the world to him, giving him some much needed strength. “Maybe when you become famous you can tell him off for me.” Her nose wrinkles slightly. “And what will I do to become famous?” He kisses the wrinkles. “Replace brooms with dragons in quidditch.” Manon’s eyes lit up, widening first in disbelief and then as she is flooded with ideas. “First, let’s survive Hogwarts,” he says. “We still have to meet each other’s friends. Officially, I mean.” Her brightness fades a little, but she is still smiling as she heads down the stairs to Slytherin, and he climbs up to Gryffindor.

*****

tagging - @itach-i @nestasbucket @blackhavilliard​ @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies​ @sierrareads​ @chloe123love607​ @manontrashbeak​ @over300books​ @bookishwitchling​ @jimetg98​ @mis-lil-red​ @yourfacesickens-me​ @awesomelena555​

fanfic master list (includes the link to my fics on AO3)  

Thanks for reading! I’m slowly working my way through a bunch of manorian requests and other ideas of my own, so if you’d like to be tagged or if I forgot you, let me know. 🙂

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: The Breath of Winter

Chapter 53 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! In which the crew fight a dragon. A really, really big fucking dragon. 

Fun fact: In the two-odd years that I’ve been writing Dragon Age fic, I’ve managed to avoid writing a dragon fight until now. I HATE WRITING FIGHT/BATTLE SCENES UGH. I hope it’s okay!

Only an excerpt here (the chapter is ~8800 words); read the whole thing on AO3. 

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

As soon as they stepped out of the Tevinter fortress, Cole appeared beside them. “She’s at the lake,” he said. “She’s turning the water into winter, icy with rage, reaching and ravaging, kill or be killed.” He blinked at Fenris with his big blue eyes. “She’s very angry, and so is he.”

“Great,” Varric said. “An angry spirit in an angry dragon. Always a winning combination.”

Fenris frowned at Cole. “Where on the lake?”

“Near the fishing camp,” he said. “I helped the fishermen escape. They’re safe.”

“Good,” Fenris said. “Let’s move.” He looked around at his companions. “What is the fastest way to get there?”

Blackwall frowned thoughtfully. “Back through Stone-Bear Hold, I believe.”

“It might actually be through the swamp,” Bull said.

“No,” Dorian said loudly. “No more of that damned swamp.”

“He’s right,” Fenris said. “We’re avoiding the swamp – too many wild beasts. We can’t afford to fight anything else along the way.”

Hawke laughed. “I suspect that’s not what Dorian’s complaint was about.”

Her tone was cheerful and light, and she was twisting her rings around her finger. Fenris squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Through Stone-Bear Hold, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They took off at a brisk jog, taking care to pace themselves and to preserve some stamina for the battle to come. For some time, the only sounds were their panting breaths and their pounding footsteps as they hurried to the Avvar settlement at a brisk but measured pace. But the silence was heavy and grim, and Fenris didn’t know how to break it.

Eventually, inevitably, Hawke spoke up. “So,” she said brightly. “Shall we sing a song to pass the time?”

Varric snorted. “Depends on what song you had in mind.”

Sera looked at Hawke in alarm. “Anything except for–”

Hawke interrupted her. “How about the Sera song?” she suggested.

Sera made a retching noise. “Ugh, no!”

Hawke grinned at her, then launched gustily into song. “Sera was never an agreeable girl: her tongue tells tales of rebellion. But she was soooo fast and quick with her bow, no one quite knew where she came from…”

Blackwall chuckled, then joined in with Hawke’s singing, and to Fenris’s mild surprise, Dorian joined in as well. Varric and Bull laughed, and Sera loudly groaned. “I hate this creepy song!” she complained. “Why’s that minstrel thingy got to pick on me...”  

Fenris shot Hawke a grateful glance, and she winked at him as she continued to sing. 

It wasn’t long before they were entering Stone-Bear Hold. The settlement was bustling after the battle, with families reuniting and healers hurrying back and forth to tend the wounded, but the Avvar who noticed Fenris and his companions called out to them in hearty tones.

“Oi, Inquisition! Lady guide your blades and bows!”

“Give Hakkon a good death, Fenris!”

Hawke laughed and called back to them, which Fenris was thankful for; he could barely think about anything at this moment but the pressing need to kill the Avvar dragon so he could be done with at least one horrible task.

Svarah was outside of her cave speaking with some of her people, and she waved Fenris over as he and his companions approached. “My boys told me you need mages,” she said. 

“Yes, if you can spare them,” Fenris said. “I apologize for yet another–”

She cut him off with an impatient wave. “They’re already down by the lake, as are my warriors with arrows and fire.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “They weren’t afraid to face the dragon?”

“They’re facing a god,” Svarah replied. “Honoured is what they are.” 

“I see,” Fenris said blankly. “Then you have our thanks.”

She nodded briskly. “We will ready a celebration for your return.”

“Oh,” Fenris said in surprise. “No, there’s no need–”

“A party?” Hawke chirped. “Oh, that’s fantastic! Isn’t that fantastic?” She elbowed Fenris and beamed at Svarah. “Sera and Dorian and I will dance for you! That’ll be sure to rouse everyone’s constitutions.” She wiggled her eyebrows salaciously.

Svarah gave her a rare smirk. “A wild one, you are. Fly true, Hawke. Lady keep you all.”

They resumed their route to the fishing camp at a faster pace, and true to form, Hawke resumed her usual routine of pre-battle banter to buoy everyone’s mood. “Anyone want to put bets on who will land the killing blow on our lovely friend Hakkon?”

“I will,” Blackwall said. 

Hawke patted his arm as they jogged along the cliffside path. “I knew I could count on you.”

Bull grinned at him. “You enjoy losing your coin, don’t you?”

Blackwall scoffed. “That’s a bit unkind.”

“S’true though,” Sera said. “You never get the pot!”

Blackwall shrugged affably. “I don’t mind, I enjoy a good gamble. And you should hope I win this time, Bull, seeing as my bet is on you.”

Hawke fanned herself playfully. “Ooh, such flattery.”

“It’s not flattery,” Bull said. “It’s an intelligent move. Which is why I will also bet on myself.”

Dorian tsked. “Of course you will.”

Bull patted Dorian’s bum. “Aren’t you betting on me, kadan?”

Dorian smacked his hand. “No,” he said. “I’m betting on Fenris.”

“Why me?” Fenris asked.

“Because you’ve landed the most killing blows thus far,” Dorian said. “That’s the intelligent move.” He made an apologetic little moue at Bull. “Sorry, amatus, I’m simply following the numbers.”

Blackwall frowned. “Wait, that’s not right.”

“Yes it is,” Dorian said. “Fenris has landed the kill on the most dragons.”

“I swear that’s not right,” Blackwall insisted. “It was Bull, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve both got it wrong,” Varric said. “It’s a tie.” 

“A tie between Fenris and Bull?” Dorian said. 

“Nope,” Varric replied. “Between Fenris and Cassandra.”

Sera cackled and clapped her hands, and Blackwall’s eyes widened. “How did I forget that?”

“Because you weren’t there every time,” Varric said. He jerked his head at Bull. “And neither was Tiny here.”

“That is true,” Bull said. “Otherwise I would have gotten the highest count.”

Fenris smirked at him. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Bull elbowed Fenris playfully as the others chuckled, and Hawke tapped Varric’s shoulder. “What was the actual tally of killing blows for dragons, then?”

“Fenris and Cassandra had three each,” Varric said. “Bull landed two–”

Bull chuckled. “Those were good.”

Varric smirked at him. “Blackwall had one…”

“I am proud of that,” Blackwall put in.

“And the last one was Solas,” Varric finished.

“What!” Sera squawked. “He never!”

Hawke clapped her hands. “Oh Maker, he did! That’s right! He punched it in the face with the Fade!” She laughed. “Oh, Solas. All that subtlety and careful magic, and then boom, he punches a dragon in the face with a fist made out of the Veil.”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Can’t be true. Too funny.”

“It is true,” Dorian said. “I couldn’t believe it either.” He sighed musically. “Ah, Solas, our enigmatic elven friend. How are you going to be depicting him in your book, Varric?”

“You’ll find out when you read it,” Varric said patiently.

Dorian pouted. “You aren’t any fun. Well, I think he’d want to be remembered as the most intelligent man in Thedas. Unfortunately for him, that title is already taken.”

Varric smirked up at him. “Aw, Sparkler, you flatter me.”

Dorian laughed heartily. “Oh, Varric, what a fine jest. No no, I meant myself, of course.”

Sera snorted, then poked Varric.“Two things: Bald head. Boring.”

“Being boring is how you get forgotten, Buttercup,” Varric said.

“Yeh, I know,” Sera said pointedly. “I wish I could.”

“Bare-faced but free,” Cole said. “Frolicking, fighting, fierce. He wants to give wisdom, not orders.”

Dorian shot him a funny look. “I don’t think Solas is really the frolicking sort, Cole.”

Then Hawke spoke up. “I think he’d want to be remembered for his knowledge. For trying to teach us what he knew.”

Varric gave her a sardonic look. “You’re the only one he tried to teach, Hawke.”

Hawke batted her eyelashes. “It’s hardly my fault that I’m so charming I can win over a spirit of wisdom.”

“A spirit of pride, my dear Hawke,” Dorian said.

Hawke waved her hand dismissively. “Ah, same thing.”

Bull scratched his chin. “I think he’d want to be remembered as–”

“Can we speak of something else?” Fenris interrupted.

The others fell silent, and Fenris immediately regretted his outburst. He shouldn’t have said anything, he knew, but he didn’t want to be reminded of Solas right now, not when they were about to walk into a major battle.  

It wasn’t even really the talk of Solas that was irritating him per se. Rather, it was the reminder of yet another worry that was waiting for him when he returned to Skyhold. In the nearly two years since Corypheus’s death, Leliana’s entire network of spies had failed to turn up anything of note regarding Solas’s sudden disappearance. In Fenris’s opinion, the complete and utter lack of information was the most damning evidence of all that Solas’s final words hinted at something ominous to come. 

Something ominous that Fenris might have been able to prevent, if only he’d pushed Solas a little harder about his strange and anachronistic ways.

Yet another thing that history may eventually vilify me for, he thought. Either that, or history would forget about him completely, just like it had done to Ameridan and Telana. All that sacrifice, that pain and heartache to save a nation that barely remembered they’d existed…

Not that Fenris cared about the recognition. He was already far more famous and recognizable than he’d ever wanted to be. It was the futility of his role that was rubbing him so raw. Everyone had always spoken of Fenris as being the natural choice for this role, the person who had fallen into the leadership position because it was meant for him, with the mark on his hand and his survival of the Conclave. Cassandra had always insisted that Fenris was exactly who they’d needed right when they’d needed him the most. And perhaps he had been needed when this had first started – when the Inquisition was new and struggling to find its footing after the attack on Haven. 

But Fenris wasn’t needed in that capacity anymore. The world no longer needed a symbol of hope in a time of terror, and Fenris was no longer the sole voice of authority in a world devoid of leaders. Cassandra was there to lead the Chantry, and the Empress of Orlais was cautiously cordial now with King Alistair and Queen Anora. The Free Marches were relatively stable, Sebastian having backed down from his untimely march on Kirkwall thanks to Leliana’s quick thinking as well as Fenris’s friendship. It had been months since they’d gotten a report of any Fade rifts that needed closing. In fact, the only thing that remained unchanged since all of this had begun was the anchor that was still buried in Fenris’s hand. 

The reasons that the Inquisitor had once been needed were no longer valid. Yet here Fenris was, still fulfilling a role whose value seemed to have run its course.  

Take moments of happiness where you find them, Ameridan had said. The world will take the rest. The problem was this: Fenris didn’t want just the moments. He didn’t want to lie back and allow the world and its endless demands to swallow him whole. All this time, ever since Corypheus had died, he’d ceded to Leliana and Josephine’s statements that he was needed more than ever. He’d ceded to the inevitability of his role as the Inquisitor, never questioning that his decisions and his judgment were necessary to foster the rebuilding of the world. It had never really occurred to him to question his place in all of this. He had fantasized about leaving the Inquisition, certainly – about taking Hawke’s hand and leaving all of this behind without a second glance. But he had never truly considered it in any real way.

Now, having seen how things had ended with Ameridan, Fenris was really thinking about it, and what it would mean if he… if he stepped down from the Inquisition.

Read the rest on AO3. 

[iarollane]

Fictober prompt

Sooo I caught up... and promptly fell behind again.

Yeah go figure.

==

**Prompt 18** "Secrets? I love secrets!"

**Dragon Age: Inquisition** set during the Singer of Magic timeline, soon after helping Dorian deal with his father.

**Rating** general, some mention of underage drinking, dealing with old grief.

==

I rubbed my eyes, fatigue setting in. Words on the documents swam before my eyes. I hated being bombarded with paperwork as soon as I returned, and Josie knew it. She tried to keep it to a minimum, but somehow I always ended up with a pile on my desk anyway. I pushed it away with a groan, laying my head down on my arms.

A throat cleared. I looked up to see Dorian, holding a bottle and two wine glasses. As soon as he met my tired gaze, he smiled brightly.

"Lashanna!" I just stared at him, too tired and sore from the journey to be able to respond with much enthusiasm. He didn't let it dim his attitude. "I wanted to thank you, for sticking up for me. I'm still not used to it."

I shrugged, sitting up with a wince. "The Mother was being an ass. It's no ones business who you decide to sleep with except for you. Though," I smiled slyly, "if you decide to share details with your bestest friend, I'm sure they wouldn't object." I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

He laughed. "Join me with this fine Tevinter Red, and you may get all the details you can take- so long as you give some of your own."

I looked longingly at the bottle, then shook my head. "What I need most right now is a bath to relax," I said. "I'm still in my 'adventurers gear' and believe me, its not easy to keep anything clean on the road even with magic."

"How about two birds with one stone, then? I've heard delicious rumors that you have a bath to rival the one in Haven, but all for yourself." His eyes gleamed, and he leaned over the desk. "You wouldn't hold out on such luxuries with your- how did you put it? 'Bestest best friend,' I believe it was?"

I giggled. "All right," I conceded. "You can make sure I don't fall asleep and drown, then. Imagine how embarrassing that would be for the Inquisition."

Twenty minutes later, we were both neck deep in the steaming hot water, sipping the delicious red wine, and gossiping. I sighed, rolling my head back a little, and enjoyed the moment. It was almost like having Tia back again.

"And then he grew a second head." I heard Dorian say it, and cracked my eyes open, staring at him in confusion. "Ah good, you are still awake."

"Not for much longer, I think," I murmured. Between the exhaustion from traveling, the heat from the bath, and the alcohol, I was beyond punch-drunk. I sighed. "I should get out, before I spill all my sordid secrets."

"Ooo, secrets? I love secrets." Dorian filled my wine glass with the last bit in the bottle. "Come on, share just one little secret?" He tried giving me the big puppy eyes, but he was far too mischievous to pull it off effectively.

I should resist the temptation, but alcohol had always had a way of lowering my self control at the worst moments. "Tell me one first," I countered.

He wrinkled his nose. "You already know my biggest secret."

"Being gay doesn't count. You're not exactly subtle, you know."

"Subtlety is boring, for one," he said, waving his hand in negation. "And I wasn't talking about that."

"Oh? Then I've somehow stumbled on a sordid secret and didn't even know it?" I teased.

"Well, perhaps 'secret' is the wrong word then. Maybe 'shame' would be better." Dorian was quiet, staring at the wine in his glass. "The fact that my father, the one man in the entire Magesterium that I believed above reproach, was as ready to use blood magic as the worst of them."

I sat forward. "Sorry," I muttered.

He took a deep drink from his glass, finishing it off. "Make it up to me by giving me one in return. Secret or shame, your choice. Just make it juicy."

I pondered for a minute, considering and immediately rejecting telling him about the world hop I'd done; I was buzzed but nowhere near drunk enough for that to seem like a good idea. As I thought I swirled the last of my wine, and just like that I had one.

"My best friend Tia and I met when we were eight," I started. "One night, about a month after my ninth birthday, my parents dropped me off to sleep over at her house, so that they could go to some conference or something for my mom. Instead of going in, Tia met me outside, then once they'd left we walked back to my house."

"Riveting. Will this be a secret or a shame?"

"Both, now hush while I tell it." I cleared my throat and continued. "We got into my parents liquor cabinet." Dorian started to smirk, sensing the inevitable outcome. "Between us we drank about six shots of brandy. Not a lot, but to nine year olds it's more than enough." I smiled wistfully at the memory. "We got so sick, we couldn't even make it back to her house. We thought we were dying. Puked all over my dad's desk."

Dorian was chuckling at my tale. "Did you get caught?"

"Nah. My parents were gone for three days, enough time to figure out we weren't dead, clean everything up, and pretend we'd been at Tia's the whole time."

"And your parents never found out?"

"Actually..."

Dorian raised an eyebrow expectantly. "We didn't clean up as well as we thought. My dad found some puke on one of his desk drawers. Found the brandy bottle askew, and put two and two together." It hurt, a little, to remember, but a good hurt. "He told me he'd never tell Mom as long as I promised to never do it again."

"Ahh the old bribe. But I've seen you drink," he motioned to the empty wine glass in my hand. "I've even, on occasion, seen you drunk. So what changed?"

I stood, making my way out of the tub, and grabbed a towel. Without looking at him, I answered. "After they... died, I was not in a good place mentally. I didn't go crazy with alcohol, but I think some part of me was hoping that, if I did, my parents would have to come back, if only so that my Dad could give me his disapproving look and tell Mom everything." I could feel the prick off tears at the corner of my eyes. I took a deep breath, and held it while tucking the towel around myself with fingers that shook.

"Lashanna." Dorian's voice was quiet. "I'm sorry ." He turned me around and I found myself in a tight hug.

After a moment I let my forehead drop to his shoulder and hugged him back. "Thanks," I said, voice muffled against him. "I needed that. And you need a towel, you're getting water everywhere." I pulled away, wiping my eyes.

"Anytime you need me, just let me know," he said as he toweled off.

[sinkat-arts]

Hard Lines

Dorian Pavus / Cullen Rutherford SFW

The Commander is an irritating mystery to Dorian. Is there anything at all behind the facade of duty and obedience? Dorian starts to think maybe there isn’t... until an early morning encounter changes things.

Based on bits of Hardliners by Holcombe Waller. It’s a beautiful song - I recommend clicking the link and giving it a listen.

---

Hard lines. Hard face. Hard armor and hard walls surrounding a mystery that had proven hard to solve.

He was a hard man to know.

Still, Dorian wanted to know him. He didn’t really know why, of course. The big, hulking Fereldan with his terse words and long strides carrying him swiftly about Skyhold had caught Dorian’s attention in a fashion that was almost irritating in its unlikely persistence. From the first day, the man had been unflappable confidence, unmoved by anything Dorian had thrown at him. With, perhaps, the exception of mild annoyance that had hedged into outright anger, of course, and that only once - when the heavens opened up and spat a dragon out upon them all. That impossible moment, a time when survival had seemed beyond all odds, that was the only time Dorian had gotten anything approaching a reaction.

Since then, the Commander had been a blank slate. Cassandra seemed to like him well enough, and Varric swore he had tales from Kirkwall that would turn Dorian’s hair white. When pressed, though, the dwarf clammed up - uncharacteristically - and more often than not made some comment to the effect that perhaps Dorian really was better off not knowing, that perhaps he should give the Commander a wide berth. He’d been a templar, that much was obvious, but Dorian couldn’t bring himself to fear… even when it was prudent. Even when he managed to scrape together a loose history of the stoic man at the head of the Inquisition’s army - the result of drinking too long into the night with some of the more friendly templars - he couldn’t muster whatever sense of trepidation Varric thought appropriate.

Dorian just wasn’t wired that way. He was a great cat, curious to a fault and frustrated that one of his playthings refused to dance. Once he did, once Cullen just reacted, his curiosity would be sated, and he could move along to the next shiny thing that caught his attention. He could stop prowling about, ferreting out information and batting at loose threads. He could spend his days in the library researching rather than wasting away the minutes and hours wondering how the man could be so… alive out there, animated and engaged with the troops he trained, but completely cut off, cold and blank and polite when Dorian stood in front of him. As soon as that mystery was solved, he could refocus himself in a more productive direction.

At least, that’s what he told himself. But Cullen was Cullen - too hard for his own good.

Until he wasn’t.

The day started like any other… or any other when the Inquisitor wasn’t dragging Dorian through the muck and mess of every backwater town in Ferelden. Dorian rose, early. Picked up the research he’d fallen asleep with the night before, scratching out notes as he yawned and the sun began its climb into the heavens. He wouldn’t leave his chambers for a while yet - he’d crafted the image of a man more concerned with comfort and slumber than was perhaps appropriate, and he wanted to keep it that way. If people thought him soft, he’d learned, they softened in turn. A benefit, in all regards, whether he wanted information or simply wanted them to make the mistake of underestimating him until it was too late. He found out long ago that he could never be too careful, even when amongst those to whom he’d sworn allegiance, however temporary. So he worked, studiously helping the Inquisition even as many of its members derided him for being exactly what he seemed - shallow, spoiled, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the world at his fingertips. He knew how they saw him, some of them, anyway, and he worked that to his advantage, always.

Where mysteries were concerned, it was far better that the mystery was himself. Everyone else was an open book.

Everyone but Cullen.

Thoughts of the Commander made him uneasy, even in the comfort of his room with his books and quills. Too early. It was far too early in the day to allow disruption by this ridiculous obsession with a man who barely even registered his presence. Aggravated, he blew a long breath out through his nose, tried to concentrate on the page before him, but found that the words didn’t resolve into any language he recognized. Or, well, that wasn’t right. He read the script just fine, his mind just refused to piece it into comprehension.

Fresh air. That would help. And if that didn’t do it, It was cold enough on this damned great glacier of a mountain to shock him back to rights.

So out he went, dressed only in breeches and a tunic, hair less than perfect, face bare of the kohl he usually applied around his eyes. It was too early for Skyhold to be awake, anyway. By his estimation, he could risk a little walk out to the garden and back.

The morning that had started the same wasn’t the same any more, in other words. But the change was necessary. If he couldn’t think then… what did he have? He blamed Cullen for yet another break in concentration, scowling as his feet carried him away from warmth and the comfort of his books and towards the frigid garden. Bitter. Both the cold and the thoughts in his mind were bitter. Why wouldn’t the man look his way? Did he think Dorian not worth the time of day? Was it because he was from Tevinter, or was it because he was a mage? Was the man still stuck in a world where it was a sin to fraternize with the enemy? Was Dorian his enemy?

Questions and questions, but not enough answers to go around. Or maybe all he needed was one answer. Stop this. Drop the thread entirely. Decide that Cullen was a blank slate and that’s all he was. A tool of the southern Chantry reforged into the tool of the Inquisitor and nothing more. Nothing more behind that grim face with a criminally perfect set of lips. An expanse of duty only, no personality. Nothing. If Dorian could settle there, then maybe that was enough…

But there was the sudden sound of a creaking door across the courtyard, he realized and startled as a figure came into view. Dorian couldn’t be seen. He had an image. He had a reputation. Vital to maintain… it was folly to be out like this, with his guard down and all forms of armor off. What had he been thinking?

Fasta vass! His brain hissed at him as he ducked behind a column and watched with alert eyes as the figure drew closer.

Tall. Broad, but too, too thin at the same time. Dressed in much the same way Dorian was - breeches and tunic only despite the frigid morning air. The figure drew closer and closer with each soft step. A man. Unruly blonde curls catching the rose gold glow of the sunrise. Hollow cheeks and tired eyes and… a scar.

This wasn’t… this wasn’t Cullen, was it? It had to be, of course it did, but not as Dorian had ever seen the man. The presence. The heft. The way he seemed solid and sure. All an illusion, Dorian realized, forged with commanding voice and armor that belied the frailty beneath. The man now moving silently through the garden towards the chapel had none of that, seemed only a shadow, happy to slip by unnoticed. Only too glad to make no impression at all.

Cullen disappeared into the room that served as a worship space, and Dorian remained, stock still and wide eyed. Instinct told him to forget it, to be relieved that he’d not been spotted out of character, out of armor. His mind told him to turn right around, thank his lucky stars, and get back to his own room to pull the trappings of his image together and re-emerge later, witty and shining and impervious. Safer to do that, of course. Smarter.

But that curiosity, it would be the death of him one day. What was the saying? Curiosity killed the cat?

“... but satisfaction brought him back,” Dorian muttered absently as his feet moved, carrying him not towards his rooms, but in the direction Skyhold’s makeshift Chantry.

“What do I do? What do you want from me?” he heard a voice ask as he opened the heavy door just a crack. Cullen, but not Cullen. That voice was small and sad. Broken and private. Dorian shouldn’t be listening, he knew that. He shouldn’t be privy to this, but he couldn’t walk away, either; he could only push in further, silently sliding inside and easing the door closed again behind him. He spared a wondering thought - what the fuck am I doing? - as his eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight and settled on the figure before him. Kneeling. Rounded in supplication. Small and pleading. Not the Commander here, only a man with a burden that sorely needed unloading.

“I give you… I give the Inquisition… everything. But still… still I fail. Still I waver. The center won’t hold without the song, but the song is poison. What… is the answer?” Cullen’s voice was bleeding and raw. Breaking over every other syllable, and Dorian gasped quietly, just a soft sucking of breath, as he realized the man’s shoulders were shaking, but not from the chills. They shuddered with each choking catch of breath. Each… sob. “Do I…” Cullen went on, voice thick and full, rounded by sadness so sharp it cut deeper than the cold. “Do I make my stand here and risk everything… or do I give in? Do I step back in line and do my duty? Do I let the song kill me for the greater good? How do I fix it all?”

Impossible to know what he meant, just how a song could kill him, but Dorian got the sense of it. He understood, and some of that mystery unraveled. Just as he wore his armor of blinding flash and shallow frivolity to hide the quick mind and iron will and vulnerable, beating heart... Cullen wore his. All those hard lines were meant to keep this, the soft curve of the man beneath, hidden away. A construct, carefully crafted to make those he commanded believe he could carry the world on those shoulders… and then some.

The Dorian he showed to the outside world would have laughed, taken pleasure in letting Cullen know he’d seen him, really seen him in this fragile moment. But that Dorian didn’t exist yet. It was too early, and he hadn’t bothered with him just yet. The man who stood there watching another pour his sadness and guilt out onto the unmoving stone lady poised above him… that man felt his heart crack. And so Dorian - not Dorian the flirt or Dorian the life of the party or Dorian the ever perfect… no, just… just Dorian - he went out the way he came. Undetected and silent, leaving the exhausted shade of the Commander to his entreaties and secret tears, he padded back to his room.

Later, both men comfortably back in their chosen form of armor, Dorian made his way to the Commander’s office. He was greeted by the same look of indifference, a slight frown turning those lips downward as the man looked up to see who had interrupted his reports.

“Dorian,” Cullen greeted with a curt nod, “Am I needed elsewhere?”

Typical that he’d think the only reason Dorian had to be there was to summon him to the Inquisitor. Snorting a laugh, Dorian grinned, the one he knew curled his mustache devilishly. “Indeed you are, Commander,” he started, strolling easily into the room though he felt his heart pounding beneath his ribs, “I’m told you play chess. There’s no one in this whole Maker-forsaken fortress can offer up a decent game. I was rather hoping you might be up for the challenge…”

Those eyes - a rather lovely warm shade of honey brown, Dorian noticed - opened wide, and for just a breath, they sparkled. Something like happiness, maybe? At the very least interest, but that little glimpse of a reaction was gone as soon as it appeared.

“I am quite sure we have better ways to use our time than…”

“Well,” Dorian said with a nonchalant air, cutting him off, “I understand if you’re afraid of losing…”

“I’m not afraid. I have…”

“Duties?” Dorian cut him off again. Failure was imminent, he could feel it, and the disappointment was hard to hide. His own armor slipped away, and his voice dropped, quiet and low. “You don’t have to… fix everything all by yourself, you know.”

“Wh… what was that?” Cullen asked, and his face… changed. Wide eyes, parted lips. Softness and sadness in a single expression. It was quiet then between them, each man seeing a glimpse of the other for the first time since Dorian came stumbling into Haven.

Dorian swallowed and tilted his head, the devilish grin replaced by something more true. Something softer. “The sun will still rise, is what I mean,” Dorian returned, “The end may be upon us, but the sun will rise and the moon will follow if Cullen Rutherford leaves his office.”

He turned then, already admitting defeat, but before his hand reached the door’s latch, he heard something he hadn’t anticipated, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before. A laugh. One single sound, deep and quiet, but it was a laugh all the same. The shock of it had him turning on his heels, facing Cullen once again.

The man was… the man was smiling. And even with the pallor that was approaching sickly, even under those heavy brows and purple rings under those deep set eyes, it was the prettiest thing Dorian had seen in a long, long time.

“Two o’clock,” Cullen said, “After drills. The garden. Bring your wits.”

“I am never without those, I assure you,” Dorian answered, amazed at his own quickness. He was rewarded with another of those low chuckles.

“You are a hard man to know, Dorian,” Cullen remarked, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. “A mystery to me. Perhaps I’ll learn something today.”

“Perhaps you will,” Dorian returned, all too aware of the irony.

They shifted then, the both of them, back into the people they had to be out in the world. It was a sad movement, Dorian noted, but not unexpected. And not absolute, he realized. There was… more to them, he knew that now. Both of them. They were men with armor over their vulnerability. Hard lines, in their own way, protecting soft curves.

Hard men to know. But the knowing… might just be worth a little softness.

[daihell]

No One Else to Blame Chapter 5

Dorian doesn’t remember drawing the knife, let alone ever wanting to harm the Inquisitor, the man he loved, but that hardly mattered. What was done, was done, and Dorian had to face the consequences of his actions. It was the waiting that was really getting to him. Read more AO3

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Dorian sat up with a start, knocking the book that had been resting on his lap to the ground. He must have dozed off at some point and he rubbed hurriedly at his face, trying to focus. Varric was standing there looking apprehensive and Dorian just waved him off.

“I haven’t been hiding,” he protested more sharply than he’d intended, reaching down to pick up his book. “Did you need something?”

“Just checking to see how you’re holding up,” Varric said and to his credit he did appear genuine.

“I wasn’t the one who was stabbed.” Dorian stood, not particularly interested in holding a conversation, especially not one about his feelings, and went to search the shelves again for more books.

“No, but you look it.” Dorian scoffed, but Varric continued. “I know how much he means to you. You’ve changed since you met him. No one can fake that.”

Dorian bit his lip. Hard. “You may be the only one who believes that,” he said, keeping his voice carefully steady.

He didn’t want to think about that, about how much he cared and how close he’d come to losing this remarkable man that inspired him, who cared so much and made Dorian feel things he never thought possible. Dorian was resilient; he could survive anything life threw at him. But if he lost Elden-- he wasn’t sure how much of himself would be left after something like that.

“Well,” Varric said. “If you want to talk--”

“I don’t,” Dorian replied sharply.

He listened to Varric’s retreating footsteps, echoing slightly through the rotunda. As soon as he heard him pass through the doorway, growing quieter, Dorian slumped forward, leaning heavily against the bookshelf. His eyes burned and he closed them tightly, refusing to feel anything. There would be no more tears. He breathed deeply, shakily, and had only just composed himself when he heard more footsteps approaching. These were heavy and deliberate and he knew it was the Iron Bull before he even reached the top of the stairs. Dorian stood up straight again, selected a book and began to flip through it.

“You’re going to want to come with me,” Bull said, coming to a halt behind him.

“Oh? And where exactly are we off to? Some empty back passage that a body could easily be hidden or disposed of? Do what the others should have done immediately?” Dorian asked bitterly, but he still tossed his book onto the desk and gestured for Bull to lead the way.

“Believe it or not I actually think you’re telling the truth,” Bull said calmly. “Like Vivienne said, either you’re smarter than all of us and no one’s that good.”

Dorian sighed, feeling guilty for his outburst. “I suppose I should thank you for that. Where exactly are we going then?” He stopped when he realized they was heading for the infirmary. “You can’t be serious.”

“The boss wants you there,” he said simply.

“If you're all willing to accept the possibility of blood magic, then you have to have consider the consequences of putting me in the same room as the Inquisitor. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

“Of course,” Bull said. “That’s why Cassandra’s there. Make a move and she’ll kill you before you’ve taken a step. Besides, I’ve seen the boss take down dragons. I’m pretty sure he can handle you now that he’s on guard.”

“Of course he can but we both know he has a frustrating habit of being a little too trusting. He would have given himself to Corypheus back at Haven if he thought it would have helped.

“That’s why we’re there,” Bull said with a smile as he pushed open the door and headed inside.

Dorian hesitated for a moment. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked inside where he found the advisors, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Vivienne already there. Dorian was much too relieved to see Elden up and dressed. And of course the damnable man practically lit up when he caught sight of him entering. Dorian wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that so he settled on grim silence as he turned his attention to the conversation that was already underway.

“--very difficult to prove of course,” Vivienne was saying, “but because of its complexity, usually only one command is given. Now that it has been carried out, he should no longer pose a threat.”

“Even though it ultimately failed?” Cassandra asked skeptically. “And how likely is it that something like this could happen again with any of us? Or our soldiers? This could pose a serious problem.”

“This is an incredibly complex spell, it is unlikely to be repeated on a wider scale, especially since the Inquisitor’s party eliminated the perpetrators” Vivienne said. “Besides, with the amount of work it takes with such a low level of success,” here she cast a glance in Dorian’s direction, “I highly doubt this will become a common tactic.”

“Still,” Leliana interjected, “it would be wise to instate some form of interrogation for anyone who has spent any length of time with the Venatori.”

“What exactly would that kind of interrogation involve? I don’t want our people suffering more once we’ve gotten them back,” Elden said because of course their safety was his priority.

“Of course,” Vivienne said. “I have a few ideas, nothing too invasive. I can work with Leliana, Dagna, and a few other trusted mages to sort out the most likely options and present them to you later today.”

“Thank you.”

Dorian tuned out as the conversation turned to the usual war room talk. He watched Elden instead, the way he listened intently, ready and willing to help despite the fact that he had nearly died only the day before. He didn’t look much better than he had the last time he saw him. Dorian planned on yelling at him once the others had left because getting dressed seemed like a pointless waste of energy. Actually, Dorian wanted to yell at all of them for interrupting his rest. Surely this business could wait. He was studying Elden’s face when he noticed his eyebrows draw together slightly. What was that? Had he winced?

“You okay, boss?” Bull asked. Obviously he had noticed as well.

Elden wavered suddenly before slumping forward, barely catching the windowsill to hold himself up. Bull, Vivienne, and the surgeon were at his side first and Dorian wanted nothing more than to push his way forward, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. While Bull helped him sit, the others glanced reflexively at Dorian who blanched, looking down at his hands guiltily as if he expected to see another dagger or something equally lethal in his hands. They were empty.

“I’m sorry, I’m all right,” Elden said, but Vivienne and the surgeon forced him to lie down so they could examine him.

Dorian was fairly certain he forgot to breathe for a few minutes at least. A part of him wished they would drag him away, as guilty as he felt. On the other hand, though, he never wanted to move from this spot until Elden was fine again. Maker, please just let him be fine.

“Poison,” Vivienne said and Dorian’s mouth went dry. There was a pounding in his ears and it was so difficult to hear through the terror creeping up his spine.  “The dagger must have been coated. I’m afraid we need to know what kind in order to administer the proper antidote, otherwise we’ll just make matters worse.”

 None of them needed to point out that poisons were as common in Tevinter as they were in a Crow’s pockets. Even if Dorian reached out to his assassin friends there was no guarantee that the Venatori had been using whatever was fashionable in Tevinter at the moment. Nothing about them had seemed fashionable after all.

“Then we need to go back, search the bodies,” Cassandra said urgently.

 At least they were all on the same page. And they all seemed to be accepting that Dorian really had gotten the dagger from the Venatori. The question was, did they believe it was blood magic too or did they think he took it from them willingly? 

-

Despite his better judgement, Dorian remained at Elden’s side for the next several hours even as the others came and went. Never alone, of course, he couldn’t risk that. Obviously no one else approved, but of course the Inquisitor turned a deaf ear on any complaints and even had the audacity to thank Dorian for staying. Honestly he would have stormed out, but he so desperately needed to know that Elden was okay.

 Except that he wasn’t. Sure, he was all smile and reassurances, but he was only going to get worse, not better. He was still so pale and if this continued they all knew that, despite Vivienne’s potions slowing it, he would eventually simply waste away. Dorian was holding his hand tightly when everyone eventually gathered again.

“We can set out immediately,” Cassandra was saying. “You’ll be coming with us, Dorian.”

He stood slowly, trying to prolong the contact with Elden. He was angry with himself for it, knowing he should distance himself before he made everything worse, but he just wanted to feel his warmth, as fever hot as he was.

“And I’ll be coming too,” Elden said and they all stopped.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra began.

“No,” Vivienne said. “He’s right. It would be best if he were present when we find the antidote.”

Judging by the solemn silence that followed, everyone understood. They didn’t exactly know how much time he had left, but it couldn’t be much. Exerting himself wasn’t exactly wise, but there may not be enough time for them to find it and get back. They had to risk it so he was on hand when they obtained the antidote.

“Well,” Elden said into the silence. “Let’s head out then. I know I for one would prefer to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

Elden was avoiding looking anyone in the eye and Dorian wanted to kick himself. No doubt he hated having everyone worry about him this way. No doubt Elden certainly appreciated the concern, of course, but in moments like these it made him feel like a bother. He hated worrying them but Dorian just wished he would accept their damned concern and take care of himself for once, put his own health and safety first for a change. Still, Dorian knew he hated being the center of this sort of attention so he might as well help get things moving.

“Right then,” Dorian said, turning to leave. “I guess I’ll go prepare. Meet you all in the courtyard in ten?”

Next -->

[nyssatrevelyan]

Abandoned

Revelations

It had been a rather grim trip to Val Royeaux.

Nyssa had very nearly brought her favorite mount, a dracolisk, but even under the best of circumstances they were tetchy beasts.  With her mood as it was, the beast would have been all but unmanageable.  She instead took a large bay gelding, and often she rode out ahead of the group, impatient to get to the end of their journey.  Varric and Dorian left her alone, giving her the space she desired; Cole had tried to speak to her and been rebuffed.

Keep Reading on AO3

As they walked into Val Royeaux, it was raining.

"Ugh, this weather is positively miserable," Dorian huffed.

They were hardly a difficult group to spot.  Nyssa was in her blindingly white and gold Herald of Andraste armor, with a golden staff topped with a dragon with its wings and talons spread.  Dorian beside her, resplendent in white leather with gold and black serpents winding around the sleeves and legs of his armor, stood on her left, slightly behind her, and Cole, dressed in brown leather with a deep green velvet doublet beneath stood behind her to the right, the rain shedding off his ridiculously oversized hat.  Of the four, Varric probably looked the least exceptional in his brown leather duster.

Varric grunted, nodding ahead of them where there was a gallows set up.  Even in the rain, there was a sizable crowd.  "Well, this is grim."

Dorian shook his head as the charges were read out.  The slaughter of the Callier family.  Treason.  "Who is this man to Blackwall?  A brother?  A friend?"

The man, Mornay, looked utterly broken and resigned to his fate.  He closed his eyes and said not a word in response to the charges, nor moved except to shudder when the rope was pulled around his neck.

Cole was vibrating with nervous energy.  "They're going to kill him!"

Dorian turned to Varric.  "Observant, this one is...."

"Quiet."  Nyssa was straining to look around the crowd.  She needn't have looked far.

"STOP!"

As Blackwall mounted the gallows, his eyes found hers -- how could they not?  She stood out like a lily in a field of green.  She saw his eyes widen, then a shudder run through his frame as he tore his gaze away to focus on the prisoner, bailiff and executioner.

"A Grey Warden."  The bailiff stepped back to let him speak.

"This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him."  Blackwall faced the crowd squarely, speaking clearly, each word ringing out like justice.   "Orders were given and he followed them like any good soldier!"  He glanced over his shoulder at the man.  "He should not die for that mistake!"

"Then find me the man who gave the order," the bailiff said impatiently.

Nyssa froze, when Blackwall turned to look at her.  She wasn't aware that she was holding her breath. When his eyes met hers, filled with sorrow and determination, she felt her heart slam to a stop.  

"Aw, shit," Varric murmured beside her.

Nyssa's breath exploded from her as she lurched forward, stomach churning, with one desperate cry.  "BLACKWALL!"

He shook his head, locking eyes with her.  "No.  I am not Blackwall.  I never was Blackwall.  Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years.  I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am."

Mornay looked up, and for the first time since being dragged to the gallows, his eyes flickering with -- hope?  interest?  He turned slowly, recognition dawning.  "You...."  Some color leeched back into his cheeks.  "After all this time....

Nyssa started pushing through the crowd, desperate to get to the gallows, to stop the words, whatever they were, that were to come next. The words would be as deadly as an assassin's blade.

"Stop, let it end, dear Maker let it end, please!"  Cole intoned as Varric too began to elbow his way forward.

Dorian grabbed Cole's arm.  "Whose thoughts are those, Cole?  His?  Hers?"  he asked, swiftly and softly, looking at the spirit. "Yes," Cole answered simply.

Nyssa had reached the front of the crowd, was steps from the edge of the platform and reaching toward him as if she could stop it all if only she were closer.

"It's over.  I'm done hiding."  He faced the crowd again.  "I gave the order.  The crime is mine."

He looked down, and locked gazes with Nyssa again, as he pronounced the last words like a death knell.  "I am Thom Rainier."

His eyes closed a moment, and then he looked back up at her a moment before turning away to go with the guards.

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 38 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence and threat Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

No Longer A Haven

"You're sure?"

Rory forced a merry-sounding laugh. "I'm sure," she promised Netta and Luis. "Go, enjoy yourselves. I've got this."

She couldn't blame them for the eagerness they showed in escaping the clinic. The Breach was sealed; Haven was celebrating. Everywhere she looked, there were happy faces, sharing laughter and joy. Six months of anxious living in the shadow of that awful scar in the sky was being released in an uninhibited wave of relief. People were dancing, singing. They were happy.

And why shouldn't they be, she reminded herself, leaning in the doorway of the clinic to watch the celebrations in the village. None of these people knew what she knew. They thought the worst had passed. She couldn't blame them for their joy. Let them have these few carefree hours. Their Maker knows, they won't have another reason to celebrate for a long time. But she wouldn't be joining them. How could she, when she knew the red templars were marching this way? Yet she didn't begrudge them their triumph. They had earned it.

A whoop drew her eyes to the tavern, where she could just make out Flissa balanced on Iron Bull's shoulders, leaning up into the rafters to bestow a kiss on a grinning Sera; where Varric was playing cards with Blackwall and Josephine; where Dorian and Cullen were engaged in their first chess game. Kaaras was with Cassandra in front of the Chantry; in the square, she could see Evy and Rylen among the dancing couples. And here she was, watching them with sad eyes, unwilling to set aside her anxiety on this terrible night.

"Will you not join them, healer?"

Rory tilted her head, surprised and yet unsurprised to find Solas standing in his habitual place at the corner of the clinic, hands folded on his staff, storm-blue eyes watching her with a guarded expression. Just what do you see that makes you so suspicious of me? She shook her head in answer to his question.

"I don't seem to be in the mood for celebrating," she told him quietly. "Besides, I can't leave my patients."

"Your friends would be happier to see you with a drink in your hand," the elven mage said, offering her his own cup. "Though you may worry, these people deserve a night without fear."

So not even you know what's coming. That's ... oddly comforting. She took the proffered cup with a flicker toward a grateful smile, raising it up to sniff at the contents. "Coffee?"

Solas shrugged. "I cannot seem to settle my mind to joy, either," he confessed softly. "This Elder One ... he will not long leave us in peace, I think."

"I have a vague idea of what you mean," Rory agreed, though even now she didn't dare offer any actual knowledge. "I can't stop wondering ... what's he going to do to us, for closing his Breach?"

"You have a melancholy mind, healer," he commented, meeting her gaze as she looked toward him.

"This doesn't feel like an end, Solas," she said in a wary tone. "It feels like a deep breath."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I am inclined to agree," he conceded regretfully. "If you will excuse me, I must speak with the Seeker."

"Of course." She offered him his cup as he stepped past, a little bewildered when he urged her to keep it.

"You need not drink," he told her with a kind smile. "But for your friends, keep the cup in your hand. Let them think you celebrate with them."

She watched him walk away, wondering if he truly understood that everything about to happen could be laid at his feet. But without this story, there would be no warning of what he planned to do with his power. A shitty early warning system, that.

Turning her eyes to the tavern, she found Cullen's gaze on her, a curious cast to his expression. It didn't take much to reassure him - a raise of the cup in her hand in a silent toast, a small smile, and he nodded back to her, returning his attention to the game before him. Dorian twisted about to blow her an extravagant kiss, and Rory did laugh at that. But the smile faded as soon as the altus turned away, as her gaze found a harried scout pushing into the tavern to bend and speak against Cullen's ear. It took everything she had not to turn and look toward the mountains to the north of the village. She wasn't supposed to know death was coming for them, not yet.

Whatever was said, Cullen was up and out of his seat in moments, abandoning the chess game to march toward the scout hut near the western-most trebuchet. Rory felt the knot in her stomach freeze into a solid lump, her muscles tensing. She wanted to run away now; to hide in the depths of the Chantry and not see what was coming, but she couldn't. At least one person would come running to the clinic. She had to stay until the last possible moment. She owed these people that much.

And then the bells began to ring. The joy around her turned first to confusion, then to fear, as eyes turned to the mountainous approaches. Finally, Rory turned to look for herself, feeling cold certainty settle over her heart. Under the light of the moons marched that implacable army - good men corrupted into little more than living weapons for a darkspawn magister who cared nothing for them. There were so many more than she had ever imagined, and fear gripped her heart as she thought of the pilgrims' camp outside the village - of Fabian, trapped out there with them. Would any of them escape tonight's brutality?

As the revelers began to panic, running this way and that - civilians to their homes, mages and soldiers to their posts - she saw Kaaras and Cassandra run past, joined by those in the tavern in their headlong rush to the gates. Rory knew what would happen there, but she had no idea how long it would take ... and she had no time to wonder.

"Mistress! Mistress Rory!"

Snapping out of her thoughts, she found herself faced with the panic of friends she had made here, friends who had come to her to be told what happened next. Aedan was there; Gareth and little Ara, too; and several others besides, all clamoring to know what was happening and what they should do.

"All right ... all right, calm down!" Rory raised her hands, already feeling overwhelmed by their panic and fear. "You need to go to the Chantry, and you need to stay there until someone in authority tells you otherwise. All right? So go, now." She gestured toward the Chantry and, to her relief, most of the gathering did as they were told.

"What about you, mistress?" Gareth asked, his sharp features shadowed with concern.

"I'll join you," Rory promised him, forcing a smile for Ara's sake. "I just have to see to my patients here first."

A small hand gripped her fingers. "But you are coming?" Ara asked, just as worried as her father.

"I am coming," Rory insisted in answer, glancing up as Luis and Andra skidded to a halt at the elven pair's back. "Luis and Andra will go with you, and I won't be far behind." She looked up at the two nurses. "Take a pack each and get to the Chantry," she told them firmly, aware that most people were now swarming in that direction. Good, she thought, the more inside before that dragon shows up, the better.

"What about -" Luis began, but faltered at the look in her eyes.

"I'll deal with them," she told him, stepping out of the way as Andra squeezed past to collect two of the emergency packs. "Has anyone seen Evy?"

Luis shook his head as he took a pack from Andra. "She was in the square," he offered, glancing down as Ara took his hand. "Are you going to take me to the Chantry, da'len?"

The little girl nodded fiercely, tugging on both his and her father's hands. Gareth hesitated a moment longer, but finally gave into his daughter's urging, the four of them joining the surge toward the only place of sanctuary Haven had. Rory peered over the diminishing crowd. There was no sign of Evy, but that didn't mean she wasn't already behind those sturdy walls. Except ... Evelyn Trevelyan was still easily frightened, and the mass panic in the square would not have helped. Even if Rylen told her where to go, she might not have been able to bring herself to do more than hide.

The trebuchets aren't firing yet. She had time.

Hoping that she did have time, Rory took off at a run, stumbling down the steps past the tavern. Very few people were still in evidence - Threnn, making sure the key to the stores got into the Chantry even if she didn't; Flissa, hastily packing what little she owned; Seggrit, forcing his way into a cabin that wasn't his. She ran straight into Adan and Minaeve, the three of them flailing to stay upright in the rush.

"You should be in the Chantry, healer!"

"Where's Evy?"

Adan shook his head. "I haven't seen her," he admitted, glancing about. "Look, I've got to get some bits -"

"Go, I'll meet you there," Rory told him, trying to keep a lid on her panic as he ran toward his workshop in Minaeve's wake. If I was a frightened noble, where would I hide?

She paused, her eyes scanning the empty square. Benches and trestles lay on their sides, overturned in the people's rush to escape; plates of food and cups of ale were scattered and broken against the flagstones. Her panic flared as Josephine and Leliana ran past, as she clearly heard Cullen giving the mages sanction to engage the enemy. There's no time! And suddenly, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. There was Evy, crouched behind the tavern, blue eyes wide with terror as she peered out.

"Evy!" Harsh with relief, Rory rushed over to her, snatching her hand to pull the younger woman to her feet. "Come on!"

"What's happening?" Evy stammered as she was pulled along at a run, sounding very close to tears in her own panic.

"We're under attack," Rory told her succinctly. She dragged her friend through the open door to the clinic, unhooking her own cloak from the wall. "Put that on."

"But ... but who would attack us?" the young Trevelyan asked, shocked and shaken. "And what about Rylen?"

"Right now, it doesn't matter who is attacking us," Rory said, pushing the penultimate emergency pack onto Evy's back. She gripped her friend's shoulders, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Rylen's a good soldier, he knows what he's doing. I need you to go to the Chantry and take charge of the injured. I will join you as soon as I can, but you need to go now."

"But -"

 "Now!"

With a wail, Evy scuttled out of the clinic, heading straight for the open Chantry doors. Rory heard the massive creak of a siege engine at work. One trebuchet firing. She was running out of time. She pushed her way into the ward, moving to kneel between the two beds where her wasting patients lay, helpless. Dull eyes turned toward her as she touched their skeletal hands.

"Asrath, Benalt," she said their names gently. "Haven is under attack. We'll be overrun very soon."

Limp fingers shifted under hers as Benalt frowned. "Save yourself, mistress," he told her, his weak voice barely more than a breath. "We're done for, anyway."

Guilt welled up inside her, but she had already made this choice. They were dying; even if she could evacuate them, there was no way they would survive the trek to Skyhold. This was the only peace she could give them. But she'd never done this before. She'd never killed.

"If you were stronger, I might have been able to give you a choice," she confessed softly. "I'm so sorry. All I can do is give you a swift end. But I will not leave you to die alone."

Benalt's thin mouth twitched toward a grateful smile; his brother no longer even had the strength for that. But she would not leave them to be burned alive, or cut down without mercy by the enemy at their gates.

They watched as, with trembling fingers, she drew the little vial of triple-distilled poppy juice from her belt. Biting down on her urge to cry, Rory helped them, one by one, to swallow a mouthful each, laying her hands in each of theirs to wait with them for those final breaths. She could hear the sounds of fighting outside, the shouts of the mages and Inquisition soldiers holding the line for the Herald to do what needed to be done. But in here, she heard only the slowing breaths of the men condemned by her hand, men she had not been able to help. Asrath went first, weaker than his brother, more susceptible to the opiate's effect. She closed his eyes with gentle fingers, focusing her attention on Benalt as, gradually, the pulse beneath her fingers faded away to the tune of the second trebuchet firing. Grief and guilt poured in on her, tears dripping to the floor as she tried to come to terms with what she had done. You're a killer now, too, Rory. Just like everyone else here.

A piercing screech rent the air, tearing open her quiet bubble of self-pity. She heard the crash as the trebuchet was destroyed, the thunderous beating of wings. Dragon. Right.

"Get up, Rory," she ordered herself aloud, targeting her fear-frozen limbs with as much stubborn resolution as she could muster. "You are not dying today. Get up."

Somehow, she forced herself stumbling to her feet, talking herself through what she had to do. Coat on. Her numb fingers fumbled with the fastenings. Satchel, gloves. The satchel strap went over her head, hands pulling her gloves into place. Out of the ward. And not a moment too soon - she screamed at the sudden explosive blast above her head, the roof collapsing into the ward in a hail of flaming debris, engulfing the bodies she had left behind her. The heat seared her face as she dragged the last of the emergency packs onto her back, compelling herself to run through the flames that licked at the open door.

"Rory!"

Looking around wildly, she found Adan pinned beneath fallen pots she knew contained oil and alcohol. Minaeve was pinned, too, knocked unconscious by the fall. Worse, the fire that had destroyed her clinic was creeping toward the flammable pots inexorably. Coughing the the smoke, Rory heaved at the pots in panic, always aware of the flames flickering ever closer. Adan came free only moments before the fire found its mark.

"Get down!"

The apothecary seized her about the waist, throwing her into the shadow of his workshop as the pots went up in explosive flames. Minaeve was gone, lost to the violence of the night. Who knew how many others were, too. Sprawled in the soot-stained, melting snow, Rory groped for Adan's hand, rolling onto her side to look back at a gruesome sight. Adan had saved her life ... and paid for it with his own. Shards of pottery impaled his spine and head - shards that would have hit her without his quick thinking. And she couldn't even stay to pay her respects, to honor him for giving everything in her defense. The red templars were in the village. She had to move.

Where fear had frozen her before, now it gave her strength. She scrambled to her feet and took off at a run for the Chantry. It wasn't that far, and the doors were still open, held against the encroaching enemy by a handful of soldiers. She heard heavy footsteps behind her, cried out as a gauntleted hand gripped her braid, pulling her backward until she was driven to her knees.

"Release her! In Andraste's Blessed Name!"

Rory was vaguely aware of Roderick's voice, of Chantry robes rushing past her, of blood that wet her cheek as he cried out in his own turn. And another figure, lithe and quick, fighting with daggers that flashed as she pushed herself back to her feet. Cole. There was no mistaking that hat. Chancellor Roderick slumped against her side as she reached for him, blood seeping from his side. He took a blade for me, she realized in shocked wonder. I'm the reason he's dying.

"Maker's breath - Rory, get inside, would you?"

The familiar strains of Rylen's voice urged her onward as Cole tucked himself beneath Roderick's other arm, the strange trio stumbling forward into the light spilling from the Chantry as, behind them, red templars fell to the fury of the Herald and his companions. Hands reached out to catch them as they fell forward; voices crowded in with promises that they were safe now. But Rory knew they were wrong.

Haven would never be safe again.

Excuse me while I sob quietly in the corner here and try to work out how to make the next chapter a bit more ... uplifting.

[feynites]

Okay, I know you and Pyrrhy are tag-teaming the Sharkbait companions but... How would Thenvunin react if Uthvir returned from this latest excursion injured?

Heheheh, @pyrrhy, we tag-team sharkbait. *eyebrow-waggle*

…Sorry. I’m filthy.

I think I speak for both of us when I say that other people are always welcome to jump into this ship and sail off into the repressed sunset with us. I kind of filled this where Uthvir was just exhausted in my last bit, but let’s suppose that this is one of those quests where the player character’s choice can cause things to go much further south, and what might happen in that case…

One of Leliana’s scouts brings in word ahead of the returning party. The Inquisitor has been injured, along with several companions, and have been met by a group of Inquisition forces on their way back to Skyhold. But the party has no healer in their ranks; the keep must be prepared to meet that need instead.

Thenvunin feels cold at the news.

Uthvir is a healer.

Not as a proficient as some, granted, but they are. And for them to not be healing the Inquisitor…

The scout does not specify the state of the Inquisitor’s companions. That information was deemed less urgent than the Inquisitor’s own injuries. And while part of Thenvunin, logically, can see where this is the case - the Inquisitor closes rifts, the Inquisitor is Thenvunin’s friend, but moreover, is vital to the entirety of Southern Thedas - he cannot help be feel incensed, that there is no word on the state of Uthvir.

Or Iron Bull, or Varric as well, of course. But… but…

Leliana’s hand lands on his shoulder.

Thenvunin blinks.

“We discussed the matter. My agents will accompany yourself and Solas down the mountain path, to meet with the party before they arrive, and offer what healing you can,” she tells him. “The surgeon will prepare themselves here, if their skills are needed. I know healing is not your area of expertise, but…”

“No,” Thenvunin blurts, swiftly. He shakes his head. “I will go, of course, I know… some things. More than Dorian or Vivienne, at least, and even if my spells are not up to the task, my sword might serve to better ensure that no one tries to take advantage of the situation.”

Leliana nods, and Thenvunin barely takes further note of her as he hastens towards his rooms, to retrieve his gear.

Uthvir. What happened?

They cannot possibly be dead, he tells himself. They would not miss the opportunity to ravish him while saying untoward things about springtime, not after promising to do so before they left. The thought feels brittle, possibly even verging on hysteria, and Thenvunin knows it makes little to no sense. But he still cleaves to it, rigid in the strange assurance it offers him. Uthvir would not die and they would not let the Inquisitor die, and so both they, and Iron Bull and Varric, are all going to be alive when he and Solas meet them.

And Thenvunin will discover what has gone wrong, and if necessary, he will ride out further himself to make certain it does not follow them back to Skyhold.

He takes everything he imagines might be needed, without wasting time on what might not be, and manages to get to the stables, where Dennet has several mounts waiting. Solas takes longer to arrive, and Thenvunin finds himself inordinately impatient with the man. There are injuries! There is no time to waste daydreaming! But when Solas arrives his gaze is sharp, and he seems to have equally little patience for Thenvunin’s frustration, only snapping back at him that there is no point in going to help heal if he does not bring things to help with healing.

Which is a fair point, but Thenvunin does not feel very much like conceding it to him.

The ride down the mountain is tense, and Thenvunin’s mare dislikes it, while Thenvunin also has troubles keeping calm enough to handle the usual unpleasantries of riding. He is stiff and taught and his skin will not sit right over his muscles, and each lurch of the mare’s gait feels like it’s jarring him down to his bones.

What happened?

No one seems to be able to say, though. Just that the Inquisitor was injured. And maybe Uthvir is fine, maybe it’s only that Leliana’s scouts refused to call a blood mage a ‘healer’. Maybe it’s just that, just their disreputability working against them, and when they arrive they will find Uthvir whole and fine and keeping the Inquisitor together as well, and it will still be awful but, in some fundamental way that seems very important to Thenvunin at the moment, less awful.

He knows it’s not true, the minute they meet the party coming back up the mountain. Varric is seated on one of the mules the scouts use, and he looks exhausted, with half his face swollen from bruising. Bull is walking, but just barely, it seems. His long steps slow and deliberate, his massive hammer gone. Leliana’s agents are quick and quiet, the Inquisition party that met with the Inquisitor’s solemn and grave-faced, and there is a wagon.

Two figures. Both red, though only one of them is dressed in the colour. Solas goes to the Inquisitor, and Thenvunin stumbles off of his mare and makes his way to the opposite side of the wagon, to where Uthvir is lying very, very still, with their eyes shut tight, breathing so shallowly that for a moment Thenvunin feels his heart stop. They look washed-out. So does the Inquisitor, but the Inquisitor is awake, at least. Capable of speaking to Solas, of lifting up their green-crackling arm to reveal a torso covered in bandages.

Uthvir is not.

They are not moving at all. They are still in their armour, mostly, but their chest pieces are gone, and Thenvunin is horrified to realise that the only red on their torso is from blood-soaked bandages and their own arms around themselves. But he can feel their magic. Thrumming, like a heartbeat. It’s eerie and awful but it brings him so much relief, that it’s there.

“What happened?!” he demands, not even certain where to start except that there must be a place. 

“Dragon bite,” the Inquisitor manages, before Solas halts the conversation with a spell that makes the air shimmer, and Thenvunin’s teeth itch. It’s aimed at the Inquisitor, though, and while Thenvunin knows why they take priority…

Uthvir still has not so much as opened their eyes.

And by the looks of their injury, if that was a ‘dragon bite’, then the dragon must have nearly bit them in half.

Thenvunin moves, and then hesitates. One hand hovering over them, but he was brought here to help heal and Solas must heal the Inquisitor, first, and Uthvir is just lying there and they are clearly quite hurt, so hurt that Thenvunin can only think of soldiers he has seen die and brigands who have been cut open, staggering through a last few hours of life, maybe, but still just as dead as their colleagues.

He shakes his head at himself.

He has not even seen the wound, just the evidence of it.

His hand lands on Uthvir’s shoulder, and their eyes open. For half a second he could swear their gaze is pure black. But their hair is in it and the cart is shadowed, and when he blinks it is only their usual eyes, of course, looking back up at him. Hazy with pain, rather than sharp and astute.

They do see him, though.

“Just do not move me,” they say, so quietly that he might have missed it. Except that his focus on them feels so acute, he somehow doubts he could have, either.

“The cart has been moving,” he points out.

Uthvir nods, just slightly.

“Do not move me,” they say. “Do not let anyone. I can… but just, let me. Do not move me.”

Thenvunin is not sure what to make of their request, but when Solas finally frees his attention from the Inquisitor, he passes it along. More sharply than he means to; however, Solas scarcely seems to notice that, as he stares at Uthvir in turn.

“You are using blood magic to… keep yourself from bleeding out?” he says, and his tone seems at once impressed and not a little horrified.

Thenvunin’s own gut churns.

Uthvir just nods, minutely, again.

“I can seal the wounds…” Solas begins, but they hiss, and Thenvunin reaches over and grasps Solas’ wrist. Lest he make some move to upset the delicate equilibrium of magic that Uthvir has apparently managed to achieve. It is not like anything Thenvunin has ever seen, though, some part of him thinks it makes sense. They are controlling the blood; but to consciously monitor the flow of it through their veins, that seems…

That seems like much more than anyone should really be capable of doing. Not for more than a short while, at least.

“Everything is very delicately balanced,” Solas notes, pulling his hand away, as his gaze narrows thoughtfully on Uthvir. “My magic might break that balance, and then you would lose focus before you could heal?”

How he is figuring this all out so quickly, Thenvunin doesn’t know. Sometimes he feels like the most backward mage in their bunch, as Solas seems to deduce things in a snap, and Dorian has engineered and reverse engineered magic to break the fabric of time, and Vivienne has performed feats of combat magic that frankly should have shattered her bones - but of course never has - and Uthvir…

Uthvir is holding themselves together with their mind.

But Thenvunin thinks that he can accept being the least extraordinary in this regard, if it means they survive long enough to go back to trying his patience.

Uthvir manages another small nod.

Solas nods as well.

“Do not move them,” he says.

“Of course not!” Thenvunin snaps. “I figured that out myself! Just by listening to them, in fact!” He looks back at Uthvir, and finds that the churning in his gut hasn’t abated.

“If they are succeeding at this, why is there so much blood on their bandages?” he demands.

“Because they got near to clean snapped in half,” Bull tells him. And then, needlessly, makes a snapping gesture with his fingers. It’s a lucky thing he’s injured, Thenvunin finds himself thinking, because it’s just about all that stops him from knocking the man over. Utterly, utterly inappropriate. Perhaps in-keeping with the Chargers and their gallows humour, but even so.

Thenvunin pictures it.

He does, and Bull has the grace to look vaguely apologetic, and everyone is being bizarrely patient with him and he… he, just…

He nearly blasts the cart driver instead when they start moving again. They start moving again and the stain in Uthvir’s bandages spreads, just a bit, as they hold so stone-still it makes Thenvunin ache just to look at them.

“What are you doing?!” he demands. “Stop! The path is too rough, they will move too much!”

One of Leliana’s people gives him a grim look.

“They ain’t for nothing but dying on the side of the road if we don’t move. And the Inquisitor was poisoned. If any soul stands a chance it’s if we make it back to Skyhold.”

“Take the Inquisitor,” Thenvunin counters. “Take my horse, take the Inquisitor, ride them up. The cart and Uthvir can stay here. I will watch over them, until they can heal themselves.”

Solas frowns, leaning against his staff.

“There are low odds on that,” he says. “If it is taking all of their energy to just keep themselves together, then they will get more tired. Not less. This is a delay; not a solution. Eventually they will lose consciousness, and if a skilled enough healer is not close at hand, they will die.”

Thenvunin glares at him.

“You don’t know that,” he says. Solas is the most skilled magical healer in Skyhold, barring present and injured company. If Uthvir does not want him healing them now, and if he agrees, then that means…

That means no one at the keep could manage it, either.

That means Uthvir is dying.

Solas stares back at him for a moment, expression neutral; until it falls, just a little. And that is the worst thing. To see the pity in his eyes. Because it means he’s thinking the same thing that Thenvunin is. 

“Uthvir,” Thenuvnin asks, because there is no one else left to ask. The cart has stopped again, at least, while they debate, at the Inquisitor’s behest.

Uthvir does not respond. Their eyes are still closed.

“Uthvir, what would… what would help you most?”

They are not a normal mage, he reminds himself. They are Dalish. They know elven magics, lost and forgotten, and kept secret even from the likes of Solas. And blood magic. Tevinter magic. All these magics, and surely one of them must have enough to keep them alive?

“Do not move me,” Uthvir says, again.

Thenvunin nods, and pushes down the churning in his gut, and fixes the cart driver with a hard look. And then the Inquisitor, with a more beseeching one.

“I will stay with them,” he says.

The Inquisitor sighs.

Solas helps them onto Thenvunin’s horse, in the end. The party leaves the one pulling the cart, in exchange, and they resume their trip back up towards the keep. The Inquisitor’s consciousness wavering, skin flushed and eyes clouded from fever. Solas saying things, and Varric saying things, and Bull looking at both Thenvunin and Uthvir for a moment, before pushing his own way along.

“I’ll come back, soon as they finish putting some stitches in me,” he says, gruffly.

Thenvunin hears it, in his tone.

Back to help with the body.

He stands over the cart, and almost expects someone to rush back and threaten Uthvir. It is the worst feeling, he thinks, knowing that this is not even the problem; that the problem is a thing that has already been done.

He listens, and then he watches, as the rest of the party carries on up the road. Staring at Uthvir’s shallow breaths, and tight features, and rigid hold on themselves. The hum of their magic is more obvious and more reassuring than the scant rise and fall of their chest, though. There is a certain amount of bite to it. Blood magic. 

It must, he thinks, be very, very painful.

“Should go, too,” Uthvir says, after the sounds of hoovebeats have passed beyond their hearing range.

It takes Thenvunin a moment to realize that they are referring to him, and not expressing some regret over their choice.

“I am not going to leave you here alone!” he snaps. “What do you take me for?!”

His voice cracks, and almost at once he regrets snapping. Raising his voice at someone in such straits, what a terrible thing to do. But Uthvir is Uthvir, and so of course they do not flinch or blink or anything so disastrous. They stay put, lying in the back of the wagon, with their arms around their torso and their magic lying over them like a blanket. Eyes closed shut.

For several long minutes, then, there is silence again. Thenvunin stands by the side of the wagon, and calls healing spells up to his fingertips. Calls, and then releases. Again and again, in case he needs them, in case there comes a moment - maybe even just a second - where his magic can help.

An icy breeze blows around his ankles.

They must be so cold.

But he cannot even use his magic to warm them, cannot put a blanket on them. All he can do is stand there, uselessly, as the moments pass and Uthvir lies in the black of a cart and just-barely doesn’t bleed to death.

And then, at some point before Iron Bull and a handful of guards come back down the path - but some point after Screecher lands in one of the nearby trees - Uthvir sucks in a deeper-than-normal breath, and the entire cart goes dark. As if someone poured liquid pitch straight into it. Thenvunin barely has time to panic before the shadows warp and waver and sink away again. He can taste Uthvir’s magic on the air.

They exhale, and some of the rigidity leaves them. Some of the magic wrapped around them abates.

Thenvunin is terrified that they are dying.

He reaches down, fingers tingling because if their ‘delicate balance’ of spellwork has already broken then there is nothing left to lose, and he casts the best spell he knows for sealing lacerations. His magic bursts through to the bottom of the cart, lighting the whole thing up for a moment as Uthvir’s eyes fly open, and through the spellwork tied to his will, Thenvunin can feel that their wounds are already closing.

Somehow... somehow that dark, strange moment, it wasn’t them getting worse.

It was them getting better.

He has no idea what kind of magic might do that (doesn’t he?) and no energy to second-guess it, either. All he feels for a moment is visceral relief, so potent it makes his throat close and his eyes sting, and his hand tremble where it’s grasping Uthvir’s arm so tightly.

Death is frightening.

Such a frightening, awful thing, and Thenvunin would not wish it upon them, and that is so fundamentally true that it merits no further consideration, either. Like strange magic from a strange mage. 

Uthvir reaches up, and closes a blood-encrusted hand over his wrist.

“It’s alright,” they say. “It’s alright. You can move me, now.”

Thenvunin swallows, hard, and watches as two spots of rain land on Uthvir’s cheek. In the hand that is not on his wrist, he sees, the are holding something odd. Something purple, against the wealth of red.

A sprig of lavender.

He sucks in a long, hard breath, and keeps casting healing spells until help comes, and they get Uthvir back up to the fortress.

[hunnybadgerv]

Taunting the Inquisitor | Canticle of Trials | Dragon Age: Inquisition

Summary: Dorian’s smart mouth gets him into his favorite kind of trouble.

a/n: Based on this image set I found. It spawned into more than inspiration via a conversation with @inuy21. Thank you again.

Links: AO3 | FFNet

Taunting the Inquisitor

A fire crackled in the hearth, but the blooming warmth in the Herald’s Rest rose more from the sheer number of bodies and the free-flowing liquor than the flames. The evening ran long as was apt to happen following the fall of a dragon. Bull and Rhys were always keen to regale anyone who would listen with the barest details of the battle. The two also viewed it as their duty to drink down any and every tankard bought or offered in celebration of the beast’s demise. Like the others, Dorian enjoyed the stories, especially once the inquisitor and the mercenary were drunk enough to try and act it out atop the bar.

The Iron Bull’s ferocious roar bellowed through the room, most of the crowd cheered and laughed. A few covered their ears. Bull’s deep voice could carry, especially in such tight quarters. Rhys crouched at the other end of the bar and took aim with his unstrung bow. It was all for show after all. He plucked at an invisible string, narrating each shot he fired the previous afternoon.

“Then it charged me,” Rhys told the onlookers. The Iron Bull did just that, his heavy footsteps rattling glasses and tankards on the bar as he tromped across its length. The archer hopped into the air, flipped and landed on a nearby table. His arms shot out from his sides as he balanced himself and said, “I dodged out of the way just in time, but the dragon’s maw opened.” When Bull’s jaw dropped, Rhys waved a hand in front of his nose and his eyes widened. “Whew!”

The audience on the first floor and those leaning over the rails of the upper floors fell into hysterical laughter.

Hopping down from the table, Rhys ducked behind the older dwarf sitting there. “As fire bellowed from her gullet, I took cover behind the rock and prepared my explosive shot. Once the flames died down, I stood and fired. The arrow sinking into the back of her throat.”

The Iron Bull’s hand rose to his mouth, an arrow in his hand demonstrated the killing blow. He teetered and tottered left then right before falling onto his side atop the bar.

The whole bar shot to their feet in glee at the dragon’s demise, except Dorian. He just sipped his brandy; he’d seen it all firsthand. Rhys, who was being patted on the back and herded back to the bar turned. The mage caught his eye for a moment and raised his glass. The inquisitor winked at him, wearing a mead slackened smile.

The old dwarf whose shoulder Rhys had used to steady the final shot offered to buy the pair of reenactors another round. Dorian shook his head; that would likely mean his night would end with Rhys passed out wherever he landed first. He might not even make it past the landing of the tower at this rate, even so, Dorian would wait up.

Hours later, Rhys tripped and fell against the door of the Herald’s Rest, which opened under his momentum. He stumbled out into the training yard, weaving back to his left as he over corrected his lean. The thought that he might have had a wee bit too much to drink never crossed his mind. He was conscious and under his own power—he was fine.

“I thought you sneaky roguish types had great balance.”

Rhys spun toward the voice, stumbling a step to keep his feet from getting all twisted up. His mouth curved into a smile at the sight of Dorian, standing there in that thin beige robe that clung to his broad shoulders. A belt cinched it twice at his trim waist. The inquisitor straightened up and took a long, slow breath. With perfectly balanced steps, he strode toward the mage. He only stopped once he was nearly nose to nose with the slightly shorter man.

“I have perfect balance,” Rhys challenged.

“I see,” Dorian said, staring up into is face. Neither moved at first, then Dorian tipped his head slightly, nudging Rhys’ nose with his own.

The inquisitor’s grin returned with a throaty little chuckle. “Got me right where you wanted me, didn’t you?” he asked taking a small step forward.

Dorian retreated, aware they were only a few steps from the wall of the tavern. “I did.”

Rhys’ hands gripped his lover’s hips, pushing him backward another step. Dorian’s hand rose to Rhys’ cheek pulling his lips close enough to kiss as his shoulders pressed against the stone. The inquisitor left no space between the two of them; his knees bent, placing them at the same height. Dorian tugged at Rhys’ neck with both hands when the other man’s hips rolled against his. His tongue teased the inquisitor’s lips as dexterous hands moved lower.

“Perhaps we should move this to your quarters, Inquisitor,” Dorian suggested with a purr. “Lest we become the next show.”

Leaning his forehead against the mage’s, Rhys gave his ass a firm squeeze with both hands. “I don’t know. I think you’ve got star quality.”

He chuckled, prying one of Rhys’ hands free. “That may be true. But it doesn’t mean I want to share it with the entirety of the Inquisition.”

Rhys caught up to him quickly. “You may be right,” he mumbled against Dorian’s neck. “I rather like having you all to myself.” The sharp nip at his neck prompted Dorian to turn out of Rhys’ grip.

He walked backward a few steps staring at his lover. “Then take me upstairs … or lose me forever.”

Unexpectedly, the rogue darted forward and scooped Dorian over his shoulder. The mage let out a short scream of surprise before falling into laughter.

“Not a chance I’m willing to take,” Rhys assured him as he ran up the stairs toward the keep.

One of these days, Dorian thought, he might learn better than to taunt the inquisitor, but truth be told he was rather found of how those moments typically worked out. Hopefully, the massive quantity of ale Rhys consumed wouldn’t end the playfulness too early.

[kogiopsis]

I am still (slowly) trying to work on these Femslash February prompts, so... here is Kepi/Nyeni for “in a letter” for @ladyknightradiant (who else?)

1.  Nyeni,

We’re making progress here, despite the snow and the Red Templars.  The scouts say we’ll be able to reach the mines tomorrow, and after that maybe the keep.  They say there might be giants guarding it.  I wish you were here; it sounds like the people of Sahrnia could use your skills.  If there really are giants, maybe we could too.

2.  Nyeni,

It’s pretty here, but it’s cold.  Worse than Skyhold - Dorian says something about humidity.  Even Cassandra shivers sometimes.  At least we brought blankets and hides.  It must have been so much worse for the villagers before.  They’re tough, though - after we took care of the threats nearby, I saw some of their children skating on the frozen river.  They looked so carefree and I-

3.  Nye,

I miss your warmth.

4.  I saw a dragon yesterday over the canyon.  It made my heart light and my breath short, just like you do.

5.  Nyeni,

There was a demon in the Keep.  He tried to make a deal with me - tried to bribe me with money or power or virgins.  I refused, of course.  I have you, and our friends, and that’s all I want.

Twiggy,

Lavellan says hello.  She’d write to you herself, except that apparently nothing she tries is good enough; seems every night we’ve been here she throws another ball of paper into the fire.  Everything else is going well enough, I guess, if your definition of ‘well enough’ includes things like camping next to red lyrium and giants knocking over trees and walls and Maker-knows-what when they fall.  And did I mention the cold?  One of these days I’ll wake up frozen in a block of ice and they’ll have to cart me back to Skyhold and chip me out.

Injury report, since I know you’re fretting:  nothing Cassandra’s field medicine can’t patch up.  That fancy new armor is doing its job.  Dorian cut himself shaving a few times, because he was shivering so much, but he’ll live.  Lavellan twisted her ankle a few days ago climbing an icy rock; she’s walking fine now.  We’re staying well clear of the dragons.  Maybe when your arm is all healed up we’ll traipse back out here.

The Inquisition’s business is mostly done here, or at least the part that requires the Inquisitor herself.  Hopefully by the time this letter reaches you we’ll already be on our way back, and our extremities might even have begun to thaw.  In the meantime, Lavellan says to plant the enclosed seeds in the courtyard; they’re felandaris.

First round’s on you when we return.

-Varric

(A note at the bottom of the page, in an uneven hand that doesn’t match the rest of the letter)

Ar lath ma.