#gets roped into a shem war

[blightbear]

the more i write for mo the more i realize it’s just me putting her mother through things™️

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 31 - Arrival

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fifteenth day of Justinian, 9:32 Dragon 

It took the Siren’s Call another two days to sail around the northern points of the Storm Islands and reach Dunedyn, stronghold of the Clayne. The weather had stayed clear, with stiff winds that pushed the ship onwards through waters that grew ever busier with foreign ships, traders and humble fishing vessels alike that gave them a wide berth or yelled cheery halloos across the white-tipped waves. Now, anchored south of the hold in the deep, sheltered waters of the Lee, the settlement’s brightly painted buildings stood out like jewels against an emerald hillside, the rope of a rich necklace draped over contours of rock leading down towards the harbour. That would be the ship’s final destination, but only once the most important members of the delegation went ashore and made their formal greetings to the Storm Giant and his retainers. 

Already dressed in her finery, Rosslyn stood by the bowsprit, her eyes cast out over a trio of fishing trawlers closing their nets around a shoal of mackerel, and the birds above them taking advantage of the easy meal. Lilac and gold, the morning sky warmed her face, wrapping her in isolation from the commotion on the deck as the longboats were loosed from their moorings and lowered over the side. Somewhere close by, Cuno, roused from his torpor by the activity, was barking at a seagull that had had the audacity to perch on one of the port lanterns. She paid him no heed. In less than an hour she would be face to face with her grandfather again, would have to look him in the eye and remember she was the one who had gone chasing glory and left the Seawolf to die. 

“Guess that answers my question,” said a voice at her elbow. She blinked and turned to see Tabris, her hair braided and clothes washed, but still with bare feet stained by streaks of tar. ”No one with a face that puckered like an arsehole ain’t nervous.” 

Rosslyn scowled at the description, but shrugged it off and turned away. 

“Riiiiight,” the elf huffed. ”Reassuring, that is.” 

Rosslyn’s mouth quirked in a humourless smile. “I wouldn’t have thought I’d be your first choice for reassurance.” 

“You know what they say about beggars,” came the tart reply. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

There was a pause as Tabris clambered onto the rail, chewing her lips in a rare show of deliberation as she decided her answer. Even despite the added height, she came in almost a head shorter than the human woman. 

“See, I’ve been tryin’ to figure,” she said once she was settled. “You shems have got enough fancy words and blood ties between you, you don’t need me to get your ships. So what am I doin’ here? You got me out of baldy-whatshisface’s clutches, and I heard the tellin’-off you gave the princeling, but don’t go thinking I’m fooled that you’re doing this for the elves.” 

“You’re right, I’m not,” Rosslyn answered bluntly. “I’m doing this to get revenge on the cur that murdered my family, and to stop Loghain bringing in reinforcements that he can use to win the war, so that I won’t be hanged at the end of it.” She tilted a wry look at over her shoulder when the elf opened her mouth to speak and closed it again just as quickly. ”Was that not the response you expected?”

“Got the arrogance about right.”

“What does it matter if I care, so long as our goals align?” she asked. “You care, and that’s why you’re here – it’s why you tried to rescue your kin and then ran all the way to Redcliffe, through a war-torn country, on the off-chance the king would help you when you couldn’t do it alone. The Clayne will listen to you, don’t worry about that.” 

“I’m worried about after,” Tabris sneered when Rosslyn once more turned her attention to the sea. “What happens to me after I’ve cheeped like a sparrow for you to get your soldiers? I killed a shem lordling.”  

“The king has pardoned you.” 

The elf scoffed and tossed her hair out of her eyes. “And of course that makes all this –” she gestured vaguely to her ears “– magically disappear. You lot have no clue – and don’t think I didn’t notice about not being invited to this little beach party you’re having. What are you even looking at out there?” 

With a sigh, Rosslyn raised her hand and pointed to a speck above the circling gulls, which grew out of the glare of the sun like an after-image. “It’s a gwyrling – they’re like griffons, but smaller. It’s rare to see one, especially at this time of day. It must have hatchlings in the cliffs.” 

The speck solidified into a creature with narrow, barred wings and a wickedly curved beak. In the space of a heartbeat, it swerved on a point and dived among the flock of gulls and they scattered, screaming in alarm. One, weighed down with the prize of a fish between its claws, dodged too slowly, and didn’t even have time to cry out as the gwyrling punched down and struck it across the back of the neck. The bird went limp, the fish wriggled free and splashed back into the water, and the gwyrling beat back up into the air with a flick of its long, leonine tail. 

“That was really something,” Tabris drawled. 

“The Clayne have augurs who would certainly think so,” Rosslyn replied, betraying a hint of impatience. “They read patterns in the flight of birds and use it to interpret the will of the Lady of the Skies.” 

“You believe in that tosh? What future gets predicted by that?” 

“That would depend.” She smirked. “Are you the gull, the gwyrling, or the fish?” 

“Your Ladyship!” Morrence hopped up to the deck, looking small in the light leather armour she and the others had adopted for the journey. Her hair too, was braided out of her eyes, a far cry from the practical tail she usually wore. “We’re almost ready to go, but His Highness is still below.” She spared a cool glance for Tabris and back to wait for orders. 

Rosslyn glanced to see the first of the boats being lowered over the side. “I’ll see what’s keeping him. And as for you,” she added, lowering her voice as she turned back to Tabris. “The sea doesn’t care what you are, and the gods don’t care if you believe in them or not. They help those who help themselves, and out here, there aren’t any alienage walls to hold you back.” 

“Surprised you managed to get all those fancy words out around that silver spoon stuck in your gob.” 

Alistair stood in front of the mirror borrowed from the captain’s quarters, trying not to sweat in his new clothes. The stuffy cabin didn’t help, but it was Brantis fussing with the lay of his sleeves, shooting questions about what he should do in increasingly specific and unlikely situations, that really had him agitated. With the outcome of the war hanging on the success of the mission, and Rosslyn’s grandfather being the person he had to impress, anything shy of tripping over his own boots and falling flat on his face would be reason to celebrate.  

“And with which hand should you give an item on the table, should you be asked for it?” Brantis asked in his reedy voice. 

“Is that a likely scenario?” How many people just casually asked royalty to pass the salt? 

“It does to prepare for all eventualities, Highness,” came the officious reply. 

 Sighing, Alistair turned his attention back to his outfit, to the contemplation of whether the rose pattern stitched into his jerkin was too much. As far as he could tell in the dim light, the red and gold suited the tone of his skin, and set off well against the bright cream of his shirt. He had already tested the practicality of the ensemble. Given that it lacked the ostentation favoured by those like Franderel, he still had enough range of movement to be able to fight without tearing a seam if the situation called for it, though the heavy, fur-trimmed mantle he had been forced into might make him choke with the heat first. 

He paused on his reflection, letting his eyes drift over the snarling shapes tooled into the rich leather. He never thought to sport the War Dogs, the symbol of the bloodline that had once discarded him, and yet there they were, one on each shoulder, offering a legitimacy that for the first time felt like something lighter than a curse. 

Brantis was still fussing. 

“Surely I’m ready now? I’m really not sure how much more preparation I can take. Surely it would be better to… uh…” 

Rosslyn stood in the doorway. His eyes dragged up and down her form, drinking in every detail. 

“How are things proceeding?” she asked as she glided into the room. A varnished box canted against her hip, tucked under her arm. 

“Quite well, Your Ladyship,” Brantis replied. “Quite well. His Highness will do us proud, if he will remember his manners.” 

Alistair blinked. “What?” 

He had been too busy staring to listen. The grey shimmer of her light coat brought out the sharp colour of her eyes, the cut of the material flared out from swaying hips, the deep blue inner lining a backdrop for white doeskin breeches that clung to deep curves and lithe, strong legs. When he managed to pull his gaze from that sight, it caught instead on the set of her shoulders and the way the open collar accentuated the fine tendons of her throat. She turned her head and her hair, pouring artfully over one shoulder, gleamed gold where a wreath of aurum leaves curled around from a knot at the nape of her neck. The whole effect was understated but striking, a casual display of power leagues away from the ill-fitting dress she had worn on Summerday.  

“… and your esteemed grandfather will of course have the final word.” 

They had carried on an entire conversation without him. Glancing between Brantis’ sidelong, exasperated looks and Rosslyn’s dry amusement, he felt heat flare all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Will you leave us?” she asked the chamberlain, with a touch of pink in her own pale cheeks. 

Brantis bowed and hobbled away, and the two of them were alone. She crossed to a bulkhead and set down the box she had brought with her, which had completely slipped his attention in his ogling. Curious, he made out her personal sigil on the lid – a Falcon gripping a Laurel branch in its talons – but she had already crossed the space to stand in front of him and his throat dried up too much to ask about it. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked. 

He tried to laugh. “Well, right now I’m not quite sure whether the eels rolling around in my stomach are there because of seasickness or nerves…” Or how stunning you look. He swallowed. To cover the treacherous line of his thoughts, he turned back to the mirror and brushed his hands down his front. “This lot could feed a family for a month – I feel like such a fool in it.” 

“Ah, but you don’t look like one,” she pointed out, grinning. “That’s the important thing.” 

“Ha-ha.” 

Fighting back her smirk, she appraised his attire with a critical eye, then came forward to readjust the seams Brantis had been playing with for half an hour, loosening them enough to give him room to breathe again. In theory. 

“It suits you.” Her hand lingered on his chest, the heat of her palm seeping through the fabric. 

He coughed. “There’s, uh, not as much gilt as I was expecting.” 

“Only merchants and Rivaini aristocrats weight themselves down with gold,” she chided gently. “Nobility should be seen in how you carry yourself, and there’s more besides – patronage of the arts, appreciation of craftsmanship, the cultivation of taste… actually, on that note, I have something for you – a gift.” Her glance darted away to the box on the bulkhead and he found himself following her as she went to retrieve it. 

“Rosslyn…” 

“I meant to give it to you later, on the island, but I thought… it might give you some extra confidence.” She chuckled, the smooth certainty of a moment before faltering as she held it out to him. “It seems silly to say that out loud.” 

“Not at all! This – this is for me?” he checked. “Really? I – wow, I don’t – I mean…” He could count on one hand the number of gifts he had received in his life, and the number that had come unprompted… well, that required significantly fewer fingers. 

She shrugged, flustered. “It’s nothing too grand, but it’s a tradition for vassals of the realm to give a gift to the heir apparent once their status is made official, and when we were delayed in Invermathy, I realised it completely slipped my mind. There’s an artisan there who used to work for my family and –”  

He reached out to touch her shoulder, to snap her out of her sudden nervousness, and the edge of his thumb accidentally brushed her neck – he never expected the skin there to be so smooth. 

“You still need to open it,” she said in a small voice.  

He started, cleared his throat, snapped his gaze to the box resting on his palm and bit his lip as he flicked the catch on the lid. A gift, entirely for him. 

He stared. Nestled in a cushion of blue velvet was a pair of leather vambraces embossed with intertwining shapes dyed in a multitude of colours. He recognised dragons, and eagles, and forefront of them all a red War Dog rampant with a gold-petalled rose caught in its snarling teeth. The workmanship was exquisite, almost too perfect to wear for fear of damage, the tooling so precise it seemed as if the figures had been persuaded rather than worked into the leather. 

“These must have been expensive,” he blurted.  

Rosslyn’s face, an instant before so open and anxious waiting for his approval, closed off, a sour line pulling at her mouth. 

“A gift is worth more than its base value, don’t you think?” she asked.  

He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to imply – I mean, I know with the war and everything you’ve had to –” 

“The condition of my finances is none of your concern,” she snapped. “I wasn’t thinking of the expense.”

“No, I know - Rosslyn…” He sighed, staring across the chasm of space that had suddenly risen between them, without her moving a muscle. “I’m sorry I offended you. So much for the start of an illustrious diplomatic career, don’t you think?”  

She searched his face, stung pride warring with doubt and something else that flitted by too quickly for him to name. 

“What did you mean to say?” The question was teased out slowly, deliberately. 

“Only that…” Maker, let him get the right words this time. “Nobody’s ever thought of me enough to – to do something like this for me. I only ever got things that were practical before – I used to go to bed at night and pray to the Maker to make me grow taller so the housekeeper would be forced to make me a new shirt, but it didn’t work nearly as often as I hoped.” He chuckled, but the tale only made her brows contract. “This… I am truly grateful – truly – I don’t know how else to express my gratitude, I…”  

“You like them, then?”  

He nodded. “They’re… Would you help me put them on?” 

She smiled, the tension disappeared from her shoulders, and everything was alright again as she raised her hands to take the box from him. The vambraces lifted easily out of the velvet pile, stiff and polished and smelling of beeswax, with just the right amount of give in the straps. Rosslyn returned and brushed his hands away so she could do up the knots for him, working the laces through the eyeholes with a deftness that had Alistair transfixed. When the first one was fitted to her satisfaction, she turned to the other, and his free hand settled on her waist, supple leather and samite warm under his fingertips. 

“What is that?” he asked. 

She glanced up. “What?” 

“That smell, some kind of flowers – in your hair.” 

“Oh.” She tucked a phantom strand behind her ear, biting her lip. “It’s jasmine.” 

“Jasmine,” he repeated as she went back to her task. “It’s nice.” 

“Thanks… All done.” 

He held up his hand to view her handiwork. The knots were neat, the vambrace itself well-fitted - not long enough to impede his movement but not so short that it made his arm look overly brawny. Rosslyn was smiling at him, patient, bemused by the childish enthusiasm he betrayed in his admiration of the War Dog snarling on his arm. 

“I know you didn’t expect anything,” he admitted, swallowing past the lump in his throat, “but I think I’m a little bit sorry I don’t have anything for you in return.” 

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You don’t owe me anything for this.” 

But her gaze flickered to his mouth, just a tiny movement of her eyes which he caught nevertheless, and he wondered if perhaps she was daring to ask for the return in a kiss. He wanted her to ask. They stood so close she had to tilt her head back to see him properly, so close his hand still on her waist felt the soft swell of her ribs as she breathed, the tension running like corded rope through her limbs. Beneath them, the ship pitched in the swell, tilting them further into each other’s space, and he realised if they did this now he wouldn’t want to stop. 

“We – we should go,” he managed, to keep himself from staring. 

She loosed a breath – relief? disappointment? – and stepped back. “We – yes. The tide will turn soon. It wouldn’t be a very good first impression to keep the Storm Giant waiting seven hours for it to turn back.” 

“Right. Yes, of course, just let me…” He reached past her for his sword belt and buckled it while she waited, and then followed her out of the cabin. They kept a careful distance as they strode up into the light and bustle of the deck, to Isabela barking orders so she could be heard over the noise of the dog, and Morrence already setting Connor into the first longboat next to Wynne.  

“Your turn next, Your Highness,” she said as they approached, offering a hand to help him over the rail. “Don’t think about the drop.” 

“You could have told me that before I looked,” he replied, and peered dubiously over the side. The longboat floated fifteen feet below, still lashed to the hull of the ship but rolling against the moorings like a horse tossing its head at flies. One false step on the frankly perilous ladder and he could easily fall between the two barks and be trapped underneath, dragged down into the depths by the weight of his fancy clothes. 

“There’s nothing to it,” Rosslyn reassured him with a squeeze of his shoulder. “I’ll go ahead and guide you down.” 

The tails of her coat flared behind her as she swung over the side, almost as nimble as one of the sailors. Only Alistair saw the white grip of her knuckles on the ropes, and the careful frown as she judged the last step between the ladder and the boat, but she smiled encouragement up at him. 

“Move one limb at a time,” she instructed. “Like you’re a lizard.” 

“Am I a handsome lizard at least?” 

She only rolled her eyes.

“Is the Storm Giant scary?” Connor asked, when Alistair had finally inched the last few steps into the boat. “I heard he can kill someone he doesn’t like just by looking at them.” 

“What nonsense,” Wynne chided next to him. “Not even a basilisk can do that.” 

Rosslyn shifted in her seat and winked at the arl’s son. “The Storm Giant isn’t a basilisk.” 

A shout came from above and the lines holding them to the Siren’s Call went slack, gathered in by two of the crew, who scrambled down the ladder and took their places, one in the rowing seat and one by the tiller. With a final salute to the captain, the rower pushed off from the side with the butt of an oar, with enough force to drive them out into open water. The second boat with their guard-captains and herald followed shortly after, two motes of dust on a clear blue slate. Though the water was mostly calm, spray curled back at them from the oars, and once a rogue wave slapped against the hull, rocking them all sideways. Rosslyn flinched, a muttered curse hissing under her breath, but gentle fingers wrapped around hers where they clung to the board, and she shot a grateful smile to Alistair next to her. 

 They made it through the breakers mostly unsoaked, though the moment they touched solid ground jarred hard enough to make Alistair fall forward and smack his knee against the hull. Rubbing out the tingles, he straightened and stepped out onto a beach of black pebbles, unable to help craning his neck at the sheer basalt cliffs warding back the sea. The ground swayed beneath him, but no, it was just his balance reasserting itself after so long on the water. 

“Is landsickness a thing?” he asked Rosslyn. “Because I think I have it. This feels weird.” 

“You’ll get used to dry land again, just in time to make the crossing back,” she laughed as she stepped out next to him. 

“Who’s that on the path?” Connor called from the boat.  

The rest of the party turned to where he was pointing. A set of rough stairs had been cut into the rock, commanding a view over the whole bay as it carved down from the emerald cliffs above. There was no other way up, at least not that Alistair could see, and he tried not to think about the potential consequences of a bad first impression; the tidemark stained the rock a full armspan above his head, and with no other shelter from the waves, the defenders would only have to wait.   

And there was the Storm Giant himself, Lord Fearchar Mac Eanraig, bearing down on them. Tall, with a shock of flyaway white hair and broad shoulders wrapped in dyed plaidweave, he marched at the head of his retinue with the pride of a full-crown hart, an enormous spiked mace girded at his hip. Without quite thinking about it, Alistair drew closer to Rosslyn’s side as their host descended the last few strides towards them. She noticed, and brushed her hand along his thumb in a brief show of reassurance. But when he caught her eye, she wasn’t smiling.  

[ramblinganthropologist]

Dragon Age 100 - 5 (Light)

Summary: Haven sucks and the newly minted Herald Kaaras Adaar is at the end of his rope. Luckily, there’s someone there to pull him back from the edge and remind him the wonder of self care. Family’s great like that. (Inquisition.)

---

“I believe that will handle business for today.”

Fucking good.

Kaaras' entire body ached as he stood up from his spot at the impromptu war table. Spread out in front of him were numerous pins stuck to the map of Ferelden, all of them someplace he needed to be or something that needed doing. They were growing by the day as more people heard about this nightmare freak show people were calling the Inquisition. Apparently, they were gaining a reputation for getting the job done.

“Herald, you have been quiet today.”

His insides twisted. The voice belonged to Cassandra-way-too-many-names, a Seeker and major pain in the ass. Back when they had first met, she had shouted at him and even hit him once before dragging them both out to the ass end of hell itself. It hadn't exactly created a first impression, and that was without all the demons pouring out of holes in the sky. The fact she refused to call him by his own damn name didn't help matters either. No matter what, she didn't seem to get he wasn't fucking Andrastian.

Or maybe she was trying to convert him. It wasn't working.

It was hard to think of words – exhaustion coursed through his entire body as he resisted the urge to stretch tired muscles. When was the last time he had slept, or eaten for that matter? He couldn't even remember the last time he had had something to drink, and he felt it in his dry lips and parched throat. Wasn't much time for that with having to run all over Ferelden chasing leads and killing Templars.

“Not a lot to say, Cassandra. You've all got this handled.”

Next to him, the Inquisition's ambassador was still writing. Once she glanced up at him, eyes concerned. He liked Josephine about as much as he could like anyone in this hell party. She was nice, and more importantly she asked if he could do something before she gave it to him. Everyone else just barked orders. Talk about rude.

“Are you sure, Kaaras? You look tired. Is your hand bothering you?”

Yes. Yes it was. The damn thing refused to shut up during the night when he tried to catch a few hours of sleep. Every time he tried, it pulsed green light and shot pain through his entire left side. On bad nights, it kept him gasping and clutching at his thin, too small sheet as he all but rolled onto the floor. It was more comfortable down there anyway, given how small the damn bed was.  But hey, it closed rifts so that was good enough for the torture, right?

He allowed a tired smile that he didn't really mean. “I'm getting used to it, Josephine. Don't worry about me.”

She didn't look too convinced, and if he hadn't been stuck in the middle of nowhere he would have appreciated it more. The woman was lovely, it was just bad circumstances that had shoved them together. Maybe in different light, they would've been just fine. However, she was attached to the Inquisition and thus put him on edge.

“You should rest.” Leliana, shadowy and creepy in the way a good spymaster should have been, was rolling up her notes. She had spent most of the meeting arguing with their commander – something he was glad for. He hated the fucker and his attempts to oust him hadn't worked. “Your control of the anchor only grows worse with exhaustion.”

It was a blunt statement he couldn't deny. Kaaras' shoulders sagged as he managed a brief nod. Sure, he would try – but there was no guarantee it would work. Even if he did, sleep was no better. Lately all he got in his fitful rests were endless nightmares of glowing green apparitions that chased him in the darkness. They were growing closer by the night, as if they were closing in on him. What would happen when they caught him, he didn't want to know. Maybe he would just die in his sleep.

It was bad, but that almost felt comforting to think it could end. Talk about a light at the end of the tunnel.

Outside it was cold and snow had freshly fallen on the ground in patches. The rest was all gray sludge or mud, trampled by countless feet that swarmed Haven like a hive. Kaaras walked a familiar path, head down. Right then, he probably couldn't have handled a conversation.

His stomach ached dully – a reminder he hadn't eaten. It matched tempo with his pounding head and aching body. He felt like one big bruise in various stages of healing, and if someone were to press down he would feel it even worse. Plenty of people needed – even wanted- to do so those days. It was like they didn't even care about him.

Of course they didn't – all they wanted was his fucking hand.

Kaaras had a small room to himself off to the side. The key clicked in the lock when he threaded it through, and he sighed as he fell onto his bed. All he had left was the energy to take off his boots and jacket – forget his binder. He had lost track of how long he had been wearing it. Who cared about his ribs right then anyway? Certainly not him as he curled up to fit onto the bed, too tired to arrange his blanket on the floor to seek out a bit more comfort.

At first, he would cry himself to sleep. Lately, he was out of tears to do that. So he just  lay there, feeling his body pulse and throb. In the morning they would probably send him to some ass end of Ferelden again. Then, who knows. They were talking about heading out to fucking Orlais – Orlais of all places! - next. Just thinking of it made him want to cry, but instead he closed his eyes and prayed to the Creators for sleep.

They didn't answer. He was beginning to think they had forgotten him too.

Kaaras wasn't sure how long he lay there, feeling his body ache. Maybe it was hours. Whatever it was, he was suddenly roused to wakefulness by the sound of commotion coming from outside. Guards were shouting, and they sounded pissed.

“Stop right there! Identify yourself!”

“Get fucked, Templar, you're lucky I didn't fry you. Now tell me where the fuck he is.”

There was the sound of metal hitting a wall at a fast pace. It was close. Someone let out a strangled gasp as the deep-voiced man held them probably against a wall. Pure fury dripped from every word they spoke.

They... they were Dalish.

Kaaras sat up, eyes wide as he stared at the door. Logic had abandoned him in the fleeting hope of a rescue. He would have thought he was dreaming, but his hand decided to pulse. It was a painful reminder that all of this was real, strange as it was.

“O-over there.”

The metal hit the ground. Silence echoed across Haven as footprints approached his door. It was locked, but that didn't matter. A familiar sound of scraping metal tools against the lock was his world right then. Just a little more to the left and it would open.

The lock clicked softly and the door swung open. Standing on the other side, armed to the teeth, was a qunari. He barely fit into the door as he strode through, broad shoulders cloaked in dark leather of Dalish make. His face was unmarked, but his jewelry and bearing could have only marked him as one of the People – a very tall member. He had to be 6'8, maybe even close to 7 feet tall. His purple eyes focused on him, and then they widened.

“Shit, Kaas.”

Akri had grown since Kaaras had last seen him. And... apparently gone to the wild side if his spiky hair and facial piercings had anything to go by. His body language was rage and annoyance, so different from the young man he had left behind. What had happened to him since they had last met?

“What the fuck did they do to you?”

A female voice sounded from his shoulders. Kaaras' eyes traveled up – someone was sitting on his brother's shoulder. She too was Dalish, with red hair and tattoos to Mythal inked into her skin. He knew that slight frame and bright green eyes anywhere, though. Those hadn't changed much over the years, even if she was apparently now an adult.

Jackel was soon at his side, Akri not far behind. They were soon squeezing him hard, almost enough to compress his aching ribs to the point of breaking. It didn't matter though – tears were soon trickling down Kaaras' face as he hugged both of them for dear life. They were real, and they had come for him after all.

“It's gonna be ok, Kaas. We'll get you out of here.” Akri's deep voice rumbled as he squeezed tighter. “No fucking shems are going to hold you if we have something to say about it.”

Jackel had settled onto his shoulders, still weighing about as much as two grapes. “Who's in charge here anyway and where do they sleep? We need to have a talk.”

At this, Kaaras let out a bitter laugh and felt his shoulders sag, taking his cousin with him. Here was the cruelest fact of all, the one he had been trying to avoid since it had begun. Speaking it would only make him feel worse, but they needed to know.

“Technically I think it might be me.”

He held out his hand, glowing palm on full display. “I'm in really deep, you two.”

Just then in pulsed and sent out fire. Akri's eyes were as large as dinner plates as he watched. No doubt he was running through every spell he knew and then some. Maybe the Dalish had something, because the humans didn't. They had run every test on him and found nothing. It closed rifts and hurt – that was their conclusion.

“I'm going to murder someone.” Jackel's voice was a solemn vow as she looked over at Akri. “Write Mamae. Maybe she'll know.”

“Already working on how to describe it.” He frowned, piercings moving with him. “But before that, we gotta get Kaas back to eating and sleeping. You look like shit, bro.”

Always the blunt one, and yet Kaaras found himself chuckling. It turned into a full laugh that scraped his insides of a lot of the bullshit that had been building up over the last few months. Where there had only been despair, now there was the slightest bit of hope.

They cared about him. Someone fucking cared.

Jackel patted him on the head, right above his horn. “Nobody's gonna fuck with you tonight, Kaas. We'll make sure of that.”

Oh, and Kaaras was surer than anything of that. For the first time since he had woken up in the dark, he wasn't afraid. Well, that wasn't accurate – he was still scared shitless, but it was easier to handle it with family by his side. They had his back, even in the midst of utter bullshit. Maybe that was why his eyes started to flutter and ache for closing. At last, his body was shutting down.

“I got you, Kaas. Don't worry about it.”

That was the last thing Kaaras heard before he gave himself over to strong arms and the lure of sleep. Even in the mist of cold Haven, he was warm. That alone put a smile on his face as he fell into a thankfully dreamless slumber. Maybe they would keep the demons at bay for him. If they did, he might sleep after all.

---

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Leliana's mouth was in a thin line, and Cassandra looked ready to throw something. Next to them, Josephine looked perfectly calm as she peered into the room that their Herald normally occupied on his own. Apparently, he had guests.

They were all on the floor on a makeshift pile of blankets. Kaaras was in the center, face peaceful as he was lost in a dream. Haven's two intruders flanked him on either side, the smaller elf all but throwing herself over him like a makeshift blanket. The other qunari was close by, one arm wrapped around the Herald. Neither looked like they were about to be moved.

“The bigger one is a mage. He blasted through the defenses the little one couldn't pick.” Leliana was still doing recon. “They're both Dalish.”

Cassandra's tone was flat. “I can see that.”

“Perhaps they are his family? Kaaras had mentioned he was Dalish.” Apparently, Josephine was the only one to remember things. “They do resemble each other... maybe he asked them to join them in Haven?”

If they were able to slip past defenses, perhaps they would be useful additions to the Inquisition. They could always use more mages, and Leliana had been complaining she needed better agents. There were plenty of places for them to support the Herald should they choose to stay.

And judging from the grip, they were.

Their voices roused the smaller one. One large green eye fluttered open and locked into a death glare. She had a knife in her hand, from where Josephine had no idea. She took a step back as Cassandra stiffened and Leliana reached for her bow. This was... not ideal close quarters.

“You're all fucked when Kaas wakes up.” Her voice was thick with sleep as she cuddled closer to Kaaras. “Now fuck off he hasn't slept in days because of you people.”

“Fuck off, shems.” the qunari echoed, not even opening his eyes. The air still tingled with electricity, however – he might not have been looking, but he was aiming just fine. Josephine certainly got the message, and luckily so did her companions. They shut the door behind them and backed away.

Later, when the Herald was awake, this would need to be discussed. However, if they managed to get him to sleep she couldn't see harm in letting them stay. Really, that was the first time she had seen the qunari look so peaceful. And realizing that was... unpleasant.

Even more unpleasant? Dealing with the Inquisition's forces later. After all, they had been blitzed by two lone agents. That was just embarrassing, but it technically wasn't her department. That one was on Cullen.

Maybe Kaaras had been onto something about his removal...

[tenderthings-archive]

the long night (solas/f!lavellan, post-break up)

rating: T

word count: 3k

warnings: horror themes; blood & gore; angst without a happy ending; mild eye trauma (only to a baddie); idk don’t read this if you don’t want to feel sad???

a/n: i’m open to critiques on this piece, especially for the action & scary bits!!

summary:

During a mission gone wrong, Solas witnesses the first of the damage he’s caused and a change takes place within the Inquisitor.

“They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.”

ao3 link: (x)

As night falls, a chill sinks down Solas’ spine. What had been a simple reconnaissance twists into a fight for survival. An unnatural silence renders them mute; wildlife all but fades away. The forest canopy devours the moons and stars. Within an hour, they were virtually blind. Well-hidden, yes, but if the enemy were to fall upon them again, he doubts they’d live to see daybreak.

Before the attack, all seemed well. They were making good time on their journey so the Inquisitor called for a rest.

One moment, she was talking to him for the first time in weeks. The next, she’s shoving him out of the path of a shadow made of crystal and warped flesh.

By the time he and the others lost sight of their attackers, they veered off any path they knew.

Lost in the midsts of the Graves, the thick brush was near impossible to navigate. They rely solely on high terrain, areas that have not seen creatures walk up-right in hundreds of years. Titan, willow-like trees provide cover, but Varric struggles. Injured, on top of ill-suited eyes and stature, his wheezing only gets worse by the hour. What aid Solas provides must be preserved to keep them moving—for within the long dark, what the humans call the witching hour comes to a head.

It begins with eyes in the shapes of leaves. Then, bodies made of shadow and air. The squelch of mud beneath their tired feet begins to look, sound, and smell wrong, vile. None say it but they all know the illusion to be gore, sinking up from the earth, discharge from a mass grave.

Ghosts begin to stir, vindicated.

Whispers gnaw at the Veil, threatening in sacrilegious tongues. You are not welcome here. Only Varric has the pleasure of being deaf to it as Cassandra quakes, snapping her head at every clear word. Victims, without mercy or forgiveness, hiss at her piety, her humanity. Solas understands everything and more but ignores their revenge, as if his own crusade was not in play.

The only one amongst them suited to the tension and terror was the Inquisitor. Fearless, Iona acts as their last vigil and keeps the ghosts of murdered elves at bay.

She leads the group into the shade of an ancient tree trunk, as wide and broad as the roof of a house. She signals them to stop while she scouts ahead.

Solas sees they’ve reached a dead end, a fallen tower overtaken by the forest.

When she reaches the ruin, Iona runs her hand along its mossy wall, thinking. Then, she steps back, crouches down, and presses her ear to the earth. What tremors she hears, she chooses not to communicate.

She stands up again and takes hold of a vine-rope. She tugs hard before gathering her strength and climbing up. They watch her ascend, taken aback by her prowess, movements appearing both practiced and unnatural, spidery and beautiful. She is quick but not quick enough; the night only gets darker and there is no way around but over. What’s worse is the tinge of strangeness in the air, unlike what they’ve been feeling for hours.

When she reaches the top, she comes to a squat, braced by her hand.

In the emerald night, where the light comes in fleeting, her eyes reflect back. Her ears twitch. She looks down at them, as if prey found by the black panthers that prowled these wilds a millennium ago.

Solas is the only one who can make out her intentions, using his equally keen eyes.

“Be ready,” he whispers to the others and nods at the Inquisitor. She glares at him, out of habit now.

Minutes pass. Then, slowly, the Inquisitor rolls up to her full height as the ugly clang of metal enters the ditch below.

Cassandra unsheathes her sword and moves close to Varric as he finds cover and readies his crossbow. Solas summons a barrier but keeps his footing light. They will be running soon.

The Veil threatens to tear once the barrage begins. He and Cassandra scale down the hill and enter combat, fighting blind and scared. The spirits chant; Solas can feel their joy at spilled holy blood when in reality, fear is their greatest ally—’til it is too late for even that.

Red lyrium sets the forest alight. Inhuman cries drag life back into the world as one abomination falls after another.

All four have fought red templars a hundred times since the order’s corruption, but never like this—never so close to their faces, their crystallized eyes and flaking skin. Dread overlaps adrenaline and it’s not long before the Graves smell like death once again.

Above, arrows and bolts fly. Solas catches flashes of a gleaming-eyed figure leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, a sentinel like her ancestors but reinforced by a dwarf’s might. When she protects him, he heals her, balls of green magic in her wake. Soon, the templars grow wise to the sky and draw their attention to the hillside where Varric stayed.

They ascend, like vermin, and there is nothing Cassandra can do to stop the tide.

Varric pulls back but the ghosts draw in.

When Solas turns to run to the dwarf’s side, he is met with a pommel to the head.

  In the Fade, he watches Iona hold his body until her arms grow heavy. She lowers him into the ground then leaves, tearfully.

Gradually, the world expands. The night ends. The ditch grows into a valley, a horde appears from the bush—elves, humans; banners, religion. The Exalted March.

He is amongst his kind but not, smashed between bodies but not. He feels every bone in his body break beneath a human’s boot. He drags an elf boy the same age as his daughter through the dirt and kills him, slow. He cries a mother’s tears as the Divine orders the execution of all prisoners of war. He pisses on the effigies left by the elders for their lost children. He is called knife-ear, defiler, heathen. He stands amongst a thousand soldiers, broken treaties, and the final horn of retreat that comes too late. All is lost; they’re put in chains.

Solas wakes from the vision only to find himself alone, confused, a scream and a lover’s name caught in his throat.

Minutes or perhaps hours have passed. The enemy has scattered, spread into the undergrowth like poison. The ghosts warn him so, speaking a dialect no elf was allowed to remember.

Likely concussed, Solas gets to his feet and gathers his bearings as best he can. He takes one dizzying step before realizing his staff is lost and he recognizes nothing—not even his own body. Ice floods his veins, his knees buckle, but he refuses to fall.

He’s come so far, he has so much left to do, a birthright to rebuild—

Solas hears something in the distance.

The spirits whisper go, then leave, and finally liar, as if they understood. They can’t.

He doesn’t weep for them but follows their command. He is no shem; they don’t want him to dead yet.

The voices lead him to an incline, where the forest is dense. He walks it as stealthily as his shaking body can. Thorns and branches cut up his face and clothes, but the forest pleads him to go on—go on, if you dare. Eventually, he comes upon a wide break in the canopy where a stream runs through and the ground is leveled. Twin moons have turned the water-flow into glittering crystals and the grass, a prussian blue. In the middle of the meadow, far from where Solas hides, three templars stand amongst dead others. They circle a fallen figure.

At first, he mistakes it for a wounded animal. But no, it is Iona, unarmed and head bowed. He can hear her desperate breathing.

Instincts thrust Solas forward, but shock catches him dead. She’s jumped to her feet, then charges, as if flying.

There is nothing beautiful about her this time.

Her teeth, like fangs, meet and sink into the neck of a templar. Lithe limb encase a gigantic body, locking tight. A ghoulish noise rings out, but she is swift and uses her enemy’s weight to her advantage. They struggle and fall, rolling far and fast into the stream several feet away.

Before the others can advance, she rips out his throat.

Bloated and gray fingers clasp around a suddenly gushing wound, choked cries bubbling just as violently as she jerks up. She relieves the templar of his bow and quiver, blood smeared down her face and neck.

A single arrow kills the second attacker, straight between the eyes. His skull cracks.

The third attempts to flank, his sword sweeping low but not low enough as she ducks then barrels forward, head first. Bull would be proud—the templar’s withered body shakes in its metal case, like marbles, as they hit the ground. Arrows spill from the quiver. Lyrium spikes break. Jolts of static cast both in a red, haunting glow. The templar’s cry is a monstrous and twisted sound, echoing through the forest.

Iona climbs over the creature. Before anything can be done to stop her, she grabs a stray arrow and stabs into what remains of a human eye.

He—it—screams again. Hands jut out to catch her arm, but frantic magical energy descends its mind into delirium. The templar flails this way and that, crying louder. She anchors down through her thighs, her other hand round its throat, and lifts her fist only to thrust it back down, fast.

Again and again, she hammers the arrow in, gouging until the warped skull gives and the templar dies as cruelly as it lived.

Eventually, she stops, panting hard. She leaves the broken arrow within the skull.

As she gets back onto her feet, she spits on the corpse. Speckles of blood splatter along the chestplate’s holy emblem, Andraste’s flaming sword.

The first templar is still alive, sputtering as his blood pools into the stream. Iona picks up the bow and quiver and takes a minute to fix the latter across her chest. Then, she approaches and Solas watches on.

She doesn’t bother wasting a shot. Instead, she lifts her heel and digs into the templar’s face, shoving it to the side and into the direction of the waterflow.

Perhaps this one was not wholly gone. Perhaps she even noticed, or cared. The templar gives in to the pressure. His hands fall to the wayside and eyes slip shut. She closes her own and bears down through her leg until the body tremors stop.

At last, her strength is spent. When she steps away, her knees give in and she collapses by the gentle brook.

Solas’ stoic expression breaks as she lets out a soft noise, a quiet sob, barely caught between her teeth.

“Ir abelas,” she cries to no one. “I am so, so sorry.”

Beneath the full gleam of the moons, he sees her fully now—defiled in a way no battle as ever done before.

She’s turned pale, paler than the bodies she felled or the moons themselves. The fingers of her right hand dig into her left. Out of habit or pain, it’s hard to say. Her head falls back as she begins to rock, neck bared, face scrunched up. A torrent of prayers builds in her throat and she struggles to simply breathe, to not give in to the pain, or guilt, or history pressing down on and in.

Tears leave streaks through grime and blood. She has won, but Solas has seen her dreams. He knows a part of wishes she did not.

There isn’t a spirit around that doesn’t laud her strength or question his heart.

After a moment, Solas makes himself known, snapping a twig in the process.

She jerks at the sound. Her knees bend, one up, the other braced and Solas is greeted with an arrow flying overhead.

She readies another as he steps into the moonlight, arms up.

“It is only me,” he says, as softly as he can. “Be calm.”

She doesn’t let down her weapon, though her aim shakes. Panic floods her gore-stripped face as she blinks, rapidly.

He lowers one hand as if to reach out for her. “Inquisitor—”

“Don’t!”

She strengthens her pull, the arrow’s feathered back kissing her cheek. In that moment, he scarcely recognizes her.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Something akin to mockery slips into his head, snapping its jaws. What did he expect from someone so young, so broken, so fiercely in love? Of course a day like this would come. He’s seen it before, with others, friends, himself. This is his doing. This is his war.

He takes a breath and steels his heart from the ache taking root.

They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.

“Da’len, please. You know me; lower your bow.”

She’s confused, hurt. Scared. Another tear slides down her face. Then, she grits her teeth and snarls, and he knows his mistake before she even speaks.

“Don’t call me that. You know better. You’re not allowed to call me that. You’re not real, you’re not even here. You left me, you fucking bastard, you broke my heart and left me just so you could die in this fucking place!”

She thinks—what does she think? That this isn’t real? Is it? Is it?

The wind, difficult hear amongst trees so thick and old, now howls. They both fall silent to the sound of tree-tops shuddering.

It’s real, he thinks. It’s all real, from the bones the forest feeds off of to the woman before him, driven to the edge by thinking him dead.

Leaves rain down, but being so far up, they look odd, misshapen against the moonlight. It reminds him of ash, slowly descending upon a fallen kingdom. The smell of blood, fear, and sweat worsens the image in his head—and a woman. Another forsaken woman lies at his feet, scared to death.

They’ve survived the battle, but the war is yet to come. Looking back at her, at his inquisitor turned feral, now openly weeping at the sight of the stars, Solas tries to remember who she was before tonight. A doe? A rabbit? When he met her, she was soft, bright, and loyal to her people. Cassandra—if she still lives—doubted her god’s choice. Solas regrets his.

Harden your heart, he told her as he tossed it back at her. She snarled then too, but took the hurt he caused and shoved it inside her chest.

He hoped she’d never forgive him but hadn’t yet prepared himself for the day she’d take aim at him.

Today isn’t that day, however.

Her grip has loosened and she’s crying so hard, there’s no chance she’d be able to keep a steady grip. The spirits warn him not to approach. Whether they are protecting him or her, he doesn’t know but defies his descendants nonetheless.

He kneels before his former lover.

“Inquisitor,” he says then corrects himself. “Iona. Please get up. We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.”

She ignores him, dropping her bow to cradle her face in her hands. She cries harder, full-body throes.

He wants to hold her but doesn’t. Instead, he drops his voice to whisper, “Please. Please. We must find the others, we must make it back to camp.”

She shakes her head, a muffled ‘I can’t’ slipping past.

Gently, he grabs her wrist and pulls it to him. She lets him.

“Iona,” he begins, stops, and presses closer. He is real. She is real. This is real. He hurt her, and that’s real too.

“You can. You must. If we stay, more will come. You understand, don’t you? Corypheus will win if you die here. The Inquisition will be lost. Please, get up.”

He means more than she’ll ever know. And that’s the great tragedy, isn’t it? Everything he wants to say and everything he will do in spite of it.

“Iona.” He squeezes her wrist. Softly, he risks a kiss against her palm. “You must go on.”

Solas drags the Inquisitor to her feet, his legs wavering at the energy he expends. His head is still spinning but rather than heal himself, he holds her by the waist, cups her face, and focuses on her.

He fixes little, but that’s the point. He’s learned when to stop helping.

Warmth floods her battered body, like a sacred and sweet kiss. As bruises soften at his touch, Iona’s eyes slip open. For the first time since she walked away from him, she looks at him without malice or disgust. Her tears stop.

The forest shifts into a healthy green the longer he heals her. There’s love in her eyes, dreamy and sickly, followed slowly by clarity, recognition. His own expression remains blank.

When he pulls his hands away, he takes the warmth with him and the spell ends.

She gently pushes him back as reality snaps back into place.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“The Veil is thin here. You have nothing to apologize for, Inquisitor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. Only now, does she wipe away the blood around her mouth.

“I do, but you’re right. We can’t stay here.”

She looks around, at all she’s done, but doesn’t pause to let the disgust sink in. When she returns to him, her gaze is dulled, as if he’s insignificant. Good, he thinks.

“Alright.” She sucks in another breath. “Alright. Where is your staff?”

“Gone, broken.”

“And your head?” She gestures to the trail of blood, now dried down his face. He hadn’t noticed it before. “Can you walk on your own?”

“I believe I can.”

She nods, swallows, and looks around again. “I recognize this place. We can’t be far from the others, or the camp. With any luck, we’ll make it through to morning.”

He’s relieved but refrains from admitting so. She frowns at his silence.

“Stay close. I can’t have you dying now, Solas,” she says. “The Inquisition still needs you.”

She turns and chooses a path in seconds. Her body doesn’t shake nor does her stride waver. The forest is her domain; the night sky will guide them out.

Iona steps out of the moonlight and into the pitch black. He lingers behind, just to be certain how far she will go without looking back.

[marquis1305]

Modern Au Kaili Tabris’ version of meeting Nico Mahariel. (owned by the dear @hoehoehoelt) because this modern au is now a thing. 

Kaili had chosen to spend her down hours sitting on the roof of their barracks.  

She knew that if she were caught, she would get a demerit, or worse; but couldn't manage to bring herself to care.  

After all, anniversaries deserved special recognition. She had managed to push back the memories throughout most of the day. Facing the Warden's drills, tests, and training with an easy smile. The smile that she had chosen to wear since the day she had been forced to enlist, rather than face jail time.

Here, where she could hide away from the other recruits, she let the smile fall.  

There were no tears, it had always been difficult for her to let enough of her walls shatter to allow for tears. She hums the lullaby that Nelaros had once taught her, in what feels like a lifetime ago.  

"I don't think I have heard that tune before."

Kaili jolts back, hand to her boot knife. Ears flat in warning. Snarling.

"Whoa! Down girl!" Nico Mahariel, Staff Seargent, laughs at her sudden reaction. Hands help up as an offer of peace. "No wonder they warned me not to bother you, and here I thought they were just afraid of a pretty girl."

"As they should be, after all, haven't you heard the rumors about me?" Kaili slowly shifts back to how she was sitting. Body still tense and ready to attack as needed, but hiding behind a calm veneer.  

"Might have, but I won't say which ones unless you tell me the rumors you have heard about me." He plops down beside her, offering up a flask pulled from one of his pockets.  

When she takes it, he moves to let his hair down from the bun it had been forced into during duty hours. Kaili eyes him, then takes his cue, letting her own curls free to form ringlets about her face.  

"Damn, now that's a sight," Nico raises an eyebrow, and a jaunty smirk.

"Don't get used to it staff seargent," she says before taking a swig, then offering the flask back.

"Oh, using ranks, ouch," he laughs and takes his own drink from the flask. "So, are you gonna tell me what you have heard?"

"Only that you seem to spend more days in a sickbed than in the field. And that you are one of the fasted rising enlisted within the Wardens." Her voice is flat, hiding any emotions she might feel towards either account.

"Yeah, debilitating disease," he shrugs, brushing off the implications. "And there was a reason that I was assigned to the Warden Squad despite it. One of the best shots in my clan. Definitely the quickest draw. Was tied for most accurate."

"Makes sense, I suppose. You Dalish seem to favor guerrilla warfare. Don't like getting too close, might cut those pretty tattoos of yours," Kaili smirks over at the Dalish soldier.  

"And I suppose you are a cut purse like the rest of the flat ears?" Nico rises to meet her unspoken challenge.

"Close, but no cigar. I was in a gang, tended to favor black market sales over cutting purses. My own specialty was acquiring the goods." Kaili hugs her knees, looking off towards the sunset. Ignoring that Nico moves closer.  

"That doesn't sound like something that would get you placed in the Wardens?" He presses, genuinely curious at this point.  

"No. What got me placed in this unit was slaughtering every last member of our rival gang. Bunch of rich kids who wanted to play pretend, thought that they were hard. They managed to snatch me and a few girls from my neighborhood when I had my guard down."

Nico looks at her, horror slowly dawning in his eyes.  

"I had a fiancé. Nice guy. Was a senior, like me, but still trying to work and raise enough money to get us both out of the city, get me off the streets. He hated that I did what I did, but never tried to change me. Knew that I was working to support my family, only way that I knew how," she starts shuddering as the memories begin to flood her senses. Unable to even react as Nico places an arm around her. "When they snatched us, my fiancé ran and got my cousins. Managed to find the warehouse where we were being held."

She pauses, choking back the tears that finally come.  

"What happened?" Nico pulls Kaili closer, offering her support.  

She can only answer in the softest of whispers.  

"They shot him. I watched, saw every second of it. My cousin, Vis, finally managed to cut me free from the ropes. Handed me my knives. He and Soris provided cover fire while I cut them all down. Then I went and hunted down their leader and his little buddies. I slit each of their throats."

She takes a shudering breath, and looks up at Nico, finally noticing his closeness. "When the cops showed up, I took the fall. Kept them busy while my cousin's escaped. Had made sure that they passed me their guns before they took off. Prints. Heh. After that, it was either the Wardens or jail time. Figured I could take my chances fighting in the Shem's war, rather than waste my life behind bars."

Nico pulls her tighter to him. Letting her bury her face in his shoulder. He had been here almost a year longer than her, had seen her during her training drills. Had seen her laugh and tease the other recruits. Sure, there had been rumors, but nothing to this extent. If anyone understood how much it hurt to hold that kind of story inside.....  

"I lost someone too. When I caught my... disease. Tamlen,"He shrugs off the stab of pain in his chest with a chuckle. "But that is a story for another day. Wouldn't do for me to just make you feel worse by talking about my own sad tale."

Kaili nods, taking a deep breath to ease the shuddering of her chest. Then pulls back from his hold. Gaze held by his own.  

"It's been one year today."

Nico nods, "I knew it was the anniversary of when you were thrown into our lot. Didn't realize that there was more to it. Figured you were just up here thinking about all the time wasted this past year on drills."

Kaili breathes out a giggle. Then smiles playfully, "I didn't realize you had been keeping track of my time here?"

Nico blushes slightly, then lets his grey gaze heat up. "What can I say, it's not every day that a beautiful, smart, and apparently slightly psychotic recruit comes in; sweeping everyone of their feet."

"Flatterer." Kaili deadpans.  

Chuckling, Nico brings Kaili closer still. Completely wrapping her in his arms. "If you didn't like it, I have no doubt you would have been able to take me down by now."

Kaili narrows her eyes at him, then simply nods. Letting her head fall back against his chest. She just barely holds back the flinch as he runs a hand over her curls.  His other hand rubbing circles around her back.

Instead, she starts humming her lullaby again.  Playing with the ring hanging on a chain about her neck.

Nelaros had always told her she needed to learn how to accept the little things in life.  

Maybe, having Nico comfort her would qualify.