#in your heart shall burn

[dragonageconfessions]

CONFESSION:

I always wondered how Cullen was able to recognize Samson since it was so far away. Does lyrium give Templars super vision?

[nateliert]

In your heart shall burn

[fensyl]

Survivors Guilt, after In Your Heart Shall Burn

[enderevynne]

CULLEN APPRECIATION [7/?]

↳ In Your Heart Shall Burn

[gabsthecrab]

In Your Heart Shall Burn | lost in an avalanche

[theluckywizard]

Chapter 34: The Shattering of Things Part 2

Chapter 34 of my long fic In the Shattering of Things featuring Rose Trevelyan/Cullen and Rose/Hawke. Read on AO3.

Chapter 34: The Shattering of Things Part 2

Summary: Rose must steel herself for war, for pain she could never have imagined as four thousand templars arrive to eradicate the Inquisition, incinerating the hope she'd only recently reclaimed.

CW: child death (off screen, but bodies), canon typical violence

Illustration by me!

Excerpt below:

I notice them from the forge– Cullen and the man he’d called Samson, circling one another widely, moving slowly closer, meeting one another commander to commander where the soldiers' tents had been. The red templar leader is brazen enough to go without a helmet and I can vaguely see him addressing Cullen who I’m relieved to see is hidden behind his face shield. But it feels like a preamble to death, and my chest is strangled with anxiety, my throat too dry to swallow. Maybe he feels honor bound to face the man having once known him, but I am not about to lose him tonight if I can help it.

“You could still join us,” calls the massive red templar lightly, as if Cullen might take him up on it. He’s a surprisingly sickly looking man, but built bigger than Blackwall in a hulking set of plate. “We were friends once.” How?

“You’ve always been delusional, Samson,” shouts Cullen. He’s crouched back on his heels, shield up, sword ready, determination and fury compressed into his stance, ready for the inevitable strike. 

“Always been a lapdog for the Chantry. Shame you still are,” taunts Samson, drawing a massive crimson greatsword from his back, holding it forth with two hands and then he surges at Cullen with baffling speed, his blade shrieking against Cullen’s shield, forcing him back in the slippery snow nearly all the way to Haven’s steps and then onto the ground. I’d seen Cullen fight dozens of times, practically skimming across the ground with uncommon lightness of foot yet always forceful enough to push back against the largest opponents. But he’s crushed into the snow by the man with the strange red sword who counters every escape Cullen attempts. 

Panic creeps in around the edges as I watch Cullen strain under the impossible weight of his former friend. I hurry closer, trailed by my companions, hoping to put an end to this encounter somehow. Cullen would want to fight his own battle, but I pull an arrow back so deeply that my back is ablaze, train it furiously on Samson’s face and let it loose. I’m far enough away that the arrow flies just right, whistling past his nose as he crushes Cullen into the slush. Samson turns his head sharply my way with a sneer on his face, giving Cullen the opening he needs, drawing his feet up to forcefully kick him off of him, sending him only a few paces backward. But I don’t want him to fight. I want him to run, sure that whatever this red lyrium is, it’s giving Samson unbelievable power, an unnatural advantage.

“Cullen, go!” I cry, begging. He glances in my direction from inside his helmet and seems to acknowledge me, looking back at Samson like there’s temptation there but I’m hoping he recognizes he’s outmatched. He stumbles up to Haven’s gate, summoning me with a wave of his arm. I watch as Samson takes in a frost spell from Solas and it almost looks like the armor eats it, the spell dissipating as if it never was. Dorian attempts a panic spell, a bright violet chain massing into being and then again being absorbed into the armor, fully negated. Whatever the man is wearing, it’s clearly powerful. Bull sprints from behind me toward the man in a brutal charge, axe brandished, the only one among us who might hope to counter the hopped up brute. If magic won’t work, perhaps the force of my strongest warrior could.

“Herald!” cries Cullen with his face shield up, grappling me around my waist to pull me through the gate as I watch Bull make contact. Samson holds his footing against him, the shaft of Bull’s greataxe bowing slightly against the impossible force of the enemy’s sword. “Come on. Come away,” he says in my ear. With Varric and Sera training their arrows upon Samson, Bull is relinquished and they all turn to follow Cullen and I back through the gate. Samson stands there where our encampment had once been, shaking his head with an unsettling smile twisting one corner of his mouth. He leers at us, and lifts his eyes to the sky as the dragon loops around for another blistering pass. Then he casually reaches into his pocket, withdraws a sizable vial of red liquid, uncorks it, and tosses it down his throat. Cullen and Blackwall push the gates closed, my view of Samson disappearing as the opening narrows and Bull lifts a timber into the heavy iron brackets.

And when we turn, we’re met with total wanton destruction.

Tagging DAFF crew!

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren | @breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @nirikeehan | @oxygenforthewicked | @mogwaei | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie

[wildmelon]

can we talk about how hard the dragon age inquisition main story quest names go

[melisusthewee]

Hey Mel! How about for Quinn (and anyone else you want to add) "Throat raw from screaming or coughing" and "Lost and Alone" from the Whump Prompts. Happy writing!

I know it's not Friday, but I've been organizing my writing prompts and I love this combination of prompts, but to be honest, I don't think anything new I come up with will do these more justice than one of my earlier Quinn fics from way back in 2021. So I thought I would answer your prompt by reposting/linking to it!

In the Long Hours of the Night is about Quinn's journey alone through the Frostbacks during "In Your Heart Shall Burn."

As the Herald of Andraste wanders lost and alone through the Frostbacks, he is faced with the growing realization that he is alone, cold, and unlikely to make it. This is one long night in the snow where Quinn Trevelyan finds his faith in the Maker shaken and must grapple with his own insignificant life and the unheroic death that seems inevitable.

[ashesofwhoweare]

thinking thoughts abt how a majority of companions (and people) in dai see inky as something sent from andraste [god], a holy relic, a symbol of hope and light. and altho those, in theory, are good things, inky is no longer a person

inky can no longer make friends or lovers without being seen as something more, of something to worship or look on with reverence

to be disassociated with your own mortality, and your near death spurring your holiness, the impossibility of your survival being the thing that bathes you in the light of their god that you don't even believe in

[emarie-stone]

In Your Heart Shall Burn is such a good quest. It may be my favorite in the whole game.

You're just getting the hang of things, picking your favorite companions, figuring out your inquisitor and then you're just knocked on your ass.

And then you get a cool castle so it all works out in the end.

[dragonageconfessions]

CONFESSION:

I can't stand Seggrit but always and grudgingly save him because I do not want his death to affect my inquisitor's standing.And I wish we can kick him out of Skyhold. I really wished our inquisitor could have said something like "I judge you for being a selfish ungrateful racist price gouging prick and I hereby exile you from Skyhold." And there could have been a cutscene where you get Bull to get him out of Skyhold.

[jessitasquirrelart]

Set directly before the fall of Haven .

[hinterlost]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Series: Part 1 of Dragon Age Inquisition: Herald of the Heart

Summary:

At long last the breach is closed and Haven celebrates. But something lurks under the shadows of the coming storm. As Cullen watches the tide of snow encase the smoldering remains of Haven he feels like vomiting. It was his idea after all. Why did she have to suffer for it? He was compelled into the fray of wind and ice with a desperate determination. If she yet lives I must find her. If not then Maker take me with her.

And below the tag I have included the first chapter from my story in case you don’t feel like making the trip to AO3 to get the first taste of my story. 

I hope ya’ll enjoy! :) 

It was so unlike her home in the Free Marches. The frigid mountain air that wisped around her hair was crisp with pine and evergreen rather than the salty musk of the ocean. The familiar cries of gulls stalking the coast for their next meal was replaced by the distant mournful howl of wolves and the rare cry of one of Leliana’s ravens. The sound of tavern songs and the gutted laughter which followed that Aerin missed so much about the streets of Ostwick, however, were plentiful for the moment following the Inquisition's recent victory. Albeit, the tavern songs were mostly Ferelden or Orlesian but nonetheless joyous and therefore familiar.

Aerin closed her eyes and breathed in the moment letting nostalgia and comfort wash over her aching body. The hard part was finally done and everyone was able to catch their breath after the long weeks of fighting. The breach was at long last closed.

But there was still so much left unanswered.

“Careful Slick, frown any harder and your face might implode.”

Varric's friendly cheer stirred Aerin from her contemplations. She opened her eyes, face softening at his lightheartedness. “Slick” was a fond nickname generously provided by Varric very soon after their first encounter. After closing the first rift, with the assistance of Solas, Aerin managed to slip on an ice patch she was unaware she was standing on falling backwards onto the ice and dragging poor Solas down with her as he attempted to steady her. Not five minutes later, as the party climbed down a shallow snow slope in an attempt to flank the demons that littered the mountains, Aerin somehow managed to tumble forwards and ungracefully skid face first for the remainder of the small hill. While surprisingly graceful and deft in battle Aerin’s ability to fall flat on her face, or ass, in almost any environment provided inspiration for the new name much to the terror of Josephine who already had her hands full in trying to depict the Herald as both a respectable entity as well as fearsome to the nobles of Thedas.

“What’re ya scowlin for anyways? Don’t you know? There’s a party going on and they’re missing their fearless champion!”  He playfully nudged at her shoulder with his knuckles.

“I don’t know Varric…” she paused looking down the stairs she stood atop of at the soldiers drinking and singing around the fires below “... this all just felt almost too easy? You know? Like, there was a giant blazing hole in the sky but we don’t know the why’s and barely the who’s. I just… can’t shake this feeling like there’s something bigger out there. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that we’ve finally closed the breach, but… I don’t know… there’s just so much left unanswered.”

“And we’ll get those answers eventually…” he paused to turn Aerin towards him “...but for now you sure as hell earned yourself some RnR. Drink! Be merry! Or whatever else floats your boat.” he waggled his eyebrows “But I better see you down there in the next half hour or, Andraste forbid, I’ll drag you down there myself.”

Aerin let out a breathy laugh not noticing the presence that had stalked up behind her. Apparently satisfied Varric gave Aerin a final encouraging wink before trotting down the stairs to join the festivities.

She let out a deep sigh, still smiling, as she watched Varric disappear into the crowd then turned her gaze up towards the mountains. The gentle indigo hues of a stormy dusk starting to creep over them with tendrils of rich yellow, remnants of the near set sun, setting a golden fire to the napes of the mountains.

“He’s right.” A familiar voice started from behind.

A chill ran down her spine but Aerin was unsure if it was the gelid wind or the sudden warmth of the almost too close presence that now stood beside her.

“We have a long road ahead of us yet. This supposed Elder One is still at large and very likely still poses a major threat to us if not all of Thedas.”

Aerin cocked her head to meet his gaze. His head and neck bowed downwards to more comfortably regard her. The actual height of the 6’1 man was never something Aerin really noticed up until she started to speak with Cullen more casually. Of course, height difference was something she was generally used to as she suffered a shorter height than many of her advisors and companions at an average 5’3. The thought amused her, the so-called Herald of Andraste who needs a step stool in order to reach the top shelf. She often wondered in her travels if many people mistook her companions for the Herald as she appeared so unassuming.

“As it were, these are our problems to figure out in the days to come. For tonight, Maker knows, you deserve some hard earned rest.” He continued.

His expression was softer than the usual furrow he displayed while conversing with practically anyone else. Aerin couldn’t help but mentally grin at the prospect that she had somehow broken through some social barrier. His mental armor and shield of propriety and example that he forces himself to wear slowly chipping away over the weeks of attempting to befriend this seemingly infinitely stern man.

At first Aerin was timid about him. Both companions and advisors alike akin him closer to a grumpy old grandfather, generally kind in conversation but closer to an immovable brick wall. Yet Aerin soon realized that these people had never really tried to just sit, or more like corner, and talk to him as more than a commander. She found him to be, surprisingly, just as timid and awkward as she was when concerning more casual discussions. Hell, he even seemed nerdy, almost juvenilely so, when speaking on topics he’s interested in.

When the trebuchets were first constructed in Haven oh how he beamed about them. Aerin was almost encaptivated. Not just by the sheer amount of knowledge this man had about the weapons but by his unhinged enthusiasm. She could almost swear by Andraste's holy arse she could listen to him talk all day about the trebuchets if it meant she could see him shed his commanding exterior. That damned subtle quirk of a smile that he barely showed off even when he found something amusing stretching into a wide toothy grin as he drowned her in facts and specs before going off on a, surprisingly dramatic and descriptive, tangent on war stories of the machines. Her own face was slowly contorted into an ecstatic smile when he finished his dramatized retelling of a battle with his arms flailing up into the air to reenact a castle wall exploding in a ball of fire looking directly at her as if he were a young child looking for a parents approval.  

She had herself convinced that it was his encaptivating storytelling and enthusiasm that had her heart pounding in that moment.

It definitely wasn’t from the way he beamed at her with that blasted smile. Or the subtle thrill of experiencing a more hidden part of this reserved man. Amber eyes crinkled under flushed cheeks.

And how those amber eyes burned into her now. Regarding her with nothing but empathetic concern.

“Is that an order, Commander?” She playfully quipped, stressing the word "Commander" under her tongue and a quirk of her brow.  

“If necessary.” He retorted, furrowing his brow and ever so slightly dipping his head into her space as a mock gesture of demanding. At a glance his stern tone would appear genuine if not for the slight twist of the corner of his mouth. One of the few tells he shows to others to bear his own amusement.

“Besides…” He continued, straightening his posture and turning to look at the ever darkening sky. “... that storm will likely cover us in the next hour or so. It’d be wise to take in the revelry before we’re forced to shelter in for the night.”

She hummed her response as they shared a silent moment watching the dense clouds swirl angrily in the distance. Despite how the sun had slipped passed the horizon the mountain kept the hot glow of sunset. She mused to herself at how closely it resembled fire. The way it seemed to flicker and dance.

She frowned. Eyes narrowing as she watched the glow ooze down the sides of the mountains. The delicate flickers of sunset separating from each other and rejoining again in the narrower folds of the slopes resembling a swarm of landbound fireflies. A whole lot of fireflies. And they were making a beeline towards Haven.

“Cullen…” Aerin spoke quietly, her previous tone of lightheartedness transformed into frit concern.

“Makers breath…” Was all he could breath out in response before the loud tong of Haven's alarm bell started to ring, echoing off the peaks of the mountains.  

It appeared Aerin would be getting her answers sooner rather than later.

[enderevynne]

DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION ➤ GIFS: Cullen Rutherford

↳ In Your Heart Shall Burn

[theluckywizard]

Sunshine from Beyond

In the Shattering of Things, Chapter 28: Sunshine from Beyond

A Dragon Age: Inquisition longfic featuring Rose Trevelyan x Cullen with a side helping of x Garrett Hawke

Varric has negotiated his way onto my walk this morning, despite my full throated warnings that I am a very early riser. He wrestles his way out of his tent, cursing the cold, cursing mornings, cursing the Maiden, cursing me.

“Conveniently omitting yourself from that list,” I tease him. “I didn’t ask you to join me.”

“The literary gods compel me,” he replies. “But Andraste’s ass, let’s make this a one time thing.” Last night’s installment of snow is wet and cumbersome and just grazes Varric’s thighs, prompting more spitting and cursing, so I trample the trail for him with precision stomps.

“You do this every blazing morning?” he asks me.

“Most of them.”

“And you talked a couple kids into joining you half the time?”

“They showed up one morning and talked me into bringing them.”

“Witchcraft,” he teases me. “Something magic about you without a lick of the Fade. It reminds me of someone else.”

“That would be the mark.” I waggle the fingers of my left hand  out to my side.

“Maybe in part. But that’s not what I mean,” he insists from behind me. “For all intents and purposes you present like a pretty ordinary woman. But for some reason I have this urge to confess secrets so deep they’re gathering cobwebs. To follow you blithely into some kind of madness. There’s only one other person that has that effect. And if it weren’t for his letters, I’d think I conjured him up for a story.” The absurdity of being compared to the Champion of Kirkwall catches in my chest in a laugh.

“I won’t go asking for your dirty laundry, Varric, don’t worry.”

“That’s just it. One day you’ll come to holding an armful of my dirty laundry and neither of us will know what hit us.”

“Then it’s probably a good thing I’m about to get blasted to bits under the Breach tomorrow,” I joke. Varric is having none of it.

“We’re going through the motions, Freckles, but I get the feeling your story isn’t done yet.” The vote of confidence feels like a spark inside me but it isn’t catching. I’ve been trying to rekindle that flame of optimism all week, but all the tinder has been expended.

“I believe I recall you telling me to run while I can because you know tragedies and you know where this one is headed. Well? We’ve arrived.”

“Yeah. And that was before you doggedly survived every curveball of batshit demon combat. That was before you sashayed into a horrific future and waltzed back out to nab the Tevinter magister tinkering with time. There’s something more going on here.”

“Are you going to start calling me the Herald of Andraste, now, Varric?” I ask and it’s almost a scoff.

“I’m just saying there might be something to the miracle angle. Don’t count yourself out just yet.”

“Better to expect the worst,” I say. He doesn’t press. I take the opportunity to explain my hunting process and how I involve the boys when they come with me. The snares are all empty, the growing population of the town having depleted the game to an elusive handful. I help Varric climb to the top of my rock and we perch there, watching for rams that I have no intention of taking today.

“So what does the Champion of Kirkwall think of all this?” I probe. Varric looks at me like I’m taking advantage of his admitted vulnerability beside me.

“He believes it's well in hand. He believes in you.”

“And how would he know anything about me?” I ask. Varric gives me a look and I puzzle it together. A thrill skitters through me that almost tickles. How absurd.

“I suppose you won’t tell me what you told him about me.”

“I told him the truth. That you’re disgustingly precious and I don’t know how you do it,” he says. I snort indignantly.

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Just peddling the truth, Freckles.”

“The truth? I’m shocked.”

“I don’t lie to Hawke. Couldn’t sneak one past him if I wanted to anyway.”

“He sounds kind of terrifying,” I laugh.

“Hawke? I mean– he is if he needs to be. But I think you’d find him to be a bit of a puppy. A puppy who could crush you at Wicked Grace, crush you in a drinking contest and crush you in general, but a puppy.”

“I’m telling him you said that. If I ever chance to meet him.”

“And I will stand by my words. He knows what he is.” (Continued at AO3)

Tagging the DAFF Crew

@warpedlegacy, @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @nirikeehan , @oxygenforthewicked