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antivano · 3 years

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The Ultimate DA: I OC Questionnaire.

Hi DA fandom! I’m seven years late to the party. A few years ago I whipped up this huge DA: I questions template and never released it but I figured why not. It’s got 22 parts and almost 200 questions, free to be modified to your liking for other websites as long as there’s credit. It’s very packed and full, and is all located under the cut. I would strongly recommend copy pasting everything underneath the cut and turning it into your own post (please like/reblog if you do, and tag me in it if you want to!) for your own ease, but you’re welcome to just reblog it and fill it in from there. Without further ado, the ultimate DA: I OC questionnaire. Enjoy!

THE ULTIMATE DA: I INQUISITOR QUESTIONNAIRE by @antivano.

Basics. 1. 1 Introduce the Inquisitor! Name, age, race, gender, sexuality, birthday, class. 1. 2 Any reasons for these choices? Are they named after anyone? 1. 3 Are they happy with who they are? Do they wish they had a different name, another gender or race, wish to be born with/out magic? 1. 4 Does your Inquisitor stick to canon origin stories, or did you change it to fit your story? I.E is your dwarf Inquisitor a mage, is your “rogue archer” Inquisitor secretly a mage, etc. 1. 5 Do they have any artistic, singing, dancing talents? Anything that stands out? Any hobbies?

Appearance. 2. 1 Give a detailed description of what they look like, or add a picture! 2. 2 How do they view themselves physically? Do they believe they’re attractive, or have low self-esteem? Is there any one particular thing about themselves they wish they could change? 2. 3 What about mentally? How do they view who they are as a person? Do they believe they’re a good person? Bad? Do they like or dislike who they are? 2. 4 Do they have any scars, and if so, how and where did they get them? Why were the wounds not healed with magic? Any tattoos or piercings? If they have vallaslin, what colour is the ink? At what age did they get it and what does it represent? Do they regret any of those choices? 2. 5 If they have vallaslin, how did they feel about learning the truth behind it? 2. 6 Which voice out of the four options do they have, or do you have a voiceclaim for them? What about faceclaims?

Personality and views. 3. 1 What kind of person are they? Give a detailed description of their personality. Are they friendly, broody, quick-tempered, impatient, etc? Flaws and strengths? 3. 2 How do they view other species/races? 3. 3 How did they react to suddenly being in charge? Are they a natural born leader, or are they waiting for the first chance to escape? 3. 4 Does their personality change during the events of the game? How so? 3. 5 What is their opinion on magic, templars, seekers, apostates, blood mages/blood magic, the chantry? 3. 6 If a non-mage, do they have any former templar training? How did they get into it? 3. 7 Any political views within Thedas that stand out? 3. 8 How do they view the countries of Thedas? Do any of their views stand out as noteworthy? How do they view Tevinter and the controversy surrounding it? 3. 9 How do they feel about the fall of Arlathan and the Dales? Do they hold all humans accountable? If dalish, does it hurt to think about, or is it so far in the past that they’re detached? Does their opinion on these things change upon learning what truly happened to Arlathan? 3. 10 What are their religious views? If dalish, how do they react upon learning that the Old Gods were just powerful mages? How do they feel about them being locked away? Do they feel abandoned, betrayed, angry? 3. 11 What are some of their favourite things in all of Thedas? The ocean, baby nugs, the colour silver, rainy nights? Any reasons? 3. 12 What is their greatest wish, hope, dream? What is their greatest fear? How do these things affect who they are?

Skills. 4. 1 What was their fighting skill like before they were sent to the conclave? Did they know how to fight, or were they thrown into the fray? 4. 2 How does this improve during their time in the Inquisition? If a mage, do they have any knowledge of how to use swords, daggers, or bows? Were they self-taught? 4. 3 How do they deal with combat? Do they drag it out, hack and slash, or get it over with as fast as possible? How do they feel about death and killing? Was their first kill during the Inquisition, or have they killed before that? How did they cope with it?

Backstory. 5. 1 What’s their backstory? 5. 2 What were they like as a toddler, child, teenager, and now as an adult? 5. 3 Any traumatic or noteworthy incidents that have stayed with them? How did they cope with it? 5. 4 What is the greatest tragedy that has ever happened to them? How did it shape who they are? 5. 5 Do they know the Hero of Ferelden or anyone from Origins? How and when did they meet? Do they still keep in contact? 5. 6 What about Hawke or anyone from DA2? If so, does Varric know that Hawke and the Inquisitor know one another? 5. 7 How did they feel about being sent to the conclave? Did they volunteer or was it forced upon them? 5. 8 Are they happy with where they come from? Do they wish they had a higher or lower standing in society? Have they run away, or wanted to? Family. 6. 1 What are the names of their parents? Are they living or dead? What are or were they like? Does the Inquisitor have a healthy relationship with them? 6. 2 Any siblings, nieces, nephews? Tell us about them. 6. 3 Any children that the Inquisition does or doesn’t know about? Why do they keep their children a secret, if so? Are they mixed race? Where are they now, who do they live with? How do they feel about their parent being named Herald of Andraste? If none, does the Inquisitor want children in the future? Talk about them here. 6. 4 What was their family home like growing up? Did they stay in one place or move around a lot? 6. 5 Who is the Inquisitors closest friend? How did they become friends? Was it always a happy friendship or was it enemies-to-friends? How has it evolved or crumbled during the Inquisition? 6. 6 Is there anyone they aren’t on good terms with? Anyone they can’t stand? Either individual people or organizations (Red Templars, etc). Why so?

Romance. 7. 1 Did the Inquisitor romance anyone from the Inquisition, or were they solo? 7. 2 When did they first begin to have feelings for their love interest? 7. 3 Was there a break up? Was it permanent, or did they rekindle? Are they still friends? 7. 4 How do they feel about their relationship? Is it serious, or fun? 7. 5 Do they fight often? What is it most often about? 7. 6 Are they a flirt? 7. 7 Do they want to marry their love interest, or is it not on their mind right now?

Misc. 8. 1 Do they have a favourite place in all of Thedas? Is there anywhere they’d hate to be? 8. 2 Do you have a playlist for the Inquisitor? A theme song? 8. 3 Do they carry around anything significant to them that has sentimental value? 8. 4 What languages can they speak? Were they self taught? 8. 5 Have they ever been arrested outside of the conclave explosion? If so, what was it for? How long was their sentence? Did they escape or were they let go? 8. 6 Have they ever been drunk? When was their first time being drunk? What are they like being drunk? Do they get any hangovers or do anything they regret? 8. 7 Are they addicted to anything? Have they tried to stop? How does it affect their stay in the Inquisition?

Pick Your Party. 9. 0 Who does the Inquisitor most often bring with them on quests? Do you pick this based on who they’d want with them, or who you as a player needs at the time? 9. 0. 0 Do you make decisions based on your Inquisitor in a roleplay sense, or do you make decisions based on what you as a player wants? 9. 1 What were their first opinions of the companions and advisors? 9. 2 How does their relationship with them change during the game? Have they grown closer or further apart? 9. 3 If allied with the mages, does the Inquisitor and Dorian share a bond from being trapped in a destroyed future together, or were they able to brush it off easily with no impact? 9. 4 Did they help Blackwall find the Grey Warden objects? Did they go out of their way to find them, or was it just right place right time? 9. 5 Did they help Cassandra hunt down the missing Seekers? How did they feel about finding out the truth of the seekers and tranquility? 9. 6 Did Cassandra rebuild the Seekers? 9. 7 How did they react to Cassandra’s love for Varric’s books? Did they help, or tease her? Have they ever read Varric’s books? 9. 8 Did they help Dorian hunt down Venatori agents? How do they feel about the Venatori? 9. 9 What happened during the events of Dorian and his father? Was the Inquisitor supportive? 9. 10 How does the Inquisitor feel about Mother Giselle? 9. 11 Did the Inquisitor become a Red Jenny? 9. 12 What became of Harmons? Did Sera kill him? If so, how did the Inquisitor react? 9. 13 Did they help Solas retrieve the elven artifact? Did they help Mirhis? Was there a fight for the amulet? 9. 14 Did they help Solas and his spirit friend? Was the demon killed by the Inquisitor? 9. 15 Were the Chargers sacrificed? Why or why not? 9. 16 Did they help Varric with the red lyrium, and with Bianca? How did they feel upon learning that lyrium is alive? 9. 17 Did they bring a real Snowy Wyvern heart to Vivienne, or a fake one? How did they react to Vivienne's beloved? 9. 18 How did they react to Cullen’s lyrium addiction? Did they help Cullen become clean? 9. 19 How do they feel about Krem? Have they ever met an Aqun-Athlok before? 9. 20 How do they react to Zevran and the Crows? Do they know anything about them? Do they keep in contact?

Finding a Safe Haven. 10. 1 What was their reaction upon being locked up? Did they immediately resent Cassandra (and/or Leliana) for it? 10. 2 Did they try to escape before reaching the breach? Did they consider killing anyone to escape? 10. 3 What was their reaction upon learning that they could seal rifts? 10. 4 What’s their opinion on Haven? Is it too cold for them, too loud, too quiet? 10. 5 What is their opinion on Roderick? What about other minor characters within Haven? 10. 6 Which path did they take to get to the breach? What was their reason? Do they feel guilty about the casualties of the other path? 10. 7 How do they react to being named the Herald of Andraste? Do they ask people not to call them that, or do they wear the title proudly? How do they feel about Andraste and the Maker in general? Mages, Templars, Seekers, (oh my!) 11. 1 Did they choose to ally with the templars or with the mages? Why? Did they take their companions opinions into consideration or was their mind set? 11. 2 How do they feel about the conflict? Do they think it’s time the mages got their freedom no matter how, or are they staunchly pro-circle? 11. 3 How do they react to the templars and seekers going rogue? Is it a surprise? 11. 4 How does the Inquisitor react to learning of the plot to ally with Tevinter? Do they agree with it, or blame Fiona? 11. 4 How do they feel about Alexius and Felix? What was their reaction to Felix's letter? Did they trust it, or were they suspicious? 11. 5 Did they care about Felix's illness, or was it unimportant to them? Would they have tried to help him, if they could? How did they react to the events of the potential future? 11. 6 How did they react to meeting the King or Queen? What do they think of King Alistair or Queen Anora? 11. 7 How did they react upon gaining the support of the templars/mages? Were they glad to be surrounded by them, or did they wish to be as far away from them as possible? 11. 8 Did they want to relax, after gaining the support of the templars/mages, or did they want to celebrate? 11. 9 How did they react to Corypheus and Samson/Calpernia? 11. 10 Did the Inquisitor try to save as many people as possible? Did they feel guilty about the ones they couldn't save? 11. 11 How does the Inquisitor feel about being a distraction for Corypheus while Haven flees? Did they volunteer? 11. 12 How do they react to being lost? Did they walk until their legs give out, or did they want to curl into a ball of fear? How do they react to being found by Cullen and Cassandra? Did it change their dynamic with either of them? 11. 13 How do they feel about being chosen as leader of the Inquisition? 11. 14 How do they react to Solas telling them the orb is of elven origin?

Skyhold. 12. 1 What are their thoughts on Skyhold as a whole? Do they get lost easily? Any favourite areas or areas that they’ve decorated? 12. 2 Do they change the appearance of Skyhold often with throne replacement or banner decorations? Does the Inquisition object to it? 12. 3 How do they generally judge people in trials? Are they lenient or brutal? Do they enjoy being a judge, or would they rather pass the responsibility to someone else? Do they visit prisoners? 12. 5 Any noteworthy trials? 12. 6 Does your Inquisitor generally use Force, Secrets, or Connections to complete War Table Operations? Why? What does the Inquisitor usually spend Inquisition Perks on? 12. 7 Do they have any pets? What mount do they most often ride?

Phoenix. 13. 1 How does the Inquisitor react to Hawkes presence? Do they get along? Do they agree? Do the tales live up to the reality? 13. 2 Who is Hawke? Mage? Sarcastic? Did they romance anyone? Is their partner with them in Skyhold, or did they stay behind?

Here lies my heart. 14. 1 Who is the Warden contact, and how does the Inquisitor feel about them? Have they met them before? Do they spend time with the contact at all outside of combat and quests? 14. 2 How do they react to the letter the Hero of Ferelden sends? Do they write back? Do the Warden and the Inquisitor then keep in contact? 14. 3 How do they feel about The Calling? 14. 4 What is their opinion on the Wardens? Did they know anything about them beforehand? Have they ever met a Warden before the contact? 14. 5 Would they join the Wardens, if they could? 14. 6 How does the Inquisitor react to Warden-Commander Clarel? 14. 7 Did they bring Blackwall along? If so, are they suspicious that he never heard the Calling? Does it raise red-flags? 14. 8 Did they intend to open a portal to the Fade, or was it accidental? 14. 9 How do they react to being in the Fade again? Do they have nightmares about it afterwards? 14. 10 Do they believe the spirit they encounter is truly Divine Justinia? 14. 11 How do they react to the revelation regarding the Wardens’ involvement in the Conclave attack? Do they exile the Wardens? 14. 12 What would the Nightmare say to the Inquisitor? 14. 13 How do they react to learning it was the Divine behind them in the Fade, not Andraste? Does it break their spirit, or are they relieved? 14. 14 What would be on the Inquisitors tombstone? What about Hawkes? 14. 15 What else do the Fearlings take the shape of, or are they all giant spiders? 14. 16 Who do they leave behind in the Fade? Any guilt or regret? Why do they choose this person? If Alistair or Hawke, how does the Warden or Hawke’s love interest react to their death? 14. 17 How do they respond to Varric if Hawke dies? Do they comfort him? Does it change their dynamic?

No Rest for the Wicked. 15. 1 What is their opinion on returning to Orlais? 15. 2 How do they feel about the ball? Are they excited? How do they feel about the clothes they're wearing? 15. 3 Is the Inquisition confident that the Inquisitor will succeed at the ball, or is there a fear that they'll be kicked out within five minutes? Is the Inquisitor the belle of the ball, or do they barely scrape by? 15. 4 What happened during the ball? Any romance? Did they gather coins, secrets? 15. 5 How does the Inquisitor react to Briala? Celene? Gaspard? Do they agree with Briala? 15. 6 What becomes of Orlais? Who holds the throne? 15. 7 Does the Inquisitor dance with anyone? 15. 8 What is their first impression of Morrigan? Does this change during the events of the game? Do they spend time together? How do they feel about Kieran? Who is Kieran's father? Do they meet? How does the Inquisitor react to Kieran's parentage? 15. 9 How do they feel about the Orlesian Game? 15. 10 Are they a good dancer, or do they have two left feet?

Pride and Prejudice. 16. 1 Does the Inquisitor take the Pilgrim’s Path, or fight their way through? What is their reason for this? 16. 2 Does the Inquisitor ally with Abelas or Morrigan? How do they feel about Abelas? Does it change their view of Elves at all? 16. 3 If Dalish, does Morrigan's attitude annoy them at all? Do they confront her? 16. 4 Do they drink from the Well of Sorrows? Why or why not? If so, does it change them at all?

Run, Kieran, Run! 17. 1 How do they react to the disappearance of Kieran? Are they worried? 17. 2 How do they first react to Flemeth, and then Mythal? 17. 3 If they drank from the Well, how do they react from discovering they are now the servant of Mythal? Are they fearful, determined to find a way out of it, or do they believe she holds no power over them? 17. 4 How do they react to finding out who Kieran really is?

Hope Will Never Die. 18. 1 How does the Inquisitor feel about facing Corypheus for the last time? Do they feel confident? Do they believe they will survive the encounter? How do they cope with the possibility of failure? Are there any tearful farewells? 18. 2 How do they react to the broken orb? 18. 3 How do they react to defeating Corypheus? Are they relieved, unnerved? Are they in disbelief? 18. 4 If they drank from the Well, did the Dragon they mastered survived, or was it killed in the fight with Corypheus's dragon? How do they react to now having a pet Dragon? Does it serve them, or fly away after the battle? 18. 5 How did they feel about Solas's disappearance?

I Know the Mark Like the Back of My Hand. 19. 1 How do they feel about the Anchor? Is it sacred to them? Do they hate it? Have they tried to remove it? 19. 2 Does it hurt? How much? 19. 3 Does it control them, or do they control it? 19. 4 Can they do any fun tricks with it? 19. 5 Has it gotten them into trouble? (ex; glowing in a dungeon and alerting enemies)

Jaws of Hakkon. 20. 1 How do they react upon learning that they will be investigating the fate of the last Inquisitor? 20. 2 Do they gain an alliance with the Avvar? 20. 3 How do they feel about the Avvar? 20. 4 How do they react to Telana? How do they react to her Dreamer abilities? 20. 5 How do they react to discovering the truth of Ameridan? Does this change their opinion of history? If Dalish, how much does it affect them to discover that they were an elven mage? 20. 6 Do they vow to tell the world the truth, or do they continue letting people believe that Ameridan was a human noble? 20. 7 What becomes of Storvacker?

The Descent. 21. 1 How do they feel about the Deep Roads? Did they find the scenery beautiful, unnerving? Are they afraid of heights? 21. 2 How do they feel about Valta and Renn? 21. 3 Did they believe in the Titans? 21. 4 How did they react to Renn's death? 21. 5 How did they react to the truth of Titan's? 21. 6 How did they react to being inside a Titan? 21. 7 How did they react to Valta using magic? 21. 8 ow did they react to Valta staying in the Deep Roads? Were they concerned for her safety? Did they send search parties to later look for her? Any headcanons of what became of her?

Trespasser. 22. 1 How has the Inquisitor changed in two years? What have they been up to? 22. 2 How has the relationships with the Inquisition changed? 22. 3 How has their love life been? 22. 4 Are they happy to get back into the fray, or annoyed? Were they hoping for peace and quiet? 22. 5 How do they feel about Bann Teagan? 22. 6 How do they feel about the people's wish for the Inquisition to be disbanded? Does the Inquisitor agree? 22. 7 How do they feel about the Qunari being involved? 22. 7 Do they suspect Solas of being involved, or does it come as a complete shock? 22. 8 How do they feel about the ancient elven city beyond the Eluvians? 22. 9 How do they react to finding out Solas is Fen'Harel? Did they ever have even a small hint or suspicion that something about Solas wasn't right? 22. 10 How do they feel about Fen'Harel in general? Has it changed their opinion of him? 22. 11 How do they react to their mark flaring up again? Are they angry? Do they become frightened? 22. 12 Do they believe that the fight with the Viddasala will kill them? Do they say goodbye to their companions? What about their love interest? 22. 13 How do they feel about Fen'Harel's plan? Do they agree with him or vow to stop him? 22. 14 How do they react to their arm being ripped off? How do they cope with it? Was it a relief to be rid of the mark? How do they adjust to life without it? Do they use magic to compensate? How does their love interest help them? 22. 15 Do they get married? How is their marriage? What was the celebration like? 22. 16 What becomes of the Inquisition? What was the reason for the Inquisitor’s choice? 22. 17 What happens after Trespasser? How is the Thedas looking? What are your headcanons?

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #the inquisitor #dai #dragon age 3 #oc meme #oc template

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jewishzevran · 4 years

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Companion Guide: Ori Lavellan

Original template from @dextronoms, art by @tzedekart

Inquisitor’s Name: Ori Lavellan

Alternate Name?: None

Race, Class, & Specialization: Elf, Mage, Spirit Healer/Fire

Varric’s Nickname for them: Firecracker

Default Tarot Card: Strength (bravery, compassion, protection)

How they are recruited: Ori is part of a group of Dalish elves from the Free Marches that have come to assist the rebel mages. She can be found in the Hinterlands, tending to the wounded in a refugee camp. She will initially be standoffish with non-mage or non-elf Inquisitors, but through conversation will reveal that a nearby group of bandits have stolen most of her medical supplies and she fears those she is treating will die without them. If the party locate the bandits and retrieve her supplies, the Inquisitor can ask her to join the Inquisition as they need talented medics such as herself.

Where they are in Haven: Ori can be found near the pier, past the soldiers, where she has set up a small fire and healer’s tent. She will be tending to the injury of a soldier resting on her cot, and she will be singing under her breath quietly. There is a cutscene with Cullen where the Inquisitor happens upon the end of an argument between the two, and observes Ori take a swing at the commander before storming off. The Inquisitor will comment on her aim, and Cullen will nurse a split lip. If the Inquisitor asks what the argument was about, Cullen will say that Ori grew up in Kirkwall and there are apparently wounds that are still raw.

Where they are in Skyhold: Ori will be outside the infirmary, watching the courtyard, though sometimes she may be either tending to injured soldiers, or observing the sparring ring. Most of her cutscenes take place in the courtyard area. With a high enough approval, the Inquisitor can inquire about her past, and she will divulge that she was born in the Kirkwall, that her parents were killed by Templars raiding the alienage looking for elven apostate children to take to the Gallows, and that she left to seek out her mother’s clan in around 9:34 Dragon. Her opening dialogue at Skyhold begins with her covering the body of a dead soldier, but thanking the Inquisitor for saving so many lives.

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Things they Generally Approve of:

Greatly Approve -

Making the mages allies

Saving all the civilians in Haven

Putting Briala in Power

Drinking from the Well of Sorrows (Elf Inquisitor)

Gaining approval from the Dalish (if in party)

Approve -

Compassionate choices in judgements

Completing side quests that help civilians, mages or elves

Allowing the Grey Wardens to join the Inquisition

Picking the infirmary upgrade for Skyhold

Slightly Approve -

Killing Red Templars

Exploring Elven Ruins

Dialogue options that are chantry and templar critical

Things they Generally Disapprove of:

Greatly Disapprove -

Making the mages prisoners

Recruiting the Templars (without disbanding)

Reuniting Celene and Briala

Keeping Celene in power

Selling the Dalish history to the chantry

Clan Lavellan killed

Disapprove -

Supporting Cassandra as Divine

Allowing Morrigan to drink from the Well of Sorrows (Elf Inquisitor)

Claiming to be the Herald of Andraste

Letting Cullen interrogate Samson

Telling Cullen to continue taking Lyrium

Slightly Disapprove -

Killing Dragons

Lying to Dorian about his father’s letter

Making Cole human

Dialogue that is critical or derogatory towards elves

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Mages, Templars, Other?: Ori is resolutely pro-mage. If recruited before In Hushed Whispers/Champions of the Just, and the mages are made prisoners or templars not disbanded, she will leave the Inquisition unless the Inquisitor is an elf or a mage, in which case she may be persuaded to stay, but she will still greatly disapprove. Several of her further dialogue options are locked off, and it will be impossible to complete her personal quest. If she is not sought out until after the quest and either of these choices were picked, she will be permanently unrecruitable.

Friends in the Inquisition: Varric, Iron Bull, Cole, Krem, Sera, Vivienne (if questioned about their differing positions regarding the Circles, Ori will remark that she and Vivienne disagree but she has a great deal of respect for her, and values her opinion highly).

Rivals in the Inquisition: Cullen, Cassandra, Morrigan Neutral towards: Dorian, Solas, Blackwall, Josephine, Leliana

Romanceable?: Ori is not romanceable by the Inquisitor, though flirt dialogues are available for all races and genders. If the Inquisitor is persistent enough, it will trigger a cutscene where the two are alone, and the Inquisitor leans in to kiss Ori. She will pull away and apologise, saying that she hadn’t meant to lead the Inquisitor on, but that she is in love with someone else. If Anders was romanced in DA2, Ori will remark that her affections are unrequited.

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Small Side Quest: A Night of Revelry Ori will mention to the inquisitor that the elves that are part of the inquisition are feeling quite homesick, particularly the Dalish that have been separated from their clans, and she would like to hold a party for a night to allow the elves to celebrate their culture, with traditional Dalish songs and dances. If the Inquisitor agrees, Ori asks them to acquire some ingredients so she can help the kitchen make food in preparation. Once this is complete and the items delivered to the kitchen, a cutscene will trigger with Ori inside the Herald’s Rest who is stood on a table singing whilst a very large gathering of elves joins in, interjected with cheering and whistling. A space has been cleared for a dance floor and there is a band of elvish musicians playing where Maryden usually is. Ori will notice the Inquisitor as her song finishes, and she comes to talk to them and thank them for allowing them to have such a special evening.

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

Companion quest: Sanctum Santorum Note: This quest is only available when approval with Ori is very high. A cutscene will trigger where Ori is poring over a map, and will jump when the Inquisitor appears. She will look visibly nervous and flustered, and asks very seriously if she can trust the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor replies with yes, and Ori will then say she has managed to track an old friend to somewhere in the Emerald Graves and asks the Inquisitor to go with her and help find him. The next time Ori is in the party in the Emerald Graves, a small cutscene will trigger where she notices a mark on a tree and remarks that “he must be close”. The search function is then used to find three more signs (blood from an animal carcass, flattened grass from someone sitting or lying down, and the remnants of a fire, the last being outside a well-hidden cave. A magical trap is triggered and the party must fight off several angry spirits. When combat ends, a cutscene is triggered of the Inquisitor and Ori creeping inside the cave at night. A spell comes flying out the dark and both characters dodge, then a voice shouts from further in “don’t come any closer!” The Inquisitor goes for their weapon and Ori places a hand on their arm and shakes her head. She then lights a flame, illuminating herself, the Inquisitor and most of the cave, shedding light on a small, dirty campsite situated right at the back, and a cloaked figure with a staff raised to attack. She then says quietly, “Anders? It’s me. It’s Ori.” The figure slowly drops their staff, then steps into the light and pulls their hood down revealing themselves to indeed be Anders. He squints at the pair for a moment, and upon recognising Ori, breaks into a smile and hugs her tightly. Dialogue then follows where Ori reveals her long-standing friendship with Anders and the Inquisitor can ask about their history. If questioned, Ori will say she supports Anders’ actions at the end of DA2, and will remark that it pained her to see a place of worship destroyed and lives lost as a result but after all the evil she’s seen, she knows it was necessary. After dialogue is finished, Ori will thank the Inquisitor for coming with her, and beg them not to say anything.

Option 1: Let Anders go. Ori will greatly approve of this choice. If this option is selected, the Inquisitor will promise to keep Anders’ location a secret, and hopes they can meet one day in better circumstances. Ori and Anders will say their goodbyes, and Ori and the Inquisitor will depart. Back at Skyhold a cutscene will trigger where Ori is sat by a window reading a letter and smiling, and when prompted, will say it is from Anders. She will thank the Inquisitor again, and say that she lost contact with him when she left Kirkwall to join her mother’s clan, so she’s glad he’s safe and that she can keep an eye on him again. If the kiss scene has been played, the Inquisitor can comment on Ori’s feelings for Anders, asking if he is the person she had previously referred to. She will agree, and either comment sadly on Hawke being who makes him happy, (if he was romanced in DA2), or blush and say she hopes one day she will pluck up the courage to confess to him. There is a dialogue option for the Inquisitor to encourage this.

Option 2: Bring Anders back to Skyhold for judgement (unlocks the quest The Judgement of Anders).

Ori will greatly disapprove of this choice, and will be visibly upset, telling the Inquisitor she trusted them and feels betrayed, and will not listen to any justifications for this decision. It will be impossible to engage in dialogue with her until The Judgement of Anders is complete; the first attempt to do so will trigger a cutscene in the infirmary where Ori shouts at the Inquisitor, for all subsequent attempts she will simply reply “leave me, I have patients to care for”.

Follow-up Quest: The Judgement of Anders

Ori will be present in the main hall during this judgement.

If the Inquisitor pardons Anders, Ori will greatly approve. After the quest is finished, the next time she is interacted with, it will trigger a cutscene where the Inquisitor walks in on Anders and Ori holding each other, both crying and laughing. They break apart when they hear the Inquisitor, and Anders will smile at the Inquisitor, squeeze Ori’s hand and leave the room. Ori will then give the Inquisitor a tight hug, and thank them profusely. There will be dialogue about what Anders plans to do forthwith, and the Inquisitor has the option to invite him to stay on as healer at Skyhold, which Ori will greatly approve of. The Inquisitor will now also have the same dialogue options regarding her romantic sentiments from option 1. If Anders stays on as healer, then, Ori will then sometimes be found talking with him inside the infirmary. If not romanced in DA2, idle dialogue later in the game will imply that he and Ori have started a relationship.

If the Inquisitor conscripts Anders, Ori will have no approval change, but if the Inquisitor executes Anders, Ori will greatly disapprove and permanently leave the Inquisition.

Tarot card change:

Option 1 - If Anders let go: VI of Cups (reunion, healing, joy)

Option 2 - If Anders brought to Skyhold: X of Swords (betrayal, defeat, loss)

Option 3 - If Anders pardoned: The Star (hope, faith, renewal)

Option 4 - If Anders executed: III of Swords (heartbreak, suffering, grief)

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

Cole’s reflection on their thoughts:

“Panic. Screaming. Armor silver and sharp and unforgiving. Helplessness. Grief. So much anger. Family taken without warning. “In their blood the maker’s will is written”. A hole in your chest. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It’s my fault. I should have stopped it.”

“White lines where skin has healed but you still feel its bite. Dreams darkened by wretched smiles and pleas for mercy gone unanswered. Tears darken the dirt and water the roots of the tree that cries out in anguish for salvation that will never come.”

“So full of righteous fury. So determined to seek justice. A clenched fist, gritted teeth, a battle cry. An apron worn like armor. A voice for the voiceless. A flame inside that never dies. Always strong. Always caring. I will protect them. There is so much love inside you.”

“You love him. He sees you when no one else does. Words spoken through silence. Hazel eyes and healer’s hands. Soft smiles and gentle touches that feel almost holy. (If Anders was romanced in DA2) You whisper his name in the dark. It hurts that he doesn’t hear it, but you want him to be happy more than anything else.”

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

Comment(s) on Mages: (referring to the Circle) “No one deserves to be locked away for a circumstance of birth.” / “We’ve been fighting for so long. We just want freedom and peace.” / “Magic is a gift.” / “Our light will outlast this hatred.”

Comment(s) on Templars: “They claim to be peacekeepers, but they wield fear like a weapon.” / “I’ve never met a Templar I can trust. They’re all the same.”

When looking for something: “Keep your eyes sharp.” / “We should investigate.”

When finding a campsite: “We should rest.” / “This will be good for a camp.”

When the Inquisitor Falls: “Be more careful!” / “Not on my watch, Inquisitor!”

When they are low on Health: “It’s not wise to let your healer die!” / “Fenhedis!”

When they see a Dragon: “So beautiful, and so misunderstood. It is a privilege to behold such a creature.”

Default saying: "How can I help you?" / (high approval, teasing) “What needs healing this time?”

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

Travel Banter with Canon Companions:

Varric: It’s been a while, Firecracker. Ori: Indeed it has. It’s good to be adventuring with you again Varric. Varric: Just like old times! Though I suppose if we’re picking our favourite old times, I’d rather be drinking the liquor you and Daisy used to make than out here shooting demons. Ori: (laughs) I think the demons are easier to handle.

Cassandra: You are Dalish, Lavellan, but you were raised in Kirkwall? Ori: (curtly) Yes. Cassandra: Why did you leave? Ori: Templars murdered my parents. Cassandra: I’m sorry. Ori: I will not speak of them again. Not to you. Cassandra: What have I done to make you dislike me so? Ori: You stand for an order that has enslaved and murdered my people for generations, justify the imprisonment and oppression of mages, refuse to acknowledge the corruption in your own ranks and then choose to remain wilfully ignorant of why I have cause to distrust you. Cassandra: I… Ori: I would wish that you could spend a day in my shoes during my time in the alienage, Seeker, but I do not think you would survive it.

(If Anders was not romanced in DA2, and was invited to stay with the Inquisition after his trial) Iron Bull: So… Ori: So? Iron Bull: You and Blondie, huh? Ori: What about us? Iron Bull: Have you told him how you feel yet? Ori: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Iron Bull: Sure. And I’m the Queen of Antiva. Ori: Is it really that obvious? Iron Bull: Kid, you’re about as subtle as my horns. He’s about the only person in all of Skyhold that hasn’t noticed. Ori: Oh sweet creators…

Vivienne: You are a very talented mage, my dear. Ori: As are you, ma’am. It is a privilege to watch you fight. I have learnt much. Blackwall: But you use different styles of magic? Ori: Frost and Fire are opposites yes, but Madame de Fer’s use of offensive ice magic informs my defensive fire, and vice versa. I learn how to better protect myself and exploit my enemy’s weakness. Vivienne: (smiling) Very astute my dear. We shall have to meet up to practice some time. Ori: I should like that very much, ma’am.

(if Blackwall was pardoned after his revelation) Blackwall: There have been many that have turned their backs on me, Miss Ori, but you have not wavered in your kindness. I am very grateful for that. Ori: I may disapprove of your original actions, Blackwall, but we have all done things we are not proud of. What matters is how we move forward.

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

Leaving the Inquisition: (what do they say or do if the approval is low enough for them to leave?)

Ori will leave the Inquisition if her approval becomes low enough, or after choices she disapproves of after In Hushed Whispers/Champions of the Just or The Judgement of Anders.

Ori will be found packing her bags in the infirmary. If this takes place after Anders’ execution, she will be seen holding his mage robes to her chest and weeping. She will not acknowledge the Inquisitor until her name is spoken, and then she will turn around, visibly shaken and upset.

“I trusted you. I thought you might actually make a difference, that you cared. But you are just like the rest of them. You stand here claiming to be holy and expect me to believe that your God - any God - would condone this? You are drunk on power and your heart is bitter and cruel. I will not assist your crusade or become complicit as you remain blinded to the corruption running through the heart of your ideals. May your name and memory be erased. I pray we never meet again, Herald.”

#ash writes #ori lavellan #inquisitor as a companion #inquisitor lavellan #my ocs #oof this was long

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lonelypond · 3 years

Text

Calypso

NicoMaki, Love Live, 5.3K, 1/1

Exiled by angry parents, Nishikino Maki washes up on an isolated island.

Calypso

“I refuse.”

Nishikino Maki still heard her own words, her own shout, echoing here, where the angry winds, laden with a storm of punishment had pushed her. By the docks, up to her knees in surging, stinging sea water, hungry, angry birds rushing from the open sea for safe havens, their wings sharp against her soaked skin, their fearful velocity another wind pummeling her. She would fall. Her fingers would ache for that which had been torn from them. And perhaps a crueler wind would take her, push her out, away from this cramped place where her defiance echoed. She fell back, for just a minute, letting a surge push her, hoping for a breath to rest before fighting again, but then another surge, and a crosscurrent that ripped her coat away, a strike of lightning that bit into her and a spar that slashed her torso, and a wind that drove her against a door, a vine coiled around the frame, bright green, heavy with grapes ripe for plucking, lit with a banked glow as if sunlight still lingered to bless it. Maki fell, but the landing was softer than she expected and new winds, soft with scents of cypress, citrus, and pine welcomed her to a kinder darkness.

###

Maki, surprised to be lying on a bed of soft cloths, sat up, her ears sharp for any sound. Only a song, in the distant, a beautiful, lilting melody full of longing that should have pleased Maki but only reminded her of what she was now missing, a worse loss than if her parents had ripped her arms from her side. The top linen fell away and Maki shivered, suddenly cold. Her shirt had been removed and her torso was wrapped in a bandage, ichor starting to leak through the layers. Had the singer done this?

“Hello!?!??!?!” Maki called, confused. From the sounds around her, she could still hear the sea, but as if she were near a calm shore, with birds flying and insects buzzing through meadows and trees, not the bustling port she had last been standing in. Where had the floodwaters washed her?

The song stopped. Maki waited, alert for the sounds heralding the singer’s approach. The steps were light, swishing through grass and flowers, petals and pollen perfuming air and ankles. No sound of a door, but then, at the archway, a small beauty, long sable hair loose, flowing silver robe, a golden belt around the waist, deep carved rubies for eyes.

“Welcome. Nico is glad to see you awake.”

Maki pulled up the sheet, “How long have I been here.”

Nico...that was the name, right? Maki thought, moved to the bed, reaching under the sheet to check Maki’s wound, “Not long enough to heal.”

Maki fought a sudden urge to apologize. “I didn’t ask for help.”

A raised eyebrow. An expression full of textures, laid over weariness like concealing makeup on an actor’s skin. A lilt in the voice. Flirty. Maki recognized all the signals, they’d washed over her so many times, calm tides, flowing, then ebbing from so many beauties. Was she really the icy stone this exquisitely, aesthetically pleasing stranger might be carved out of.

“Here, you must be hungry.” Nico left, returning with a tray heaped with ambrosia, a goblet in her other hand. “Drink this.”

Maki took the goblet in both hands, cautious, but the scent of the finest wines and fruits wafted up. Nectar. Deep red, a match for the rubies watching her. Bowing a thanks, Maki drank, feeling the immediate effect of the immortal delicacy.

“You’ll be fine now.” A quick hand tousled Maki’s hair and then she was alone.

###

Maki sat on the shore, amidst the cries of hawks and gulls, hunting, splashing in the sea, and then returning to this grove, sacred alders, poplar, and pine, returning to home, to cede the sea to owls hungry after rest. Her fingers ached. A natural music surrounded her, buffeting her, taunting her with notes she could not pluck from air to join the melody.

“Maki!”

Nico’s voice disturbed nothing, drove none of the singers away, it was as natural a feature of this grove as all the winged songbirds and hunters. Hunter. Maki felt hunted, here always, found always, and never understood. A hand grasped hers. Maki had stopped pulling away, but her fingers laid limp in Nico’s grasp.

“Longing for wings?”

“A voice.”

Nico tilted her head, still puzzled, after this year’s pass of the seasons, by her latest visitor. “You have a lovely one.”

Maki almost raised her hands, to show the empty space between them, but still reluctant to share. Her own parents raising all of their might to assail her, who could she trust? Had she washed up here as a trap, the storm ready to rip her away if she ever relaxed her vigilance?

Nico shrugged, eyes now on the sea, Maki uncertain what thoughts raced underneath the pleasant mask that only showed hints of fiery passion, like the pulsing sun pushing through the dark night’s horizon.

“Nico has made you a home here, a place to heal, but you still grieve.”

“Why are you alone?” Aside from animated wood carvings that seemed to serve as servants, Maki had seen no gods or humans since that stormy night. Was Nico a jailer or an exile?

“Nico loves the peace, the chance to weave and sing, the beauty and the bounty.” Nico inhaled, Maki found herself doing the same, a bright, sharp mix of pine and sea invigorating, “No place compares to here.” Maki, sensitive to every note, could hear the lie.

“No truths live on this island.” Maki’s fingers turned fist in Nico’s grasp.

Nico spun, her fingers now capturing Maki’s face, a gentle touch, but demanding, as ruby fires sought to spark a response, “κρυβόμαστε. We all hide.”

The ancient tongue jarred, Maki’s mind made a picture of it rather than an understanding, their cave, hidden, grown over with vines, surging waves and solitude another fortification.

Then Nico kissed her, lips ripe with honeyed fruits. Maki closed her eyes and heart to awareness, the sweetness merely a plucked grape on her tongue.

###

Maki woke, restless, muscles sore, sunlight bright through the crown of trees that surrounded this platform. She rose, Nico still oblivious next to her, smiling softly, sleeping, wrapped in some secret satisfaction left by their joining last night. Curious, dared by a dangerous boredom to unite, Maki had sweated and sobbed and finally, exhausted by exertion, relaxed into a slumber that skimmed above the depths of dreams, but she woke clear eyed, untouched by any comfort, still the ache, a longing for her hands to reach for what had been stripped from her.

The drop to the ground was easy, her landing cushioned. She had yet to explore this part of the island. Rocks that reached out from the shore until the sea swallowed them, diving pale birds eager for their morning meal. Beyond the rocks, down the beach, Maki saw a shadow. Was this another cave, exposed by the low tide? Was this an exit? Maki hurried, eyes only on what she might find, the freedom that might be open to her, not a glance backward for the woman she’d dropped away from.

A cave, shallow, the air thick with sea and saltwater and perhaps, a thin, sour strain of smog and sweat and scores of hasty mortals. Maki, splashing in her own haste to rejoin the throng, reached the back wall, its stone cold, with the irregularity of uncarved nature. She could barely see, morning sunlight had not joined her as the tide rose, but her fingers quested. To her left, she felt wood. A door. But locked. Marshalling what magic of will she had, she forced her intent into the grain, perhaps this wood, though not supple, could be charmed to strum an exit open between notes. But it remained dull, unmoving, beneath her fingers, deaf to her demands, while she could feel the world she’d been pushed out of throbbing on the other side, with rhythms fast and fond to her, a familiar call chased away by Nico’s voice, grating as it interrupted her effort.

“Maki? The tide’s coming in.”

Nico was not surprised by the door.

Maki whirled, “Open this. Let me go.”

Nico glowed faintly, as if she had carried sunlight there. “Go where? To the people who called the storm on you, who stabbed you with lightning?”

Maki held her hands out to strum, then letting them fall helplessly to her side. “To where I have power, where I can sing. They took it from me.”

Nico had both Maki’s hands in a gentle grasp. “Took what?”

“Music. My lyre.” Maki wrenched away. The strings the opposite of this dissonance, always perfectly tuned, the exuberance of their enharmonic engagement, the life brought to poetry.

“We can make a new one, one you craft yourself…”

“To sing songs in this private prison? To be blind to anything but prettiness?”

The waves were up to Nico’s waist, Maki’s anguished angry gestures splashing both of them until their hair was dripping, plastered against their faces. Nico, suddenly, grabbed Maki’s hand, to pull her out, into the sun, running for the uncovered beach, Maki stumbling to catch up. Maki was always stumbling to catch up. But now she had had pressed her palms against the truth and she felt the full falsity in the weight of the hand misleading her.

### The cave had never felt so empty as when their angry voices echoed.

“Nico cared for you when no one else did. I found you, I brought you to my bed, I...I sang for you...Nico…”

“Nico always knew where the exit was, Nico watched me cry out for wholeness, Nico…” Maki didn’t want to bend, didn’t want to cry, but there was no understanding in the eyes glaring at her, only accusation, betrayal, a deep rage Maki couldn’t stand against.

“Which god will come for you, plead your case, demand your freedom, tear you away?” Nico hissed.

Maki raised her head, confused. “I am. Isn’t that enough?”

Nico took the linens and furs on the bed and threw them across the room, “And this? What was all this?”

“You took consolation I had no understanding of.”

Nico looked furious, “Consolation? You think this was comfort...pity?” Nico stormed up to Maki, shoving her back onto the bed, suddenly pouncing, on top, staring down, her eyes a muddled mix of anger, lust and pain, “We were, you were....you were mine.”

Maki, after a slow blink, turned her head, as Nico’s dark tresses teased her cheek, but her breathing remained even, her hand twisting the sheet beneath her, “I’m no one’s in this prison.”

“I rescued you, I cared for you, I love you, beyond kindness, even in sorrow. Don’t you care for Nico?”

“Do you have to kiss to care?”

Nico froze, eyes wide, then narrowed as they pored over Maki’s expression, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

No words, Nico panting out heavy breaths as she sat up, her weight an anchor. Finally, she threw herself back. “Nico would love to hear you sing.”

And then Maki was alone,

###

Nico kept busy, gathering wood, weaving, twisting fine twines. Maki would visit the hidden cave at every low tide, to try the door, but its solidity taunted her. Above the hidden cave, a rock jutted. Maki often climbed there, away from Nico, away from the sharp, clear scent of pine and poplar, and longed for a storm. The days drifted on, like the leaves that fell to be carried on a scented breeze. Late one afternoon, skies gray as harsh winter winds blew across the open sea, Nico found her there. Nico carried something more than half her size, wrapped in silk. She bowed to Maki, offering the object, but no words of explanation.

Maki unwrapped it, carefully, her hands finding smooth, polished wood, bounteous, inviting vines carved up the arms of a beautiful lyre, tortoise shell markings carved in its body, strings perfumed with flowers.

“Nico knows how cruel”...her gesture gathered in the air, “they are. No one should be kept from what they love.”

Hope surged in Maki. Her fingers shook as she freed the lyre, finding strings to free her voice, seeking out the tension, plucking the notes that had always grounded her, had always woven her thoughts into truths...but the melody lay flat, like a red tide on a stagnant sea, not leaping free with the joy of dolphins. Notes once sweet and soothing now bit into her fingers and poisoned her ears.

Maki dropped the lyre, barely hearing it crack, as she sprinted away.

###

As Spring brought new life to the island, flowers pushing green buds pregnant with vibrant color, They ate together, sharing ambrosia and red nectar, on the beach, wide apart on an gossamer light blanket of moon silver threads, as the sun sank into waves, staining them as darkly bright as the nectar. There had been a few nights, as snow fell and squirrels skittered to find their store of sustenance, when Nico had been as busy, slowly, longingly storing scraps of skinship, but now Maki knew how uncomfortable pity felt as Nico kept deliberately apart, watching her sadly, often spending nights on parts of the island Maki never ventured to, as she kept her daily watch on the sea hidden cave, gulls screaming impossible tasks.

“Nico can’t open the door for you.” Nico whispered.

“Can’t….won’t...doesn’t matter…” Maki muttered as she lay on her stomach, tracing lines in the sand.

Inhale. A hum that caught Maki’s attention, a thrill coursing up the back of her neck. “Nico can sing you a storm.”

Maki turned, gazing up into the ruby eyes that had as many currents and tides as the sea, with no guide to steer by. How had she ever thought Nico a work of art carved out of stone when so many expressions could cross the smooth skin in a breath, so many emotions stir in the galaxy depths of her eyes.

“You can’t leave by the door, no one can, but you came by storm and Nico is betting a storm will return you.” Nico reached into a bag, offering Maki the repaired lute. “Tomorrow, there’s a raft prepared, a sail newly woven, and a world you know waiting.”

Maki held her hands back from the lute, “This is a trick, another cruelty.”

Nico shook her head, “No, Maki, this is no cruelty. This is your key. Your power. Nico can’t watch you weep anymore…” a sigh, a gentle hand through Maki’s hair, “I give you the freedom I would give myself.”

At that hope surged like a dolphin in Maki’s heart. Seeing no guile, only sorrow in the soft gaze above her, Maki, suddenly restless with a fervor for all things, pulled Nico into a kiss, swallowing Nico’s gasp of surprise, pushing into an embrace no longer strange. The waves claimed the sun as Nico melted into Maki, and in the darkness, only murmurs of pleasure were heard.

###

Maki had not looked back. Lingering briefly with an embrace, Nico had gently wrapped her in a fresh woven cloak, purified by incense. There was water, nectar, ambrosia, sustenance for several voyages. A gentle wind filled the sail, until the raft had left the island behind, and then, as Nico had directed, Maki took the lyre in her hands, ignoring the alieness of the strange wood, focusing on the smoothness that Nico’s hand had crafted, the reminders of the island, the grapes, the vines, the feathers of hunting owls, offering wisdom and sharp eyesight for the journey. The strings had softened or Maki’s will had steeled, and notes of longing for home carried over the waves as Maki caught the scent of storm in the air, dark clouds speeding to add the percussion of thunder to her harmony. Rain drops fell with speed sharp enough to edge, cutting across her skin, the sea raising a fog to meet the striking clouds. Maki could see nothing, her lips cold and thin, her fingers cramped but still supple enough to play a plea to the gods to open a route home. Could she hear another voice added to hers, a familiar one, full of a gentle plea for safe harbor? Even as the storm lashed and punished. A wave swept over the raft, tossing Maki against the mast. Wind pummelled from all directions, another wave crashing, Maki’s voice swallowed in the gray, the lyre knocked from her hands, but Maki had tied a rope around her waist. She would not be lost again. A crescent moon winked down at her, the clouds suddenly splitting and then a dark, wave three times the height of full grown pine crashed down and Maki knew no more.

###

Maki sat up, a rough blanket against her skin, a guttering candle illuminating a small bedroom. A purple haired woman sat behind a table, placing a card in a pattern.

“My wife has rarely pulled such a rare fish from the sea.” The card player didn’t look up, but her voice carried her amusement.

“Your wife?”

“Eli-chi. She is teaching our children the ways of her people.” Purple hair looked up, her eyes turquoise, “It’s adorable. Enough to not regret the loss of Olympus.”

Maki recognized power. Was this another prison?

A laugh, a shake of the head, “Don’t worry about that. Eli-chi will take you wherever you want to go.”

“Home.”

A look that twisted Maki like the pain of a piercing arrow. “Where you will be welcome?”

“Where I belong.” Maki said evenly, refusing to allow this stranger to confuse her.

The woman shuffled the cards into a pile, disappointed, “You are fortunate then, to be certain in your choice, Maki.”

“How do you know my name?”

“She just does. Don’t question her or you will find out too much of your future,” A strong voice, holding back laughter announced a new presence, a tall blonde woman, mortal, strong, stepped in to throw her arms around the card player. “I’m Eli, this is Nozomi, welcome to our home, for however long your stay is.”

“I wish to return to Otonokizaka.”

“She is very stubborn.” Nozomi leaned back against her wife.

“Well, I have had a long journey to bring you here and if you will not begrudge me a few nights in my own bed, we will start off soon enough.”

Maki nodded, feeling drowsy again. She needed to rest, for soon there was another storm to swim through

###

Maki sat on the end of the pier, her feet dangling in the water, Nico’s lyre in her hands, still an awkward weight. Nozomi and Eli’s three children played on the shore, giggling. This was a solitary inlet, Eli usually sailing out to work, Nozomi patience at home, waiting for nights by the fire when all her family surrounded her, and gentle songs kept them all company through the night. Currently Eli and Nozomi were...Maki shuddered, not wanting to add imagined pictures to what Nozomi’s too descriptive enthusiasm had painted of words.

She wondered what Nico was doing? Planting a new garden, plucking blooms to paint, pruning the best vines so their grapes could be pressed into wine. Nico had rarely stopped moving, never claiming a moment’s rest, Maki wondered how the days didn’t seem endless. Perhaps she should have played a song for Nico, but Nico’s song had such a natural charm, even the songbirds listened attentively. Maki could feel the notes of it fading, her fingers on the lyre attempting to recapture the sweetness. Sweetness? On the island, Nico’s voice had been like the sea breeze and the scent of cypress, often in the air, an easy comfort. Maki’s hands fell away from the lyre, her head suddenly full of images of Nico leaning forward, priceless eyes bright, always listening, always kind. Who was Nico listening to now? The sea? Maki felt a new restlessness, a new dissatisfaction. It was time to reclaim her place, her gleaming throne in the high roofed hall of her ancestors, and her voice, brought to full force by the bronze lyre with golden throated strings that had been bound to her at birth.

###

The journey had been easy, Eli, a strong and sure captain easily handling the helm in seas mostly glass. Maki could hear the bustle, the cloying, the hurry before they sighted the harbor. Excited, returned to her home, about to claim her rights, she could barely restrain herself long enough to let Eli tie up the boat.

“You’re as eager as the twins.” Eli chuckled. “I’ll be in port for a few nights if you need a ride anywhere else.”

“Thank you for the kindness.” Maki stepped on shore, feeling power surge as she reconnected to her native ground, “Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner.”

Eli glanced at the tall hall, resting above all else, a golden shimmer against the pure white of the snowcap. “My dinner waits elsewhere. I have humbler tastes.”

Maki shook her head in disagreement. “I have met your wife.”

Eli grinned, “Clever. Then my reply is that as I have a banquet, I have no need for scraps.” Eli pushed Maki forward, “Good luck, my friend.”

Maki nodded, pulling her cloak, incense faded, over her head, long legs striding with confidence, ready to reach out and reclaim her seat.

###

Crowded, noisy, trays of ambrosia, pitchers of sweet red nectar poured into golden cups raised in cheer and challenge. All those her parents ruled, sauntering, shoving to grab the chair closest to the want...dancer, food, conversation, sweet. A few glances of recognition, but Maki began to feel invisible as she moved through hall after hall. Finally, the grand hall, with its three thrones on the glittering dias, her parents’ seats as empty as hers. Maki, ready to wrestle with accusations against her rightful return, felt an emptiness here in this hall, wrong footed, as the cacophony of other’s joys jarred in the distance. Eli and Nozomi’s cozy cottage had not prepared her for immersion in this city after so many seasons on the blissful, serene sonic soundscape of Nico’s isle. Her outer ears had almost turned up against her head, bruised by the physical presence of such raucous roaring. Eager to return, Maki had left Nico’s lyre on Eli’s ship, her mind on what she had to gain, not what she might have lost. But there it was, her lyre, a bronze gleam, familiar, welcoming, waiting, undisturbed. Maki raced up the stairs, falling into her seat, pulling her oldest companion into her lap, fingers reaching to strum...and the first notes of the lilting lullaby Nico had often song to ease the sun into its everchanging bed entered the air of the hall, and twisted, tainted by unclean smoke and so many warring words and wants pummelling Maki from the crowd now crowding the entranceway, her father at its head, not as tall as she remembered, his goblet in the air.

“Ah, she’s here, we need a song, Maki, play something finer, something to rouse us all, the better to enjoy this night.”

Maki stared, her fingers stilled. Her father offered no greeting, no apology, no challenge, no change. He smiled, always a genial host, chattering to those surrounding him, carrying him forward to his central throne. Too jaded by easy luxuries, indulged by all, in his wanton world , it was if his daughter had never gone, had never been thrown away. As if there had never been the hard words, the exile, the attack that Maki still bore the scar of, that Nico’s hands had traced so tenderly, listening as Maki told of how the betrayal had torn through more than her skin. But here...home…time had stopped...no one had changed...and all eyes were on Maki as if she’d just stepped away for a breath of air, not years of weeping exile.

Her mother swept to the center of the room, partners too eager, “Give us a fast tempo, a galliard. We dance.”

Once the lyre had seemed full of potential, alive with Maki’s moods, but now the strings thudded on clanging metal, notes sheared off, tempos too heavy. Still the dancers swirled and danced and promised and embraced, the room dark but for torches, other musicians more tuned to the mood carrying the melody as Maki fell out of harmony, watching the vulgar display as if for the first time, outside of this moment, longing for someone to listen to her, suddenly wanting nothing more than Nico’s smile as bodies fell into each other, and Maki remained alone, turned away from the spectacle, arms around her knees, studying her own heart, listening to its pulse, which had always wanted something other than this, something stronger, something woven with time, threads chosen with care, not born of a moment’s collision.

###

Without Nozomi’s hinting, Eli would have been surprised by the redhead, too quiet, wrapped in her cloak, sleeping against the mast, clutching the battered lyre she’d forgotten last night. Shaking her head, Eli dropped her purchases, awakening her stowaway.

“Good morning.”

Maki stood, “Teach me.”

“Teach you?”

Maki hesitated, “To sail.” Maki turned to the ocean, her arm sweeping out, “I need to return.”

“Nozomi’ll be glad to see you again, but I thought you had business here.” Eli began to replace worn ropes.

“To where you found me.”

Eli stopped. “I’m not sure…”

Maki closed her eyes, guilt bowing her head. “I left someone…”

Eli sighed, “Those were tricky seas. So many islands, rocks everywhere.”

Maki ran her fingers over the wood Nico had smoothed. If Nico had summoned a storm, could Maki summon a path? So much of power was will and Maki wanted this, a spark of a wildfire racing, the first taste of desire on her tongue, the first thrill of the hunt in her veins, a craving to connect to match the lure she’d felt from Nico.

“If you get us close, Eli, I can find her.”

Eli smiled at the confidence, remembering her own chase after Nozomi, not stopping to listen to naysayers or even resting for more than a breath, pushing her boat until it shattered, relying only on her own strength to swim to shore through surging tides, to fall half dead at the feet of the goddess who’s lonely beauty had haunted her.

“All right. But you’re going to work.”

Maki nodded, eyes bright with hope, ready to put her hands to new tasks, she had made a harness so the lyre could rest on her back and not interfere with her actions, “Where do I start?”

Eli threw Maki a heavy coil of rope. “We’re replacing the anchor rope.”

###

There had been no answering call. Not even when Eli’s ship came in sight of the island.

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She’s been alone since I left.”

“She was alone before you came.”

“Sometimes.” Nico had never said much, but Maki had realized that there had been others, thrown on the shores of Nico’s island to punish them, only to find kindness and caring, and then returning that with turning away. As Maki had done.

“Nico!” She was wading to the shore, waves washing over her knees, water warm, sun beating down, no echo, the birds strangely still and silent. Eli had stayed off shore, Maki wanted a private moment, planning to signal Eli. Had Nico finally opened the door? Was she elsewhere? There, at the edge of the grove, someone slumped. Maki ran.

“Nico!”

Tiny, frail, almost breathless. The birds remained in their nests, not hunting, silent and strange, the air empty of melody. Maki picked Nico up, so light, dark hair lank, sand a gritty blasphemy against the smoothest of skin, eyes closed, mouth slack. Their cave, with the vines around the entrance, by the melodious springs, Maki ran there, careful of her stride. There, in the bed Maki had woken in her first morning here, Maki laid Nico, a gentle, loving touch, covering her with the lightest of linen. Maki knew where the storerooms were, she ran for wine, nectar, and ambrosia, surprised at the layer of dust. Nothing moved, nothing sung.

Kneeling, Maki raised Nico to pour nectar between her lips, rewarded by the movement of Nico’s tongue clearing the last drops from her lips. Maki had wrapped her lyre in oilskin, protecting it from the seawater, and now, she opened the package, settling next to Nico, her fingers searching the notes, to play a tune as lively as Nico running along the shore, daring Maki to chase her. Now Maki was daring Nico, birds playing over the water, clouds teasing the moon, wind moving shady trees to tease sunbeams all of this woven in her song, all of the days they’d had that now gleamed, Maki’s heart suddenly opening to new feeling, daunting, dangerous impulses, Maki a fledgling hawk poised on the nest's edge to test flight feathers newly grown.

“Maki?” A weak question but at the sound of Nico’s voice, Maki’s certainty surged.

“I’m home.” Maki had said this in her head, over and over again, until repetition had smoothed out the stutter. “I can take you anywhere.”

Ruby eyes watched her, cautious, suspicious, Nico’s emotions hidden.

Less confident about this part, Maki’s voice neared a whisper, “I never meant to leave you alone...I didn’t realize…”

“Humpphh…” With an energy that cured much of Maki’s panic, Nico flipped to her side, facing away from Maki.

“Nico…” reaching a hand out, Maki stroked Nico’s hair, humming.

“Don’t talk to Nico. Nico wasted away on the beach…”

“So you missed me that much.”

Another flip, angry red eyes, looking for a target, a hand reaching for a pillow, “You used to be quieter.”

“I was naive. Arrogant. Ignorant. Thoughtless.”

“So who taught you?” Anger was mixed with accusation.

Maki chuckled, “You. Not being there.”

“You take Nico for granted, leave Nico to die, and then just…”

“Save Nico from an angry sea…”

“Wasn’t angry….”

“It was too quiet. Everything is too quiet without you.”

Nico pulled the pillow in, half her face hidden, eyes wary, “What do you want?”

This was the moment. Maki had no idea what happened next. Everything they had done before, Maki had never made herself this vulnerable, had never hovered on fragile winds over an unknown depth, fly or fall, “I want you to kiss me, Nico. And then I’ll take you anywhere.”

Nico, eyes glittering, surprise shocking her expression into hope and hunger, surged forward, holding Maki’s glance, as her fingers tangled in Maki’s hair. Coral tongue licked crimson lips, Maki’s mouth watering, Nico’s eyes searching Maki’s. Maki glanced away, feeling herself flush, but Nico pulled her back. Maki, her heart racing, her ears full of a thrumming that must be hummingbird’s wings beating, had Maki known she was such a rare, colorful beauty before the mirror of Nico’s eyes told her?

“Yes?” Nico asked, her finger across Maki’s lips leaving Maki shivering.

“Yes.”

And then lips on lips, hands finding hands with a painful grip that anchored this soaring flight, falling back into clouds of new born love, no awareness but skin to skin, lip to lip, hand to thigh, fingers digging into backs, sable and crimson hair mingling as sweat dropped freely, suddenly more sweet than salty to Maki. All new, all blinding, and Maki shut her eyes, finally finding a harbor for her heart home.

###

Much later, a murmur, a quick kiss, a caress promising so many more, “Let’s stay here for now.”

Nico felt Maki nod into her shoulder, and sleep wrapped them up in buoyant arms, as they sailed together through shared, joyful visions of future travels winging through the horned gate as a blessing.

A/N: This was an AU Yeah August request for a modern fantasy riff on the story of Calypso from The Odyssey. I recommend Emily Wilson's translation, which I used as a poetic inspiration.

#NicoMaki #Au Yeah August #auyeahaugust21 #nishikino maki #nico yazawa #NozoEli #Ayase Eli #Tojo Nozomi #Calypso #The Oddyssey #mythology #demisexuality #demisexual #angst #separation

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pinayelf · 5 years

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Cullen’s Revised Redemption - my take

This was previously an undetectable read more but decided to update it and also make it (more) public since people have asked for it. This is very wordy, so grab a bag of chips or something lmao.

Disclaimer and Request (PLEASE READ)

I am putting this above the read more because I need people to see it before they do anything with this post. The reason I had the first version of this basically invisible is I’m genuinely not here for people yelling and fighting in the notes so that being said:

I wrote out the first one so I had something to link to people in the case someone asks me why I’m romancing him with an elven mage

This is a hot button issue and I know people have feelings varying from either extreme sides or in the middle so

If you vehemently hate Cullen and find him irredeemable that is fine and valid, but please do not come onto this post and reply why. To be frank, you won’t make me dislike him considering I hated him initially

If you think his redemption is perfect that is fine and valid, but please do not come yelling at me for this post.

Let us agree to disagree NOW.

I love Cullen. If the URL wasn’t obvious I’m saying it now. But I am also allowed to feel that his redemption wasn’t fully realized and lackluster and wish it didn’t happen off-screen.

I believe Cullen does want to change. Failing and slipping at first is realistic. What didn’t work is that it wasn’t fully realized. If you disagree that is fine.

Cullen’s PTSD is a reason for the things he did. It is a reason NOT an excuse. Mental illness is not an excuse to do bad things. You can say that while acknowledging his trauma. Said by a person who also suffers from mental illness

“Ellie why do you care so much about a white dude, he doesn’t deserve your time and energy!!!” - because he is a comfort character of mine, he is fictional so I have the ability to make him safer for me and for my OCs and I think that’s more than fair

This is NOT the only right way to write a fix-it for him you can 100% write your own, this is just mine and an example of one

Now...let’s go!

This is meant to have been a longfic, but I can never finish anything I write so you’ll get a condensed version. This is for my worldstate where Imryll (my main Cullenmance) is the Inquisitor, but I also use this same redemption in all my timelines, just tweaked a bit for whoever the characters are.

DAI starts and Cullen has just stopped taking lyrium. He wants to change, , he is full of regret and ready for it but is obviously harder than he anticipated. Especially since the Herald, Imryll, wants to ally with the mages. He and Imryll do not get along, Imryll doesn’t trust him and they have had a couple of public fights.

Imryll allies with the mages. Cullen is worried abominations might occur. The ones from Kirkwall see Cullen and refuse to interact with him. Some hate him and look at him with disdain. He’s made an announcement saying he no longer operates under the Templar Order and denounces what Meredith did. But they still don’t trust him.

He is frustrated by this and Leliana calls out the fact that he still doesn’t trust them because he believes they’ll turn into abominations, so why should they trust him? Cullen says he’s seen it happen, like in Kinloch, especially if they’re exposed to power. Leliana points out how the same thing happened to Meredith. Cullen snaps out of his frustration, admitting he knows he’s wrong but it’s hard to accept it. Leliana tells him he must accept he is wrong if he wants to really change.

(Note: In my canon Leliana becomes his support for this rather than Cass. I love Cass but she is too static in her beliefs and will just enable or stunt Cullen from growth. They are still close friends but it’s Leliana who he confides in with about this - they both have the same faith but Leliana is more open-minded and will help him grow)

The Templars and the Mages clash at Haven and Imryll demands Cullen to do something about it. Cullen is hesitant and doesn’t do much, he doesn’t want to believe his comrades are acting this way. This sours his relationship with Imryll and the mages.

(This idea is taken from a text post that I can no longer find :c) One of the mages give birth and the others are overjoyed and crying. They need supplies and Cullen offers to help but they all refuse to speak to him until he arrives back with Josephine. Cullen wonders why they are celebrating and crying and Leliana says that most mages never stay with their family because they are separated. Another realization hits Cullen.

Cullen joins Cassandra in looking for rogue Templars and when they encounter the group, Cullen attempts to reason with them but they don’t relent. He sees his old self in the leader and realizes what he sounded like. After dealing with the Templars he and Cassandra see a group of young refugee mages starving and hiding in a small cave. They quiver in fear when they notice his Templar gauntlets and refuse to come to Haven despite them being in near-death from starvation. Luckily, Varric is there and convinces them to come.

The encounter dawns on Cullen what the Templar Order truly looks like to mages. This haunts him. It is the same fear he had for years after Kinloch - the difference is, the order protected him but no one truly protected the mages. He finally accepts that the order he once romanticized so much is corrupt.

The next time he sees that his Templars are the ones who start the altercations. He does something about it - but at the same time angering his lieutenant.

During the fall of Haven, the Red Templars show Cullen anyone is apt for corruption, seeing the people he once trusted become the army for a magister breaks his heart. He witnesses the mage recruits give their lives for the Inquisition. He watches Imryll sacrifice herself for the sake of the Inquisition. When have the Templars ever done this? He’s never witnessed this. He must make amends. He must.

Upon arriving at Skyhold he requests to be judged by the mages and Fiona - the ones from Kirkwall especially. He tells them it’s time he answered for his inaction and the things he enabled. Surprised, Imryll calls Fiona to form a council of mages to judge him.

Cullen prepares for whatever sentence they are to give him. All the while after owning up to what happened in Kirkwall, the Inquisition loses some support, including soldiers who leave due to their disillusionment in him. The day of trial comes and to Cullen’s surprise they sentence him with reparations. He is to do the Inquisition mages’ bidding and to work with Fiona along with his Inquisition duties.

Besides the loss of support, many begin to look at Cullen differently and turn cold towards him, like some staff and people who have joined the Inquisition. He helps build a mage tower and joins Fiona in doing small missions to help the refugee mages. While some mages warm up to him, some don’t and while hard he accepts they never will.

One day a missive arrives at Skyhold stating that mages from Starkhaven are taken hostage by Red Templars for a hefty ransom. Josephine insists they pay the ransom and plans to take a loan out from an Antivan bank - however Cullen sees the situation as time sensitive. He is afraid that if they wait too long, the Red Templars will kill the mages. Josephine, and Leliana surprisingly argue against this, seeing it too risky. But Cullen has a terrible gut feeling, and after finding the location of the abandoned keep they are located in, he takes some of his troops who are willing, and mages who are looking to save their brethren.

The raid goes all right, and the troops manage to retrieve the hostages without any casualties, however at the last minute, one of the templars set off hidden explosives that begin to set the the keep ablaze. As it falls into ruin, Cullen makes sure everyone makes it to safety. But then he sees a young mage girl trapped under rubble, and in spite of his lieutenant demanding he leave her, he doesn’t. He runs to her rescue and seemingly dies as the castle crushes both of them.

The troops return to Skyhold with the news that Commander Cullen has died in the rescue. Shocked, the remaining advisors and Imryll set off to find a new Commander.

Surprisingly, Cullen and the young mage girl, who introduces herself as Lyra, survives. Lyra mustered up her remaining strength to put a barrier around them as the castle fell. Cullen and Lyra then set to Skyhold in order to get her to safety. Cullen does everything in his power to make sure she is safe, and shocks everyone at their return.

After this event, Imryll begins to warm up to Cullen. They form a friendship as Imryll often spends late nights at the mage tower doing research. Cullen initially stayed there to make sure nothing happened to Imryll (as she was not very popular with his troops or certain Orlesians). Despite them being from separate worlds they find they have a lot in common.

When asked how he feels about the Dalish, Cullen tells her that in the Circle, elves were not treated differently and it does not matter who you are. Imryll tells him it’s a very blind way to view discrimination, as despite her existence not revolving on her being a Dalish elf, her being a Dalish elf is how people will always view her. Cullen finally understands when he accompanies her to Val Royeaux to deal with Josephine’s assassination contract and he sees how Orlesians treated Imryll in spite of her title. He speaks to her about it, and apologizes, saying he will never understand how it feels, but he will make sure she and the other elven members of the Inquisition feels safe.

And all the while, Cullen begins to see what protecting those who need it is truly like.

Cullen opens up to Imryll about his withdrawals. She tells him she supports him not taking lyrium again and encourages him not to. While suffering from a terrible spell, Imryll uses a healing spell to alleviate his headache and it triggers a memory from Kinloch. He freaks out at Imryll, who he scares off. He and Imryll don’t speak for a few days until he goes up to her and explains what happened. Imryll then says that if they are to be good friends they must always remain transparent with each other and learn boundaries and communicate well. Cullen agrees.

Cullen quitting lyrium inspires some of his troops to leave the order and quit lyrium. To be able to cope and deal with it, Cullen asks if they can have a rehab clinic in Skyhold. Imryll agrees.

As Cullen’s friendship with Imryll deepens he realizes he’s falling in love with her. Unsure what to do and already assuming she will never feel the same way he tries to shove the feelings aside despite Imryll showing signs of reciprocating.

As time goes, Imryll’s relationship with Cullen’s lieutenant worsens because of the decisions she makes as the Inquisitor. The Lieutenant and Imryll get into a fight when Imryll allows the mages to make their own separate army group, as the lieutenant feels it will make them corrupt with power. He calls Imryll slurs and tells her that she has no right being a leader because of who she is. Cullen publicly calls him out, to which the lieutenant responds he is only doing because he wants something from Imryll. Cullen tells him he is doing it because it’s the right thing to do, and that the lieutenant should not speak or Imryll or any elf or mage in the way again. When he refuses to apologize, Cullen kicks him out of the Inquisition.

Meanwhile, Imryll struggles with learning how to be a Knight-Enchanter. She questions her self worth and her bravery. Cullen comforts her, telling her she is the best person he knows. He tells her she is brave because of how she still continues to fight and to lead the Inquisition, not in spite of who she is, but because of who she is. He offers his support.

During the Shrine of Dumat, Cullen is hurt badly after attempting to keep a Red Templar Shade from Dorian. He refuses care, saying the others need it more. Imryll insists he does and asks if she can use a healing spell to alleviate the pain of his bruised chest. He lets her. Amidst this, they share a kiss and cements their romantic relationship.

Cullen and Imryll’s romantic relationship flourish and for the first time in his life, Cullen feels he’s found someone he can have a healthy love with. He also finds he has friends - real friends, which he hasn’t had in a long time.

During Samson’s capture - memories flash back and threatens Cullen to slip. This makes him realize that his say on the matter is biased and lets Imryll and the others choose what to do with him. (Imryll conscripts him but doesn’t have Cullen handle him, she has another recovering ex-Templar work with him and spend time in the rehab they’ve built in Skyhold).

When Imryll chooses Leliana as the Divine, Cullen shocks his former colleagues when he says he approves of the choice.

After Corypheus’ defeat the idea of the rehab clinics begin to spread and open up in other places - which begins to open conversation about how the Chantry exploits their own Templars.

Following the events of Trespasser, Imryll disbands the Inquisition. With land Cullen inherited from his parents he and Imryll build another rehab clinic as well as a place for former Circle mages to find a home in, and learn how to live lives outside the Circle (this post is Cullen-centric so I’m not gonna write a long thing about it but in my canon Divine Leliana and Vivienne find a middle ground and build centers/schools where abandoned and former Circle Mages can find a home in and learn, without them being prisons)

And scene! If you reached this end thank you for reading all that. A lot of the later stuff is mainly skipped over because this focused more on how Cullen changes - the repercussions from his actions and how he actively shows the changes.

#cullen rutherford #my meta #super long #please don't fight under this i will block you

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shannaraisles · 5 years

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Honor Among Thieves - Chapter 1

Lorna Lennox busted out of Kinloch Hold, survived the Blight, and just wanted to stay out of the Chantry’s clutches for life. Now she’s the Herald of Andraste, and people keep trying to kill her. Worst of all, the bodyguard Leliana found for her is all kinds of tempting. Is there really honor among rogues and thieves?

[Read on AO3]

Note - yes, I’m back! I actually wrote something! Amazing, innit?

Chapter One

"And what will you give me, little mage, for helping you to escape your gilded cage? This is no small thing you ask for."

"I don't have anything, but I will do anything. What do you want?"

"Mmm, now let me see ... Ah! I have the perfect payment."

"What is it?"

"Your life, pequeña. Do not lose it, or fritter it away on the undeserving. Live it, and I will consider the debt repaid."

"Herald?"

Lorna snapped out of the memory, blinking to look across the war table at the Nightingale. Her side was aching as she leaned one hand onto the rough wooden table, aware of the curious concern in the eyes of the other three who stood with them.

"Are you well?" Cassandra asked, frowning as she tilted her head to look closer at the elven woman beside her.

"I'm fine," Lorna insisted, straightening up despite the pain in her ribs. "Nothing a good sleep won't cure."

"This incident was too close for comfort."

Cullen looked agitated as he spoke - she could have sworn that was guilt flickering in his gaze as well. For all their shared past, she did not know the man any longer. The young templar she remembered had been twisted and broken, put back together inexpertly, and was now clearly trying to find his own path. That hadn't stopped him from outing her as a mage the moment he remembered who she was, though.

"How did they get through?" Cassandra was asking, an uncompromising tone in her voice.

"New recruits," Cullen said in a dull tone. "There is no means to check their backgrounds or motivation as yet. I am in the process of putting those systems in place, but it does mean our flow of troops is going to slow down considerably."

"Leliana?"

The redheaded spymaster looked grave.

"It is as Cullen says," she agreed. "They were local Fereldans, not the sort we have been looking more closely at. I have sent more agents out into the area around Haven to uncover if there are any more assassins on their way here."

"If I may," Josephine interjected, before anyone could restart the circular argument that had been going on for a little over an hour now. "I believe, Mistress Lennox, that you should remain under guard for the foreseeable future."

"I have things that need to be done, Lady Montilyet," Lorna objected. "I cannot stay in a gilded cage if we're to help the people and close the rifts. I won't be caged again, not willingly."

"I have taken the liberty of contacting an old friend who would be willing to join the Inquisition in the position of bodyguard," Leliana said, apparently ignoring this comment from the Herald they were supposed to be protecting in the first place. "He would be nothing more than a companion to you in your travels, but your life would be his first priority."

"Aye? And would he do as I tell him?" Lorna asked suspiciously.

"Probably not," Leliana said with a faint smile. "He would do what he is contracted to do."

"Contracted?" Cullen glanced sharply at the spymaster. "Who is this old friend of yours?"

"His name is Zevran Arainai," she told him easily. "He was once an Antivan Crow, and is now ... not."

"I have heard of him," Josephine added. "His reputation precedes him. He would be an excellent companion for the Herald on her journeys."

"And does the Herald get a choice in this?" Lorna asked acerbically.

"At this point, no," Cassandra said. "As much as I wish to keep you alive, I cannot be by your side at all times. These attacks have come in many places, most recently here in Haven itself. We need someone to be at your elbow, day and night."

"How is this not caging me?" Lorna demanded, annoyed with the way they all seemed to be in agreement without her consent. "I don't need a human man looming over me every hour of the day."

"He is an elf," Leliana told her. "And he is very good at what he does. I believe you have already met him once, during our visit to the Fereldan Circle during the Blight."

Lorna blinked, stared at her in shock. What will you give me, little mage? The smooth warmth of that voice she had never forgotten drifted through her mind once again. It couldn't be him, could it? The elf who had helped her to break into the basement during the chaos following Uldred's takeover of the tower ... was he the bodyguard Leliana had contracted for her?

"About so tall?" she asked, raising her hand a few inches above her own head. "Blonde hair? Tattoo on the left side of his face?"

Leliana smiled. "Indeed."

"I remember him," Cullen said, though his tone was pained. "Can he truly be trusted with the Herald of Andraste? He is ... very forward."

"If I want to fuck him and he wants it, I'll fuck him," Lorna told the commander bluntly, inwardly delighted by the sound of Josephine choking back a laugh. "There's nothing you can do about that, commander."

Cullen's brows drew together, but Cassandra stepped in quickly.

"Then you will accept this elf as your bodyguard?" she asked Lorna.

"Aye, he'll do," Lorna agreed. "So long as he knows the truth of all this. I'm no Herald of Andraste. I'm just incredibly unlucky."

"He will not worship you," Leliana assured her. "And he will be here within a few days. We have been in contact for some weeks."

"You knew there would be assassins coming?" Cassandra asked her sharply.

"It was not unexpected," Leliana said. "The methods, however, were unpredictable. I thought to have Zevran here as soon as possible. Lorna's injury is not something I am prepared to see repeated."

"Likewise," Cullen said. "I have raised security - no one will be permitted to enter or leave the village itself without the consent of at least one of the four leaders in this room."

"There you go, caging me again." Lorna frowned across the table at him. "You can't help wanting to lock up a mage, can you?"

"That is ... I didn't ..."

"These are precautions for your safety," Josephine interjected smoothly through Cullen’s fumbling to try and excuse his draconic regulations. "Once Master Arainai arrives and takes up his position, these restrictions will be relaxed."

Lorna bit down on the urge to growl, carefully not looking over at Cullen as he subsided in defeat. Instead, she pinned her gaze to Leliana.

"He had better get here fast," she said. "Our people are trapped in the Fallow Mire; I'll not leave them indefinitely on the whims of an assassin."

"He will be here," Leliana insisted calmly. "You should rest. That is the only way you will heal with our current supplies."

"Go to bed without supper, got it."

Rolling her eyes, Lorna turned away from table, pushing her way out into the chantry proper. She got halfway to the door before she realized that one of the templars guarding the door to the war room was walking with her. She opened her mouth to snap at him ... and remembered what she had just been told.

"Wonderful," she muttered, walking out into the chill air of Haven. "One bruised rib, and I'm back in the Circle."

#honor among thieves #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition #lorna lennox - oc #leliana #cassandra pentaghast #cullen rutherford #josephine montilyet #haven #war room #assassination attempts #mage inquisitor #zevran is coming!

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sinsbymanka · 5 years

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The Girl with the Arrow Tattoo Update! Chapter 32: The Sound of Silence

In which Haven is destroyed and Maria Cadash is buried while they watch helplessly from above. Full story on AO3!

When Maria was a little girl, Nanna told her that dwarves built Ostwick, that they built many surface cities ages before. Nanna of course didn’t care for them, those first deserters of the Deep Roads were nothing but thieves and murderers exiled from their home according to her. They were the same people who founded the illegal smuggling operations her eldest granddaughter would someday join, although Zarra never considered that possibility. The second wave of dwarves fleeing, of course, happened to be the houses that would make up the Dwarven Financiers Union. Those blood traitors (Nanna’s words, not hers, although the sentiment felt accurate) planned their exit strategically and left their homeland in a lurch as the remaining once great houses scrambled to save their home.

The great stone cities underground still stood, but nobody visited. Dwarven architecture lasted the test of time, after all.

Maria’s people, her ancestors, were among the last dwarves to flee their dying cities at the turn of the industrial age. The last ones to see the only hope of survival was to abandon their pride, their blighted stone, and take their chances up on the surface where the dwarves with money and power shoved their brethren into dark, dank factories churning out poison only slightly less lethal than what killed the remaining dwarves beneath their feet.

But, Nanna grudgingly admitted, there was nothing like good dwarven architecture and Ostwick had plenty of it thanks to those traitorous bastards. Ostwick was built to last the ages even as the buildings grew higher and people from every corner of the world poured into the city.

Maria wished Haven had been built the same way. There was no dwarven stone to protect them here, nothing but wood cottages with cheerful painted clapboard going up in smoke and flame. Only one building in Haven was made of heavy brick, the quaint little chantry, and that’s where they all fled to instinctively like nugs escaping a flood, blind and desperate in the smoke.

Screams for help pierced the night around them. The dragon made another pass overhead and they pressed themselves flush against one of houses, the roof above them erupting into flames. From inside, Maria heard weak, desperate sobs for help. She pressed her hand automatically to the doorknob and found it blazing hot. She swore and wrenched her burned fingers away, darting to the side of the house.

“Cadash!” Dorian hissed, unaware of the people trapped inside. The rear exit was blocked by some burning debris, a fallen electric pole maybe. But there was a window high above her, one she couldn’t quite reach even if she stretched as much as she could.

“What are you…” Varric followed her. Of course he followed her. She turned to him insistently, braced her hands on his shoulders and fought the urge to curl into his welcome warmth and give herself over to horrified sobs.

“Lift me up.” She demanded instead.

He arched a brow. “Is this really…”

“Listen!” She slapped his shoulder, even though she shouldn’t have, and pointed up over her head. His face went blank for an uncomprehending second, then understanding dawned on him and he mumbled a curse under his breath.

“How in the world did you hear that through all of this?” Dorian asked, aghast. She ignored him. Varric still wasn’t moving fast enough for the urgency of the situation. She dug her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to bruise and glared steadily into his eyes. “I know you can bleedin’ boost me up there!”

If he could carry her the whole way up to her bedroom while kissing her within an inch of her life without dropping her he should be more than capable of tossing her through a window. He finally acquiesced and bent at the waist. He tossed his broad, sturdy arms around her thighs and hoisted her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip to reach for the high window, trying valiantly to ignore the way his hands squeezed just below her ass, his face pressed just below her breasts.

“This isn’t how I planned on getting my hands on you again.” He joked weakly.

She gripped the windowsill and tried to shove the pane glass open, but it didn’t budge. “Close your eyes and look down.” She ordered tersely. “Both of you.”

To his credit, Varric shut his eyes immediately, like he’d aided and abetted in a hundred break-ins. It was Dorian who continued to stare up at her, and she thought part of that reason may have been the sudden keen interest in the man’s too shrewd eyes when he heard the word ‘again.’ “Dorian!” She snapped waspishly.

When they both finally dropped their gaze, she thrust her elbow through the glass and it shattered easily despite the jarring throb to her sore shoulder. She tried to punch out as much glass as she could, peering through the smoke filling the home. She saw two figures huddled together and yelled. “Here! Over here!”

Thank fucking Andraste herself they moved at her voice. She hauled herself through the window, a tight fit, but manageable. Varric yelled her name as she vanished from view, but Maria simply rolled to the tile floor and shoved her arm over her mouth to try and keep from inhaling the acrid smoke. There was a kitchen chair nearby, a rickety old thing, but it would have to do. She pulled it over and the first figure, a skinny child with a human’s too long limbs, was thrust up onto it by the woman behind him. The kid paused, uncertain, peering down into the darkness outside.

“Jump!” Maria yelled, coughing on the smoke. “They’ll catch you!”

For a second, she still thought he wouldn’t, but his mother’s hushed, gentle words convinced him to clamber up through the sill. She watched him pause, breathless, before he tumbled into the abyss outside.

“You next!” Maria ordered, shoving the woman forward. She clambered up and vanished through the opening in seconds. Maria jumped up on the chair herself, listened to the threatening crack of the flimsy wood and leapt for the windowsill. She caught it just in time, the chair falling to pieces beneath her as she struggled to lever more of her upper body through the opening. She heard the panicked caw of a bird, her name ringing in the alley, felt fingers wrap around her wrists and tugging her forward. Dorian released a blistering torrent of swearing she didn’t understand, then she could breathe again, the air crisp and clear in her lungs before gravity took over and she toppled out of the window.

She collapsed on top of a sputtering Tevinter witch, his face embedded in her breasts while Nyx flapped above them in a panic.

“C’mon, we’ve got to move.” Varric urged, pulling her up by the damn arm that’d been nearly wrenched from her shoulder. She winced in his iron grip and he loosened it immediately, running his thumb over her arm apologetically instead while his eyes caught Dorian’s on the ground. “Sparkler, you with us?”

“All of me but my spleen, perhaps, which is almost certainly ruptured.” He complained acidically.

“I’m not that heavy.” Maria muttered under her breath.

“Perhaps not for chiseled dwarven physiques.” Dorian grumbled under his breath. She ignored him as they pushed back out into the square.

Bull guarded the outside of the chantry like a dragon himself, horns thrown in sharp relief by the flickering flames. He shoved soldiers and witches past him like he threw opponents in his boxing ring. She couldn’t decide if it felt like yesterday or a million years ago that she’d sat and watched him stalk the ring like an old god. Flames threw his craggy features into sharp relief and she didn’t know whether it was fear or relief that made her break out into a cold sweat.

“You’re late boss.” He growled, one long arm reaching out to sweep her inside. They were among the last and Cullen stood in the center of the chantry, blood dripping from a gash over his chest, but shouting orders. Beside him, Leliana and Josie both looked grim.

“Herald!” Leliana shouted. Maria wished she wouldn’t have. The crowd parted around her, people staring and whispering. She imagined she could hear their venom, their recrimination. She’d brought this down upon them somehow. Perhaps it had been when she lost her temper at the Lord Seeker, perhaps when she’d snubbed them to go to Redcliffe. Her decisions led them here. Her actions.

Her cowardice because if she was what they wanted, she could have just gone and maybe everyone else would have been safe. She hunched her shoulders forward defensively and ducked her head.

Just in time to be nearly knocked off her feet by sturdy, warm arms wrapping around her. Bea’s lips pressed against her cheek. “Thank the soddin’ Maker.” Bea whispered, pulling back to sweep her eyes over Maria’s form. “Thank our fucking ancestors or whoever the fuck is out there. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Outside, the dragon screeched and Bea flinched, but didn’t pull away. Maria reached to rip her hand off her jacket. “Bea, go back downstairs.”

She meant it to sound like an order, but Bea had never been good at following instructions. She dug her nails into the leather more insistently, blanching in the dim beams of flashlights bouncing around the cavernous space.

Maria didn’t have time to fight with her. Instead, she stalked away, Bea’s fist remaining resolutely embedded in her jacket. She was gratified to see Cole at her sister’s elbow, pale and quiet as a ghost. At least they were both still okay, at least…

At least they were together. And as they walked she saw the rest of the people she worked with peel off to join them. Vivienne and Cassandra. Blackwall, Solas leaning on him and limping. Sera with an angry burn on her arm.

“The dragon stole back whatever time we’d bought ourselves.” Cullen snapped feverishly. “We’re cornered and I fear if we surrender…”

“We have children.” Josephine protested shrilly, trying to press a cloth to Cullen’s chest to stem the bleeding. Her fingers shook, but she maintained her resolute demeanor.

“Witch children.” Leliana murmured. “They will not stop to separate them from the others and they pledged to eradicate all the witches in Thedas.”

“We’re going to die.” Cullen dropped his voice low, but not so low that Beatrix didn’t hear it. Her sister made a small, choked noise in her throat. “They’re beyond taking prisoners. We have nowhere to retreat. We’re sitting in our tomb.”

As if to punctuate his statement, the whole building rattled. Cullen’s face twisted into bitter defeat. “We may as well take the rest of the explosives and detonate them here. It would be faster.”

“No!” The word fell out of Bea’s mouth before Maria could say anything at all. “No, I don’t…”

She knew what Bea’s mind flashed to. Knew what she saw as soon as Cullen hurled those words into the air. She felt herself transported back to their old apartment immediately, felt her hand on her father’s bedroom door, heard her voice echo in the silence as she called for him. She could smell the gunsmoke and iron of blood like she’d never walked away from that door. She could feel the earth trailing through her fingers while she stood above a fresh grave.

“We can’t give up.” Bea was panicking and Bea couldn’t panic, because Bea always did the stupidest shit when she did, but Maria couldn’t quite find the words to soothe her.

Cole did instead.

“But there’s a way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cullen spat furiously. “There isn’t…”

“The witch who put the hollow crown on the king’s head.” Cole murmured, curling in on himself, hand reaching blindly for Maria’s own. He grasped her fingers tightly and squeezed. “She laughs while she spins her spells. The first time she came here, she was so afraid, but she’s stronger, smarter, older. Can’t catch her if she can’t be caught. Never be in the tower again, never be chained again. Free, flying, fierce…”

“Wait!” Leliana burst out, reaching gentle, trembling fingers to turn Cole’s chin to her eyes. “Do you feel her? My Warden?”

Leliana’s anguish was palpable, her eyes shining. “Chantal, was she…”

“She smiles when you sing. Hums the songs you taught her as she works. The king ordered her to seal them up, make them safe, make them secret, make them gone. But crows leave nests to flee back to, she knows that. Can’t catch her. Can’t send her back. Can’t see through her spells unless they know where to look.”

“Maker…” Leliana whispered, then shook her head as the building rattled again. Someone screamed. “Maker bless her.”

“What is it?” Jospehine asked.

“The tunnels!” Leliana exclaimed. “When we first came here, we discovered the people in this village using forbidden magic in the tunnels beneath Haven. Ali sent Chantal here to destroy them after the war but…”

“She didn’t.” Cole repeated. “She couldn’t.”

“The tunnels are still there, then, hidden. Chantal…” Leliana’s eyes sparked triumphantly.

“I heard she was a master of illusions.” Vivienne drawled thoughtfully, approaching as if she hadn’t been listening to every word. “I confess, I would love to discover her tricks. Her glamors were legendary, yes?”

“You have no idea.” Leliana muttered. “We would need the best witches to untangle her knots and we never explored all the tunnels. They must all end outside, eventually, but I cannot say they are free from traps or where they lead.”

“Take Dorian and Vivienne, then.” Maria directed with a hiss, turning back to Bea and threading her fingers through her sister’s curls, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s going to be fine. We’re not giving up, okay? We’re going to get through this.”

Bea nodded, eyes closed, fingers shaking while she cupped Maria’s hand with her own. Maria pressed a searing kiss to her sister’s nose. They couldn’t give up, Maria always swore to Bea they wouldn’t end up like dad, they wouldn’t…

“Bianca.” Varric ordered tersely. “I need every record you can dig up for tunnels under Haven. Maps are best, anything from the electric company denoting access points further down the mountain would be top priority, but I’ll take what we can get. Maybe help us avoid any nasty surprises down there.”

Cullen launched into a plan immediately. “If we can find these tunnels, we need time to evacuate. The remaining forces are coming, if we allow them, they will follow us. The explosives are already here, if we collapse this building down after we leave…”

“Sera can rig a remote detonator.” Bea whispered.

“Fuck yeah I can.” Sera muttered darkly.

Of course she could. And of course Bea would hit it off with the most insane and dangerous woman within fifty square miles. And Maria, for some reason, couldn’t feel better about it. She managed a small, she hoped slightly reassuring, smile for Bea. “Can you help her?”

“Can you stay safe?” Bea countered, opening her eyes. “For once in your damn life can you do that?”

“I’ll try.” Maria promised.

Bea nodded, trying her best to be satisfied with that. Maria dropped her hand from her hair and pulled back with a kiss on her sister’s flushed cheek. She lightly pushed Bea away. “Go on then.”

Bea staggered away, looking over her shoulder as she ducked through the crowd, following Sera pushing through. Maria couldn’t watch her stumble away, couldn’t reconcile the elegant way she usually moved with the fear that made her sister wooden and jerky instead. Bea shouldn’t even be here. Wouldn’t be here, except Maria dragged everyone down with her. Just like she always had.

The building shook. A small trickle of dust fell from the ceiling, stuck to the sweat and grime on her forehead. She wiped the grit off and stared up at the hard line of Cullen’s jaw.

“If this building collapses before we can evacuate…”

“He knows you’re here.” Cole’s voice cut insistently through the panicked melee of voices. “He doesn’t care about the people. Doesn’t care about the town. The Elder One wants…”

“Me.” Maria interrupted.

“You.” Cole confirmed softly. “The herald.”

She wanted to scream that she wasn’t anyone’s damn herald, that she’d never claimed to be, that she’d tried to stop it. She wasn’t sent by Andraste, she wasn’t chosen or special. She was…

She was going back into the fire, back into the darkness, back into the night because if she didn’t, the dragon would bring the whole thing crashing down on their ears and everyone she cared about would die in the rubble and flames.

“Stick with Bea, Cole.” She directed grimly. “Cullen, I want your pistol and all the ammunition you have left.”

“No!” Cole protested. “If he gets you…”

“He won’t.” She had to believe that. If she stopped believing that, she’d never find the courage to leave. “When my sister and Sera get that detonator sorted, get it to me. I’ll stay outside as long as I can, draw them away from here. Then I’ll run back here and press the damn button as soon as I’m in the tunnels.”

It was the only path. The only way forward. And it was a damn long shot, she could see it in Cullen’s face as he calculated her odds. She could feel it in the suddenly heavy silence around her while the core of their team tried to consider if there was any other way.

“We will find these tunnels.” Vivienne declared cooly. “And we will await you on the other side, darling.”

Maria wished she had Vivienne’s confidence as the woman lifted her chin in elegant determination and strode toward the doors leading deep into the chantry, the steps that would take her into the basement. From behind her, she heard the rustle of fabric, felt warm fingers trail lightly across her shoulder as Dorian pressed past. He didn’t look down, she didn’t look up. Maria wondered if he was just as afraid of it feeling like a goodbye as she was.

“Varric.” Cassandra snapped impatiently. “You are the one with the maps, you need to go with them.”

Varric. Something thumped unevenly inside her, a thin glass wall shattering, reminding her that no matter how much she tried to ignore his presence, she no more could banish it than she could rid herself of the fear threading her veins. Everyone was speaking, debating where they should go, what they should do, making plans to get the refugees out with as much of the supplies stashed below that they could, and Varric…

Varric was arguing with the Seeker that he needed to stay with her. She couldn’t keep track of the words over her spiking heartbeat while she focused on the gun Cullen pressed into her hand, his leftover ammunition.

“Maker be with you, Herald.” Cullen folded her fingers around it and she tried not to laugh hysterically. One small pistol, one small dwarf, against a dragon and whatever remained of an army of monsters.

“The Seeker’s right, Varric.” She didn’t even need to listen to Cassandra to know the Seeker was right. “You and your damn glasses can help spot traps too. And your fucking robot can find a path out.”

She watched him throw himself to the monsters once trying to save her. She couldn’t watch it again. She wouldn’t. He had asked her to forget it, but sweet ancestors she couldn’t. All she could do was stop it from happening again.

“Princess I -”

Maria whirled on Varric, gun in her hand, furious, frightened, and desperate. “Do you have a better plan?”

She knew he didn’t. He knew he didn’t. There wasn’t a better plan and he looked just as terrified as she felt, just as resigned. This, this was the only plan, and it was a shitty one, and they were all probably going to die, especially her, and….

Fucking sod it all, then.

She darted forward into the space around him, the space the still smelled slightly of his cologne underneath the lingering scent of smoke. She crashed her lips against his in a kiss that bruised, brought her free hand up to tug him closer by a steely grip in his hair. He froze in stunned disbelief, just like she had the first time she’d decided to say fuck it all and kiss the blasted man, before one arm wrapped snugly around her waist and pulled her tight. He tasted like iron, like gunpowder and fire and he held onto her like...

Like he couldn’t bear to let her go.

Before she could convince herself to believe that, she pulled herself away. Cullen coughed awkwardly in the background. High above Varric’s shoulder, Bull had the good grace to pretend to be very interested in the ceiling crumbling above them.

Although, really, that was the more pressing problem than the ache in her chest as she smoothed Varric’s sweat-slicked hair back. His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy, and sweet Andraste if she was going to die at least she had this, even if she only had it for a second, even if it meant nothing.

It had been enough.

She apologized, silently, to Fynn’s ghost while she whispered one more time to Varric.

“Go.” She ordered, wrenching herself out of his loose grip. “Now.”

She stalked away without looking back, she couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t lose her nerve if she saw him staring after her.

She wasn’t surprised the Bull shadowed her. She dropped her eyes to her gun, checking the magazine. “You could stay, you know. This isn’t going to be easy.”

Or safe. Or sane.

“And let you have all the fun?” Bull asked with a rueful laugh. “You always knew how to find the best trouble, boss.”

“Well.” Maria looked up from her pistol with a watery smile, one hand braced against the chantry door. “You always said you wanted to fight a dragon.”

She expected the dragon to incinerate her on sight as it passed, low enough she could see the gleaming scales of it’s belly flickering with firelight, so low the rush of air whipped strands of her hair across her face.

Instead, the dragon soared upwards with another screech, turning south and back into the pass. Maria didn’t have time to appreciate their sudden good fortune because within moments it was obvious they weren’t alone.

It was like the templars had been waiting for her to reappear, wolves circling, monsters craning in the darkness to catch sight of her brilliant red hair. She heard their cracked, parched voices screaming for the false herald. Then the first round of bullets split the smoke and she dashed to a piece of burning debris, a pile of what once had probably been a charming, picturesque chimney. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bull fold himself behind an overturned car.

She aimed at the vague shapes in the dark, in the smoke, but she couldn’t tell if she hit anyone or anything. She thought, perhaps, she heard a strangled shout. The rumble of Bull’s rifle split the night and Maria wondered if this reminded him of Seheron, if he regretted finding himself back on a battlefield.

It didn’t matter, it was all mechanics. Deft fingers exchanging an empty magazine for a full one as quickly as she could. Aim and squeeze, aim and shoot. They weren’t people, not anymore, these were monsters that only sounded like people when they fell because she could barely see their grotesque forms in the dark.

She saw one shadow drop as she squeezed the trigger, but when she took aim at another and pulled, the gun rattled ominously empty. She swore and dropped her hand to her jacket pocket, moving as quickly as she could as the footfalls picked up pace, intent on storming her makeshift barrier while she struggled to reload.

She didn’t have enough time, she knew she didn’t, so she dropped the magazine and waited only a fraction of a second for the large, human-ish shape to appear, gun pointed right at her forehead. If he would have pulled the trigger, she’d have been dead instantly. But he didn’t, and instead Maria swung her leg out. She caught him right at the knees, the hit hard enough to send him down.

They didn’t pick templars for their flimsiness. He was up in a half second, glowing red eyes blazing in his face, red lines burned underneath it like lava. He’d dropped the gun he’d been holding, but he didn’t need it. His fist slammed into her unguarded abdomen so hard and fast it sent Maria toppling into the grey slush beneath her.

She could barely catch her breath, her muscles clenching and spasming, but she rolled to the side just in time to avoid the red lyrium encrusted glove smashing into the ground beside her. The human scrambled on top of her, shoving her down into the snow, and she brought up one knee to catch him in the groin, praying that it worked just as well on monsters as it did on men.

She was lucky. Despite aiming blind and breathless, her shin connected just right to cause the monster on top of her to howl and fold in on himself. She shoved herself up, scrambling in the snow, fingers numb and freezing, trying to get to his loaded weapon if she couldn’t load hers.

His fist clenched in her hair and ripped a half-formed whimper from her throat as he twisted her neck violently to the side, but her fingers had found searing hot metal in the darkness, wrapped around it like a lifeline despite the burn. She fumbled it blindly and pressed the muzzle to the form behind her.

The blast was muffled, but his scream pierced her ears as he released her hair. She was on her feet in a second, twisting to finish him off, but before she could another shot echoed and the man fell.

The Seeker loomed over her, features fierce, eyes calculating. “Are you hurt?”

Even if she was, it wouldn’t matter. Cassandra held something white in her hand, thrust it forward without a word and Maria’s hand closed over the detonator with a thud. “My sister?” She asked quickly.

“Stated she would not leave without you.” Cassandra snapped. Maria’s heart began to sink, but Cassandra kept speaking with a steely glare into the darkness, aiming and picking off one of the approaching monsters effortlessly. “So Blackwall threw her over his shoulder and manhandled her into the tunnels on my orders. I thought it was what you would wish.”

She could kiss the Seeker. She really could. Maria pointed her stolen gun into the dark and fired twice, dropping two more templars that were approaching Bull’s position. Cassandra reached into her pocket and pulled her phone from within, bringing it to her lips. “I am with the Herald and Bull. I will remain here until we receive the signal.”

“10-4 Seeker.” Varric’s graveled voice replied. “Keep her safe.”

Maria hoped the heat rising in her face wasn’t as transparently obvious as it was in Cassandra’s.

A knot in Varric’s chest loosened. The Seeker was with her, the Seeker was a battering ram, a match for Aveline if ever one existed. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

Sweet fucking Andraste he could still taste her, could still feel her fingers in his hair, the dip and curve of her waist and the press of her body against his. That brief kiss reignited every ounce of passion that had cooled in the grim realities of desperate, pitched battle for their lives.

And yet, this time, the sheer scale of his veneration was too recent to be forgotten entirely. The woman who pressed searing lips to his also held their front lines a truly impressive amount of time, managed to topple a behemoth with her precise aim and perfect timing, heard a cry for help in the midst of pure chaos and climbed through fire without a second thought to rescue civilians as a bloodthirsty dragon circled their heads.

His inner author took copious notes. The rest of him stood silent in shocked, reverent awe like a man enraptured with a goddess.

And he’d left her. Left her to face a dragon. Left her knowing Hawke’s cards spelled doom. He knew their situation was impossible, knew they were very likely all going to die, knew she’d be in the greatest danger of all and even still…

He left because a part of him, a shriveled, weary part of him, believed. Hell, not that she was Andraste’s choosen because that was an idiotic notion, but Maria…

He believed in her. He was beginning to believe in her like he’d believed in nothing else.

He had to keep that in mind, because if he thought for a second she wouldn’t survive this, he’d throw his tablet right at Dorian’s head and turn tail back up through the tunnels while the rest of them tried to figure out where the fuck they were going.

Ideally, they’d be heading south, under the templars, down into the mountain pass. That would get them close to the Hinterlands and all the little, charming towns and villages scattered among the area. Even though the countryside was war-torn, he’d take it over the hell erupting above their heads. He’d even drag Maria back into Redcliffe if they needed to.

Unfortunately, they weren’t going south. The tunnels veered west, straight under the Frostback mountains, which wasn’t particularly somewhere they wanted to be stuck with a shit ton of people carrying whatever supplies they could manage to haul with them. Varric could hear the great mass lumbering some distance behind him, the wail of children, clipped orders from the remaining soldiers ushering them through. Varric feared he was navigating them all right into the asscrack of Ferelden and Orlais.

Still better than being murdered by red templars, but only marginally.

“We’re going to get lost and starve to death, aren’t we?” Dorian asked the silence surrounding them. “A glorious end for the Inquisition.”

“Weren’t you camping behind some farm in Redcliffe when we met, darling?” Vivienne sniffed.

“Don’t remind me.” Dorian sighed wearily. “Worst week of my life and not just because I met you.”

Varric couldn’t help himself, he snorted half a laugh. Immediately, both witches turned their critical gaze to him and his tablet. Varric mouth worked quickly as he and Bianca continued to examine and contrast the different maps side by side. “Some people explore tunnels like this for fun. I think it’s called spelunking.”

“Is that what you and our dear Herald were up to before we got kicked in the teeth by an army?” Dorian drawled. “Spelunking?”

Varric Tethras wasn’t one to kiss and tell, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, but before he could retort, Vivienne made a noise of sudden understanding.

“Ah, that does explain his role in the Inquisition.” She tapped her elegant manicured fingers against her chin thoughtfully. “I assumed it was simply to annoy Cassandra.”

Before he could retort that he may be short, but he certainly wasn’t deaf and was in fact, right there, his eyes zeroed in on something in front of him that caused his heart to nearly stop in sheer excitement. “Bianca.” He called out, eyes roaming the maps frantically. “Can we use an old natural gas conduit to get into the mining tunnels?”

“There are no natural gas conduits listed on the maps.” Bianca stated cooly. “But if one could be found…”

Bianca wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t see what he did. Thank the fucking Ancestors Hawke spent so much time dragging him through Kirkwall’s sewers, because Varric recognized the conduit entrance like a glowing neon sign. Varric ran forward to the hatch on the wall, ripped it open with all his rather considerable strength. He poked his head through and shone the light from his phone down the dark tunnel. His knees almost went weak when he saw another hatch some distance down. If he was right, and he was pretty certain he was, that would deposit them in the old mining tunnels, and those could be followed back to the surface easily.

“Bianca, connect me to Curly.” He directed. “I’ve got a way out.”

She felt like she’d been fighting for hours. Her arms shook with exhaustion, her mouth was full of ash and soot. Every movement came robotically, came without thought, her mind wiped clean of everything except blood, except death, except sheer, animalistic survival. They’d been forced back against the chantry doors, their backs nearly against the wall, and still they came. It was unstoppable. Relentless.

But she still didn’t expect Bull to fall first.

The great mountain of a qunari didn’t scream, he only grunted as he’d been doing the entire gunfight, but the hot blood splashed against Maria’s face and he crumbled to one side, his other arm bracing on the rough stones behind him. Maria didn’t even know she could still form words, but his name was in her mouth instantly, her arm over the gaping wound in his abdomen.

“It’s alright boss.” Bull tried to grab for his gun, and that’s when Maria realized it wasn’t just the one wound. There was at least one more, high on his shoulder, a gauge through the rippling muscle. She suspected another in his leg.

“Bull!” The blood pulsed through her fingers, like Fynn’s had, warm and sticky. Panic nearly stole her breath as he winced under her and Maria looked to Cassandra. “Get him inside.”

“We have not received the signal.” Cassandra responded tersely, eyes scanning the darkness that suddenly seemed empty. Too empty.

“I’ll wait for the signal.”

“I will wait for the signal while you…” Cassandra argued.

“Maria.” Bull hissed her name, but it sounded too quiet. It sounded like it was fading and there was so much blood, so much…

“I can’t carry him!” Maria screamed the words into the night, fury hiding her fear. She couldn’t lose Bull, not like this, not with his blood on her hands just like Fynn’s, not when he’d been the one that held her while she keened for his loss.

She couldn’t lose Bull because he refused to abandon her again, even when it was the smarter option, and she couldn’t carry him, she was too small, but Cassandra could. Cassandra had to. “Please, please.”

She couldn’t tell what stunned Cassandra more, her temper or her pleading, but she saw the effect they had on the Seeker. Beside her, Bull cursed in Qunlat, the low rumble dim and incoherent.

She had lost so much, she couldn’t bear to lose the one friend she’d always had. If Andraste or the Maker was watching, if they were listening, they had to do this one thing for her. It was all she asked.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened and she thrust her phone into Maria’s hand. Then she knelt down and slung one of Bull’s hulking arms over her shoulder. Maria nearly cried in relief even as Bull made a noise of protest, even as his large hand brushed against her red hair.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” Her voice shook. “Just don’t bleedin’ die on me, you big asshole.”

“I will wait in the tunnels.” Cassandra promised, eyes blazing as Maria twisted to wrench the big chantry doors open, once pristine, now scarred with signs of bullets and fire. “As soon as he gives the signal, abandon the fight.”

Maria simply nodded, but it was enough for Cassandra. The Seeker dragged the hulking form of Bull through the open door. Maria waited for the space of one heartbeat, two, before she slammed it shut after them. She had the detonator in her pocket, Cassandra’s phone in one hand, gun in the other. Around her, Haven blazed like an inferno, but it was quiet. Finally, blissfully, silent.

Quiet like her ancestor’s tombs.

Quiet except for the beat of wings in the air. A sound that chilled her to her bones. She pulled back from the door, fastening her eyes on the sky above, pinning the huge figure of the dragon against the flickering flames. It barreled through the sky, fire sparking in its throat, heading straight towards her.

She had little choice, she tore herself away from the chantry doors just in the nick of time, running for her life as far from the building as she could. The spot where she had stood erupted into a tower of flames immediately, the old wooden door catching blaze in seconds.

The force of the dragon landing rocked the very ground like an earthquake and sent her sprawling back into the ashy snow. Cassandra’s phone skidded away, but she kept her grip on her gun and pushed herself to her knees, spinning to face the beast.

It’s head was twice the size of her small form, easily, and it screeched while she staggered backwards. She waited for it to spew flames, to finish her where she stood, instead it simply raised one wing as if shrugging a shoulder at her insignificance.

There was someone underneath the shiny black wing, someone tall and slender, someone that looked more corpse than person.

“You are the one they call the herald of Andraste.” It drawled, seeming to float rather than stride. All of Maria’s hair stood on end and she raised her pistol on instinct, aiming for the indistinct figure.

The gun wrenched out of her hand so suddenly it startled a cry from her lips, the power burning her fingertips like open flames as the gun skittered far beyond her reach. She brought them to her numb lips and stared in growing horror at the emerging man. He stood taller than even Bull, but made of nothing but mottled ruined flesh studded with red lyrium. He stared down at her with pale, furious eyes. “The dwarf who ruined my plans. A mere slip of a girl with nothing more than luck. And yet, they would call you a god.”

“What do you want?” Despite her fear, she managed to push the question through her chattering teeth. What could possibly be worth this destruction, this death? Why? Why?

“I want the opportunity you stole. The magic in your form that belongs to me, not you.” He was above her now, looming through the poisonous smoke like the most terrifying demon Maria had ever seen. “The god you claim to serve…”

“I don’t…” She protested.

“SILENCE!” He roared, reaching down to wrench her from the snow. She thought he meant to pull her upright, but to her shocked dismay, he lifted her effortlessly until she dangled from her throbbing shoulder, spinning in his withered grip. “You have been raised up by superstition and hysteria, as all gods are. Not one has been worthy of the name.”

The Maker wasn’t her God, nor was his bride of any particular use to her. Nanna said the Stone once called to their people and if you were quiet, you could hear it singing softly still like a mother in mourning.

If that was true, it didn’t sing to her. It never had.

The creature threw her to the ground and Maria hit it so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. “I will give this world the god it deserves…” The creature promised silkily. “But first, I require what you took…”

“I didn’t fucking take…” Her temper flared, the profanity boiling in her mouth, but before she could say much else the man began to speak. The second he started, the breath caught in her lungs and turned solid like cement. She was choking on it. She didn’t understand what he was saying, the words dark and heavy, foreign and only barely reminiscent of the musical curse words from Dorian’s language.

She felt like they landed on her skin, burning like hot coals, like brands, starting in her fingertips and rising up her wrist, her arm, her shoulder. They grew brighter, hotter, she swore she heard her skin sizzling.

A scream pierced the air. At first, she didn’t recognize the terrible, echoing sound as hers, not until it was joined by another before the first finished echoing. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t fight him.

All she could do was scream.

Varric didn’t realize Harding was recording. Not at first. She crouched beside him, pulling people from the tunnels and into the snow. Her voice blended into the mess of babbled prayers, strangled shouts, sobs of relief and horror. Below them, glowing in a blaze of flames, Haven stood. He couldn’t make out anything there, nothing beyond shadows and fire, the chantry building still standing tall. He couldn’t hear gunfire, but he couldn’t stop to listen for it. All he could do was reach for the next grimy pair of hands.

A kid, no older than sixteen, held Harding’s phone in shaking hands, trained on the reporter and the mass of people she was hauling out of the tunnels beside Varric. Her words came, clipped and furious, terse and to the point. “There is no telling how many people have perished in this unprovoked attack or what the templar order intends to do next. Haven’s refugees will require food, medicine, and safe transport. The soldiers that are left are unable to single-handedly…”

“Are you live?” He asked incredulously. Harding flicked an annoyed glance at him, one that clearly said of course she was, and that this wasn’t the time to be asking stupid questions. She continued her monologue without interruption just as Blackwall called his name.

The next pair of hands he grabbed tightened around his wrists immediately, Bea’s pale face nearly the same shade as the pristine snow around them, drained of all color by terror and fury. Blackwall hauled himself out after her and reached back for Cole as Bea’s eyes landed with a helpless dry sob on the scene in the valley below them.

“This is the last group.” Blackwall snapped, taking Varric’s place in the line. “Tell them to get the fuck out of there while they still can.”

Thank the fucking Maker for that. Varric twisted Bea away from the tunnel, but her hands dug more resolutely into his wrist. “Varric, please, please…”

“Bianca.” He snapped impatiently, trying to pry her nails from his skin as gently as he could. She didn’t need to beg him. He wanted her sister out of that hell just as much as she did. “That line to the Seeker still open?”

“Connecting.” Bianca chimed. Then her voice fell away, leaving not-quite silence in his ear instead. He could hear the crackling sound of flames, something else he couldn’t quite place, but no gunshots.

His stomach clenched but he tried to keep his face carefully blank. He didn’t need Bea panicking and darting back into the tunnels. “Seeker!”

No answer. Varric called out again. “Cassandra, can you hear me?”

His voice echoed back to him. Varric ripped one of hands from Bea’s grip, ignoring the bloody groves her nails left in his skin, and pressed his palm against his empty ear, trying to make sense of the sounds on the other end of the call.

Muffled voices. There were muffled voices, a woman and a man, but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t…

“SILENCE!”

Icy dread hit him like a brick wall and he didn’t keep the horrified expression from his face, he knew it by the way Bea raised her free hand to her mouth to stifle either a scream or a sob, Varric didn’t know.

What he did know was that voice, he knew it and he’d never forget it, not as long as he lived. He still conjured it in his nightmares and the terrifying, gruesome form it belonged to raving for an old god to smite them down. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, they killed him, banished him back to the afterlife they’d ripped him out of.

The sound of an impact, something soft against something hard, an involuntary gasp of shock and pain, all the breath leaving a small figure as something hit her, or threw her, or…

She’d made the same kind of sound when Varric tossed her on the bed, but it’d been softer then, a delighted huff of surprise instead of…

More muffled words, then a surprisingly sharp and clear retort despite the breathlessness of her reply. “I didn’t fucking take…”

“She’s alive.” Varric ripped free of Bea’s other hand, digging for his phone, shouting out an order into the darkness. “Nightingale! Cameras in Haven, are any of them still working?”

“None! Not since the town lost power!” She cried back. “Varric, what…”

He didn’t bother to answer. He needed his shotgun, didn’t know where he’d thrown it. He had to go back, had to get to her, because there was no other voice on that line but Maria’s, and she was alone, alone facing a monster they let loose into the world.

The first scream through his earpiece nearly tore a matching one from him, although his was born of frustration and hers from whatever that gigantic piece of blighted trash was doing to her. Each scream crested higher, screeching more desperately, wordless agonized howls into the night that Varric was shocked nobody else could hear. He knew she couldn’t hear him, knew it was hopeless, but he called her name anyway. “Maria! Maria!”

This, at least, got the attention of both Blackwall and Sera. They whirled to him, confused and concerned. He met their eyes with a mixture of both panic and dread.

“They’ve got her.” Blackwall guessed with a growl.

Not they, he, and he was killing her, Varric was listening to her die, her screams tapering out into wrenching, exhausted sobs. “We have to go back.”

They’d never make it. He saw the thought reflected in all their faces, and yet he could see the determination follow it. Blackwall turned to push back through the rest of the refugees, his hulking form prepared to shove back into the tunnel.

Varric heard the rumble in his earpiece first. A great explosion of cracking stone and imploding rubble. It echoed, not just in his head, but across the valley and into the mountains. Varric turned, helpless, to stare down at the burning ruins of Haven.

And the smoking pile of rubble where the chantry stood.

“No.” Bea choked on a sob, swaying where she stood, “No, no, no, no…”

Varric reached forward to catch her, helpless to do anything else.

They couldn’t go back through the tunnels. They couldn’t get to her. The sound of silence echoed in his earpiece.

“Maria?” He whispered.

But she couldn’t hear him and he couldn’t save her.

It was like breathing in glass and fire, the smoke searing her lungs, the lingering pain turning each gulp of air into a hiccup. Tears, ugly, bitter things, stung her cheeks. She wanted to curl into a ball, exhausted and limp, the racking memory of pain still unbearable.

She wanted to beg for him to stop, but she never begged Dwyka. She wouldn’t plead with this monster either. She could see the outline of the chantry, so close and so far away. She’d never make it into the tunnels, never get out of here past this monster and his dragon, but she could make sure nobody else would either. Her shaking fingers dove into the pocket of her coat and caressed the cold switch. All she had to do was flip the top of it off, then press the button.

It was easy, even if she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt it work in the way the ground shook, the sound of the explosion. She saw the great, grand stone building buckle in on itself, collapsing effortlessly with a rumble that felt like one of the mythical titans finally laying down it’s burden and going to sleep.

The monster grabbed her arm and wrenched her back off the ground, not the whole way into the air, but enough to cause another startled, painful cry. Something pulsed beneath her skin, something frightening and agonizing. A dark, violet bruise bloomed in the palm of her hand and he scowled before dropping it. “As I thought. The spell is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

He twisted from her in disgust, through tear filled eyes she saw him reach a skeletal hand out to the dragon. It reached out for him in return like a monstrous cat it’s master. Maria felt sick, felt weak, felt so frightened she could hardly move. Still, she dragged herself up from the snow, near doubled over, staring at the monster.

“I will find another way.” The creature muttered to himself, dark and foreboding. “But I will not have a false prophet as a rival. You must serve as an example of what happens to those who would link themselves to the gods of old.”

She was going to die. The knowledge settled over her with an air of finality. Maria Cadash was going to die here in the ruins of the town that took her in and paid the price.

At least it wasn’t Bea or Cole. At least it wasn’t Varric. And maybe, maybe Bull would survive. They’d all be okay, except for her. And that, too, was okay. She should have been dead a long, long time ago.

Maybe she’d see Fynn again. Maybe he’d forgive her.

“I’m not afraid.” She lied through her teeth. She wouldn’t admit it, not to this monster, not to the universe that waited for her demise with baited breath. “Do it. Fucking do it.”

The mad, eerie grin he turned on her made her blood run to ice. His mocking, harsh laughter made her knees weak. He lifted his arms to the ruins of Haven and grinned down at her. “I have seen your nightmares, false herald. I know what frightens you.”

She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid, she wouldn’t allow herself to be, but the corpse continued to talk. “You fear you’ll find your ancestors in the dark, and they’ll know you for a thieving whore. You fear their disgust when they know what you’ve done. And worse, you fear it was all for not, that you’ve failed, Maria Cadash. And you have.”

His grin stretched his face grotesquely. “Perhaps most charming of all, you fear dying in the stone that claimed your hapless ancestors, buried and forgotten.”

Her skin prickled and she shook her head in denial, in vehement protest, but it was too late. The wraith-like figure vanished into the open wings of the dragon. Then the great beast itself sprung from the ground, lifting into the smoky sky above them. She could barely make it out as it flew over her head, leaving her alone in the rubble.

For a moment, she thought she survived. For a second, a shining second, she nearly laughed in relief and tried to remember where Cassandra’s phone had vanished to. She could call for help, she could…

Then she saw the dragon flying to the Eastern mountain, saw it’s great maw open, heard the whoosh of flames. Saw the blizzard it kicked up with wings and claws. At first, she didn’t understand. She watched, confused and dazed, exhausted and numb.

By the time she understood, it was too late, although she’d never had a chance to begin with. She was simply a dwarf, a woman, and she wasn’t made to survive monsters and demons.

The snow was beginning to roll down the mountain and the dragon screeched, taking off into the sky. The first gentle shifting became a raging torrent, the avalanche forming as she watched, heading straight for what was left of Haven.

She’d be buried. Buried just like her ancestors.

She could barely move, the pain making her limp like an old woman, but she twisted and began to run, even if it was helpless. Even if she knew she couldn’t survive. She wouldn’t go down without trying, wouldn’t lie down and make it easy like her father had. She owed Bea and Bull that, at least.

The roar grew louder, closer, and Maria stumbled in the slush, her aching hand in the snow. She could feel the approaching mountain in her teeth, feel the ground trembling beneath her. She scrambled to get back up, the very earth fighting her, as if it was opening up beneath her to swallow her whole.

Then she fell into the abyss. Fell into the darkness of her ancestors’ tombs.

They were helpless to do anything but watch. Helpless to do anything but witness the fires of Haven snuffed out in a sea of white far beneath them. Varric strained to see a small form in the chaos, a flicker of life struggling before being snuffed out, but it was his writer’s heart that tried to convince him that she could have outran the avalanche the dragon called down, could have slipped out of that demon’s grasp.

Maria Cadash hadn’t been delivered to them by Andraste, because if she had then the Maker would have plucked her from danger. She hadn’t been a fairy tale heroine, because if she had then Varric would always have written her victorious and safe.

She’d been a woman, bright and brilliant, soft and sad, fierce and furious. For a brief period of time, she’d been perfect. She’d been untouchable. For a second, she even could have been his.

Then she was gone. In a few, brief seconds, she was gone. Her life cut short. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t enough.

“Connection lost.” Bianca notified him softly, her voice almost gentle in his ear. He couldn’t bear to listen to it, reached up to pull it away as he stared at the pristine valley below, looking untouched by humans and battle. A grave for their fiercest warrior.

“If I’m still broadcasting…” Harding’s voice shook. She had her phone clenched in trembling hands, aimed not at her face but at the valley below. “If anyone is listening, Haven has been destroyed. Maria…”

Harding’s voice cracked and she coughed, pulled herself together just enough to finish the sentence. “Maria Cadash, recently known as the herald of Andraste, is believed dead along with countless others who perished to save innocent civilians.”

The words broke the silent, terrible spell over them. It was Bea’s keening wail that shattered the horrifying quiet like a bullet, her wrenching sobs too loud, too painful, too desperate to ignore. Maria’s sister pitched forward in the snow, falling to her knees and shaking her head in denial.

Varric couldn’t even look at her without a surge of guilt threatening to send him crashing to the ground beside her. It was Sera who fell beside Bea, folded her into her too long, too skinny arms and rocked back and forth as Bea sobbed like a broken, wounded animal, her sister’s name the only thing coherent in the words spilling from her mouth.

Varric left her even though he knew what she faced. Left her like a coward. Left her to die alone.

Hell, he’d been the cause of it. The fucking red lyrium he found, the monster he helped release back into the world. His actions, if you followed them back to Kirkwall, were the ones that led them here. Led them to Maria Cadash entombed in the ruins of Haven with countless others while he watched impotently.

He thought he was going to save her. He could almost laugh at the audacity if he’d ever laugh again. He’d fooled himself into thinking he wasn’t dangerous, but he should have known better. Her blood wasn’t on the templars’ hands, wasn’t on Dwyka’s.

In the end, Varric Tethras killed Maria Cadash and he could never forgive himself.

The footage from Haven vanished. The last choppy, horrifying moments, a reporter’s garbled voice saying Maria Cadash was dead. The two Hawke sisters sat, twisted together, on Sebastian’s overstuffed couch. Hawke could feel Bethany’s hand shaking within her own. A different reporter appeared on the screen, a pale woman who looked as horrified as they felt.

“Varric was not in the valley.” Fenris growled from his spot behind the couch. Hawke felt his fingers dig into the overstuffed leather. “I saw him beside the reporter. He is unharmed.”

Thank Andraste for small miracles, Hawke guessed. The bitch couldn’t pull one out of thin air for her damn herald, of course, but at least Varric…

“Bianca.” Hawke called out, her voice tight in the terrible, heavy silence. The light on her phone flashed blue in acknowledgement. “Can you connect us to our favorite dwarf?”

“Connection impossible.” The AI’s voice drifted out of the phone’s speaker. “Cellular coverage has been disrupted and the local program has not established an alternate method of connection at this time.”

Varric hated being disconnected. He’d fix it as soon as he could, but who knew when that would be. Until then…

Varric was alright. And Varric wasn’t alright. She could feel it in her bones. She slipped from the couch even as Bethany tried to pull her back down. Fenris intercepted her before she could make it back to the little card table in the corner. “Stop this.” He demanded tersely.

“I love it when you’re bossy.” She muttered more out of habit than anything else, sidestepping him easily. He had the good sense not to try and physically stop her, but he shadowed her regardless with a scowl. She placed her palms on the table and leaned over it, nauseous and helpless, glaring at the cards staring up at her.

Death and the Hermit. She couldn’t pull anything else and hadn't been able to all day. She swiped them back into the deck mechanically. Fenris placed his hand on the small of his back, leaning over her form to whisper in her ear. “There is nothing you could have done. You know this. Don’t be foolish.”

She leaned into his touch for comfort and reassurance in spite of herself, eyes closing. Foolish. Was it really so foolish to hope that something good could have come through all this? Had it really been so naive to wish…

She slammed her open palm down onto the table and the cards went flying. She bit back a broken sob of outrage, of terror. If the templars had begun taking red lyrium, not only had they killed Varric’s pretty herald, but Hawke’s family would never be safe. They’d never stop hunting her, never stop…

“Oh.” Bethany’s soft exclamation broke through her scattered thoughts and made both her and Fenris turn to look. Bethany stood, in sweatpants and a too-large shirt, the cards scattered around her feet. They all landed face down in nearly a perfect circle, their elaborately designed backs identical and indistinguishable.

All of them face down except, of course, one. One that landed nearly perfectly in the center of the mess.

It was the brightest of her cards, the most brilliantly colored. A woman with hair of red, oranges, and yellows standing tall, one hand extended above her head, eyes closed.

In her palm, she held the sun.

Everything shifted. The universe tilted precariously on its axis while they stared at the card.

“Oh.” Hawke echoed Bethany, looking up to meet her sister’s eyes. They stared at each other while Hawke listened to the voices, suddenly so much louder, clamoring in her prophet’s skull. Sometimes she could nearly make sense of them. This, this…

There was a picture burning in her mind. Vague, indistinct, colors shifting and boiling as she tried to make sense of them. A flash of red, blinding sun on white snow, a cheer, a song, a small woman on the edge of the abyss lit up from within, sunlight pouring from her veins, ambition turning her into the sun, turning her into gold and crimson.

The Sun. The fucking Sun.

“This wasn’t destruction.” Hawke smiled, a slow, tenuous thing as she stared at the cards. This was collapsing. This was crumbling, a star from a black hole. A phoenix rising from the ashes.

It was rebirth.

#fanfic #dragonage #dragon age #varric tethras #varric romance #inquisitor #dwarf inquisitor #inquisitor x varric #inquisitor cadash #dragon age inquisition #dai #in your heart shall burn #modern thedas #modern magic

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ravenqueen89 · 5 years

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the breaking of chains

It is still the wonderful @sternenstaub28‘s birthday, which means it’s time for BIRTHDAY FIC!

Stern requested fic of another of her amazing ocs, Saarea, another oc i absolutely love. I also loved writing this, and I hope I did both her and Stern justice <33333

Fandom: Dragon Age (Inquisition)

Title: The breaking of chains

Pairing: Saarea Adaar/Iron Bull

Rating: PG but lots of implied angst, pls heed the CW.

CW: body image issues, blood mention, a very nightmarish time in the Fade, PTSD.

Notes: We all know I’m a sucker for writing longing and people who feel like they don’t deserve good things so this was very up my alley and I loved getting in Saarea’s head. Here be way too many commas and long paragraphs. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STERN! (unintended consequence of the title and the constant chain mention: having fleetwood mac’s the chain stuck in my head...not a bad thing. oh and adan just casually stumbled in too, i blame dea)

Word count: 3052

Now on ao3

Saarea is always aware of them watching her, but it doesn’t stop her. It can’t stop her. Every day when she’s in Haven, she strides down to the training grounds with all the confidence she doesn’t feel and practices her strikes.

Soon after the Bull's Chargers join the Inquisition, Saarea can feel their leader watching her train with an intensity that makes her unable to focus. The Iron Bull represents everything she's been running from, and her scars ache with the memory of agony. She can't read him, but when she looks at him she knows that what he sees in her is someone not to be trusted. And all she sees in him is chains, reaching out to trap her again. Anxiety rises in her throat like bile whenever she thinks of the words he is sending the Ben Hassrath, words about her, pinpointing her location and making her a target. She doesn't allow herself to think about it too much.

When Saarea walks by the Iron Bull, his gaze lingers on her scars, and she hates how visible they make her, in ways that his do not make him. She hates what he must think of her, so she does what she normally does in this situation. She lifts a shoulder in a shrug that wishes itself casual, quirks the corner of her mouth up so that it seems like she's smiling, looks right at him with a stare that hides nothing about what she is, and then, only then, she says 'bit too scary for you?' and she thinks the question does not reveal her feelings. The Iron Bull laughs and shakes his head, points at his own scars and says ‘I think I can handle it’ but Saarea leaves with the distinct impression that he's seen right through the guise, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that.

They drink together on the night that Haven falls to pieces, with the rest of their company giving up on keeping up with them. The maraas-lok tastes like home, and she hates it, so she has more of it, the burn of it racing through her. She's not used to being around someone who can drink like her anymore, and she's enjoying it far more than she thought she would. Not for the first time, she thinks that there is something powerful about drinking quantities that would eviscerate humans and still being the most level-headed person in the room. Varric is staring at her, unable to coat his awe in the layers he usually hides behind, and when Saarea laughs at him it doesn't feel like she's pretending to feel something she doesn’t, the loud and boisterous façade she usually masks herself with seeming less fake than usual. When she looks back at the Iron Bull, he's looking right at her. He never seems uncomfortable at the sight of her eyes, and that makes a feeling flutter in her chest that she can't quite describe. She doesn't trust him, and he doesn't trust her, but they are comrades and that means something. In this moment, Saarea feels a little less like who she used to be and a little more like who she might become. Then the alarms ring and the screams rise and a mountain falls on her, and what she thinks when she falls to her knees in the snow, numbed by the cold, is 'I wish I could have been more.'

In Skyhold, she tries to keep up with the motions, but her exhaustion brings all the old memories and aches back. The constant cold doesn't help, creeping under her skin and making her chase the relief of late nights in the tavern, where it’s warm and where barrels of maraas-lok are always supplied by the Chargers.

With the state of the hold their next expedition is still weeks away, and Saarea starts feeling more and more trapped by petitions and adulations that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with the foreign titles that she has been assigned. Walking through the ever more crowded great hall is even more difficult than walking to Haven's now-gone training grounds used to be, and every time it feels like an exercise in futility. She can feel all their eyes on her, can hear the whispers of the Orlesians hiding behind their masks, and she wishes it wouldn't make a difference but it does. The scars hurt and she has to keep herself from touching them because she doesn't want even more attention drawn to them. No matter what she does, she can't hide them, nor her height, nor the strangeness of her eyes. She avoids her reflection as much as possible, and when she walks she stares straight ahead, her jaw set and her eyes fierce, and the posture or the magic that crackles just out of reach keeps them at least away from her. It doesn't stop the whispers, so she spends more and more nights in the Herald's Rest, where it doesn't feel like she's putting on a show, where the Chargers are loud and the Iron Bull holds court. She’s not the Inquisitor there, she’s just one more of them, and that feels right in a way she doesn’t want to think about in too much depth. Varric joins them sometimes, when the ghosts of his past are written in the circles under his eyes, and Saarea’s other companions join at different times, and it’s the most she’s felt like she belongs.

It’s on nights like these that she talks to the Iron Bull above the racket, the burn of the alcohol on her lips. There’s no structure to what they say to each other, but with each conversation Saarea feels less wary of him, and she believes the same is true for him. She’s always keenly aware that her words are being recorded, but she hopes that more and more of them remain for the Bull’s knowledge alone.

They talk of everything, even of the Qun, but Saarea doesn’t intend to tell him anything too revealing about her own experience until it all spills out of her, one frozen night when she can’t bear the sight of herself and the layers she’s wrapped herself in do nothing to hide her from sight. The tavern is almost empty, and it’s just the two of them at the table, empty tankards lined in front of them, and Saarea just keeps talking, because the scars hurt, because she’s kept the memories to herself so much that they’re tearing her apart from the inside and he has scars too but they hold none of the same meaning, and she doesn’t know why but she wants him to understand, she wants him to see.

As Saarea speaks, the Iron Bull’s eyes harden, the flames from the hearth drawing shadows on his face. She knows what he’s been trained to think, she knows he never flinches at the sight of her but he always does at the sight of her magic. She used to believe what she’d been told too, but that had evaporated in the sparks of the explosion that coaxed blackness in her eyes and allowed her to flee back then. Sometimes, on the worst nights, she still longs for home, for the comfort of discipline even as it chained her. In the world outside the Qun, chaos prevails, but Saarea knows now that freedom means more than order. The Iron Bull, however, still belongs to them, to those unseen figures of her past.

He says nothing as the words spill from her, and she doesn’t need him to speak platitudes so it suits her fine. When she falls silent too, they sit there, staring ahead of them, as an icy dawn breaks outside.

Saving the Chargers is not really a decision she struggles to make. She doesn’t want the Qun anywhere near her, or near her companions, or near the Chargers. The Inquisition doesn’t need it, and she definitely doesn’t, but her heart still clenches when relief and heartbreak clash on Bull’s face as they watch the dreadnought burn. She knows that feeling well, that jarring rupture of everything she’s ever known. There is no comfort she can offer, not for this, but she brushes her hand against his, just for a second, and then leads her other companions away, leaving Bull to the Chargers, his real family.

By the time the Ben Hassrath make their third assassination attempt, Bull's face has recovered its usual carefree mask. He hasn't talked to Saarea, not really, but she's watched him train with Krem, and whenever his mask slips the relief always wins over the sadness.

One morning she's doing her usual training in the courtyard, and she can feel him watching her. She doesn’t know why she does it, but for once she trusts herself enough to act on instinct. She sends a lightning bolt into the dummy, interrupting apothecary Adan’s walk to the infirmary and making him jump and grumble into his beard. Saarea apologises with a smile, and then turns to look at Bull, who's grinning at her. 'Looking good, boss!' he says, and ‘boss’ still sounds too much like another word in qunlat for comfort, but still something flutters in her chest again, something she can't quite figure out, something just out of reach, something she’s never allowed herself to think she deserves. She challenges him to a sparring challenge, agreeing to his term of ‘no sparkly stuff’, and Krem finds them hours later, laughing.

In Adamant, they fall into the Fade, and Saarea jokes about it at first, ridicules the fear lurking in every corner. For the first time since their first meeting on the Storm Coast, Bull’s face is an open book, his terror obvious. Saarea leads the way but stays close to him, trying to dispel the confusion with remarks that wish themselves witty, trying to brush the Nightmare’s remarks off, but Bull’s hands are shaking, and Saarea is focusing so much on keeping him and the rest of her team safe that she doesn’t step into the portal until it is too late. She ends up in an entirely different part of the Fade. Up is down and time doesn’t exist, but the fear is real and tangible and utterly blinding. Saarea can’t find her way out, the Nightmare whispering at times, screaming at others, feeding her images of the torture she’s been through, of the pain and the horror she’s tried so hard to bury. Her scars are bleeding like they’re fresh, and she believes it when the Nightmare keeps repeating that she deserves it, that she deserves all the agony, that she should be kept on a leash, that she’s dangerous and out of control.

She crawls her way back without any sense of direction, and she ends up hearing Bull’s voice calling for her, and it sounds almost desperate but she can’t be sure, she can’t be sure of anything. She doesn’t know where her staff is, but the magic is crackling and sparking around her hands, out of control again but guiding her to her companions. By the time she reaches them the blood is gone but her throat feels raw, like she’s been screaming, and she can’t tell if that happened or not.

When the next demon appears, Saarea’s magic bursts out of her, unleashed and unstoppable, and she can see the fear in Bull’s eye but she doesn’t stop until she’s out of the Fade, the shock of the real world calming her down. The immensity of what has happened only hits her later, when she can’t stop shaking at the thought of the person left behind, at the onslaught of memories. Her scars ache for days, and Bull doesn’t look at her once on the way back to Skyhold.

Saarea hides in her room and doesn’t emerge for days, not even when Dorian brings her the staff she’d thought lost. She’s scared of touching it, and Dorian’s eyes are kind, but she can see that he doesn’t know what to say so she lets him go without a word other than a murmured thanks. Her voice still feels splintered and when she looks down at her hands she keeps seeing chains and the rusty stain of blood. Oddly enough, no one bothers her, and Saarea thinks about what they’re most likely saying about her but she can’t dwell on it because everything else is already threatening to crush her. She feels monstrous, and the words of the Arvaraad keep haunting her. She should be in chains. It’s for her own good, for the safety of those around her. She thinks of the fear in Bull’s eyes, thinks of how she dared long for what someone like her could never have. She’s painfully aware of each and every scar that mars her skin, as aware as she is of her horns needing to be tended to, but her hands are shaking and she sits in the dark until it feels like nothing else exists.

Bull’s voice filters up to her, carried by the wind, an indeterminate amount of time later. When she opens the doors to the balcony, snow flurries and a chilling wind rush in to greet her. Far below, Bull is laughing while training with the Chargers and a variety of onlookers braving the cold to watch them. He seems to be boasting about the new scars from Adamant, and Saarea envies him that, but she also feels the odd urge to laugh, the sound of his voice soothing her. She’s not fond of the cold, but in this moment the light snow twirls around her in a way that feels beautiful, and she can breathe in the frost in the air and for a moment it feels right. She can see him look up at the balcony, most likely having caught a glimpse of her movement. He doesn’t turn away when she waves, and when she reaches out to her staff the magic is fully under her control.

A few afternoons later, Saarea’s hands have stopped shaking enough to allow her to pay attention to some of the letters on her desk. She is interrupted first by Josephine, who leaves her a tray of what she calls ‘Orlesian petits fours’ as an offering from the new baker. Next, Dorian and Vivienne bring her a selection of runes from Dagna that they all pore over before Varric comes to read her a chapter from his new novel that -mercifully- seems to have nothing to do with her, as of yet. Sera comes over the next morning to gossip with her about everything and nothing, the subject of Adamant kept at bay for now. She finds Cole’s hat on her desk, covering a piece of spiced apple pie after she returns from the rookery, where Leliana’d showed her a basket of week-old baby nugs.

It carries on like this until she is sure she’s fallen into a rift because it all feels surreal, because she doesn’t deserve any tokens of affection. She walks into the Herald’s Rest for the first time since Adamant in a state of utter confusion and the Chargers cheer at the sight of her. It feels impossible, but everyone gathers around her, like she’s worth looking at, and Bull smiles at her. She talks loudly about insignificant things and it doesn’t feel like a performance. She beats everyone, particularly Cullen, at Wicked Grace, and she laughs and drinks and laughs some more. Her hands aren’t shaking and her scars aren’t hurting and it feels normal. It feels like perhaps she has a new home. No one flinches at the sight of her, and she doesn’t understand it, but she feels she might accept it.

Later, much later, when the laughter has died down and the tavern has slowly started emptying, Saarea finds herself once more at a table with Bull and no one else.

‘Do you think I should be in chains?’ she asks, and it’s not even slightly what she wanted to say, but it is what spills out and she can’t bring herself to take the words back. She needs to know.

Bull looks at her in that steady way he has, like he’s considering what to tell her, and she finds herself wanting to touch the scars on his cheek. It’s yet another thing she doesn’t deserve, but for the first time in her life she can’t find it in herself to want to stop longing for it.

‘Do you?’ she says when the silence stretches almost unbearably, aware of his hand on the table, so very close to hers.

’No,’ he answers, and it sounds so definitive that Saarea feels inclined to believe him even though she knows he could easily lie to her. Protests rush to her anyway, and he sees them on her face. He lets his fingers rest on top of hers and the contact is almost too much. ‘You don’t deserve that, boss. You’ll never deserve that. I’m starting to see that maybe no one does.’

An odd sort of sound breaks from her and his hand is warm and it almost feels like he’s speaking a language they don’t share. She wants to say something funny, wants him to make a joke, wants something to feel normal, but what happens instead is that his free hand finds its way to her cheek and his thumb traces the scars around her mouth like he can’t even fathom being repulsed by her, and she laughs, almost deliriously, the room empty around them and him touching her.

He’s looking at her like he’s waiting for her, and all Saarea can think to do is to press her forehead to his and breathe, drunk on freedom, on all the possibilities that she can almost reach out and claim.

For the first time, the chains that her memory has woven around her start to disintegrate. For the first time, she feels light.

#my writing #saarea adaar #HAPPY INTERNATIONAL STERN DAY

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pb1138 · 5 years

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This is a prompt given to me by @queergaymer that I turned into a snippet for my Faded to Be Together fic. I’m thinking this scene is still 3-5 chapters away from where I’m currently at, but I thought that was close enough I don’t mind sharing it.

Prompt: “I promise you, just trust me.”

A warning: This comes off as very anti-Cullen. And, frankly, at this point in the story, Alena does hate him, but this is just a snippet of the bigger picture. Since this is part of a Cullenmance story, I’m not going to tag it as anti-Cullen or anything like that (I’m actually not going to tag it as anything but the story title,) but if you’re so bothered by anything that isn’t “Cullen shits rainbows” then this bit probably isn’t for you.

Cullen woke as he does most mornings—trembling in a cold sweat, heart racing in his chest, the mottled and twisted faces of the abominations from his nightmares still burned in the back of his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his face hard and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Another early morning, then. There was not even a hint of the light of dawn peeking into his tent, and the only sounds to be heard was the laughing of his guards off in the distance. Despite his best efforts to seal them properly, some snow had drifted in through the flaps of his tent, and he watched for a moment as the bitterly frigid breeze dusted it along, illuminated by his modest fireplace in such a way that it crept like a powdery shadow. The chill of the air startled a shiver out of him, disturbing him from whatever exhausted reverie he had been trapped in, and so he set about dressing. If it truly were as early as he thought it was, he would be back to catch a quick nap before he rose with his men, so he forwent his complete array of armor in favor of a thick leather coat beneath his mantle which he pulled tight around him. Once his sword belt was secured against his hip, he pushed out into the stark cold of this young morning.

The air bit against him sharply, so sharply it stung his nose and eyes, but he pushed past his temporary discomfort to breathe deeply. The cold pushed away the remnants of sleep and his nightmares for which he was grateful. A cursory glance about the troop camp confirmed that everyone was, in fact, still asleep, save for the small fire at the edge of the encampment around which a few of his guardsmen were gathered. The moon hung overhead, large and unimpeded by clouds, so his path into the village of Haven was fairly easy to see. Moonlight glowed against the light and dusty snow that swirled beneath his feet, turning it almost luminous. If not for the Breach looming over the mountains, he might’ve said it was a beautiful night, but a glance in that direction quickly quelled whatever serenity he had been feeling.

He had intended to take a patrol of the city, check in with his second before he went into the War Room to strategize, but for whatever reason, when he glanced over and saw bright light still emanating from the Herald’s windows, he felt compelled to stop by. She and her companions had returned earlier that day, having walked the last half of the way because their horses had run off. Cullen had fully expected her to sleep the next 24 hours, and yet her candles were still lit?

The snow muffled his footsteps as it had most sounds. As he approached her door, a sound did catch his attention, though he could not quite place it. For a moment, he hesitated, his fist lifted to knock. Was this overstepping his duties? Would she see it as an intrusion? They barely knew one another, after all.

No. No, he had to be sure she was alright. Impertinence aside, this was the Herald of Andraste. If she was unwell, it was his duty not only as commander of the Inquisition’s forces but as a devout man to help her.

So, he knocked. And waited. And waited. After nearly three full minutes of waiting, he cleared his throat and knocked again. “Um, H-Herald?” The sound beyond the door grew louder, and with a shock, he realized it was crying. Frowning, he knocked louder on the door. “Herald. Are you alright?”

The crying beyond the door faltered just long enough for her weak voice to call back, “Leave me alone.”

And for a moment, Cullen considered leaving her in peace, but something within him told him to stay. Clearing his throat, he knocked softer and put his head closer to the door, his voice lowered. “Mistress Lavellan, please, are you alright?”

There was a quick shuffling of feet before the door was thrown open, startling him. She stood before him, hair half fallen out of a thick bun, dressed in an oversized tunic and loose fitted pants. Tears had stained her cheeks, a nearly endless river still flowing from her eyes. With a huff, she spun on her heel and retreated deeper into the house, the door left open for him to follow.

He stepped into the small dwelling carefully and shut the door behind him. When he turned back around, she was sat upon the bed, tucked up in the corner with her knees drawn up. He hovered awkwardly a moment before carefully sitting down in a chair across the room and leaned forward, his elbows upon his knees. “Did something happen?”

Scoffing, she shook her head and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve. “You mean besides having the weight of the entire literal world on my shoulders?” she hissed bitterly. “No, I’m just peachy.”

Cullen frowned softly, pressing his hands together. “What do you mean?”

Her hands balled into fists, and her head laid back against the wall with a thud. “Just. The mark. This whole… inquisition, whatever that means. I just.” She took a shuddering breath and failed to keep her face from crumpling for a split second. “I just want to go home,” she whispered. “This is too much.”

“I understand. It is a lot of pressure,” he agreed. “But, you are not alone in this, Mistress Lavellan.” He offered her a small smile, but at her sardonic scoff, he looked down at his feet for a moment before looking back. “I cannot and will not say I understand what you are going through. I don’t know whether you are actually the Herald of Andraste, but I do believe that you have been set upon this path for a reason. I promise you that no matter what the future holds in store, my compatriots, your friends, and I will not let you face it alone. You can trust me.”

The smile that had grown along his face as he spoke was struck quickly under her glare. “Trust you? Trust you?” She was on her feet then, and the air around him was growing unnaturally warm. He nearly fell out of his chair in his effort to back away from her and the smoke rising from her clenched fists. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” she growled.

Cullen blinked in his confusion, his back finally hitting the wall, but she stopped her advance a few steps back. “I-I don’t—”

She shook her head, her nose crinkled in disgust. “’You’re looking remarkably well, Knight Captain.’”

The same words she’d said upon meeting him, and the memory rose in his mind along with his confusion. “M-Mistress Lavellan, I—”

“You hear my words now, Cullen Rutherford, and hear them well. I could never, would never trust you, not after you threw me into that hell in Kirkwall, and especially not after you turned a blind eye when your guards beat me and whatever else they were doing under your negligent reign.” Her hair fell from its bun as if reacting to her anger, and the fear he might have otherwise felt turned into sharp guilt. I knew her in Kirkwall? he thought to himself, but he did not have long to ponder those implications because she was in his bubble now, her face inches from his, the smoke in her hands filling his nose. “You threw me in Hell, Knight Captain, a Hell that you personally allowed to exist through your spite and your negligence, and for that, you may never win my favor nor my forgiveness.” She punctuated ‘favor’ and ‘forgiveness’ with sharp pokes to his chest that made him flinch, but she stepped back rather than actually hurting him. The tears were back in her eyes which she averted from him. “What hurts more is that you don’t even remember me from before, from Kinloch.” The thickness of the air was lessened, the embers in her hands dwindling down. “I used to think of you as a friend,” she whispered forlornly. He swallowed thickly, mind racing with the implications of her words, but as he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off with a finger thrust sharply towards the door. “Just. Leave.” When he hesitated, she snapped, sending warning sparks from her fist and growled, “Get out.”

Cullen nearly tripped over himself in his haste to leave, and no sooner had the last hair on his mantle passed through the door did it slam hard behind him, leaving him standing breathless and confused in the snow. Bewildered, he made his way back to his tent, all thoughts of work dashed from his mind. As he sank heavily into the chair by his desk, her words echoed in his mind. He knew her. And not only did he know her, he… Guilt washed over him in a wave of sharp nausea, and tears burst against his eyes. She’d been in the Gallows, then, put there by him, and he’d allowed her to be hurt. But he couldn’t remember her. The haze upon those seven years brought from his lyrium addiction affected his memories, many of his individual sins lost to the drug. But she also said he’d known her in Kinloch, had considered him a friend.

A fist pounded against his table as he growled with frustration. How did he know her? Who is she?

A face burst within his mind, unscarred, paler, younger, un-tattooed, hair brown rather than white. His eyes went wide with realization, and he leaned back in his chair. “Alena and… Missella… I…” The odd girl always hanging about Missella—the Hero of Ferelden and the mage he’d had a crush on—the odd girl whom nobody seemed to like. Memories began to trickle in—finding her asleep in the library, catching her eye from across the hall and chuckling at her blush, hearing her soft voice as he passed through a room in which she was scrubbing the floor.

Alena.

And he’d… Thrown her in the Gallows. But when? How?

Those memories were harder to work through, took him most of the rest of the morning, but finally he’d found them tucked in some long forgotten and corroded corner of his mind. Her face had changed with hardship, her cheeks more sallow, her eyes sharper, a long scar from her brow to her chin, her now-white hair cut jagged and short. He’d found her. Along the docks. And she’d recognized him, called him by name but she’d run, terrified. And when he’d chased and she cast her spell, he’d turned hateful, spiteful, his prejudice against mages surfacing and turning him into the monster that he’d been.

He’d not been in gentle in how he’d apprehended her, had dragged her to the nearest templar patrol and thrown her at their feet. And when she’d struggled, he’d turned his back, allowed his men to hit her…

He barely made it out of the back of his tent before the vomit came. And then the tears came, wracking sobs that he struggled to keep quiet as he made his way back into his tent. No longer could he fault her for her spiteful and evasive behavior towards him, rather he felt he deserved it and so much more. As he sat there, replaying this information again and again, he made a vow. Though he could never make amends, nor would he beg her forgiveness, but Cullen Stanton Rutherford would do everything in his power to ensure that this woman would be protected, and whatever was in his power to give her, he would.

#faded to be together

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chiclet-go-boom · 6 years

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cullen - fragment

I am never going to finish this, apparently. /drops into the tumblr well and dusts hands

The world explodes.

There is everything and then there is nothing and then there is everything again and the blood runs from her ears, down her neck in a lover’s caress. She staggers, undone.

Then for a long heartbeat there is only emptiness, a soundless wave crashing against a shore she cannot see, cannot hear for panic and billowing dust. There’s something gritty under her fingertips, beneath her boots as she clutches the rail, oddly clear when nothing else is. She somehow still on her feet although she knows not how. She shakes her head once and then again as if it will help.

Far away, oh, so far away something whispers. She looks up to the stone vault so high above. The powerful buttresses arc in mathematical precision, built by men, built to stand, built this time to last. Sees in this moment of stillness between strike and impact with blood sticky on her skin the fractures race, shudder, streak like dark lightning.

The slow pieces start to fall.

The boiling, malevolent sky chases them down.

Cassandra runs.

In the weeks that follow she begins to think of it as a kind of music. An opening overture of magic and fury, calling the dancers to the floor. And the worst part is that while the sheer scale is overwhelming, the tune is oh, so very familiar. She can all but see the notes swirling across the parquet of her mind’s eye, framed by the rubble and the bodies and the screaming.

Music from an orchestra she cannot yet see, that cannot be comprehended in its horror. Yet she is who she always was, a daughter of old royalty however far she has strayed from those long ago silks and no amount of time or distance can erase the knowledge from memory of how treachery always starts.

It is as old as empires and as fresh as the mud she kicks from her boots as she ducks under the lintel with new fear and old anger coating the back of her throat like a wine gone sour. The prisoner fuels both and she drags them into the weak sunlight whether they will or no but the sky still breaks and the tune still plays.

A turn, a pirouette, a sword thrust through a demon’s body and the wide eyed fear on another’s face. They advance. The only direction she will ever permit is forward.

She hates it. Hates every chaotic step she takes even as she bows to the necessity and does her best to lead. A bone deep surety hammered home by everything that has ever happened to her in her life that that she will never be politic enough, diplomatic enough, close enough to patient enough to win where Most Holy never even had the chance to fail.

For her strength is where it has always been - in steel and in relentlessness, in the searching and the finding and the naming.

So she finds. She names. And she recruits.

Leliana does not have to be asked, of course, although she does so anyway because she will take nothing for granted now. It is a measure of bittersweet grace that the Left and the Right have moved as one through these new steps, even with the master who yoked them together so long ago no longer holding the reins. That will be a grief for later, should there be time. It is a small comfort that between them they have saved what could be saved but there needs to be more. There has to be more or the way is already lost.

They speak over candlelight in the hearts of midnight and exhaustion and then messages as black as the crows they fly on are sent out, are returned, and are sent out again.

The Inquisition rises. A shaggy beast with half closed eyes, roused from the centuries of ash and destruction that had been its bed. Leliana sings and the jewel of the Montilyets answers, a diadem of discernment and perfume lured from its nest in Val Royeaux, come to rest on its heavy brow. Cassandra prays and hears no answer save that faith will always be the question, that the Maker does as He wills and answers only to Andraste, if He answers to anyone at all. She walks out of her tent in the morning and adds another player to the dance; the fresh-minted Herald with their virulent hand holding up the light for the path forward.

She continues with the work.

The liar lies but his rough voice echoes into shadow, under stone, around so many unseen corners that she is persuaded to tolerate him, as much as Cassandra would prefer the dwarf in irons where he can do no harm and turn no profit. She looks to those of the Chantry that can be made useful and discards or ignores what cannot. Looks to the Gray Wardens, scattered as they are, even as she sends urgent missives to her own far flung sect. She looks to the mages even as they are gathered up and repurposed. She looks to the templars and finds Cullen.

She has watched this all before, and always there is an element of risk in the pieces, in the players. Can she do better for the Inquisition? Perhaps. But not soon and not easily. If the Champion yet lives they will not to be found conveniently lounging in a nearby tavern, ready to be pressed into service. The thief holds still the secret locked behind a wide smile, buried under the heavy pulse in his throat. Absolutely nothing she says or does has dislodged it which is infuriating.

She would drink if it help but it will not, so she makes her decisions based on what is and not what she would have it be. Cullen himself is not as she remembers but in the choking pall of the husked out Conclave there was no questioning his competence. Men fell into line without question, desperate for order, any order at all and he gathered them all as if born to it. His voice and his authority that bound them and sent them out to face the demonspawn that had all but overrun the staggering, shattered survivors. His was the path carved to safety, lined in bones and blood and fear.

In the evenings when she places her candles on the altar, one of them is always for the Knight-Captain.

Her sword is meant for a single thrust, her voice a single question, but his brought a victory to a battlefield that was lost before any of them knew it had even began. And his faith in her, at least, is steel. She raises him up with Leliana’s blessing and she watches. She waits. She speaks of many things to the wind-chapped Herald, tries to teach what she knows as fast as it can be absorbed, defers to others when she knows she is beyond her depth. There are not enough hours in the day, the nights lit a sickly green as the barrier between waking and dreaming, alive and dead shreds itself apart in streamers of color. She searches for both truth and Truth as she has done all her life, desperate to find answers faster than the questions can unravel in her hands. The how is important and she leaves that to Leliana to tease out the threads of it, but it is the who and the why that occupies most of her thoughts.

She prays. People arrive in trickles, then in small streams. She shunts the mages to one side, the warriors and templars to the other and sets the rest between like a field of healing laurel. Whatever good can come from the wreckage of Most Holy’s dream, she hopes she can somehow make a space for it to grow.

The divide is deep though and tension simmers in Haven. There are fights; fast and some few of them vicious. The Chantry’s locked basement doors, meant to hold grains and leathers and barrels of fine oil, are grimly repurposed.

The Commander does not falter under the burden she has given him, the hardest of all save perhaps the glittering webs that Josephine begins to spin from raw hemp. She needs a force that will give others pause, needs it as fast as he can raise it and she has only the desperate and the trapped to give him.

She sees then what she supposes Meredith must have seen and Greagoir before her.

Was he always this way? She truthfully cannot remember. She hears the younger man he must have been once in the quiet of his voice, rarely raised even in close quarters; hears it again in the thoughtful advice he offers before he waits on the decisions made by others. Hers first and then tentatively the Herald’s with Leliana near silent as she lets the Right continue to carry their decisions forward, the public face. She sees it sometimes too in the wry smile he gives her, acknowledgement that they are only human and their tasks only greater with each day they continue. There is oddly little ego and in her spiteful moments she feels that he must have gifted the lion’s share of his to the Chancellor who seems to have brought more than enough for everyone at the table.

But those glimpses of another man are fleeting and brief. Cullen breathes the same biting air that she does, suffers the same complaints of inadequate shelter, walks through the same half frozen muck that claws at everyone’s boots and patience but that is all. If he eats, it is alone. He must sleep but when she could not say. If his body requires ease there are no rumors of it, salacious or otherwise.

Never unarmored. Never without a sword or knife to hand. That what she gives him he purifies ruthlessly and that the cold light of it does not seem to end.

She listens and does not know what she listens for. He does not speak of the Circle Tower although she knows something of what must have happened there, as much as anyone can know who did not live it. She tells herself if that no one would choose to revisit a place so corrupted, even in memory. He speaks only slightly more of Kirkwall and never of the rebellion itself, save a regret echoing in his voice that does not always reach his eyes.

Can she fault him for that? Could anyone?

Yet if he is quiet, if he is good at accepting orders, it detracts nothing from the fact that his dominion becomes firm, becomes absolute. The markers start to move on the table and the victories begin to pile like furs; small yes, but decisive. Their influence expands, testing its cage on the backs of restless horses. He trains with his men, rides with them, raises his seconds and then his thirds.

Fair of hair, fair enough of face and judgement but cold, cold as the winter winds that bite at everyone impartially. Even though she tells herself she knows his past it catches her by surprise when she starts to see his scars reflected on others.

A courier drops to a knee in the winter slush to give report and she watches as the Commander does not correct the behaviour. It is not wrong, to kneel before a superior officer, but it is still obedience, blind and unthinking. She opens her eyes and sees then as she had not before the clenched fists to chests as he passes, the voices a murmur like a fluttering breeze behind him. Lion of Ferelden. Hammer of the Gallows. Cassandra watches as a legion swirls and begins to coalesce like the rough cloak he wears pinned to his shoulders. Sees the eyes that follow with both fear and unnerving worship.

Meredith’s Fist.

She told him she needed an army so that the Inquisition will be unopposed as it does its work. Can she permit herself concern over how it is accomplished?

She cannot answer this. The Inquisition walks, eating as it goes, growing larger but still so fragile, so newly born. The sky boils day and unceasing night.

She looks to Leliana but the shadow has nothing to say. There is only approval of any method that advances them. That Cullen succeeds where so many others might fail? It is a blessing from the Maker Himself. Rough chaff, winnowed and cleaned and polished, blades that are bright and then red and then bright again with so few losses, considering all. She nods her head and withdraws. The Nightingale is not wrong. Still, if she has made a mistake, there may yet be time to correct it. She tries again to speak to the thief, to the liar, cornering him where he cannot evade but his secrets remain prisoners, starved and dying. The Champion is but a myth that he speaks of as if the stories happened a thousand years ago to someone else, a legend of fog and rumor with no strength in the now.

She pushes, pushes hard but there is no forward here, nothing for her to sink a blade into this time. It rouses her temper and her blood, both of those things dangerous.

Because his voice is as rough as it always is but there is a thread of sweetness now that runs through it, a shimmer of milk-dark honey. She distrusts it and him for it nibbles at her, a mouse pilfering in the dark where it cannot be seen and caught.

She spends longer with him than she intends, the words moving from accusation to argument and back again in convoluted spirals that spike both heartbeat and hair and she is more than unsettled when she finally, finally abandons the task, long stride once again carving distance between them.

Gold against his throat and the rhythm of his breath, the curling lick of his voice with oh, so many words that say absolutely nothing at all. She would throttle him if only to make herself feel better, but she has tried that before, her fingers twitching with the memory of warm skin under fingertips and she is no further ahead than when she started.

The secrets rattle their bones and laugh.

The word begins to spread that all is not, perhaps, lost. The streams of people become small rivers. If Cullen slept before, she is sure that he does not now. There are too many, those with skills and those without, uses that must be assigned, absorbed, made somehow to work. Idle hands belong to the Maker and she fills them all as best she can. Rough buildings begin to spring up like scattered flowers, stones brought up from the river to be smoothed and set into the ground for better roads, voices yell and grunt and spread.

Through it all Josephine is a whirlwind of dark hair and gleaming pins, organizing, sorting, soothing. Haven settles down restlessly under her touch even as Cullen tightens his grip beneath it and draws out the worst of the poisons that leech in with the tide. The companies ride out in waves to assure safety in wider and wider circles and some carefully carried away within them do not return.

Cassandra does not ask. She travels with the Herald and assesses the land for herself.

She seeks and seeks and she finds more yet more questions but also answers and finally, finally a name. Corypheus.

The liar swears in a voice she has never heard from him before and she tentatively names it fear. It throws her, a little. Never has she heard him afraid. But what cannot die? Apparently something that walked the Golden City an age ago and gloats that the streets of it are black, abandoned, dead. Something that has now found a way to tear open the very sky above their heads because there was nothing and no one to stop him. And now it comes for them, comes for them all, but most of all it comes for the Herald.

Can there be any mortal answer to that?

Yet she will not be driven from the field before it is truly lost. She asks then for time and is answered. They walk out alone, shoulder to shoulder like comrades, like the friends she would prefer to believe they are.

They don’t go far for it would be foolish beyond all words to pass out of sight with so much uncertain in the world. Only as far as the frozen lake, blue and ice and snow spreading before them in an afternoon much like all the others before it. The red of his cloak is the only color that she can see with the world sleeping in its winter, a winter that does not yet know what is happening, possibly would not care if it did and she takes deep, rigid breath.

What she seeks she always finds but she already knows this question will be poison. His will be the hand that must pin their enemy to the ground, should the Maker’s grace be with them that far. Should a thousand other things not defeat them first, the largest of them named Despair.

It’s quiet. The tip of her nose tingles, then numbs as they talk of, Maker bless, inconsequential things. How fast can he do this? How fast can she? What are they equipped to take on now, how much further can they go if pressed to the wall, how much more do they need? Plans upon plans upon contingencies written in plumes of frost.

This should be the War Table. The others should be here. But forward is what she knows and if she has failed with the trickster, she cannot risk failing here.

She has to know and know absolutely.

She speaks the words finally because she must. Kinloch, she says. Tell me of Kirkwall. Did he know what was coming when she asked him to walk with her so far beyond the walls? She strikes for where the worst of it must lie within him, aims for the center of the abscess that she knows must be there if only because he never speaks it.

When he breaks the silence, he tells her things colder than the world around them, when she’d thought his pain and anger would be hot as fire. His voice does not waver even if her breath does. The words are spare and unadorned, leeching away to fall onto the snow. That nothing stains around them seems an affront.

He does not lose control so neither does she. Yet when she thinks him done, a silence of heartbeats where the world thinks longingly of spring, it is then that he tells her of leash broken and a collar snapped. Some things become clearer, others much less so. He asks, in that quiet voice that she no longer believes holds calm, has ever held calm, what she would have him do. He trusts her. He will do as she bids in this but he will not put it on again. He will never put it on again. He will have control of himself in all things or he will have nothing.

His face is clean as she studies it, his eyes gold and remote. His hand rests on the pommel of a sword he is never without. A single, outward scar to stand for all the rest.

The trees sway on the other shore, their tops dusted in white and she listens to the remembered voice of the Nightingale in her ear. Her matched twin, asking who else could do all that he has done, in the bloody then and in the paralyzed now.

Meredith must have laughed at the end, she thinks, out of nowhere. She could not have seen it coming.

Will she see it coming? If he will not be held captive to anything again, if the shape he has been forced into is a man kneeling in the snow at his feet, can she accept that?

She has certainly seen worse in the world. May even have done worse herself.

Cassandra closes her eyes and chooses because faith is never the answer, only the question.

If the world will fall, it will not be because she could not trust. He has not faltered, never where it mattered, survived what would have broken any other. Has yet to fail her, with all she has given him. Does he not do only as they have asked him to, as she has asked him to and yet more besides, beyond expectation?

If he is the Commander, it is for a reason. And that reason has not changed.

A hand to his arm, gloved against the frost and the single, slow blink of his eyes. No more than that. She falls back from that edge and they speak then of all the ways they could fail, but she makes sure that they plan in the expectation of hope.

Cassandra does not second guess herself. There is little point in gnawing at decisions already made, sinking teeth into well chewed bones as if they will yield any more meat. The days are cascades of choices, each one of them just as likely to send them over into the abyss. She consoles herself that should it all end in cataclysm, she will no doubt have the opportunity to review every one of her errors before the final blow and no doubt the dwarf will be the one to read her the list. She will worry about it then.

The mages work themselves into daylight, the warriors ride and return and ride again. The Herald develops dark circles under their eyes that no longer fade but it is no less than anyone else and Cassandra can do nothing about any of it so she says nothing but does what little she can. A mug of mulled cider, spicy with autumn, a flight of new arrows left on a desk, fresh fletched. Cullen is there and then he is not for some weeks, two cohorts at his back. Leliana says nothing of import but acknowledges the Commander acts with her knowledge and that must suffice. Cassandra asks herself if she wants to know and concedes that she does, but the real question is need and that she does not have. The Left pursues her own purposes, as always.

The Commander returns with less than half his men but Leliana is serene so Cassandra leaves it to disappear under the papers that weigh down the War Table. One stack is held by a knife sunk deep and she imagines that’s probably where her answer is. They move on, always forward.

Then, somehow, the Breach closes. Is closed. The Herald smiles in the midst of exhaustion and no one could ask for more than that. Haven rejoices. No. Haven raises its voice and screams like a falcon at the end of a kill.

The kegs are split, the fires are raised. Revelry rings off the paving stones. She is persuaded to a drink herself. She listens to music that contains only voices and stamping feet as someone, several someones thump rough time on the wooden tables. Rough skirts swirl with dance and joy and knife-edge relief.

A voice at the gates ends all.

A man collapsed on his knee and struggling to rise. An army on the ridge. A warning too late, too late by far, barely enough time to turn and see the truth of it. The alcohol she has consumed burns fierce and bright in her gut.

Cullen is at her shoulder then, out of nowhere, red and blonde and focused as she has only seen him some handfuls of time in the past and she will never know how because in the moment she would ask, there is no time to care.

She is not as he is. Her gifts are a cousin only to his, born of a different, solitary faith. But she is close enough, aware enough to know when the waters of the world recede between one step and the next, stripped, sucked back into the sea and rising.

Black. Malevolent. Templar. Her mouth is a desert, her shoulder shocked into rigidity. She stares as if she is he, locked on the single bared shoulder, the brown hand clenched around a mage staff. The weave and shine of expensive cloth meant to impress. At Tevinter’s snake unerringly picked out in metal and thread.

She does not, can not know what he feels, not truly, but she knows what he wants in that one moment as if they were twins, as if they had been raised from a single cradle. There’s a thunderhead in her throat, an earthquake under her heart. His hand is tight on his sword hilt, brushing against her hip, he stands so close. As if the occlusion of her body between him and the mage is the only thing holding him back.

The Herald is oblivious. They are all oblivious and she marvels at it, as one might marvel at a fever dream even as it passes. Words are exchanged, the danger sketched out in hoarse words as if eyes could not read the story now amassing on the mountain flank above.

She dares not look over her shoulder to see if Cullen’s eyes have turned black with strain. It is contained, he contains it. She wills it so. Each second bleeds away the likelihood that he will strike the man in front of them. It is potential only. It is only old training, old fears startled out of sleep. Maker, so deep.

Her fingers twitch and touch his hand so close to hers.

Time resumes.

Cullen strides away, his voice ringing out, mustering whatever defense they can, as useless as it will be.

She can feel the fury soaking in the ground where he shed it like a snake.

#dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #hard!cullen #cassandra pentaghast #fanfiction

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ofexaltationsa · 6 years

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@gildedfaith | a month coming but.

The whole world was waiting on news from the Conclave. Some chevaliers recalled to Val Royeaux from the Dales, expecting deployment against the mages or celebration for an end to the war, Maker bless Divine Justinia V for her wisdom, long may she reign on the Sunburst Throne. Duke Jean-Marc Blanchard waited, bored, trapped among vipers at his family estate. ( He was due to be married, you know. His fiancee was attending the Conclave. She was a bard, like his own father wanted to be when he was young, for House Valmont. He was told it was very exciting and brave. He did not care. )

He waited.

An explosion, the Most Holy dead with all the rest. All the rest. Including her. Oh.

He did not care.

It was better this way. He could go off to the Dales, die with honor like he should have those years ago, and finally be free from The Game and his family, and he wouldn’t torture the poor girl for the rest of her life. The Maker spared her from him, at least.

News, or whatever information could come.

What mattered:

She was alive, though the rest had died.

Oh. A letter, written quickly. A Chevalier can ride faster than anyone else in Thedas, and the men under Jean-Marc were just as skilled as he on horseback. I am on my way.

What else could he do? He had a duty, no?

The Commander was pure Fereldan posturing and sabre rattling.

( A unit of Orlesian Chevaliers riding into Haven at due haste after the Chantry denounced them? As if the fledgling Inquisition didn’t have enough problems. Either they were about to mount an invasion or Orlais had sent specialists to claim the Herald. Either way, unless something changed, blood would be drawn. )

Their leader stood his ground at the gates as if he had every right to be there, refusing to disarm, his mask causing his voice to echo as he yelled back at Cullen, his voice strangely amplified. ( Funny how Orlesians wore those masks even in battle. Perhaps this was why. )

“She is expecting me!” Frustrated, tired. He had ridden day and night to get here, he wasn’t going to be stopped by some barbarian- -

#gildedfaith #jem.#diem.#jem & diem.#v: for lineage not love | ( arranged marriage au )#long post #holy exposition batman

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rawrzimon · 6 years

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In Hushed Whispers

So this was a terrible idea given to me by a few readers and @solverne-02 about what happened after Redcliffe to Athena and the others in the year before the Inquisitor and Dorian show up in my fic Tales of the Fadewalker.

So I wrote it - trigger warning for minor torture and wounds - just in case.

It had taken three months for The Elder One to come to full power.

Without the Mark, unnatural tears in the Veil conquered the skies.

The members of the Inquisition that were in Redcliffe Keep fled when Dorian and the Herald of Andraste did not return. But without a keep such as Skyhold to protect them, the people of Haven fell.

The final battle from the Chantry was led by Commander Cullen, who so bravely stared into the faces of a thousand demons and struck them down by one by one. Watching him fall was the thing to break the Inquisition’s resolve. When the demons broke through the Chantry doors, they did not kill everyone on sight. They were led by their corrupted Templar masters and ordered to drag the survivors back to Redcliffe for information.

Corypheus and Alexius were still paranoid of the return of the one who could close the rifts. But even more so, his Nightmare Demon had whispered stories of one who had crossed the Veil. One who had crossed from worlds and clung to secrets of Thedas. Those rumors spread through the remaining members of the Inquisition and one by one they turned.

You could have prevented this!

You knew!

Unfortunately, she knew. Even worse, she knew that they would all be destroyed in this reality. They would cease to exist the moment the Herald came into this reality and disappeared again. It was difficult to hold onto that hope when every day she was dragged through the sludge of Redcliffe’s underbelly and thrown onto a rack. They grew unique in their tortures.

The obvious first was physical. She was lashed until the leather of their whip hit bone. She was held underneath water until she thought she would never know air again. Joints broken, skin torn, everything but her spirit was attacked in those opening days. All for shreds of knowledge in a world that didn’t matter anymore.

Then there was the mental. The Elder One had endless demons at his disposal and Nightmare was particularly skilled in breaking through her walls. With a body that was barely a shell, how hard could it be to break though the mind? But she still held on, and with each passing day the screams faded. She had accepted her reality. She had accepted the future of the millions of stinging wasps that demons fabricated into her mind.

The Elder One did not care for weakness, and there were no healers in their ranks. They had to force one of the Inquisition’s own to do that sort of work for them. So, every day, for months, Athena’s broken body was thrown onto a cold, hard table in front of an elf. The sight of him used to bring her joy, adoration even, but when her secret was revealed to the Inner Party he became as detached as the rest of them. He would fix her body when it was broken, mend the wounds and return her to her cell so that it could all be repeated the next day.

It wasn’t until her mind began to break that she saw the first signs of sympathy on his face.

There were no wounds to stitch together, no blood that was spilt. She was dumped onto his table a trembling shell of a person with his back facing him. There was no more life to her eyes, no more music, nothing but the darkness of what was left of the Fade. “What do you cling to?” He asked once the door closed. It was the first time they had spoken in weeks. He had no more words to say when he let her know what he thought of her knowledge, but she never said a word. She didn’t have the energy to.

“Are they gone?” She asked, her voice a thousand miles away, trapped within the shard of light that was left in her mind.

He nodded solemnly, his hands lightly touching to see if they had hurt her anywhere. She could feel that his aura grew weaker by the day and the red lyrium even corrupted his touch then. “They have turned the corner. We only have minutes before they return.” He whispered, his voice low.

“I cling to knowing it could be worse. For everyone left.” The words tore at the cracks in her dry lips and she tasted blood. It was such a familiar taste to her she barely noticed. Still, he passed his hand over her face and healed that, as simple of a cut that it was.

“I do not believe that to be possible.” He chided at her as his dwindling magic tingled over her lips. It was the closest thing she had to comfort those days. She reached forward and stopped his hand with hers. His gasp would have once brought her joy, but she was numb to the sound.

“If you can trust me at all. . . trust me that it can be worse.”

They waited two weeks before bringing her to him again with actual wounds to heal. Each visit, they tried to speak more and more. From what she could gather, there were still a few of the Inner Party alive. She knew this because that time they had changed their routine with a mixture of the two. They had made her watch Leliana’s own process and for the first time she almost said something, but a very stern look from the former Spymaster gave her a bit of strength to keep her silence. So, there she lay, bleeding and cold, on the all-too familiar healing table.

“There will almost be nothing left if you continue - “

The predictable sound of a strike broke through the room and her eyes widened, hand clutching the table as fresh anger surged strength through her body.

“Do your job, or you’ll join her next time.”

They were left with their silence, but she groaned and pushed herself to a sitting position, ignoring the stretching of her back that brought even more bleeding. They had sliced his cheek open with the punch and even his blood now looked to glow with the corruption of the red lyrium. It pained her to see it, so she gestured for him to come closer. He looked to her with confusion, taking a step forward for her to do something she hadn’t tried in a long time.

The magic was hidden within her, rolled up into a ball and placed underneath all of the pain, all of the non-stop suffering. The Templars knew how to contain such magic, but she had a glimmer left and she promised herself she would wait for an opportunity to end her own pain. She knew then that they would never allow that. They watched her sleep, the only time she had alone was when she was with him. If she died during her supposed healing, they would kill him in a moment.

Too precious of a resource.

So, she unwrapped that gift, unrolled it until the magic tingled underneath her fingers and onto his cheek. He stilled under her touch, but did nothing but relax as what little healing magic she knew lightened the bruise and erased the small cut formed from an outlandish champion of Dumat. Somehow, she felt even more exhausted when he looked up but for the first time she felt a glimmer of happiness.

“That was unnecessary.”

Athena cracked a broken smile. “So is healing a dead woman, but you continue to do it anyways.”

She didn’t break, proudly, for almost nine months.

The healing sessions became her reprieve, the few moments of her day where she didn’t have to worry about pain. That, in time, began to be used against her. There was a day where she was just hung from her chains, all day, with nothing but silence as her companion. It would have been alright, if not for the burning in her wrists.

That was until the first stifled scream.

It was deeper than usual, but somehow familiar. It was the same sound of struggle she had heard on the battlefield when he tried to cast a spell, or when he was hit by an enemy. He was never one to fully cry out, he was too restrained.

Immediately she jerked against her chains, knowing exactly why they had started.

“Stop it! Leave him alone!”

Her voice was hoarse but she still cried out, her arms yanking the chains back and forth until they made a sound. The groans from the other room stopped. There were armored footsteps and then the door opened, the sparking eyes of a Red Templars piercing through.

“That was quicker than we thought. Dumat – a fucking knife-ear? It’ll be over if you give us something, Fade-Walker. The Elder One is not a patient man.”

She jerked against the chains, ignoring the way the metal pressed into her skin. “Like what? He already has half the world and an army of demons at his back.”

There was another strike and a followed hiss of pain, the Templar not even breaking eye contact with her. She jerked against the chains and felt hot tears sting her eyes. It had been so long, she had forgotten what the feeling was like to cry. “There’s a Temple. . . “ Another strike. “A fucking Temple near the Emerald Graves – now would you please just stop?”

The Templar leaned over and raised his hands then the sounds stopped. “Tell me more.”

Athena shook her head, feeling a small bout of rebellion. “Not until tomorrow.”

“That will cost you.”

She waited a beat, shaking her head before meeting the soldier’s eyes. “So be it.”

That day had been the worst. But every strike was worth it, knowing she was saving someone else from getting the same. Plus, at the end of it all, they laid her worn body, slicked with blood, on his table. He, moving a bit more stiffly than before, still walked over to the table and began his duties the moment the door shut.

“You did not have - “

“Solas.”

The tone of her voice was so definite, he didn’t say another word. She waited until halfway before twisting a piece of her hair, what was left of it, unsure of what to ask. “I need to ask you something.”

He made a small sound of acknowledgement as his magic worked into her back and her legs. Her voice dropped to as low as possible, as she gripped her upper arms and asked: “What happened to Felassan after you killed him in the Fade?”

The magic flickered in his hands but he did not stop. She heard him move and looked over her shoulder to see him looking to the door. When there were no footsteps, he looked back to her with a sigh. “It seems pointless to refute it now. When a person’s spirit ceases to exist in the Fade, their bodies loses that connection.” He gasped softly and looked over his shoulder before cursing under his breath. “But with the Breach and your physical weakness you will simply- “

“Die.” The word felt like a relief in itself. They both sighed and she shuddered underneath the coolness of the table. “Can you do it?”

The magic completely stopped and she rolled over, onto barely healed scars, and met his gaze. He crossed his arms over his chest, took in a deep breath, and nodded. “What more could you be protecting?”

“I will tell you. . . in the Fade – or whatever could be left of it.” He made a noise of frustration before the sound of footsteps interrupted it.

“You need to focus past the red lyrium – it is difficult, but it is there. You have shown me your dreams before so it will be easier but we won’t have much time and it may not work.” The door opened and he stepped back to allow them to carry her back to her room. She was able to catch a glance at his eyes before the door slammed quickly behind them.

Solas had been right, the red lyrium was like a swarm of angry insects buzzing around in her head. But past that, she saw green. It was fragmented, and hurt, but there were some remnants of the Fade there. Spirits were being torn through Rifts and it was difficult to raise a barrier to keep demons out, but within seconds he was there. He ran towards her, each step appearing as a flicker in time but eventually he came to her and she couldn’t help but wrap her arms around him.

“You.” She finally answered, feeling hot tears of miasmic energy falling down her face from the strain of staying in the Fade.

“What - “ He started to ask, his hands hesitating before holding her to him as if she were about to slip through.

“You, Mythal, the eluvians, the fact that the Herald is coming any day now and this will all be a terrible nightmare – he cannot know this. I don’t know how much longer I can last and I do not want to be a liability for the Inquisition. I cannot let others die in vain.” His embrace grew tighter and he turned his head into the crook of her neck, his grip shaky as he nodded and whispered a mumbled apology into her neck.

“Ir abelas, vhenan.”

She didn’t know where the blade had come from – if it was a figment of the Fade or a shard of red lyrium from nearby – but in his embrace she felt the warm sting of relief. It pierced her and emitted a terrible light into the Fade, waves of power coming from her body as the energy of her spirit dissipated into the Fade, a final whisper of gratitude drifting with her essence across the Veil.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #will probably post this on ao3 today #in hushed whispers #athena #athena wolfsbane #tw: torture #red templars #solas #solathena #fen'harel #rawrwrites #my writing #ho boy #watching 13 reasons why and writing this #not a good idea #feels #sorry #not sorry

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mommydragon-of-all · 6 years

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By all means and costs, you shall be protected.

- another Soriden flashback that can be read as standalone

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As every big recruiting bunch, the inquisition too drew around itself a fair share of delinquent and criminals, predators, curious opportunists and all sorts of misfits with interests and intentions far and wide from the “big noble goal”. So it was only natural that Soren got involved, as soon as it all started budding and it bumped winds. As it was also only natural, being a bunch of colorful individuals hoarded together with a big and heroic goal, that Soren soon stretched his giant protective wings over all of them good people.

Soren was hoarding to his nest yet again, one spreading over Thedas now thicker than ever, and no sneaks were allowed to touch it. Thus the number of shady figures in the bad meanings of the word (Soren had an extensive explanative vocabulary on the word “shady” alone, in all languages and a couple of his own additions) was drastically dropping. This territory was claimed and guarded by a much bigger beast after all. The most dangerous kind. One with a giant heart and burning passion, and a protective fierceness from hell.

Harmful elements, leeches and wolves in sheeps clothing or honest in appearance but fangs flashing the wrong direction were disappearing all around the inquisitions core, or anywhere it traveled accompanied by Soren. The Inquisition was HIS folks now. From the head of the inquisition to the last cleans maid that joined.

(If you asked Soren he could tell you that brought in by Dana the smiths wives older sister who was a traveling merchant, the last cleans maid joined yesterday, her name was Sara and she liked sour snacks and horses. But who even took notice of her presence yet, except Soren of course. And Soren simply had to ask her about her former village next time he saw her and actually MET her like normal people do, and also ask if she saw any interesting crystals in that area and what she thought of magic and her travel and her family and absolutely any and every other detail she would spill in sudden conversation with an armed to the teeth stranger with a stupidly big smile and –literally- glowing eyes… but people did spill. They did spill a LOT to Soren… it was easy and fluent and relaxing and they all just kept going on and on while this strangely sympathetic elf soaked every drop up like a sponge. A sponge containing the life stories and all spilled details of thousands and thousands and always eager for more.)

And so it happened that That predatory creep didn’t spend much time lurking around Haven. Soren made quick and (relatively) clean work of plugging that weed out, ditching the body to the bottom of the frozen lake. Only Leliana sniffed it out somehow, of which he really was not surprised about even then. He was taking a deep breath preparing himself to defend his act of killing a new civil recruit without any actual proof in is hand against the guy, nor had he actually done anything while still around, but Leliana just smirked and thanked Soren’s excellent social service. She sure had dug up the motive of the act too before facing Soren about it, or maybe her keen eyes caught suspicion too by then? “Points down on discretion though” she added in passing. Now that was an unfair bar to meet with Leliana in charge, really.

He was a good assassin, thank you very much. ...tough he did act impulsively and also did need to accidentally burn a shed and he even did go and told Jamy with a self-satisfied smile that: “The stinky pig wont bother you anymore for sure, you don’t have to be scared now” and ruffled his copper hair like he was a small puppy to be herded, despite the boy being practically grown up already, then left for some celebratory drinking to treat himself to. Leaving the boy gaping after him because really, was his fear that obvious, and how even and wha~…

Ok, he was a good assassin in DEED.

Jamy would have been the guys first victim, had he not found a certain fully armed elf casually cleaning a blade on top of the storage building -where Jamy went for some extra linen at that chilly night-, eyeing him flatly, blade reflecting the moonlight cold and sharp. The guy then often found himself altering his route on the trail of Jamy or some other lithe young men heading to or through remote locations, the unsettling elf always lounging around the weirdest places, right in his way, silently tending to sharp things and looking at him like a deadly version of a conscience he long left behind.

Soren figured out quite soon that his options for solving this ugly problem were narrowed down, especially since the thought of this filth getting his way somewhere else didn’t sit well with him at all either. This clearly wasn’t the start of his rotten ways and would not end here without being ended. Everything from the glint in his eye to his systematic under the radar observing routines spoke of a drilled and addicted predator, even his breathing on pursue. But Sorren would not let actual assault happen for an arrest. He considered briefly the “generous” second chance option of liberating the guy of some influential jewelry, but then there was a chance of the violence getting worse from frustration, with the problem rooted upstairs really.

But the damn shit was considered a member here now and had done absolutely nothing wrong “in fact” and Soren was a bit reluctant to screw his place here up over some dirt like that, so he guarded and plotted for days. The guy seemed to choose the same type of targets, lithe and lean and young men, but only those picking his interest enough for pursuing who have accomplished something, had a big name or some skill acknowledged and praised, things like that… almost as if he would feel powerful by hunting them down and raping them. Which was probably the case.

Soren mused about setting a trap and getting him locked up when he was sitting by the chimney of a small building one evening, keeping an eye on the pig on the move a few paces behind Noel, when it happened…

Soren took his eyes off of the guy for a second when a mop of sunshine flashed into his eyes through the darkening alley. An involuntary smile pulled up the corner of his mouth at the sight of Hadiden, always brightening his days, lifting him from the darkest corners of his heart. His lopsided smile widened into an amused grin as the lithe elf dropped an empty flask, almost breaking it, and looked like swearing under his nose while he picked it up, blinking around, swiftly checking if anyone saw him being clumsy, face suspiciously rosier. What an delightful distraction from chilly evenings and dark plans. Hadiden was so adorable, looking smaller and much more delicate than he actually was in puffy warm outer clothes and embarrassed over something so small. He continued on his way, very much likely to the hills for some last minute herb collecting, unarmed and hurried, carrying the right tools.

Soren considered coincidentally popping out of a bush next to him there and offering joined search, when he remembered he was on “duty” here.

He broke his gaze from Hadidens departing form and looked around in search for that worlds worse sight again, grin replaced by a disgusted pout, but he didn’t need to search far. In fact, the pig was standing right where his eyes left him. He was seemingly rooted to that spot until now. As if a new wind catching into his sails he moved again, wavering and changing course, panting big heavy clouds into the crisp air. Soren felt his blood freeze in his veins, then explode in fire. The bag of filth was going straight after Hadiden, more purposeful than ever, fuming like a horny beast catching a smell. While logically Soren knew very well that Hadiden was more than capable of defending himself, surely even unarmed and even from a human that big and muscular with experience of how to subdue a smaller body… it did not fucking matter, not through the murderous roar inside shaking Soren's bones.

He saw red and was on his feet before he realized his body moved. Oh no, that pile of shit wont go even NEAR dear Hadiden, laying his filthy gaze and intention on that glorious bottom like that was already a deadly sin, and Soren wouldn’t allow even the forewind of an assault reach that precious man, regardless of who would pull the shorter straw of such an attempt. Even if it was, logically, the perfect solution against the pig. Attacking the Herald and getting his ass handled to him, assisted by a trusty ally of the elf, then locked up for good, problem solved. It was simply not an option, not even the wind of such attempt was allowed to reach Hadiden, not on Soren’s watch.

Soren moved swift and fast through roofs and alleys as if carried on the wings of death itself. He reached the last, remote building much faster than the lurking bastard, only instinct keeping him in full stealth, unseen by every possible onlooker.

His fingers almost trembled as he waited, hidden in a blind spot, for his prey to reach the dark corner of the building from where the pathway narrowed and turned to the hills between bushes and trees. Where Hadiden passed with light steps just a short while ago. Soren felt rage over even the fact of how the rotten bag of filth was stepping on Hadidens trail. The wait felt like ages, standing still in a raging storm, but it did bring result.

The guy was on the floor of the shed before he realized what was happening, but oh Soren did make sure he learned it swiftly, especially the cause of why it was happening, with his boot heavy on the filthy bastards throat, long blades to his face and heart ensuring he listened nice and still.

The pig pissed himself way before actual harm came to him, likely seeing the surety of his impending violent death clear as day in the dark of the shed, looking into the flaming eyes of a beast leagues above his kind, like a rat under the feet of a raging dragon. The glowing emerald orbs burned the words right into the rotten soul of the bastard, who couldn’t even utter a sound under them even without a long boot squashing his pipes.

Soren wasn’t one for torture though, not even in rage, when he was sure he got his point across he promptly crushed the insect under his booth. That did not magically blew his anger away, but it brought a dark satisfaction and relief over an ugly lurking danger to his dear folks eliminated for good, many saved and who knows how many avenged, and most importantly, Hadiden untouched by filth, in any way it might have been able to.… most importantly… despite so many innocents… sure, Hadiden was the one of the targets he knew best and started to really care for lately, but now that his rage calmed he found himself facing some difficult truths. “Dangerous” truths he rather not dwell on, showing them back down before they could gain ground in his head. He should occupy himself with the task at hand instead, ditching the stinky corpse unseen and untraceable.

He sighed, long and slow, blowing the last of the storm out, then looked up around in the shed as if seeing the scene for the first time. Everything seemed ten times sharper, his body just coming down the rush, silence deafening after the roar of his blood echoing in his ears.

Shoulders sagging he leaned against a post behind him, arms going limp and blades scrapping the floor, head softly thumping back on the old wood. He looked up at the rapidly fading, weak stripes of light coming through the weathered roof and breathed a laugh, quiet and helpless, on himself, on the ridiculousness of this situation he got himself into, in automatic wash of lightness after such a heavy rush, but mostly, in disbelief. Bloody fade, he technically just have killed a new civil recruit in guarding a fine ass, if he put it like that, even if there was much more to it…

Funny how one kind of beast guards from other beasts in a harsh world like this. But as long as he was kept around for it or otherwise, he didn’t mind being one, newer had.

#Soren Lavellan #Hadiden Lavellan #aka #Soriden #dragon age inquisition #Haven #flashback #blood #violence #killing #protectiveness #what else should i tag #Soren being Soren XD #mommydragon #strikes #oh also #my art #but half photo manipulation so no biggie #also rushed

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