#mages rule templars smell

[marythegizka]

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you for the tag @mxanigel !!! 😊

1. “So, you’re not saying no. That’s a good start.”

2. “It doesn't matter anymore. Garevel is taking over. Vigil's Keep is better off without me.”

3. “I know. And I hate it. I hate that I couldn't do more. That after hours of healing, Anselme may still die before morning. That after everything we did, the darkspawn are still killing. I feel…” she looked down at her hands. “Powerless. I don’t like being powerless.”

4. “I meant it. It’s working. A bit.”

5. “I'm used to being watched. Never had much of a choice.”

6. “I thought you more than anyone would understand the cost of alienating the nobility.” It was a low blow, but it would help drive the point home. “The Wardens are too diminished to afford losing influence over something as petty as refusing to attend a ball. I’ll go.”

7. “And how would he pin it on her? What motive would he invent? ‘Angry that I conscripted Lord what’s-his-face, sixth in line to the throne and convicted murderer’? Please. I took a thorn out of her side.”

8. “You know, he was the first choice I made because I genuinely wanted to. The first oath no one forced me to take. Not the Wardens. Not the Templars. Not a friend in need. Me. You don’t know how freeing that feels.”

9. “Love? Love?! How can you still call me that? You’re giving up on me! They’ll lock me up in the Gallows, I’ll never see home again!”

10. "I know. And Clarel has refused to dispatch a team. I don't know what's up with her but I don't intend to stay idle while half the order goes mad."

11. “Please tell me you didn’t actually walk through one of those Fade-rifts.”

“I didn’t actually walk through one of those Fade-rifts.”

“Is that true?”

“No. Of course not. How else would I be here?"

12. “Half a mile north. If that is not high enough, nothing will be.” She paused, locking eyes with him. Surely this was madness. But madness had worked in the past. With luck, it would work again. “We’re going to the Black City.”

13. “You’ve got more in your hair, you know. Heck, you’ve got more everywhere."

14. "At this point, I wish I were. But no. Whoever was hiding there with you, they can come out." She steps in front of the crevice and gestures at the bloodied bandage around her arm. The blood smells wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. "Provided they don't bite as hard as darkspawn." 

15. "Look, I promise I'm not judging. Maker knows I'd never go back to the Circle, myself. My point is, I've seen her fight, and you could sooner deny that you're breathing than deny she is a mage."

"Ha!"

The sound escapes his mouth before he can stop it.

Tagging (only if you want to, of course!): @illusivesoul,@dairine-bonnet, @moravel, @deedeemactir, @ambiguousrubbish

[greypetrel]

party 4 and codex 7 for all the girls (or whoever you want to do) :)

Hi Mary, thank you for asking!! :D

Here's another academic paper on my blorbos, thank you for enabling it! <3

Tis the prompt list

PARTY

4. Are there any companions (or advisors) they don’t get along with? Have any of them ever left the party?

Alyra: She had a rough time getting along with Leliana ("God told me to come with you!" "Oh most holy blessed Mythal give me strenght...") but they eventually found common ground and got along, Leliana taught her her specialization and how to stab people even better. The one she got along the least with is Wynne. She respect her skills greatly, but can't stand how nosey she is with her love life and why she thinks she has any right to talk. Everyone is an adult and expressed consent, there's no more to say. They may share some moralities, but their ways are really different. Nobody left the party, tho, she doesn't hate Wynne. Her hate goes only for Arl Eamon (Teagan's not intelligent enough, to her, to be hated).

Raina: Already answered here! (for brevity: she doesn't get along with Sebastian, both him and Anders left after the Chantry)

Aisling: Vivienne. She's a people pleaser and convinced that people are inherently good. But, there are boundaries she won't go against. They're really incompatible people, all in all. Aisling hates the Game and has to put effort in masking what she's thinking and feeling... Which for Vivienne is all political ammunition and something Aisling should stop doing. Aisling is not ambitious and couldn't care less for power, whilst for Vivienne is rightfully a matter of personal freedom and interest. Their relationship was... Polite, but educate, save a couple of episodes. Aisling avoid her at the best because she knows they don't get along, but keeps it civil. (Except the one time Vivienne called Cole "her pet demon" and she snapped and answered in tow. The whole of the Inquisition never says the word "Pet" in her presence as a consequence.) When Vivienne asked her for help with the potion... Aisling took it in stride, thought it was a way to finally build a relationship, that maybe Vivienne doesn't really hate her, maybe they can be friends! (she's a people pleaser, yes). When she brought her to assist to Laurent she was pretty sure she warmed up to her, got back to Skyhold all giddy and smiley. And then, Vivienne introduced her to Laurent's family just to make herself look better, all but told her she used her kindness... And that was it, for Aisling. She felt horrible and never trusted her again. She doesn't really believe that in the Exalted Council she got her to spa day out of good heart, for her it's pity at the best, some sort of political scheme at worst.

Radha: She smelled Blackwall's lie in a couple of days. She... Knew he was hiding something. Never trusted him one bit, he was too vague on the Wardens. Particularly after meeting an actual one. She never kicked him out, but it wasn't a surprise when he revealed his true identity. Sent him to the Wardens without a second thought. Wasn't so keen on Sera as well, too much shitting on her culture, she didn't feel like listening to her if she wasn't willing to do the same first, but she never kicked her out.

Codex:

7. How do they feel about religions that are not their own, like the Chantry or the Qun?

Alyra: You can believe in a mystical wheel of cheese for all she cares. As long as you don't hurt others, your house, your rules, she'll ask you what does the wheel of cheese do and leave you be. She's not ok with religion mixing with politics: it's not religion anymore, it's doctrine, and she's not ok with that. Particularly with the Chantry, she thinks it's highly hypocrite of them to fuck both mages and templars as they do and call it morality. Politically, she very rarely listen to the Chantry, cares about it just because she can... But let's say that in Vigil's Keep the Chantry has no saying or political power, they can hold mass and she's ok, she won't invite any Chantry Mother to her private council.

Raina: Doesn't trust the Chantry for obvious reasons, it was what forced her father and siblings to hide and fucked their lives. She's fascinated by the Qun. Mind me, she'd do HORRIBLY under it... But the idea of everything being in order, having some clear task to do ahead, is something she finds soothing. Elven gods are good enough, after enough with Merrill she'll got interested in them and will start to respect them enough, if Merrill wants to celebrate, she'll give her support and help. Why not? If the Maker and Andraste exist, why not the Creators.

Aisling: She's interested in religions as philosophies, she has no problems accepting Andraste too as a deity, why not? She doesn't worship nor follow the Chant of Light, but can see the beauty in its philosophy, will bring her mind leaves here and there. (started as a misunderstanding over the Maker's stale breath... She kept it up out of habit). Some things of the Qun are good as well, as a philosophy! She's very respectful for every religion in personal use... For her as well the situation changes when it mixes with politics. Can't condone the Chantry as an institution for what it did to both Mages and Templars, can't condone the Qun as an institution for how they treat mages and how in his personal mission Bull was nullified as an identity, and forced to choose between his culture and his men. She's the one more prone to come to a mixed cult, Ameridan's style.

Radha: Respects the right of other people to believe in what they want. As long as they keep her believing in her own gods. Has maybe a harder time distinguishing philosophy and institutions, Andrastianism for her is tainted by the Chantry, and the Qun as well. (even if she's the one who'll fare the best under the Qun, actually) Will learn about them for the sake of it... Believing in anything else? No, thank you.

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

Hello and happy Friday! For DADWC: "telling each other 'I’m here'" for Anders/Karl?

Ohhh it's the Kanders angst on this Friday @dadrunkwriting night! Why do I do this to myself.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Karl knew the rules. He knew apprentices weren’t allowed out of the dorms after hours when the templars’ patrols were skeletal. He knew apprentices weren’t allowed in the rooms of senior enchanters, either, especially not with a door closed. Karl was aware that sneaking into the apprentice dormitory at half-past midnight could lead to trouble he didn’t want.

He knew all this; he just didn’t care.

Anders—that beautiful, sun-bright creature—had disappeared a week ago. Rumor had it that he’d tried to run again, and rumor had it that he’d smashed a wall in the men’s lavatory on the third floor with a stone-fist. All they had to substantiate it was that the room had been closed “for renovations” for the week, a templar stationed at the door, and his precious friend was gone. 

Until this evening. 

Karl’s magelight followed him as he slipped through the door to the dormitory where Anders was housed. He’d caught just a glimpse of him at dinner, but with the extra guards in the dining hall, there’d been no way to approach him. Anders had looked wan and unkempt, hair lank and eyes underscored in purple. The dungeon, Karl had no doubt. 

Alone for a whole week, in the dark. 

It made Karl’s chest ache to think of it and the thought sped his step as he threaded through the ranks of tidy bunks and sleeping mages. More than one set of eyes flicked open at his passing, but no one spoke. 

He found Anders’ bunk easily enough. He’d been housed in the same little corner of the tower since he was twelve years old—seven years, almost. When Karl edged closer to the bed, he found Anders curled tightly on his side, eyes shut but pillow wet with tears.

Karl knelt. The magelight bathed Anders’ pale face in a dim blue glow. 

“Anders,” Karl whispered.

The younger’s man’s eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as he flinched back, tangling himself in the blankets with a gasp. 

“It’s okay,” Karl whispered, holding his hand out like Anders was a timid cat. “You’re okay.”

At the sound of his voice, Anders went limp. “Karl,” he whispered back, “I…” His voice failed and he sniffed, the sound full of tears.

“Come on,” Karl said quietly, “we’re going to the infirmary. You aren’t feeling well, and I’m taking you for help.”

Anders didn’t move for a long moment, but Karl felt his words sinking in. Anders was clever, opportunistic—he had to see this ruse for what it was. 

Sure enough, Anders shoved the blanket away and squirmed out from underneath it. Karl stood, offering Anders his hand again. His friend grasped it tightly and they stole out of the dormitory. 

They went a back way, one that Karl knew the templars didn’t watch at night because these halls were interior—no potential escape routes. The infirmary was not far, and Karl spirited them inside and closed the door. 

Anders immediately burst into tears. 

Karl pulled him close, wrapping him in a solid embrace. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, the endearment falling from his mouth unexpectedly. He flushed slightly in hearing it, but shoved that aside for now. “It’s okay. I’m here.” 

Anders clung to him, fists bunched in Karl’s robes, forehead pressed to his shoulder. His thin frame shook. “They left me in the dark, Karl,” he managed to breathe. “They didn’t even…they…”

“It’s okay,” Karl said again. “You’re here now.” Gingerly, he lifted a hand and stroked Anders’ filthy hair back from his head. He smelled of sweat and fear and Karl hated the templars even more for not even allowing the common decency of a bath after a week in solitary. Not that common decency was rampant in the tower.

“I would rather die,” Anders whispered, turning his head and nuzzling his tear-damp face against Karl’s neck. “I can’t go back there.” 

Quit trying to escape.

Karl could never make himself say that out loud. He could only think it alongside the admission that he was selfish. Anders meant more to him with every passing month, and he couldn’t stand the thought of him trammeled by the Circle any more than he could stomach the idea of never seeing him again. 

“They will not leave you there while I am here, Anders,” Karl promised him softly, rubbing a comforting circle between his shoulderblades. "You will not be forgotten." The vow to make sure he wouldn’t rot in the tower dungeon was as good as he could do, because he knew Anders would keep running. 

Anders squeezed him tighter like Karl was a lifeline and then relaxed enough to wind his arms around Karl’s waist. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he whispered. 

“Always,” Karl whispered back.

[5lazarus]

Salt, Flesh, Heat

Bull notices that Solas is a deeply sensual person, reveling in clean clothes, good-smelling herbs, and hot water. He's also deeply masochistic. When the two find themselves enjoying the baths one early morning in Skyhold, Bull decides to press. Solas decides to play along. A @black-emporium-exchange gift for gamerfic. Read the other works in the AO3 Collection here! Read the story on Archive of Our Own here.

Steam on skin, worn wood pressing slick into his back as each vertebrae clicks: the Iron Bull sighs as he unwinds in the Skyhold baths. Few beyond the servants and the hungriest soldiers and Josephine herself were up at this hour. Bull has the steam room to himself. Carefully he unwinds his bulk onto the bench, laying his towel over his eyes. The clearcut eucalyptus smell lingers on his skin, sweated into his muscles. He groans aloud as a muscle in his bad knee pops.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he grunts.

Then the door opens and the dawn rushes in. Bull lifts the towel from his remaining eye. Solas stands there, a bit nonplussed. Shit, Bull thinks, and slowly makes room.

Solas lets the door close firmly shut. He holds a bundle of white birch twigs and dried eucalyptus.

Bull grins. “Want me to hit you with that?”

Solas climbs onto his bench and drapes himself on the upper story. “That may not be necessary.” Right, Bull thinks, you self-flagellate enough for both of us. He inhales deeply. “Would you mind putting more water on the stone? Some of the steam escaped.”

Bull says, “Uh, sure.” Slowly, because the ache in his body is delicious and he savors it, he reaches for the ladle and throws another pail of water onto the heating stones, and then another, and another. He hears Solas settle onto his bench, right leg stretched out. Bull turns to look. The man’s pale, graying red hair trailing down his chest. Dorian managed to catch a glimpse of his cock when they bathed after a particularly fetid journey into a Dalish swamp, and reported that it was the largest he’d ever seen on an elf and one of the bigger he’d seen on a man. Bull has to admit he is curious.

Amusement in his voice, Solas says, “Are you quite done?” Still tense, he turns away from Bull. He’s wiry, built broader in the shoulder and legs than most mages he’s met, but still has a weak core. Blackwall told him he’s fought in “some elven skirmish,” and he looks like a man about to retire from the field. He has a slashed scar on his right shoulder and claw marks on his right leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bull points.

Solas does not turn around. Bull’s eyes travel down his back and rest on his well-shaped ass and thighs. Solas is a bit too thin for him, practically speaking, but he does like to look. He’s built like a dancer gone to middle age, rather than some Emerald Knight stalking the Dales for humans to kill, or—so he has heard from Ben-Hassrath stationed in the outskirts of the Tirashan—Dhal’Vallaslin chasing down strange elves with crimson vallaslin, who sacrifice the living to their long-forgotten gods. He seems more the type to plan and give orders, than carry out the dirty work himself, though of course Bull has seen him do it. He saw what he did with those Kirkwall mages.

Bull asks, voice casual, “You know, you’re kinda built like a dancer.”

At that, Solas shifts. He opens a single blue eye, looking down at him like a large cat eying a much smaller, squeakier dog. “I was many things, as a youth.”

“A dancer?” Bull says, taken aback, and slightly turned on.

“Not that,” Solas laughs. “And you, Iron Bull? Were you ever a—performer in your youth?” Solas slowly raises to his knees and leans over, taking the ladle from him. In one easy swoop, he throws more water onto the steaming rocks, and leans against the wall, inhaling deeply.

Bull says, a tad defensively, “That’s not how we do things in the Qun. I was earmarked for the Ben-Hassrath pretty early on.”

Solas says, “But there are many ways of being a spy, regardless of how your government attempts to standardize. Though I suppose you are too—big for the more subtle aspects of infiltration work.” He stretches. During his time with the Inquisition, he has put on enough weight and muscle that his ribs no longer show.

Bull says, “I did my job okay. Most of it is people-work. Watching, being watched. Don’t need a lot of variety in that.” He snorts. “The less, the better.” He eyes the bushel of branches Solas brought with him to the bania. The eucalyptus mingles wonderfully with the heady scent of sweat. He says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to hit you with that? That’s why you brought that here, right? I thought that was just a Dalish thing.”

He’s hit a nerve. Solas says sharply, “The Dalish do not monopolize all aspects of what has become of my people’s culture. And one simply…rubs the body with it, harder force is not necessary.”

“Ah,” Bull teases, “but if you really want to get the eucalyptus into the skin.”

“And I assumed this early, I would be alone,” Solas says flatly. “How is your knee, Iron Bull?”

Bull grunts, “Shitty. Running from all those demons tore it up again. But this helps. How’s yours?”

Solas pauses. Bull edges to the intersection of the benches, trying to find enough space to spread his leg out without having to sit on the floor. He maneuvers his bulk carefully, and gently lifts his bad leg onto the bench, folding his good leg underneath. It’s a vulnerable position, but he can see the door.

Finally, Solas admits, “My sleep has been disrupted with the amount of strain I’ve put my body through. I am hoping this will help before I must return to my desk and Vivienne’s lectures, as we calculate yet again the futility of using templars to isolate the rifts.”

Bull chuckles. “She’s still on that?”

“She has relented that a team of templars cannot hold the perimeter by themselves. We differ on how many mages are needed to perform the ritual to stabilize the Veil, and how vulnerable it leaves them.”

Bull says, “Give yourself a little bit of a good thing before you charge into the bad. That’s what I like about you, Solas.”

“Oh?” Carefully Solas climbs down onto the lower bench, favoring his unscarred leg.

“You know, you’re such a sensualist. You clearly like the baths, you don’t mind talking, you like the birch broom and feeling your blood roil and all that. I’ve seen you flirt with the Inquisitor before, and you were positively purring at the Winter Palace. But!”

“But,” Solas repeats, looking up at him. “But?” He is enjoying this, Bull is amused to realize. He enjoys it when people talk about him. As a younger man he must have preened. With that red hair, he would’ve had to.

Bull says, “But you never go all the way. You never fully surrender yourself to it. You get tipsy but not drunk. And you never let yourself alone with the Inquisitor, or anyone, really.”

“I am here with you,” Solas points out.

Bull shrugs. “And even though you like to talk, you like to argue, to debate, you never hang around the Mage’s Tower, or go back to the tavern with Dorian and the others. You keep patching up your shitty homespun even though with the Inquisition salary, you can buy yourself proper robes. You’re a masochist, man. I’ve never met someone so—sensual—who likes to torment himself so much.”

Solas is silent. Sweat pours from both their bodies, dampening the smooth hot wood. He fingers the bundle of oak twigs and eucalyptus, rubbing a single leaf with his thumb. Lowly, voice pooling like steam, he says, “Surely I do not need to tell you of the pleasure of desire, long-denied, finally sated. Or of living simply, with the occasional indulgence in luxury. After all, what is an elvhen apostate to do with silk? I take pleasure in making and mending my own garments, Iron Bull. As for other indulgences of the body…”

He trails off and Bull swallows heavily. He flicks his tongue around his lips. The air tastes of clean water and sweat: his own and the sharper, earthier scent of the elf’s. Every species has their particularities.

Bull says, “In the Qun, we believe in moderation, sure. And if you’re into edging, more power to you. But you know that’s not what I mean. If someone ends up that tightly-wound, that isolated, the Tamassrans intervened—“

“And if you do not give a proper showing of yourself, they break your mind and set you sweeping floors,” Solas says flatly. “I have seen how such authoritarian systems deal with dissenters. I take my pleasure in my own ways, in my own time. Not at my commander’s orders.”

Bull says, “It’s not like that. Sometimes you just need a good fuck, or a massage, or to be sat down in a discussion group with the priests and get into an argument all night long. The Tamassrans just prescribe the medicine. It’s good, it works. Keeps you from going too far.”

“Which is precisely why there is no Tal-Vashoth problem in Par Vollen,” Solas says. “Once, while in the Fade—“

Bull groans, “Right, let’s put some demons into this.”

Solas says, “Do you ever tire of repeating what your elders have told you, or would you like to learn something? Once, in the Fade, I saw a young Qunari working in a simple kitchen, baking bread as she was ordered every morning.”

“Cute,” Bull says. “So I’m not the only Qunari you’ve asked about their horns.”

Solas ignores the dig. He continues, “In every loaf she broke the rules. She’d take a pinch of sugar and would fold it to the center, like a secret.” He leans back with a fond smile. “And this act of small rebellion brought a shining smile across her face.” He spreads his hands, as if he has laid a winning flush in their game.

Bull thinks, you had to have been a slave. Are you the baker? Rather than provoke him further, Bull takes a different tact. “Hey, Solas. Why do you shave your head?”

Solas blinks. He raises a hand to his scalp, which is beginning to get bristly again. He says, “Fastidiousness, or lack of fastidiousness. Take your pick.”

Bull says, “No, really. If you can ask me how I put on a shirt I can ask you about your hair. Why do you keep it shaved? You’re not naturally bald, are you?”

Solas eyes him. “I am certain you have heard Dorian complain, at length, of the difficulties of keeping his hair perfectly coiffured and shaved while traveling. I have been nomadic most my life. It became easier, this way. Particularly since it is such a prominent color.” He shifts slightly.

Bull says, “Hey, I like red heads.”

“I know you do.”

“Don’t you ever think about growing it out?”

Solas laughs. “No. Never.” He pops his knee up and stretches his other leg, sighing as the muscles in his back audibly crack. Taking the bath broom, he begins rubbing the leaves into his skin. The air fills with its medicinal scent, and under that: earth.

Bull says, “I can rub that into your back.”

Solas says, “I prefer to take my pleasures simply.”

Bull says, “But I can look.”

Solas rolls his shoulders back and begins rubbing the bundle into his arms, swiping sweat away. “I never said you could not.”

Bull, frustrated, brings his bad leg down with a thump. He says, “You gonna take a dip in the cooling pool? Or is that too much of an indulgence for you?”

“My people first discovered this way of bathing,” Solas says distractedly. “I will take any opportunity to enjoy it now that I can, however primitive our facilities in Skyhold.”

“You’ve got baths, out in the woods?”

“You’ve never built a steam hut, and then flung yourself into a snow drift? Really, the Qun did not let you enjoy your youth.”

“But your people did,” Bull says, seizing on this note of autobiography.

Solas places the bundle on the bench. He stands up in silence and tosses another ladle of water onto the furnace. The room fills with steam, and Bull feels sweat pool in the back of his head.

Solas takes his towel and wraps it loosely around his waist. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “I took pleasure when it came my way.” With that rejoiner, he grins, and opens the door. Bright light and cool air pools in; the steam thins. The day has begun. Solas leaves.

Alone in the steam room, wonderfully hard, the Iron Bull says, “Fuck.”

[perlen-gold]

Tale of a Forest

Prompt: *Freebie* for @14daysdalovers

Pairing: M!Fenhawke

They seek refuge in the embrace of the tree.

The rain, decisive withal light, descended upon them at no notice.

In one moment, the forget-me-not-blue and snowdrop-white sky an exuberant brightness, in another handfuls of ashen-grey clouds were summoned by the wind to befall the lands with astonishing rains.

Fenris espied the riven tree first. Born from one root it stretches its triplet-trunks luxuriously like a three-fingered hand. Above, their crowns reach to rejoice again and, while still bereft of their leafy dress, numberless limbs entwine twistingly as if to warm each other. It stands alone, as if left behind by its comrades.

So they are hurrying towards it with quick steps, their rebounding feet falling lightly on the springy gras spraying larksome drops of rain every which way.

Between the three bough-branched, moss-matted trunks Hawke and Fenris shed their cloaks to put them up. If not drying they would at least provide a woolen canopy fending off most of the hoydenish rain. The wetness is not fancying itself a storm, yet prevents the toilsome start of a fire.

Under this they settle, Hawke leaning against the inner side of one of the three tilted trunks, and soon he reaches for Fenris who is still busy with the arrangements of their makeshift roof, dauntless rain drops tugging at the white strands of his hair, afly now and then in the welling wind. In one well-practiced, fluid motion Fenris sinks down on Hawke’s lap, his arms around his waist.

Thus huddled midst the three-faced tree they listen to the quiet weeping of the skies.

After a while, Hawke reclines his head and smiles, eyes aglitter. “You wish to continue our fight from earlier on?” 

“I did not fight with you,” Fenris answers, “You did not yet know you were wrong.”

Roaring, Hawke throws back his head, his throat resonate with laughter. “They do not know where to go. They are refugees now.” he says after a moment, smiling appreciatively up at the man sitting in his lap, anticipating the game.

“Which did not prevent the man from attacking me with blood magic when we drew closer.” Fenris counters with arid readiness.

“I was assailed by the Templar first.” Hawke retorts slyly.

Fenris’ response is instantaneous and fast: “Whereas the blood mage attacked me behind my back.”

“Of course he did, you cannot expect the poor lad to attack you to your face.” Hawke replies, candid.  

“I was bending down for some badges to help him.” Fenris indignantly snorts.

“Well,” Hawke continues with relishing insolence, “you forgot to shed your murder-face first.”

Slightly Fenris’ eyes narrow, pondering this for a time while leaning back. “He was trying, if only amateurishly, to use my blood, Hawke.”

“Yes, and that is very outrageous,” Hawke concedes in serious graveness, “but the boy was only sixteen and, I think, he was far too afraid to cut his own little finger.”

Fenris grimaces and therefore Hawke, sensing advantage, is quick to plunge on: “Whereas the Templar I was to try and talk out of threatening the poor boy – “

“You mocked her.” Fenris interjects dryly.

“ – whereas the Templar I was trying to jolly along”, Hawke insists, “with her sword nearly hew off my arm.” he ends with a gleeful triumph.

Head slanted, Fenris raises a dark, versatile eyebrow. “The Templar who was about eighty years? At least?”

“She was a very agile eighty-year-old.”

“She,” Fenris dissents with blithe stubbornness, “did not use blood magic.”

“Because she did not know how to. Neither did the boy.” Hawke explains mock-gravely.

“He meant to.  Although I even smiled at him.” invokes Fenris displeased, his eyes an emerald conflagration.

“Baring your teeth at a mage is not smiling, Fenris. It is murder-face.” Then, as though adding an afterthought, Hawke impishly grins. “I, of all people, should know.”

At this the tension shatters and this time it is Fenris’ turn to give a low laugh, Hawke can feel it spiraling in his chest, a plumbless, youthful sound, his chesty voice vibrantly flying up to bead between hundreds of lucent drops of rain.

Gently, Hawke bows his head. Thus, Fenris forehead comes to rest upon his, their breaths mingling.

They listen again for the soft thuds and whispers of the rain.

After a while they kiss. Both hungry and savoring, a tender, silent game of questions and answers of lips. They graze each other’s skin, seek softly for familiar spots, a patch of rough skin, an unfamiliar and late bite, slightly swollen.

A little later Fenris and Hawke talk, dripping clouds lazily passing by, their voices quiet and clear to each other.

Hawke tells Fenris of his mother, the feel of her hard, rounded belly which he touched with young hands as a small boy, of his brother and sister, how they were born in the midnight blue middle of a storm-wrapped night, how he used to play hide-and-seek with tiny Carver and climbed ancient trees with little Bethany, and the fire the two of them once started, unwittingly, in his mother’s prized flower bed.

Hawke tells him stories of his childhood, stories of white-capped mountains which send their frigid howls down into snow-swirling dells in a Ferelden white, of forests so dark and mystical, moss-green and bark-brown, brimming with tales of walking trees and talking wolves hidden between shades of innumerable greens in short summer, every conceivable shade of white in winter. Lands, fields and streams still ruled by chilling winters and long-dead kings.

How did you survive, Fenris asks as the pads of his fingertips trace along the arcs of Hawke’s cheekbones and scrub against the defying black of his beard, in this threatening cold?  What does a frozen sea look like, Hawke?

Hot meals, Fenris, long-burning, flame-red fires from crepitant logs and twigs during long nights, and warm, heavy furs like the wild men wear in the south.

Fenris, in turn, talks then of dense jungles and tangled vegetation, the unmatched feeling of overwhelmingness in opaque, dark, colossal jungles of towering trees, giant green leaves, spear-like sunrays that pierce the otherwise impenetrable green, smoothing darkness. Of tall stone pagodas overrun with twining vines. Of roaring cataract waterfalls amidst lushes of leafy, muggy forest pervading the sight, the sun a remote memory under the eclipsing canopy of virescent leaves, a luminous baldachin shrilly alive with all manner of cries, chatters, chirrups and sundry shrieks. Of a turquoise blue ocean which sheds its color to a cryptic midnight blue after sunset, leaving a taste of salt on skins. Of a stupefying onslaught of water, dripping, drenching, dousing during incessant rains permeating for weeks on end. Inbetween these onrushs the continual dripping of beads on ferns and creepers like a sheet of crystals, mixing up with the pervasive thin layer of sweat on the skin, adding to the moisture in the air. Of the everlasting, impermeable, out-reaching fog veiling warriors of egregious stealth and skill, who harbor but secrets of the origin of the legendary Griffons from the vast mountains tangy with cinnamon and nutmeg, a fragrance that weaves in and out of the luscious greenery of ferns. Here, Fenris pauses. Somewhat lost in reflection, contemplation. As always.

At first, this was difficult for Fenris.

Speaking. Talking. About good things, too. Things worth to remember.

Testing the power of your tongue. Letting your voice fly out of your chest and settle somewhere within another heart.

Letting lose things, of birds and beasts, flowers and thorns, things you are not sure you dare to examine yourself, things that bear both blossoms and poison. Power indwelling and evoked in both. And by letting them lose, that power transfers into the listener.

So Hawke started it. By letting fly small stories. Kirkwall, the first year he lived there, Ferelden, his hometown Lothering. Short tales that grew larger eventually, as Fenris tried, hesitantly, warily, distrustfully the power of his own voice. Hitherto he had spoken, oh yes, words burst forth from within by runaway emotions, unbridled, only to be shackled again and frowned upon afterwards. So, with incredible difficulty, tentatively, cautiously, with a lot of faltering and long considering pauses between words while Hawke listened to him in silence, Fenris tried.

What does a white beach look like, asks Hawke, rubbing Fenris’ arm lightly as his quiet stretches on, how does a warm sea leaping at your naked toes feel like? How does it taste, the moist sky and jungle air?

And Fenris tells Hawke, under the shelter of softly padding rain drops, of ensanguined beaches and mossy ground trembling under the everlasting combat of Tevinter soldiers and Qunari warriors. Fenris tells, his voice clear and quiet, after great consideration, also of Minrathous, a city of marvels and terrors alike. Of how he endured nights of stomach-punching, mind-dulling hunger in a palatial, marble-pillared place brimming with food, of nights filled with the heart-pounding, ceaseless listening for hunting pursuers, of the guilt and pleasure of stolen crumbs of bread over a dead body.

There are stories, yes, stories Fenris does not talk about which Hawke hears in the mute, overpowering echo of his silence. Stories Hawke both fears and yearns for.

Therefore, Hawke talks of his father.

The tickle and scratchiness of his father’s ebony beard under his boyish fingers The way his mouth curved, sagged and arched into infectious grins. The reverberation of his resonating laughter when no one else would laugh but anyone be provoked into it by his quiet smile in a fuliginous hut. . The smell of tender arms. Of his father taking him for walks by hours on end into the winding forests, teaching him magic, pure simple magic, and considerably more.  His father whom Hawke invariably, ineradicably venerated and revered, a man of such kindness and protectiveness that he would help anyone who stumbled across his path. A man of unparalleled strength of will who wielded his magic before Hawke’s admiring boyish eyes with skill unrivaled, a man who seemed not to draw magic from the elements but rather be flooded by it from nature itself, while Fenris’ gaze lingers upon Hawke’s features with a softening, gentle expression whereas Hawke’s voice deliquesces to a throaty hoarseness.

Thus, a forest of stories arises, familiar ones they have shared many times before to one another so that they sound like lullabies from forgotten childhood days to either Fenris or Hawke. A forest grows of stories which they find new aspects to each time they tell the other again, a fresh point of view to ponder, a new silver light in the snow of a cold morning to behold, an almost forgotten, dusty taste to palpate in their mouths. And new stories as well. Stories which they are strangers to themselves until they have finished telling, somewhat scared, their gaze intend and steady upon the other’s face.

Inbetween stories they kiss again, patient and slow and between hushed words, indignant laughter and childlike giggles to find them.

The rain obscuring their sight, they have not seen the sun riding low in the sky and being pulled below the earth, illumined with streaks of light threading their way through the clouds. On the opposite side the moon rises behind the horizon as a vast, unbelievably sublime coin. It is aglow in ember-colored tones.

Meanwhile the rain has stopped, the clouds somehow, somewhen drifted along, revealing a welkin unsullied. Along the branches of the three-fingered tree buds glister lightly with the occasional drop, each heavy with the power of a rainforest’s monsoon, falling with a dead Ferelden king’s immortal might. A pale pink brushes the skies in the early evening, enchanting the horizon into a silky teal flowing into dainty rosy hues, dissolving to mysterious lilacs and, ultimately, velvety cobalt blue, their pastel shades disintegrating into one another.

The rain over, they rise from the embrace of the tree. Hawke tastes the squishy ground first with his boot, the grass springy and spongy underneath him. They bring down the almost soaking cloak which sustained shelter for them all the same.

Albeit smudged with winter dirt, the rain has bestrewn the wet ground with a scatter of shyly budding blossoms. But lying on a green bed of silk, violet crocus flowers wreathe among snowdrops of impeccable ivory and valorous-greened, saffron-yellow daffodils. Once night descends and soars again, hidden birds will begin their songs of time-old tales in every direction despite the cold dawn.

As of yet, Hawke and Fenris listen into the evening air, indicative of battle and fear, fading at last. The barely interrupted fighting has stopped to an exhausted stupor.

The lake from which they ran around midday lies shimmering and serene, struck by spring twilight, its depth wrought in the remembrance of a waning winter, not yet radiant with the lapis blue it will don to bedazzle its entranced surroundings.

With the cease of daylight, the war cries gradually cease too with tired people soon returning to their makeshift camps and jealously guarded camp fires, holding their enemies at bay by the threat of a night ambush, and a sort of weary silence returns to this once tranquil land.

Hawke’s boots squelch and Fenris’ incorrigibly bare feet slap onto the wet grass. Both of them look up to glance not at the spectacular fulgent full moon but westwards.

Behind them, under an unblemished plum-purple firmament, the low horizon would emanate a peach-colored, splendid glow, were it not for the bilious green exuded in the sky above. As both Fenris and Hawke look in its direction, upon their faces is cast a haunting light which throws their features into unfamiliar shapes, rifts and cracks, defacing, distorting them almost into unrecognizability.

Tentatively, Fenris hand touches Hawke’s chest.

“No news from Varric yet.”

Almost absent-mindedly, Hawke’s hand comes to rest on the pocket underneath his armor, too, where a carefully folded, thin package of swiftly-written and often-read letters rests, not speaking at once.

“I would never have believed to say this: No.”

Thoughtful, Fenris looks back at eerie sky. They both appraise it for a while.

This night, although they do not yet know of it, they will spend with rare company, sharing their food and secureness despite Hawke’s being careful of unearthing his name and self. Young and unkempt, a girl of maybe ten years will observe Fenris with curious child’s eyes, after setting fire to a winter-brown scrub, whom he calls witch. She, consequently, proudly informs him when I grow up I will become a witch of the wilds. They thereupon continue staring at each other, she peering, he glaring, till the girl lifts her dirty hands to snatch the apple in mid-air, revealing a gap between her teeth with her grinning at his gift.

For now, however Fenris’ hand easily slides into Hawke’s with well-practiced ease, a modest squeeze tiding through Hawke’s fingers, filling the chill which has descended upon them with warmth, a breathlessness and contentment flaring up inside him, as they set off for the winter-worn, mage-marked, templar-torn, spring-awaiting lake.

Behind them the solitary, three-stemmed tree slowly becomes one with the sinking crocus-purple night, a forest of trees fading with it.

______________________________________________________

😄 Okay, normally I don’t show drafts and I really don’t feel comfortable sharing  things I feel are not only unrevised but still rough, blurred and incomplete BUT I really, really, REALLY wanted to contribute something to this last day of February and @14daysdalovers so I’ve worked through this for the last three days on end and I'm deciding now to simply bury my face in my hands and be done with it! 😆😅🙈

💗 Thank you so much @scharoux for your invariable efforts and considerate kindness! With your help what would have been a disheartening, quarantine-ridden February was transformed into weeks of pleasure, creativity and love! 💗

🌹 THANK YOU!!! 🌹

PS. A million thanks, too, to all those incredible, invisible people who actually bother to read my stuff!!!

[msotherworldly]

Blame for Bethany

Title: Blame for Bethany

Fiction Type: Fanfiction

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Warnings: Minor swearing, mention of death

Prompt: “I’m not saying I told you so...”

“I’m not saying I told you so...”

“That’s funny, because it sounds like you are.” I smirked. The clink of tankards surrounded us. There was a low hum of voices, and the smell of nug shit. It was home sweet home—at least for him. Face turned only half to the fireplace, he looked older.

I frowned. How old was Varric? Admittedly, I didn’t know much about dwarf aging. I’d always assumed they aged as quickly as humans or elves, but...

“Get it off your chest.” He sipped his drink, eyes sparkling.

“Another day.” I sank into a chair.

He shook his head. “It’s bad to pent shit up, Hawke. I knew a fella in the carta who got by weeping into his pillow every night. It had a nickname and everything. Of course, when the other carta men in his squad found out, they filled his back with knives.”

“Thanks, Varric.” I waved the waitress for a drink. “You always know what to say to make me feel better.”

“That’s my specialty. But seriously, what’s eating you?”

“It’s just a conclusion I’ve had. We’ve survived the Deep Roads. I’ve made enough money that I barely have to work. And Mother seems happy. I thought it would go away, but it hasn’t.”

The dwarf raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“I think...I have to talk to her about this.”

“I’m going to say it again. If it’s bad, dump it on me. Your mother’s been through enough crap.”

“And deprive you of the chance of another ‘I told you so’ speech?”

Varric sighed. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “We’re not talking about an ogre this time, Hawke. We’re talking about your mother. Maybe give her some time before you hit her with something heavy.”

“I’ve given her time!” I laughed. “Varric, I’ve had this thought since I started work with Athenril. I’ve been carrying it around for two years now.”

“Do you need a shrink? I can recommend a good one I know. He works in Darktown.”

“He’s not a healer, is he?”

Varric grinned. “No, but I know a healer there who I’ve also recommended to see the guy. To be fair, he did attend one session.”

“But?”

“But it’s probably better if you don’t mention you’re a mage.” Varric’s face darkened. “Since that lovely therapy session, Briggs has a paranoia of being lit on fire. That tends to happen when you try to do therapy on a Fade spirit.”

“Maker.” I shook my head. “I think I’ll pass, Varric, but...thanks for the tip. Why Darktown?”

“If you talk to a therapist in Hightown, they might gossip. Any therapist there will likely be a noble looking for extra cash or a fun time, and well, you know your neighbours better than anyone. All they care about are scandals and social clout. If it got out that Marion Hawke was having mommy issues, it would be the talk of Hightown for at least a month.”

“I don’t have mommy issues.” I rolled my eyes. “But I see your point.”

“I’m not saying you do. It’s what they would say.” He winked. “Trust me, Hawke. I have a good read on people.”

“And a vivid imagination.”

“Exactly! If I say something is going to go wrong, it will likely go even worse!”

“And here I am, taking advice from the guy who loosed Anders on a therapist. Do wonders never cease?”

Varric chuckled. “I know you don’t listen. Hell, do any of you? But be gentle with her, Hawke. She’s had a hard time.”

I was halfway to Lowtown before I remembered my new home. I kicked a stone, and turned around. Would I ever get used to this? Even after three weeks, it felt strange to walk into Hightown and think I belonged there. In my rough leather jacket and scuffed boots, I felt as much like a ruffian as I’d always been. When I drew the key from my pocket, I had the unnerving feeling I’d stolen it from someone—or, as was more often the case, killed someone for it.

Smells of flowers and greenery washed over me. Mom had filled the manor with potted plants. Three shattered pots in the corner gave evidence that Sandal had managed to destroy half of them just as fast. The dreamy eyed dwarf looked out over the balcony; was he planning to swing from the chandelier again?

I dropped my satchel at the foot of my bed. When I emerged from my room, I was clean and dressed in finery. I drifted down the stairs, frowning.

“Is there anything I can get for you, my lady?” Bodahn bowed. “Name it, and I’ll be happy to oblige.”

“Just a bottle of wine, Bodahn, and a glass.”

“Right away, my lady.”

“It’s Marion.” I sighed as he ambled off. “There’s no need to be so formal.”

Mother sat by the fire, embroidery in her lap. Her wrists flashed with silver, and her hair was pulled into an intricate braid. To look at her, one wouldn’t have known at first glance that she had spent twenty years tilling earth or bathing a Mabari coated daily in mud. Still, I could see it—in the wrinkles around her eyes, and the whitening of her hair, I saw a harder life. Most of the nobles who were Mother’s age looked ten years younger.

“Mother.”

“Hello, dear.” She gazed into the flames. “Have you heard from your brother?”

“Mages and templars aren’t friends as a general rule.”

“He’s your brother.” She grimaced. “It’s just as well. He needed space. It could be a lucrative career for him.”

“Hunting people like me? That’s a ‘lucrative career’?”

“I’m sorry, Marion.” She glanced up, and smiled. “I’m just trying to make the best of things. He’s been discontent for a long time. If this brings him happiness, I’ll be grateful to the Order for that much.”

I pulled up a second chair. Bodahn left the wine on a small round table of polished wood. I filled my glass. The liquid was a deep red.

I studied the flames, seeing shapes, seeing houses, blackening ruins crumpling as darkspawn swarmed over them. Did Mother see the same thing, or was the fire a mere comfort?

“He might have joined the Order in Fereldan too.” I picked up a poker, and jabbed the logs. “After being kicked out of the army, that is.”

Mother chuckled. “I suppose it would have been a matter of time. Carver always did find trouble. I hope he’s settled down now.”

I frowned. “It would have been natural if...”

Mother glanced at me. “If what?”

If you had been strong enough to do what you should have.

I stood up, setting my glass down. My heart thrummed. I bit my lip.

Be gentle, Hawke. Varric’s voice was low and smooth in my head.

I wheeled to face her. “It wasn’t my fault that Bethany died.”

“I’m sorry I said that, darling. I never meant it. Not really.”

“Even after you apologized the first time, I still believed it was. I played it over in my head. If I had gotten to the ogre sooner, I could have knocked it down. If I’d thought to throw fire, I could have distracted it. But I wasn’t the only one there. If it was my fault, it was Carver’s fault, Aveline’s. We were surrounded. Everyone was just trying to survive.” I shuddered. “It wasn’t my fault that Bethany died.”

Mother reached for me.

“It was yours.”

Mother flinched as if I’d electrocuted her. Then she bowed her head. “You wish it had been me instead of her. If the ogre had grabbed me instead...”

“I don’t wish that.” I sat down. “But I was angry at you. When we were at Gamlen’s, what did you do? You stared into the fire and you didn’t move. You didn’t even take in washing to help us pay the rent. You didn’t try to sell fruit. You didn’t offer to stitch up clothes for a couple of coppers. You didn’t do anything! You left it to Carver and I. You’ve left it to us since Dad died.”

Mother’s eyes watered. She closed them. “After she died...after your father...each time, it was like another part of me, somewhere in my chest, had just been ripped away. I couldn’t even think. I was sad and angry, and I couldn’t see anything else. Then, when Carver left, I thought I was having a heart attack.”

“But he didn’t leave, not truly.”

“I realized that.” She took a breath. “When I realized he was just going to be on his own, with a job he might enjoy, I even felt a little better. I know you tried with him...but he needed to find his own way.”

“I didn’t want you to take Bethany’s place, Mother.” I took her hand. “I was angry because you could have prevented it.”

She met my gaze.

“I never wanted to go to the Circle. I liked the feel of grass under my feet. I savoured looking up, and seeing the sky. I even enjoyed the constant reek of filthy Mabari.”

She chuckled.

“But sometimes I wondered about the Circle. I thought of all the books there I could be reading. And I thought of Bethany, on those winter days when we had less to eat, being able to have her fill. They get three meals a day at the Circle. There was one winter where I even considered sending her off myself. It was a chance at a richer life for her.”

“But not you?”

“Not as long as you needed looking after.” I shook my head. “It’s just...if you had sent us, she would still be alive right now. She was capable. She would have survived the Harrowing. She might have even attained a position, become a senior enchanter. She might have written books, had friends...been safe.”

Mom slumped over. “I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“We could have stayed together. If you had been well, if Carver was there, I might have gone with her. And if Carver had joined the Order, he would have been able to send decent money your way. He would have kept us together with letters and stories. When he wasn’t watching over his sisters, he could have visited you, seen you were alright.”

“And all three of you could have been safe.”

“I shouldn’t have said this to you. Keeping us free wasn’t the wrong decision. Not really. You couldn’t have known the Blight was coming. If it hadn’t, all of us would still be in Lothering now. Poorer, but alive.”

“I’ve thought too much of myself.”

“Mother.”

“No, I have. You’ve played it through your head, too. You’ve watched Bethany die over and over. When you look into the flames, do you see it like I do? The homes falling, burning, being swarmed?”

“It’s all I see.”

“I wish I could look after you now.”

“But you don’t have to anymore. We’re set for life.”

“There must be some way I could be useful.” Mother pursed her lips. Her eyes glinted. “I have old friends from my childhood here. Many of them have their own children. Perhaps I could set up a meeting with some of them? I know Sir Laurence is very handsome.”

I laughed. “No, Mother. Thank you. I’m sort of already...seeing someone.”

“A noble?” Her voice was critical.

“Not at all. I have too much of my mother in me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“He understands, Mother. If I married a noble, how could I be happy? I’d have to hide all the time. I’m so tired of hiding.”

“Is he...like your father?”

I nodded. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Her lips thinned into a severe line. She opened her mouth, and then she shook her head. She chuckled. “Well, it’s just as well I’m not like my mother. You can rest assured I won’t disown you. But be careful, darling. If you’re talking about who I think...well, he can be a bit wild.”

“You’re just upset he trailed that weird mud over the floor from Darktown.”

“Whatever it was, it had red stains!” Mother shuddered. “But it’s just as well. If you’re happy, I won’t get in the way.”

I stood up: I pulled her into a hug, folding her in. I was a head taller than she was. I stroked her hair. “I don’t mind looking after you, Mother. It gives me something to do.”

“Is Anders interested in children?”

Maker, I’ve said too much.

I blushed. “I...don’t know.”

“Well, grandchildren would give me something to do.” Mother drew away, beaming. “I could teach them how to curtsy, dance, sew, cook, sing!”

“After you were done teaching them not to light the house on fire.” I grimaced. “With their genes, it’s certain they’d all be mages. You could handle several apostate toddlers?”

“I handled two, didn’t I?” Mom puffed herself up. “I’ll figure it out.”

I bet.

“I love you, Mother.”

“I love you, Marion.” She pulled me in for another hug and stroked my hair.

[enby-hawke]

For I Have Sinned-Chapter 7

Chapter 7- Renewal

Word Count: 14,555 (lol shoot me)

Tw: elf fetishization bordering on non-con but not a major theme, homophobia

Ships: Malcolm/Leandra,  Maurevar Carver/Mara Hartling

Follow on AO3

Carver never wanted to be a Templar, but his mother and father had the heir, the spare, and then some, so Carver was dedicated while he was still in the womb. They were proud of their Templar lineage but they didn’t know the sacrifices they forced Carver to make. Carver made them because it was his duty, and he did so with a smile. Even if he hardly saw his family outside of the many duties that filled his days.

 No, he found he didn’t have much in common with his parents, who were not even Templars, or his brothers. In all respects he carried their name, but they were just strangers to him, that tried to control his life, and used his good standing like a trophy in their collection.

 And there was a disquiet in him as he wielded power over mages. Chantry rhetoric claimed mages were not people. They were classified as living weapons, and yet they cried the same tears, bled the same blood, had the same fears, died just as easily. And he resented how many who he worked with used that power to harm. Carver didn’t know a better way than the Circle, but he often wondered if what they were doing was actually effective, as blasphemous as that statement was.

 He found few Templars that agreed with him and counted many mages as friends, even if there were rules that said otherwise.

 The fact was that Carver was given the keys to the prison and was free to leave his position at any time. But only through the Chantry could he get lyrium he needed, and he could only get lyrium if he remained a Templar. He thought of leaving, but his own leash held him place well enough.

 “I hate to bring this up,” Carver said hesitantly as they started pulling into the streets of the docks towards the Templar station where he’d need to park his car. “But you should clean up your face before we get back. We’ll be caught for sure.”

 Carver knew Malcolm better than the family that had given him up, knew him almost as well as he knew himself, even when Malcolm tried to keep secrets from him. And there was no denying that Leandra had changed Malcolm. Malcolm smirked often, but tonight on his face was a true smile, the usual frown lines and sarcasm had gone. He had been humming the songs that they had been singing all night, and had been serving as the radio for Carver as they drove through the streets of Kirkwall. There was no chip on his shoulder, no snarl to his words. Leandra had sanded down the edges until all Carver saw was a happy man in love.

 And Carver was scared for them.

 Malcolm laughed pulling down the mirrors as he inspected the red smears, wiping his face clean with his sleeve and a bit of magic when the lipstick remained stubborn. Malcolm seemed sorry to wipe off the evidence of the night.

 Carver reached into the middle compartment and tossed Malcolm some mints. “Your breath smells like alcohol. Take care of that.”

 Malcolm dutifully popped a handful of mints in his mouth, probably not enough to completely cover the smell but it would help.

 Carver knew mages were dangerous. He had lost a few templar brethren hunting down apostates, but among the heavier death toll, mages were always the higher casualty, not that his brethren saw it that way. Still, he thought long and hard, trying to find ways to prevent the same tragedies.

 “So we should get our story straight,” Carver said, as he pulled into his personal parking space which was marked and always clear for him. Carver could see Malcolm squirm in his peripherals, his lips getting tight as he sucked on his mints but he volunteered nothing. Carver turned off the car, stalling the engine so only ships at sea could be heard. He locked the door before Malcolm could get out and the way Malcolm glared made him look like a cornered wolf. “I know I initially tagged along because I wanted to keep that asshole in line, but I know you’re key to the investigation,” more squirming, some hunching. “Though I still need to interview the other mages at the party, I’ve been reading reports all night and no one seems to know more than you do.”

 “I don’t know what’s going on.” Malcolm’s voice was tense in the admission. He played dumb like he always did.

 Carver sighed. Obviously a lie, but calling him on it would only make him more evasive. He kept his eyes on the Templar station, an intimidating fortress that imposed the Docks, guarding a private train-line that went over the water and into the Circle.

 “So what do you know?”

 Malcolm went quiet. Carver glanced over, seeing a hundred thoughts scattering through his mind.

 “It was nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he finally said.

 “Nor I,” Carver said, worried about that admission.

 Malcolm’s hands twisted as he picked at his nails. “What’s going in your report?”

 Carver knew it was against the rules to tell anyone, let alone a mage under his care, what he told the Knight-Commander, but he could understand why Malcolm was scared. The Knight-Commander wasn’t the most tolerant of mages, and often criticized Carver’s approach in spite of the results Carver brought. “Only what’s necessary,” Carver hoped that would reassure him but his friend remained tense.

 More silence, an internal debate in Malcolm’s head as he decided what to tell.

 Carver waited in patience, his gaze expectant.

 “The Veil was sundered and torn, but not only that, corrupted,” Malcolm finally said. “I don’t know how but it seemed like the Fade was leaking into reality, like they were merging together.”

 That didn’t sound good. He wanted to know how Malcolm knew this but instead he asked, “What could cause that?”

 Malcolm avoided Carver’s gaze. “Something dark and ancient and powerful.”

 Carver cocked his head unsure of what that meant. “Like a Tevinter magister?”

 “Worse than that, dude.” Malcolm laughed uneasily. He actually looked scared. “I don’t think you can arrest this.”

 Carver considered what he meant and then it hit him. “Are you saying a demon did this?” Malcolm flinched, keeping silent but Carver knew he was on the right track. “What kind of demon?”

 “Terror,” Malcolm admitted. “And it’s big and hungry.”

 Carver then realized. “Did you fight it in the Viscount’s Palace?”

 Malcolm’s golden eyes blinked up in surprise and he chewed on his lip. “I did, but it’s strong.”

 Carver wondered how many battles he was fighting alone, and he knew Malcolm was too prideful to ask so he said, “It sounds like you could use help.”

 Malcolm sputtered as if embarrassed. “I don’t think you can help with this, dude.”

 If Carver had ego it might have been wounded, but he simply smiled. “It’s my duty as a Templar, and if this demon can sunder reality it is a danger that must be vanquished.”

 Malcolm looked uneasy, but he didn’t argue. “So, what’s going in your report?”

 Carver knew he shouldn’t but he said, “I think it important the Knight-Commander knows that a dangerous demon is hunting. We need to be prepared.”

 Malcolm turned to Carver, pleading. “Don’t say I jumped into the Fade.”

 “It’s an important detail,” Carver said, “and impressive as well. You could probably teach your own class with the types of spells you seem to always come up with.”

 Was this just because he didn’t want more responsibility? Malcolm’s eyes said otherwise. He recognized someone begging for his life. He had seen it too many times in the countless Harrowings he oversaw.

 “It really isn’t,” Malcolm insisted. “Just say we fought a terror demon that opened a rift into the Fade. That’s enough.”

 Carver was uncertain. He wasn’t comfortable with lying, but this seemed important to Malcolm. “And then we spent the night chasing it,” Carver finally agreed, seeing Malcolm’s shoulders finally relax. Still, Carver knew there was a huge piece missing from the puzzle, and it somehow had to do with Malcolm, but he knew Malcolm, and he could see him closing himself off like a vault. He had hoped the alcohol might be enough to loosen that tongue, but Malcolm was the most stubborn man he knew. He prayed it wouldn’t lead to casualties. “You’ll tell me what I need to know before it hurts anyone else, right?”

 “Of course. Trust me,” Malcolm nodded.

 “I do,” Carver said with a grimace. “I just wished you trusted me.”

 Malcolm looked hurt by the accusation. “Of course I trust you.”

 “But you won’t tell me what I need to know,” Carver said bitterly. He didn’t like how many questions he was still left with.

 “I did tell you what you need to know,” Malcolm’s voice was defensive. “The demon will die, soon, and everything will go back to normal.”

 Carver doubted that with the evidence he had seen that night, but he knew that would only lead to an argument. So, instead he placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You don’t have to fight your battles, alone.”

 Malcolm said nothing to this, but he made a tight nod.

 Carver sighed finally unlocking the door and getting out of the car.

 Carver left his car at Templar station and they boarded the train, watching the water over the ocean in companionable silence as the tower of the Circle approached. Dawn was just starting to rise over the ocean cut off by the ugly tower that jutted into the sky with its red Circle flags waving in the ocean wind as bronze slave statues curled into themselves against the ocean spray, weeping.

 Carver felt sorry that the night was over. He could already see that Malcolm was getting antsy approaching the Circle, his fingers drumming on his legs in a steady beat. He seemed wound up with energy still from the night, which he guessed was good since he probably only got a few minutes of sleep.

 Soon they walked off the train and into the courtyard which was still empty, but it would be filled with Templars doing drills. Dawn had broken and so First Bell wouldn’t be too far. Before Malcolm walked back to his room Carver stopped him by a hand on the shoulder. “Remember your promise to Leandra. No lip, and work on your grades.”

 “Yeah, yeah,” Malcolm rolled his neck, cracking it nonchalantly. He said it like he was brushing it off, but Carver couldn’t help but notice how alert he was, his posture straighter with a confidence that carried him with every step. As Malcolm walked away, Carver thought this might be the first time Malcolm actually might consider taking something seriously, and he couldn’t help but think he’d have to find more ways to thank Leandra, if for no other reason to bump into that rather whimsical cat-eyed woman who had mischief in her smile.

 As Carver made his way down the Templar quarters he found his mind wandering back to Mara. He had met many beautiful women, but Mara had a spunk to her that set her apart and made her shine. He was rather impressed that she stood up to her own man for Malcolm and her loyalty to her lady seemed to go beyond just duty. Admiration. That’s what he told himself was stirring inside him. Any other considerations he had long since buried, but like a stubborn weed, irresponsible thoughts were unearthing.

 Carver knew those were thoughts that would go nowhere. He was Knight-Captain, second only to the Knight-Commander. He had a responsibility to his wards and his comrades to be sharp and undistracted and while Templars were not forbidden to marry very few found the opportunity nor the time. Carver himself barely had time in the day to eat so to fully commit to anything like a romance seemed out of the question. Plus, it was clear she already had a man. Still, he hoped Mara would find someone more worthy of her wild adventurous spirit. And the way she inspected him with that scrutinizing stare as he performed for her left a shiver in his spine. He remembered the sassy way she called him “Officer” that stirred something primal in him and he was left unbalanced when she grabbed his arm.

 He shouldn’t have allowed the picture. It could ruin everything, but Mara smelled so good he was left dizzy and his spine turned to jelly. And when Gamlen yanked her back from him it took everything not to punch him and ruin the night Malcolm worked so hard for.

 It was not his place. Carver was only there to protect Malcolm, nothing else, and he felt a little ashamed that he was even thinking such things. He needed to focus, make sure that Malcolm doesn’t ruin what little standing he has left by taking reckless chances. But he couldn’t help but wish the song he sang Mara was a little longer and that Gamlen had stayed on that curb so he might find an excuse to talk to her again.

 The door  to the   Knight-Commander’s office was intimidating, high reinforced steel bars with a heavy plaque of the red Chantry sun, as if they needed another reminder who ruled over them.  Carver went to knock on the door to find that it was slightly ajar, muffled voices coming through the door.

 “Knight-Commander, we need to consider that this might have been an attack on the Amell’s or the De Lancets. We need to reinforce security, pull from the Guard if necessary to ensure the nobility’s safety.”

 Carver gritted his teeth. It was clearly Meredith’s voice coming from the door. Normally he would commend Meredith for her proactive thinking. She was remarkably fast at getting the men to secure the ballroom, but she made it clear to Carver that she was gunning for his job and he was sure this was just going to be another attempt to undermine his command.

 Carver knocked twice before letting himself in, cutting off the Knight-Commander’s reply. Both the Knight-Commander and Meredith’s head flung in Carver’s direction. Knight-Commander Guylian stayed behind his desk, an antique oak with heavy legs, his pale skin popped against the dark leather. He was an older man with a prominent nose, lips so thin they were barely visible and dull grey eyes. He looked fully rested compared to Meredith whose bags from the all-nighter she pulled darkened her creamy skin.

 “Good, I’ve been expecting your report,” the Knight-Commander nodded.

 “Finally,” Meredith scowled as the Knight-Commander motioned for Carver to come in, but she kept her usual barbs to herself for now.

 Carver glanced at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even 6am. He was not late. Still, he couldn’t help the anxiety creeping up his neck as his Commander stared him down, waiting for him to spin his tale. Carver had become good at lying though, years of meditation and duty hardening him into a beacon of calm.

 “Before I go into my report I want to recommend an official reprimand be marked on the Knight-Lieutenant's record.”

   Meredith went red, eyes widening in outrage. “What for!?”

 Carver felt himself mold into the role of Knight-Captain and addressed her while keeping his eyes on the Knight-Commander. “Instead of assessing the area for culprits she assaulted Taylor Filene. Such behavior will sow disorder and dissent in the ranks.”

 “But Taylor Filene might be a culprit,” Meredith barked back.

 “Regardless,” Carver continued. “There are procedures if you have suspicions. Threatening your wards in plain sight of the nobility is not.”

 The Knight-Commander waited patiently studying both templars under the comfort of his cushioned chair. “This is true. The public must not see such things, Knight-Lieutenant. Our public image must be maintained.”

 That was not Carver’s point, but he knew that arguing that it should not be allowed at all would get him nowhere. The Knight-Commander could be a harsh man, himself, and Carver needed to toe the line.

 The Knight-Commander tapped his desk with his finger. “But considering the stress of last night I believe an unofficial reprimand will do just fine. Just see that it does not happen again.”

 Meredith nodded, suppressing a triumphant smile. “It won’t, Knight-Commander.”

 The Knight-Commander leaned back inspecting Carver again. “Now, where did you disappear to last night?”

 “I’ve made an unexpected discovery in Malcolm Hawke’s testimony. He was able to identify that it was a terror demon that sundered the veil at the party and he is assisting me as I hunt it down. The hunt took me all over Kirkwall.”

 “You had an unsanctioned mage assist you in an investigation?” Meredith sneered, echoing the concern on the Knight-Commander’s face. “Without backup?”

 “The Fade interference messed with our electronics. There wasn’t time,” Carver lied quickly, “But I witnessed myself as he closed the rift in the Fade with his magic and calmed the spirits enough to go back, a feat no mage in this Circle I know to be capable of. Without his help, we might have had a bloodbath on our hands. Unsanctioned he may be, but his help may prove invaluable.”

 “That oaf? He’ll make a mockery of this investigation,” Meredith  sneered.

 Carver expected that from Meredith but still he couldn’t help but ask a question he knew the answer to from his reports, “Knight-Lieutenant, what is the status of the Veil?”

 Meredith’s lips thinned into a red line. “It appears to be stronger than before.”

 Carver kept the grin off his face. “So should I issue you a ‘thank you’ to Malcolm myself or will you?”  

 The Knight-Commander stared at Carver and he wondered if the uneasiness on his face was suspicion or something else. “Demons do not usually affect the world without outside help. We should not discount Meredith’s theory that this could have been an orchestrated attack on the Amells or De Lancets.”

 Carver grimaced. He wasn’t sure if Meredith was right, but he knew from the smirk on Meredith’s face that she would use this more to swing her iron fist.

 Then the Knight-Commander asked, “How exactly did Malcolm heal the Veil? I thought using magic only weakened it.”

 Carver knew he had to omit a few details but he wanted to keep as close to the truth as possible. Easier to keep track of the lies that way. “He claimed it to be an aura he developed to calm spirits,” he could tell from the look on their faces that they had questions about that and so did he, but instead he distracted them with something else, “I believe he has the potential to be a Spirit Healer. From my observations he seems to be sensitive to their presence.”

 Meredith and the Knight-Commander shared a look. Spirit Healers made contracts with beneficial spirits to draw upon great healing magic, the kind that could bring men back from the brink of death. They were incredibly rare and watched ever closely by the templars because of how similarly they functioned to blood mages, and how easily they fell to temptation, but because of their beneficial nature they were still highly sought and prized by the Circle. He could see the arguments warring both on Meredith and the Knight-Commander’s faces.

 The Knight-Commander seemed conflicted. “It would be a boon for the Circle, but what makes you think the elf would even do it? He seems insistent to sleeping his potential away.”

 Carver put on his most convincing smile. “Give Malcolm a chance. He’s already proved last night he is capable of much more than he’s letting on.”

 Meredith slammed her hand on the table startling both the men. “Absolutely not,” she snarled. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

 The Knight-Commander’s eyebrow twitched and Meredith reddened, retracting her hand.

 “Is that not for me to decide, Knight-Lieutenant?”

 “Yes, ser,” she simply responded, her eyes on his desk.

 The Knight-Commander leaned forward, resting his fingers on his chin as he thought. “I have an opportunity in mind, but I have reservations about his abilities but since Malcolm managed to not offend anyone at the party…” His calculating gaze locked on Carver as he made his decision. “The Amells and De Lancets will be here for their interviews as well as their Cleansing. If Malcolm can perform without offending them, I may consider speaking with the First Enchanter to rework his curriculum.”

 Carver nodded. “I’ll make sure he takes this opportunity seriously.”

   The Knight-Commander’s blue eyes were like a faded cloudy day. “See that he does. The Amells are high patrons of the Circle and if they are not satisfied with his performance, neither will I.” It sounded like the threat it was.

 Carver nodded, gritting his teeth, a sinking feeling in his gut about how far Malcolm’s place was falling in the Circle. He needed to do everything in his power to make sure he didn’t fall further. Still, Malcolm was one of his best friends and he knew him well enough to know that he would not be thanked for this. But, dangling Leandra seemed to work before. Surely, it would work again.

 Mara’s kitchen was a small but cutely decorated space, with duckling wallpaper and colorful appliances and cartoony knickknacks, some that Leandra had gifted over the years. On the fridge was a homemade frame of a picture of a fishing trip with the family when Mara’s parents and grandma were still alive. Leandra, Gamlen and Mara’s grandfather were also in the picture. He was a pale red-headed elf with green eyes and mischief in his smile. The rest of the family shared Mara’s chestnut hair and her dark unhooded cat eyes. Mara and he were both holding large rainbow trouts, Mara’s slightly bigger and she was rubbing it in Leandra’s face since she had only managed to catch a small minnow which she still showed proudly to the camera.

 Everyone in the family was laughing, their faces in half-blurs as the Hartlings were never ones to sit still. Only Gamlen remained looking out of place as he glowered at the camera, hot and uncomfortable and always letting everyone know about it. Still, that day was perfect, and the memory of it kept Mara going on her darkest days.

 Leandra stared at her phone, sipping at her coffee, her belly full of fried rice, bacon and eggs, helping to stave off an oncoming headache. She had spent many nights sitting at this counter, staying up gossiping with Mara and tonight was no different. Though the pain of exhaustion made her question if anything about the night was real, Mara was there to confirm every detail. And there was more evidence, in her picture, Malcolm was pressing against her cheek, looking as dazzling as in her dreams except now she had the memory of his clover musk that she sorely missed. She didn’t recognize the smile on her face, or how Mara let her hair get so messy, and now that she was slowly sobering up, she realized she was dumbstruck by her own actions.

 She realized with profoundness, that she would repeat everything exactly the same. She had never felt so brave except at Malcolm’s side and now that he was gone the whimsy of the night was over. The reality of her   fiancé   and her parents were coming back to her. She’d need to face them, soon.

 “He really fills out that suit, doesn’t he?” Mara hummed, placing her chin on Leandra’s bare shoulder.

 Leandra hummed in agreement, admiring how Malcolm’s suit cut a striking silhouette, until she registered what Mara said and smacked her playfully on the arm. “Eyes to yourself, lady, he’s mine.”

 “Oh, please, your man’s too skinny,” Mara waggled her eyebrows. “I was talking about Ser Herculean Statue.”  

 “Mara,” Leandra guffawed, scandalized. “What if Gamlen heard?”

 Mara pulled away, rolling her eyes as she departed for the sink in a hasty retreat. “I’m just looking. It’s not like I don’t catch Gamlen’s eyes wandering. Neither of us are blind, y’know.”

 Mara seemed tense at the mention of Gamlen, and she immediately began scouring the pots to put in the dishwasher. Leandra bit her lip. She knew that they spent at least fifteen minutes talking in Mara’s room before Gamlen decided to take a nap and Leandra was unsure if Gamlen would bother to show up for the Cleansing. Mara and Gamlen were still together, but for the first time Leandra was unsure about their future and she could see how uneasy this was making Mara.

   Mara washed off her cat eye makeup making her eyes look more almond shaped and they were red from tiredness, but Leandra looked at the irritated rims of her eyes and knew she had been rubbing them. Her lips were paler and a more natural pink and her hair was still damp from the shower she had. She looked much more comfortable in her baggy t-shirt that looked like it belonged to Gamlen at one point and plain plaid sweatpants.

 “How are things with Gamlen?” Leandra asked hesitantly.

 Mara’s shoulders tensed before she opened up the dishwasher and deposited the pan with some force. “Oh, it’s peachy.”

 Leandra abandoned her place at the counter to saddle up beside Mara to help her wash. She picked up a stray plate and started rinsing the grease from it.

 “Your mother will kill me if you ruin your manicure doing servant work,” Mara took the plate away from her to take over but Leandra just picked up another.

 “Who cares about my mother? We’re talking about you right now,” Leandra sniffed as she scrubbed off some stubborn onion that was sticking to the plate. Leandra’s polished white-tipped pointed nails were soon covered in bacon grease. Leandra gritted her teeth. “You know he’s my brother, but you can always be honest with me.” Leandra met Mara’s uncertain gaze as she paused to bite her lip. “About anything.”

 Mara took the plate from Leandra, placing it in the dishwasher. She was silent, but Leandra could tell there was something Mara was keeping from her. “Promise not to tell, Gamlen?”

 “I won’t say a word,” Leandra nodded, abandoning the chores to give Mara her full attention.

 Mara tucked a wet strand behind her ear as she leaned her back against the sink. “I’ve been with Gamlen for as long as I can remember. I know I love him but…”

 “But…?” Leandra echoed as Mara trailed off.

 Mara kept her eyes to the ground. “Seeing the way you are with Malcolm…maybe I’m a little jealous.”

 Leandra dropped her mouth. Mara? Jealous of her and Malcolm? She was blushing at the idea considering the years she spent in envy in the reverse position.

 “I just met Malcolm last night,” Leandra blubbered. “You and Gamlen have had a solid relationship for years. Malcolm and I are too new to even label our relationship. And the fact that I’m about to be married in two months, you have nothing to be envious over.”

 Mara looked at Leandra biting her cheek. “See that’s the thing. Malcolm looks at you like he’s seen the sunrise for the first time. I’ve never seen a man look so devoted,” Mara looked sad, meeting her gaze hesitantly. “And you have never looked so happy beside him. I think you found something real. And I want that…”

 Leandra felt a rush of warmth at the thought, before her rational mind took over and started tearing the fantasy apart. This was too new for her to even name what she was feeling for him. She was still engaged. Very, very engaged, and though she was angry at her parents, she wasn’t so angry that she would throw her whole future away over one wonderful night, no matter how perfect everything felt. Still, as she looked at her friend’s uncertainty she knew she had to reach out for her hand and ask, “You don’t think you have something real with Gamlen?”

 Mara froze, her eyes dropping again. “I...don’t know.” Then she forced a grin, “He gives me a      real    headache.”

 Leandra laughed in spite of herself, but she knew Mara was just joking to avoid talking too seriously. “I won’t lie and say I don’t want you and Gamlen to work, but if you’re unhappy-”

 “I’m not,” Mara said a little too quickly and returned to cleaning the dishes. “I’m probably just still mad about last night. Just ignore me.”

 Leandra could sense the broiling emotions under Mara, but she nudged Mara’s shoulder with her own before returning to the dishes. “You’re hard to ignore, Mara.”

 A pleased smile pulled on Mara’s lips, her cheeks blushing just a shade pinker.

 Suddenly Leandra’s phone rang from her purse, and Leandra wiped her hands on the hand towel and went to retrieve it. She recognized from the chiming wedding bells that it was Guillaume. Sure enough his name with the screen photo showing Leandra and him on one of their dates to their favorite restaurant at la Rose’ de Safran, a ritzy Orlesian place where their portions were smaller than their wine glasses. She couldn’t help but take a moment to compare how fake her smile seemed as she posed with him keeping a professional distance apart even as they held hands.

 She let only one more annoying bell ring before she answered the phone, her voice cloaked with peppy energy even though she felt so exhausted she was sure she’d fall asleep on the kitchen counter. “Guillaume, what a surprise. Why are you calling so early?”

 Guillaume’s slightly Orlesian accent filtered through the speakers, grating her nerves with anxiety even though his voice was calm and soothing. “I heard you had a fight with your parents last night and I wanted to help if I could.”  

 She was touched and suddenly flooded with guilt. Guillaume was still her friend and a true one and she was deceiving him. “I’m not sure how you could help, but thank you for the thought,” she almost mumbled the words as she struggled to keep herself calm and breathing even.

 “I thought I’d offer you a ride to the Cleansing if you would like, to give you more space between your parents. We can get a cup of coffee and talk.”

 It was just like him, incredibly thoughtful, and the confusion about what the right thing to do was made her dizzy and hesitant. Usually talking with Guillaume would unburden her, but she immediately thought of Malcolm and the jealous look in his eye and how badly she just wanted to belong to only him. How she wanted to come clean and tell Guillaume the truth right there. Would he judge her? He never had before?

 But she wouldn’t. She still didn’t even know what was happening to her heart, and all these urges to make irrational decisions scared her.

 She took in a shallow breath. “You’re right that I’d rather not face my parents,” she admitted, not wanting to say yes, but the thought of a car ride lecture all the way to the Circle was less preferable.

 She could hear the smile in his voice. “Merveilleux, I’ll be at your house in less than ten minutes.”

 “Actually come to Mara’s.”

 Leandra tried to get Gamlen out of Mara’s bed plush polkadot duvet but he was snoring so forcefully he was ruffling his bangs. After shaking him firmly once he told her to ‘bugger off’ and she decided she wasn’t going to do what she normally did and fuss over him and drag him to his duties. He was a full grown man. If he wanted to let his aura fester that was his problem.  

 She texted her family’s group chat to not send the car to Mara’s because Guillaume was picking her up and though she expected an argument over that she didn’t get one. Just a firm reminder to not be late. She tried to distract herself with social media, but soon enough all the congratulation messages and worried ‘are you ok?’ messages about her betrothal ball found her sorely missing Malcolm.

 She wished she could post that picture, let everyone know of the wonderful man she found and share her happiness, but she would hurt Guillaume deeply and knew she would get no congratulations. So she traced Malcolm’s lips with her thumb, wishing things were simpler so she could just enjoy this feeling.

 Soon Guillaume’s town car pulled into Mara’s driveway and Guillaume stepped out.

 Leandra stiffened, brushing herself off as she approached him, smiling in greeting. She couldn’t miss the way his eyes raked her from head to toe taking in her look. She told herself she should appreciate it. Mara had worked hard helping her pluck, smooth out her hair, paint on her face and vet her outfit. Still, she wished that Mara had clothes that didn’t always cling so close or reveal so much. It was almost impossible to find something appropriate to meet her future in-laws in.

 “Are those Mara’s?” His tone was appreciative.

 She tucked hair behind her ear as she shyly hid her figure behind her purse. Normally Leandra’s day wear consisted of airy dresses that were modest but fashionable, but today she had on a loose black knit sweater that hung off her shoulders and a bold peacock patterned pencil skirt that hugged every curve. She was still wearing her red heels from last night since her feet were too small for Mara’s shoes. “It looks awkward on me, right?”

 “Not at all,” his smile gleaned as he stared appreciatively at her bare shoulders. “I’d say it’s a fetching look.”

 No blush came to Leandra’s cheeks but instead she made a strangled sound in her throat.

 Guillaume opened the door for her, chuckling. “I’d say I left you speechless, my lady.”

 Leandra chuckled nervously as she ducked into the car.

 He soon joined her on the other side, the cabin cozier than she wished it. He nestled in close and it took all of Leandra’s willpower not to shy away from him as he took her hand. His hand felt wrong, too large, too imposing. It didn’t feel at all like comfort though she wondered if it ever did. His amber eyes burrowed into her in questioning. “So what happened with your parents?”

 She didn’t feel at all like sharing but she did because she thought she should. “They tried to fire Mara.”

 Guillaume made a dramatic gasp into his spare hand. “No, they can’t.”

 “I said they tried. I rehired her,” Leandra found herself looking at the window rather than at Guillaume, if only so she would stop catching him staring at her shoulders.

 “That was quick thinking, ma chérie,” Guillaume squeezed her hand. “Do you need any financial assistance in the matter? I would be happy to lend any assets.”

 Leandra felt herself get hot and quickly said, “No, no, that’s not necessary,” she shook her head so violently her ponytail swayed from side to side. “I’ll have to cut back on a few expenses but Mara is more important than frivolous things like spa days.”

 “Maker,” Guillaume shook his head. “You are a stronger woman than me. I need my spa days.” Guillaume laughed at his own joke and Leandra joined in politely until his laugh trailed off and was replaced with a silent tension. “Ma chérie, I have a confession to make,” his voice was as tense as his shoulders.

 Leandra turned to face Guillaume, her gut plummeting. “Yes?”

 “You know my mother is a very religious woman,” Guillaume looked at Leandra, and then tucked a hair back in place fondly. Leandra withheld a shudder. “The haunting has spooked her. She thinks it’s a curse on your family and she wants to call off the wedding.”

 Leandra blinked, her heart fluttering and she almost caught herself smiling but she knew from Guillaume’s face that this was a huge source of anxiety for him and she felt herself being pulled by two ropes. She knew she should say something and he was expecting her to, but she was trying not to thank the Maker out loud so she did so in her head. She schooled her face into a frown, and said, “How terrible,” as convincingly as possible.

 It worked because Guillaume brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “We have to convince her not to.”

 This time she did shudder. She knew she should agree and try to use this car ride to strategize but Leandra felt her shoulders dropping. “Do you really want to?” she actually asked. She clapped her hand over her mouth as soon as the question escaped. She could see the hurt written on Guillaume’s face and he dropped her hand.

 “Of course I do! Do you?”

 “I…”Leandra tried to make her face unreadable but her voice was caught in her throat and she hesitated and this time he noticed.

 Guillaume immediately straightened his shoulders like a soldier. “What did I do wrong?”

 “Nothing!” Leandra blurted. “Guillaume, you’re wonderful, it’s just…” she gulped, trying to find the words and still feeling the effects of the residual alcohol in her system she found herself being a little more honest than she usually dared. “We were promised as kids. Do you not ever wonder if there is someone else out there? Someone perfect for you?”

 Guillaume’s shoulders dropped, looking defeated, and his eyes actually watered before he turned away. “I thought you were perfect for me.” Then his jaw clenched, his mustache twitching. “Did you find your perfect someone? Is that what you’re telling me?”

 Leandra didn’t realize she was such an open book, and she had forgotten how well Guillaume could read her. “No,” she shook her head and clasped both his hands like she used to try to reassure him even though her words were dripping with lies. “It’s nothing like that, just pre-wedding jitters.”

 “Because I’ll back off,” he continued looking hard at her, inspecting every minute reaction. “Just be honest with me, Leandra.”

 Her heart was suddenly in her throat as she tried not to squeak. She wanted to. She wanted to tell him everything, but there was a hardness in his gaze that made her quiver. Was she really going to ruin her future her parents prepared for her over a man she had only met last night?

 She opened her mouth and said, “Let’s find a way to convince your mother not to call off the wedding. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

 She had no idea if she made the right decision, but the way Guillaume’s shoulders relaxed made her breathe easier. Did he notice that she did not say no? He had already seen through her the first time. She wasn’t sure how convincing she was being.

 Guillaume patted her hand fondly and said, “That’s why we’re getting coffee. It’s always good to start a negotiation with a bribe.”

 Leandra smiled, feeling it unnatural on her face. She had no idea how to act around Guillaume now that he was suspicious and she was trying her best not to give anything else away. She let him hold his hand as he pitched his ideas of what they would say and she nodded along as she panicked. Little did she know the Maker had twisted fate to test her a little more that day.

 Malcolm had a skip to his step as he walked to breakfast, whistling so merrily that the sound echoed through the stone in an unnatural cheer. Nothing could darken his mood; no ugly sneer from a templar, nor the bars on the windows or the winter chill in the air. His backpack was slung over his  shoulder, actually   filled with what he needed for his  day's   study, though his textbooks were vandalized with doodles and blasphemy.

 He was still flooded with energy from Leandra’s kisses and the wheels in his head were working in overdrive to figure out a way to escape again. Could he manage it, tonight? Two breakouts in a row would be risky. He was so in his head, planning and scheduling details he didn’t notice that people were pointing and gossiping about him as he waited in line for breakfast. He found Taylor and Charlie in the usual spot on the corner table where they were looking at him in confusion and worry.

 “Are you alright?” Taylor’s eyebrows knitted together as she picked at her bowl of porridge mostly untouched.

 Instead of Malcolm’s usual brush-off he just pulled his thick eyebrows together in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 Charlie and Taylor shared a look before Taylor said, “You disappeared last night after the haunting. I feared the worst.”

 Malcolm shrugged. “Carver brought me along on an investigation. Nothing serious.” He wanted to tell them the truth about Leandra but Charlie was probably the biggest gossip in all the Circle. If Charlie even got a whiff that Malcolm was seeing someone, everyone would know by lunch.

 Charlie broke out in an excited grin. “Nothing serious? Are you kidding? Rumors are you saved everyone last night and now the Knight-Captain is recruiting you personally to help?”

 Malcolm tried to remain nonchalant but he couldn’t help the puff in his chest. He really felt like things were turning around. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess I’m kind of a big deal now.”

 Taylor shook her head, though even she was grinning. “Don’t let that head get too inflated with hot air. If it wasn’t for Carver you’d have gone home with the rest of us.”

 Malcolm harrumphed. That was true but she didn’t need to say it. Malcolm scooped up his porridge, the sludge looking cold and unappetizing, but with a grin, he weaved a subtle spell in his mind and scooped the porridge into his mouth. Instead of a bland mush he felt a bursting array of sweet, tart strawberries and cream and he groaned in ecstasy as his tongue remembered the feel of Leandra’s kisses caressing him. He immediately licked the spoon clean and scooped up another generous helping, groaning again. The texture was off, lumpy and slimy, but that was something easily ignored.

 Taylor and Charlie stared in confusion. “The food here is not that good.”

 Malcolm grinned offering his hand to Taylor. “You got to try this new spell I made. Take my hand.”

 Taylor stared skeptically at the hand, being the butt of too many pranks to trust it. “I don’t think so,” she wrinkled her nose.

 Malcolm rolled his eyes. He could have cast the spell directly on her but if he was caught casting spells outside of class that would be more trouble. So he moved his hand to Charlie. “Take my hand, dude.”

 Charlie grabbed it without hesitating. “Sure.”

 Malcolm changed the spell slightly in his mind channeling it into his friend. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Now, try a bite.”

 Charlie hesitantly took a bite of his porridge before his eyes bugged out in amazement. Then immediately one handed he started gobbling up his food so fast he was getting it on his face. He was hardly breathing as he inhaled bite after bite.

 Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what I had for dinner last night.”

 “How is it still steamy?” Charlie’s full mouth was dripping with mush.

 Taylor leaned forward, suddenly keen and interested. “Wait, how did you do that?”

 Malcolm tried to hide the pride in his voice but he had to thank Scholar for the idea and all that talk about what taste is. This new deal with him had really gotten Malcolm’s wheels turning. “It’s a simple illusion spell, actually. Even Charlie can manage it.”

 Taylor cocked her head as she started putting it together. “Illusion? You mean you’re substituting visual stimuli for gustatory?”

 Malcolm blinked in confusion. “If that means I tweaked the illusion spell to focus on my memories of good food then yes.”

 Taylor muttered, doing some calculations under her breath. “So if any memory will work then…” She dipped her mostly untouched porridge and took a bite, her violet eyes watering. “I haven’t tasted Mamae’s matzah since I was a girl.” She blinked back the tears before they could fall and she stared at Malcolm with a newfound respect. “Malcolm, this is absolutely brilliant.”

 “Thank you, I feel brilliant,” Malcolm grinned. “Think Enchanter Jakoby will take the spell as extra credit?”

 “I don’t see why not?” Taylor went to take another bite before she stopped blinking back at Malcolm. “Why are you asking about extra credit?”

 Malcolm suddenly felt embarrassed, like he was caught doing something weird. “Dunno…just thought it would be a good idea.”

 Taylor beamed at him with a knowing smile. “I think Enchanter Jakoby would be proud, too.”

 If Malcolm’s skin could go red, it would. “That’s not what it’s about,” he muttered, scooping a lobster infused porridge into his mouth with his free hand to avoid talking more.

 “You said I can manage it?” Charlie asked, still gripping Malcolm’s hand. He looked at the last bite of his bowl like he was sorry that he had eaten it so fast. “I can barely light a candle without sweating. How am I supposed to do something so complicated?”

 Malcolm squeezed, feeling odd that he was holding a man’s hand, or anyone’s hand other than Leandra’s, but the gesture didn’t feel out of place. “It’s not complicated. You just need to practice. I’ll help.”

 Charlie sniffed, rubbing off some of the porridge on his face with a napkin. “Thanks. It’d be nice to eat some nice food before I get tranquilized and can’t appreciate it anymore.”

 The table went silent at the thought as Charlie scooped up the last bite. Malcolm and Taylor both looked at each other in worried silence as Charlie savored it. Finally Taylor leaned in and placed her hand over Charlie’s fist. “You’re not getting tranquilized.”

 “You don’t have to humor me,” Charlie said stiffly. “I overheard the templars talking. There’s no way I’ll survive the Harrowing.”

 “They’re just bastards. You can,” Malcolm said earnestly, though his voice sounded frail in his anger. Carver had managed to put off Charlie’s Harrowing for as long as possible while Malcolm and Taylor tutored Charlie in their spare time and his magic had improved steadily, but he was not built for fighting. Now his Harrowing was any day, and they waited each night wondering if today was the last.

 “Passing the Harrowing is all about believing in your own ability,” Malcolm said. “You can’t let these doubts shake you.”

 “They’re not doubts, dude, they’re facts,” Charlie’s voice was not laced by melancholy but filled with pragmatism, like he had already accepted his fate and that twisted Malcolm’s gut.

 It was times like these when Malcolm wanted to burn everything to the ground.

 “I knew you two were fairies,” a sneering voice said behind them. Malcolm and Charlie dropped hands blushing to find that Matthew, the Templar, had approached their table and from the look in his eyes he was in a cruel mood.

 Malcolm opened his mouth to give lip but he immediately swallowed it remembering his promise to Carver and then turned back to his food with a sigh. “And here I was actually enjoying my morning.”

 “My bad,” Matthew chuckled. “You’re clearly in the honeymoon period. My sincere congratulations.”

 “Sometimes bros hold hands,” Charlie sank down in his seat, his shoulders hunching.

 Malcolm snarled. “Do you really not have anything better to do with your time?”

 Matthew smirked, motioning for Malcolm to follow him. “You dumb? You owe me something.”

 Malcolm’s stomach dropped. In all the commotion with Leandra and the haunting he had forgotten about Matthew’s order and he wouldn’t be the only one looking. Malcolm reluctantly left his seat to take his conversation with Matthew in private. He was lucky he was still in public where someone could get Carver if necessary. There was no way he would leave with Matthew alone.

 Matthew led him to the same barred window overlooking the ocean and Kirkwall’s skyline. His skin was noticeably yellower and his eyes more bloodshot, and darkened with bags.  

 Malcolm nervously shoved his hands in his pockets speaking lowly. “Look, it’s not here, yet. Didn’t you get the memo about me being pulled on some investigation?”

 The man snarled. “I had to work that fiasco last night and got no sleep. But the fact still is I need it today.”

 “Tonight, then,” Malcolm countered. There would be no going around that. He missed the drop-off and it was still waiting where his contact left it.

 Matthew looked like he wanted to argue but the Second Bell rang, signaling it was time for everyone to go to classes.

 “Tonight,” Matthew sneered then stalked off, disappearing into the flood of students moving.

 Malcolm sighed in relief, never having been so grateful to hear that bell. He walked back to Taylor and Charlie who looked as relieved as he was.  

 He set his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Stay tough, man. I’m not giving up on you, so don’t you give up either.”

 Charlie sighed as if he was tired but he smiled back. “Yeah, sure.”

 Malcolm wished that didn’t sound so sarcastic.

 “Guess I’ll see ya’ll later, then,” Malcolm hoisted his bag over his shoulder, leaving his tray abandoned at the table.

 Taylor raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never seen you eager to go to class.”

 “I’m not eager,” Malcolm argued, walking backwards. “I’m resigned. Devastated. Can’t wait to graduate.”

 Taylor actually laughed at his joke along with Charlie as she picked up her bag. “Whatever, Malcolm. See you in class.”

 Charlie looked at Malcolm’s food with puppy eyes as he started shuffling away. Malcolm couldn’t help the little smile on his lips when he heard, “I can’t believe I’m looking forward to lunch.”

 Malcolm wandered through the flow of traffic into the hallways to his first class, Creation Studies, ran by Enchanter Karena, a conservative biddy who didn’t like when Malcolm corrected her on anything, even if she was teaching things wrong.

 She went by the book and by the book only, even though Malcolm found that most of how magic was taught was backwards and counter-intuitive, based on ritual rather than usefulness. She was very religious and that seeped into every lesson. She saw other schools of magic as evil, finding that Creation was the only one deemed blessed by the Maker, even though the whole practice relied on channeling the healing energies of beneficial spirits, which made the whole thing sound like Chantry sanctioned blood magic when you thought of it. Something she did not appreciate hearing from Malcolm.  

 When he saw the silver haired woman, she was arguing with Carver, her wrinkled face so red she looked like an aged tomato but that stopped as soon as Malcolm walked through.

 Carver was here. That wasn’t good. Still Malcolm hadn’t broken any rules that Carver didn’t help him with.

 Enchanter Karena whirled around, her perfectly pinned bun falling slightly out of place. “Messere Hawke,” she sniffed overly politely.

 Malcolm resisted the urge to poke at her and took his seat with an acknowledging nod, but Carver walked over to his desk.

 “Pick your stuff up. You don’t go to this class anymore.”

 Malcolm blinked. “What?”

 “Absolutely not. That blasphemer has no business doing Cleansings or learning the sacred art of Spirit Healing. Those are for only the Maker’s chosen,” Enchanter Karena argued.

 “Pardon, Senior Enchanter, but if Malcolm has the talent, I believe he falls into that category.”

 Malcolm snorted at the way the Senior Enchanter’s mouth puckered in such a scowl it looked like a dog’s asshole. But then he registered what Carver said. “I’m doing what?”

 Carver smirked. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Now c’mon.”

 The other students looked on in wonder as Carver led Malcolm out of the classroom and back out into the hallway. Gossip started flowing from the classroom and Malcolm sighed. He was already sick of the spotlight.

 “So I’m guessing I don’t have a say in this,” Malcolm grumbled as he clenched the strap of his bag.

 “Do you ever have a say in anything?” Carver quipped.

 Malcolm grumbled. “You can be such an ass.”

 “Not denying that,” Carver grinned. “But I’m on your side.” He nudged Malcolm’s shoulder, the metal biting into him. “Trust me, this will be good for you.”

 Malcolm’s shoulders slumped. How many times had he heard that?

 “Would you perk up if I told you we’re going to see Leandra?”

 Malcolm did, his back straightening like an arrow as he jerked in full attention. “It’s her Cleansing?”

 “Her family’s Cleansing and her   fiancé  ’s, so behave. I can’t babysit you with all these interviews.”

 Her fiancé. He had almost forgotten he existed at all in that perfect night together. Still, Malcolm readied himself like he was going into battle. “I can handle that jerk.”

 “He’s actually quite a nice guy,” Carver quipped, already grinning as the scowl rose from Malcolm.

 “Oh, how great is he? He’s Orlesian,” Malcolm shoved his hands into his pockets hunching.

 Carver laughed heartily, knowing he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was, but if he could only tell him that he didn’t need to worry, because Leandra always looked at him like she was mesmerized by his existence. But Carver didn’t know how this story would end, and he also knew the Amell’s a little more intimately through Revka. She had once confided in him in a visit about how she’s all but disowned by the family for birthing so many mages. It would be a hard-fought journey, no question.

 Malcolm felt jittery. Would her brother be there? What would happen if he opened his big mouth and ruined everything? He didn’t seem like the type loyal enough to keep a secret. Still, the promise of seeing Leandra so soon after they had parted was too tempting, even paired with less appealing company. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like this was his first impression on her family, and he did want to impress them. Suddenly he found himself a bundle of tight nerves and he found himself needing to emanate his own calming spell to soothe himself.

 The healing quarters were filled with incense and Chantry symbols and candles even though modern lighting was installed. There was something to be said about creating a healing space to perform, but Malcolm felt like the Chantry sisters were just a little too attached to those candles. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or pleased to see that Enchanter Jakoby was there.

 The three other mages were a bit older and looked at him curiously as the Chantry sisters readied the quarters for the nobility’s arrival. He saw a pale elf with black hair and a rather bird-like features whisper to a man who looked like a vampire for his skin was so lucid it looked like it never touched the sun.

 The ghoulish man laughed at the elf’s whisper and Malcolm shivered at the sound for it seemed to belong to a horror film. The vampire was angular with scrutinizing silver eyes that were as cold as steel and he looked at Malcolm in interest while Malcolm tried his best to ignore him. The third mage seemed to fade into the background for how much presence she made. She was a plumpish woman with tan skin and wavy hair that hid her eyes. She avoided everyone else in the room and looked like she’d rather not be there.

 Enchanter Jakoby clasped hands with Carver greeting him. “Ser Carver, thank you again for your intervention last night.”

 Carver nodded humbly. “Only doing my duty.”

 “Well, we’re blessed to have you,” the Enchanter beamed before his smile turned playful at Malcolm, “and we’re blessed to have you, too.”

 Was Malcolm pleased that Enchanter Jakoby wanted him in his classroom? He found any snarky reply that he would have said died in his throat. It was a nice change of pace since he was used to being seen as the local pain in the ass, but part of him felt like he was giving in too easy. “So, you’re just making me a Spirit Healer? Don’t I have to pass some test?”

 “The Cleansing will be your test,” the Enchanter nodded. “If the Amell’s are satisfied with your performance then you’ll graduate into a full Enchanter and into my class as well as take on new duties.”

 “Great,” Malcolm tried not to make that sound sarcastic but it still laced his voice. “So I’m the school nurse now. Any other surprises?”

 “As part of your graduation requirements you will be required to help tutor younger apprentices.”

 Malcolm’s face twisted. Now this was unacceptable. “You really want to put me with kids? The guy that says fuck every other sentence?”

 Enchanter Jakoby looked amused. “Don’t worry. Since you're graduating out of season it’ll be at least a week to arrange the paperwork and find a class for you. You’ll have some time to practice substitutes. Try fudge.”

 “No fucking way,” Malcolm snorted.

 Carver cleared his throat, glaring at Malcolm.

 Malcolm almost blurted out, ‘no fudging way’ just out of habit, but Carver’s stern glare kept the insolence in his throat and he sighed reluctantly. “I mean, I’ll find a way.”

 He didn’t realize it would be so hard to keep this promise.

 Enchanter Jakoby mouthed ‘thank you’ to Carver who only nodded in response.

 Carver then turned to Malcolm with a stern look. “Remember your manners in front of the nobility.”

 Malcolm cracked out the tension building in his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

 With that Carver abandoned him to class.

 The next hour was spent in instruction by Enchanter Jakoby not about how to perform Cleansings, as that was a simple thing that most proper Enchanters could manage, but how to address the nobility. There was a lot of protocol about where to stand, how to address a Lord, how not to stare directly in one’s eyes to offend. There were so many ways to offend.  

 Malcolm tried his best to listen like he promised, but he found his mind had gotten in a habit of tuning the Enchanter’s voice out and so he kept catching himself daydreaming about Leandra’s kisses. Malcolm was nervous trying to learn all these new rules but from what he figured the best policy was just to stick to the background and just not bother to talk to anybody unless they needed him. How he was even going to get a word to Leandra he had no idea.

 Then they were each handed a staff to use, just simple metal rods only used for channeling and not fighting. The Enchanter reached through the Veil coating himself with magic, instructing his students to do the same. Malcolm could hear the whispers of the excited spirits answering his summons, flooding their energy into him so he burned the brightest of them all, making the others glance nervously at the difference.

 The Enchanter couldn’t help but beam at the fact that Malcolm was taking instruction so well. No chiding needed. No snark. His eyes were closed in concentration, the colors coming off his flames reflecting rainbows.

 “We start by Cleansing our own auras, because if we ourselves are infected then we will infect our subjects. Now clear your minds and breathe with me.”

 Every mage in the Circle learned how to cleanse their auras from a young age. It was necessary in order to not attract demons in the Fade, so it felt like they were back in Basics as they sat in silence just listening to their own heartbeats as they opened themselves up to the Fade. “If you have doubts or pain or fears open them up now and offer them to the Maker.”

 Malcolm tried not to snort but the sound still echoed through the chamber. In all his walkings of the Fade he had never heard the voice of a God of any kind, just spirits. Still they were eager to pluck up the darker thoughts in his mind until his own thoughts echoed back at him.

     You’re being stupid. She’s a noble. And human. She’ll betray you. Or abandon you. Why are you trusting her? What about your plans to escape? She’s going to ruin everything.  

 The spirits picked at the thoughts in curiosity, like they were baubles in a shop.

 “Don’t give the thoughts power. Just offer them up to the flame and let them be transformed,” the Enchanter instructed.

 Malcolm’s aura lit up in a cloak of flames as the spirits combed through old pain, touching upon his deep-seated anger so he could taste it on his teeth. They poured through his memories so they flowed through him, the good and the bad. His mom, his dad, being kidnapped to the Circle, meeting Carver, Taylor and Charlie, Gamlen’s ugly judgement, Leandra’s righteous anger, burning with jealousy as he watched her on Guillaume’s arm, how she grabbed his tie at the karaoke club and kissed him in front of everyone. The spirits ended up latching onto Leandra’s song, the lyrics filling him with peace as they echoed it in his head and he focused on that until the rest of the doubts floated away until all was left with music.

 “That’s no good. You’ll cleanse no one with that aura.”

 Malcolm opened his eyes but the Enchanter, whose flame burned bright and blue wasn’t speaking to him but to the mousy woman who hid her face. Her flames were dark, purple and smoky and she seemed to be having difficulty with connecting with the Fade.

 The woman stopped the spell breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, Enchanter, I’m just not feeling well today.” Her shoulders looked shaky from the spell.

 The Enchanter frowned sympathetically, closing his connection to the Fade until his bright blue flaming aura died in a smoke. “Well, you won’t be able to participate like that. You may sit out for the noble’s Cleansing but you’ll need to stay and observe.” He then turned to the three men with a pleased smile motioning them to end the spell with a calm wave of his hand.

 “Gentlemen, very well done, especially you Malcolm. I believe you have a talent for this.”

 The other men glanced at Malcolm as he swelled, but their heads quickly snapped back as their names were called.

 “Orsino, Quentin, why don’t you all get acquainted by teaching Malcolm the basics about performing a Cleansing on another person. Be brief though. The nobility arrives any minute now.”

 “Yes, Enchanter,” they spoke in unison like it was rehearsed.

 The Enchanter then turned to the other mage. “Melissa, over here. I’ll have to take care of your aura, later.” He dragged her away to one of the spare cots in the room.

 Then the men both turned on Malcolm, their eyes sparkling in interest and Malcolm suddenly felt like he was on an observation table about to be poked and prodded from every angle.

 “So Malcolm was it?”  The   creepy mage had his arms behind his back as he strolled lazily up to Malcolm. He easily towered over both elves, staring down his pointed nose at each of them.

 “You can call me Hawke,” Malcolm decided suddenly, feeling that his first name in that man’s mouth was just too familiar.

 “Sure Hawke,” the green-eyed elf offered his hand, his black hair slicked back neatly. He also looked far too skinny for his clothes, his hand thin and bony. “I’m Orsino. Nice to see another elf made it into this program.”

 “Sure,” Malcolm took the hand not wanting to start off on the wrong foot though he wasn’t sure that they’d get along just because they were elves.

 The other willowy man offered his thin hand. “I’m Quentin. And you may call me that.”

 Malcolm took the man’s hand too and his nerves locked on edge. Was Enchanter Jakoby certain about this man’s aura? Malcolm felt a coldness in him that seemed unnatural, and Malcolm took back his hand quickly resisting a shiver. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t like that man but it felt more like instinct than prejudice. He didn’t like the way he smiled, how he moved, how his eyes studied him like a lab rat.

 “So Cleansing someone else’s soul is simple. We guide them through a meditation as we channel their auras into the Fade so their darker actions and thoughts do not get attacked by demons like so,” Quentin then waved his hand pouring Fade magic into Malcolm as he felt his magic coat him, foul with dark energy.

 Malcolm automatically cast a dispel to interrupt the examination. His mind felt a little tingly, like something had tried to pry it open. Did the bastard just try to read him? “Watch it, Q-ball.”

 The man reddened, apparently self-conscious about his thinning hairline. “Just demonstrating,” Quentin squinted his eyes. “You hide it well but I did sense some dark anger in that aura. Dangerous for healers. A friendly warning from your upperclassman.”

 His mind still tingled from the man’s magic making Malcolm’s hands glow in his own spell. “Is it my turn?”              

 Orsino stepped between them hastily. “Perhaps we should focus on examining our patients.” He looked apologetically to Malcolm. “Forgive Quentin. He can be overeager.”

 “Well tell him to watch it. I can, too,” Malcolm huffed, shaking away the spell from his fingers.

 Orsino folded his hands, taking over instruction as he tried to diffuse the situation. “The meditation is usually taken from the Canticle of Trials. You are familiar?” The question was more of a statement and Malcolm found himself stuttering. Was now a good time to say he always slept through Mass?

 “Uh, sure I’m familiar,” Malcolm lied.

 Orsino smiled. “Good then we won’t have to go over that.”

 “Maybe, we should go over it a little,” Malcolm quickly backpedaled.

 But then Meredith and Matthew marched into the room standing straighter than usual. Malcolm noticed that Meredith was glaring at him in particular and he couldn’t help but poke at her with a mock salute.

 Meredith tried to keep the scowl from her face but her lips still twisted in a snarl. “Announcing the arrival of the esteemed Houses Amell and De Lancet,” Meredith’s voice sounded bitter with the false energy she forced into the greeting.

 Malcolm bowed his head with the rest of the mages as the nobles paraded in, two by two, bringing with them the aroma of expensive perfumes and fresh coffee that they still clutched in their hands. Malcolm recognized Leandra’s parents striding in first, in coordinated red outfits. They took the prominent place in front. Guillaume’s parents, a greying red-headed couple in royal purple took the next highest place on the Amells’ right hand, and Leandra and Guillaume came next, completely uncoordinated and settling onto her parent’s left hand side still sipping their cups.

 Malcolm couldn’t help but drag his eyes up Leandra’s legs admiring the newly revealed curves that her other dress hid. Leandra stopped mid-sip, reddening as the coffee dribbling down her chin a bit as she noticed Malcolm in the room staring.

 Malcolm winked, holding back a laugh as she wiped her chin with her hand. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

 Her mother scowled, stepping out of place as she took a red handkerchief and wiped it away properly, making apologetic eyes to the De Lancets. “Leandra, really, I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

 Guillaume chuckled. “It’s rather adorable actually.”

 Malcolm tried to keep the sneer off his face but his whole jaw clenched as he tried to remember his place. He lowered his head again, remembering he was just supposed to be furniture.

 Her mother sighed as if she was tired. “I’m glad you think so, dear.” Her mother then took her place measuring each mage against the other. “Is this the whole selection, templar?”

 Meredith bristled. “Spirit healing is a very rare art, Lady Amell.”

 “Still, there is the instructor, no?” Lady Amell sniffed, smoothing out an already perfect strand of greying hair. “Bring him before me.”

 Enchanter Jakoby waited for Matthew to bring him from his place in the wall, and he bowed deeply before Lady Amell saying nothing as she inspected him, too.

 “Ah,” she said in a disappointed tone. “Also an elf.”

 Leandra’s eyes widened, as she reddened in embarrassment, looking apologetically at the Enchanter but the remark didn’t even seem to phase him.

 “Permission to speak, Lady Amell?” Enchanter Jakoby asked evenly.

 “Granted,” Lady Amell nodded in a bored tone as she sipped her coffee.

 “While I would be happy to perform your Cleansing, my students are more than capable to attend to you.”

 “Very well,” she snapped her fingers at Quentin. “You’ll do.”

 Quentin bowed deeply. “I am honored to attend you.”

 Lady De Lancet seemed to eagerly be inspecting Orsino against Malcolm, her gaze a leering and predatory. “Well I think elves are rather pretty.”

 Malcolm gritted his teeth as she stepped up to Malcolm and Orsino, her heels echoing against the stone. She looked them up and down her eyes lingering on their backsides in full view of her husband. Malcolm bit his tongue as he hoped she thought Orsino was prettier.

 But she stepped in front of Malcolm. “You…” she lifted his chin with her manicured nail. “You performed beautifully last night.”

 “Thank you?” Was Malcolm supposed to say something else? He didn’t trust anything flattering to come out of his mouth so he just avoided her eyes as she studied his face.

 She leaned down to meet his eye, patting his cheek fondly with her glove. “I think I’d like you to attend to me, mon petit.”

 Malcolm felt like a worm on the end of a hook about to be swallowed. He audibly gulped. “Uuuh…you don’t want me, I barely started class this morning. Don’t even know the Chant, proper.” Orsino’s bright green eyes widened in alarm as Malcolm grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. “Orsino, here, is just as pretty and has been at this a lot longer.”

 Lady de Lancet tittered in amusement. “I don’t mind breaking you in.”

 Orsino kept his professional smile but his eyes were glaring at Malcolm while Malcolm scanned the room looking for anyone to help.

 Leandra was already fuming from Lady de Lancet’s brazen forwardness, which wasn’t out of character for her, but the lady was practically fondling Malcolm in full view of her husband who was just boredly sipping his frappe’ as he played a candy puzzle game on his phone. She stepped out of place and curtsied politely announcing herself with a, “Pardon me, Lady de Lancet, but may I have a moment of your time?”

 Her parents glared at her, and Guillaume subtly waved at Leandra to come back but Leandra stayed, though she had no idea what exactly to say.

 The lady tutted and turned back to her. “Yes, dear?” she said, the patience in her voice wearing thin.

 Leandra glanced at Malcolm who looked at her expectantly and so she said, “If the mage is so new to this, perhaps I should be the one to be his first test. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

 She looked apologetically at Malcolm for throwing him under the bus but he looked relieved.

 The lady didn’t seem to take kindly to this but before she could speak Enchanter Jakoby stepped forward, his head bowed. “Pardon, but her ladyship has a point. Malcolm is talented but…” the Enchanter trailed off looking to the Heavens as he tried to find a suitable word before he landed on, “untested. I will be coaching him every step of the way, but Orsino is very capable in his own right, and can anticipate your needs much better.”

 Lady de Lancet clucked her tongue. “Oh, very well.” She looked rather annoyed but seemed reluctant to wager her health no matter how pretty that face looked. She snapped at Orsino. “You, come with me.”

 Lady Amell took her husband’s arm as she led him to one of the cots. “I guess we’re starting then.”

 Chantry sisters came bringing bowls of water and towels and set them at the foot at each of the beds that were stone and scoured for a bath of flame. As Leandra and Guillaume approached arm in arm, Enchanter Jakoby and Malcolm bowed and stayed that way until they got comfortable on the cot. Then Enchanter Jakoby led Malcolm in a kneel.  

 On one side of the room the Amell matriarch was flagging down a Chantry sister to say, “I don’t want a mage to touch me.”

 Quentin remained silent as the Chantry sister nodded and took his place kneeling on the floor. Malcolm didn’t envy him, but at the same time every comment from Leandra’s parents dropped his stomach. He wasn’t even a consideration.

 However Lady de Lancet was a bullet he was happy to dodge. He could see Orsino squirming as she eagerly kicked off her heels. “Now make sure to get in between the toes, dearie.”

 Malcolm shuddered. He wouldn’t blame Orsino if he hated him for this.

 The first part of the ritual meant bathing the noble's feet. Why the nobles couldn’t be bothered to bathe their own feet he wasn’t sure why. In Enchanter Jakoby’s lesson he spoke about how the ritual that went back to Andraste’s last day, when her disciple and friend Justinia begged Archon Hessarian to prepare her living body for the Maker. It was said in Andraste’s last hours Justinia was allowed into her cell, offering prayers to prepare her soul and cleansed her remaining sins by offering them to the Maker as the filth was washed from her feet. Malcolm could not find reverence in an old dead woman who couldn’t keep her promise of freedom to her elven allies, but he could find it in touching Leandra.

 Malcolm was not a foot guy, not even close, but even he couldn’t deny how soft her skin was, each toe trimmed and polished, with cute little deco designs that seemed a shame to hide in her shoes. He could tell from her ankles that they were swollen from how long she had been standing in heels, and as he gently pinched at the tendon at her ankle releasing tension.

 “Oh!” Leandra made a surprised sound that she bit down on her lip, her eyes glancing to Guillaume who seemed to also perk at the sound.

 Malcolm felt a devilish impulse pull at his gut at the flush that colored her face from his slightest touch and he couldn’t help but dig his thumbs into the flat of her arch, his heart tugging at the sweet sigh he pulled from her. He sent little soothing healing pulses through his fingers as he renewed his determination, trying to see what more sounds he could force her to make.

 Leandra was melting under his touch, holding back the moans in her throat, but still he could hear the tiniest whimpers escape setting Malcolm’s imagination alight. He suddenly wished no one else was there so he could pull her skirt up and bury himself between her legs so he could hear her cry for him. He knew he was winning the battle, her composure seemed to be coming undone, but before he could claim victory another voice reminded him what he was supposed to be doing.

 “Messere Hawke, I believe her feet are clean enough,” the Enchanter cleared his throat.

 Leandra took back her foot forcefully almost falling over, her eyes flinging to Guillaume who was also going slightly red at the sounds and faces Leandra was making.

 “Just being thorough,” Malcolm hid a haughty smirk, wondering if Guillaume ever managed to make Leandra sound like that but he regretted that line of thought immediately.

 “Perhaps I should give you a massage, sometime,” Guillaume offered with a flirtatious tone that made Malcolm clench his fists to keep from clocking him in the jaw.

 Leandra patted her hot cheeks. “Perhaps,” she said evasively, but Malcolm didn’t like the thought of the man trying to put his hands all over Leandra and he couldn’t suppress the ugly scowl that took over his face.

 Enchanter Jakoby grabbed a staff that was handed to him by a Chantry sister. “Now that the physical impurities have been taken care of, we will now purify your souls. My lord. My lady, please concentrate on offering your sins to the Maker as we sing the Chant.”

 Malcolm took the paltry staff from the Chantry sister, trying to ignore his seething jealousy as the staff started channeling with magic Malcolm and Enchanter Jakoby poured from the Fade. Malcolm could hear all the spirits chattering, scouring into their memories so that he saw flashes of Leandra’s younger days. He tried not to glimpse too closely, but he could see the imprint of her loneliness hidden behind a careful smile that she used for everyone. Her soul had been flattened, like a flower that had been stomped on but still stubbornly peeking up the sunshine trying to take in little bits of light.

 He heard Enchanter Jakoby’s voice take in a chanting intonation, Orsino and Quentin’s voice harmonizing with him.

 “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade

 For there is no darkness, and no death, in the Maker’s light

 And nothing he has wrought has been lost.”

 Then each of the nobles' auras burned brilliantly as they each bared the darkness of their souls to the Fade. Leandra looked magnificent, too beautiful to be real, amber dancing against her skin as her dark hair ruffled lightly in the burning light. Malcolm almost reached out to touch the magic, to see what her burn would feel like on his skin before he remembered that others still watched them. Still, he couldn’t miss how her eyes watched his every move.

 “For she was reborn to us in flame

 And so flame we consume to be reborn

 May, He Who Burns The Brightest

 Purify the sins we hide in our hearts

 So that we may know true peace.”

 Then the flame snuffed out. All of the nobles looked bright and cheerful, like they each had an invigorated spirit-induced power nap, except for Lord de Lancet who looked pale and uneasy. Unlike the other nobles, the Cleansing seemed to have worn him out and his skin was showing a sheen of sweat.

 “My, that was bracing,” the Lord patted his face with a purple handkerchief.

 His wife tucked to his side with a concerned look on her face. “Darling, did the Cleansing not rejuvenate you.”

 “Oh, I’m rejuvenated, absolutely,” but the man sounded absolutely winded. “Just the old war injury flaring, that’s all.”

 Malcolm felt there was something odd about that. Rightfully a Cleansing should ease old pains, and though not every wound could be Cleansed, it shouldn’t be having that effect.

 Enchanter Jakoby bowed his head and approached the de Lancets. “If you’d like I could take a look.”

 Lord de Lancet nodded tightly and said, “it couldn’t hurt.”

 The Enchanter scanned the man’s aura, focusing on his back where the pain seemed to radiate and Malcolm thought he saw it in the flicker of the Enchanter’s magic, but the Enchanter stopped his spell and said, “I’m sorry, my Lord. I thought there might be something else causing it but I see nothing out of the ordinary.”

 Lord de Lancet rubbed his back nodding as if he expected that and said. “Yes, I’ve spent a fortune on chiropractors and masseuse’s and numbing injections but the pain just comes back worse than ever.”

 Another clue for Malcolm and he stepped forward, forgetting all protocol. “Do you get nightmares…of the exact moment you got your wound?”

 The man’s eyes widened in alarm, but he said, “The psychiatrist told me that was normal.”

 “And are you forgetful lately? Having trouble remembering things that used to be easy?” Malcolm prodded more.

 The man’s face reddened to almost the color of his mustache and he straightened his jacket. “How impertinent. You are not privileged to my medical history.”

 But Lady de Lancet placed a slightly wrinkled hand on her husband’s puffed shoulder. “You have been needing an awful lot of reminders, lately, Reynaud.”

 “I’ve just been stressed, Amelia.”

 But Enchanter Jakoby noticed there was a look on Malcolm’s face and he put his finger on his lightly stubbled chin. “Do you have a prognosis?”

 Malcolm looked at the Enchanter rather than the nobles for permission, breaking another rule. “May I have a look?”

 The Enchanter motioned with his head to the noble who didn’t look pleased with Malcolm’s offer. “What makes you think you could make a difference?”

 Malcolm shrugged. “I mean, I might not, but it could prove educational.” If the Lord didn’t want his help, he wouldn’t force it.

 But Lord de Lancet seemed to be in so much pain he was willing to try anything. He nodded, muttering, “Very well.”

 Malcolm poured magic back into him, revealing the tapestry of his energy in an array of light. He could see the war wound that festered into the spine damaging nerves all along his hip, but what he couldn’t figure out was how the others missed the knot of corded energy that seemed to snake in the heart of the wound, gnarling it up. The pain seemed to be feeding, growing more agitated with the feel of his magic. Was Malcolm the only one that could see it?

 He poked at the knot with his finger. “Is it tender here?”

 No sooner did Malcolm brush it did the noble cry out in pain, and Malcolm couldn’t deny he did relish the sound a little.

 “Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels what are you doing back there!”

 “Yep, we got ourselves a pain demon,” Malcolm cracked his neck nonchalantly stretching. “This one’s really burrowed into you. No wonder the Cleansing couldn’t take effect.”

 “What!?” Lord de Lancet cried out his face paling.    

 Lady de Lancet smacked him on the arm which made him whimper more. “I told you that’s why you shouldn’t skip Cleansings, but do you listen to me?”

 Enchanter Jakoby’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. “Malcolm, how did you spot it? It was hiding very well.”

 Malcolm looked puzzled as if it should have been obvious. “Don’t you see how the energy in his aura moves differently around the pain spike?” Malcolm pointed to the knot in the magic as both Orsino and Quentin huddled in for a closer look. He motioned to the red ugly festering energy that stayed twisted up in the lord’s back. “You can see here is where the natural pain is,” Malcolm waved his hand down his thigh as he mimicked the energy’s movement, “but here the energy moves differently on it’s own wavelength. It’s not actually part of him.”

 “Ooooooh,” the men said in unison as if everything was now obvious to them, too.

 “Yes, yes very fascinating. Now will you get it out of me before it kills me!”

 “Have no fear, My Lord. Pain demons are rarely lethal. Just painful,” Malcolm had forgotten all the training the Enchanter coached into him and without a thought put his hand over the knot, and twisted his fingers into the energy. The colors grew red and chaotic, the bright energy growing from the wound.

 “Now just breathe,” Malcolm commanded, as he grasped around the essence of the demon, feeling the wrongness festering. Lord de Lancet cried out as Malcolm pulled. The creature was starting to become visible under Malcolm’s palm, a sickening black bloody vein-like leech with gnashing teeth screeching in a volume so high-pitched it deafened everyone’s hearing. Then it shriveled and burned away into Malcolm’s brilliant flaming magic until it was nothing but ash.

 “Now how does that feel?” Malcolm pulled his hand away.

 The man’s eyes widened as he patted his back which was not locking up in stiffness anymore. “Andraste’s Mercy. I feel twenty years younger,” He looked to Malcolm in disbelief.

 “You look it, Reynaud,” his wife placed a fond hand on his cheek.

 “Just doing my job,” Malcolm bowed his head with a pleased smirk on his lips. Leandra was beaming at him and he couldn’t help but notice even her parents weren’t looking with the same disgust only moments before.

 That smirk quickly dropped when Lady de Lancet started straightening her husband’s tie, “That settles it. We have to have him as a House Mage.”

 Shit.

 Lord de Lancet looked at Malcolm with renewed interest. “I think you’re absolutely, right, mon amie.”

 Enchanter Jakoby looked pleased, but a little hesitant to agree forthwith. “Malcolm is not a full Enchanter, yet, more an Enchanter in training.”

 “Well then we’ll pluck him up as soon as he’s ripened,” Lady de Lancet twisted her fingers into a promise.

 Malcolm froze, the urge to self-sabotage with a rude comment so strong he bit his tongue to keep himself silent. If he had realized that helping that lord would have led to this he would have let the Orlesian suffer.

 But Leandra also seemed to find this unacceptable and stepped forward. “Pardon,” Leandra said in a voice too forceful to be polite, and before she realized she was doing it she curtsied in front of Lady de Lancet and said, “but I find that with the Haunting I feel absolutely terrified,” she added a believable wobble to her lip, “I do fear that, I, too, might be under a curse and am in desperate need of protection from a House Mage.” She met Malcolm’s eyes as she added, “and only the best will do.”

 “Absolutely not!” Meredith’s outraged voice called out cutting through the discussion that was happening. She looked completely frazzled, as if she couldn’t fathom what was happening in front of her eyes. “You might not know this but Malcolm Hawke is a well-known trouble-maker in the Circle. He is not fit to serve the noble houses and will dishonor you all.”

 Leandra audibly huffed. “Was it not Malcolm who saved everyone last night?”

 “And he did spot the demon even the instructor missed,” Lord de Lancet also stretched his back, admiring the new looseness in his body.

 Meredith scowled, seething with so much hatred for Malcolm he was sure she’d pop a gasket. “Believe me that talent makes him more dangerous.”

 He glared back defiantly. That it did. If only she knew.

 “Pardon,” Enchanter Jakoby raised his finger to silence the argument that was about to spring up from everyone. “But I’m afraid until he has proper training he won’t be doing anything than catching up on his graduation requirements.”

There was a finality in his words that told Malcolm no matter his future, he would be in for a lot of work, and for the first time in his life he found himself praying to the Maker to be kind.  

[fancytrinkets]

Brandy in the Library (Trevelyan/Dorian)

Note: Flirting and friendship features heavily here. Content warning for excessive alcohol use. And if you’ve read it before it’s because I’m repurposing pieces of my recent fic for 30 Days of Dorian. As a courtesy for potential readers, this is probably one to avoid if you don’t want to read about a mage Inquisitor who didn’t support the mage rebellion.

On his way to see Leliana, Trevelyan passes through the library — though it's not much of one yet, stocked only with a handful of books scavenged from Haven. A team of scouts went back three days ago to sift through the rubble. They returned with whatever they could salvage.

Dorian's sitting at one of the library tables, paging through a half-scorched book. He looks up as Trevelyan approaches, and smiles in a way that makes Trevelyan's heart beat faster.

"I see you've found this place," Trevelyan says. "Have you been to the other library?"

"There's another library? Does that one have more than eight books in it?"

"In fact it does. If you're free in two hours, I have a break between meetings when I can show you."

"I have a better idea," Dorian says. "Let's make it later this evening. I hear the tavern's expecting its first shipment of supplies. I'll nick a bottle of something good. You can have a drink with me in this secret library of yours."

That same evening, he finds Dorian waiting for him in the upstairs library with a bottle of Antivan brandy in hand.

The man looks even more attractive than usual, if that's possible. He's clearly taken extra care with his hair and clothing. He's chosen robes with an uneven cut, alluringly designed to reveal the contours of his chest and shoulders. Trevelyan has to force his imagination away from its preferred course — conjuring up vivid imagery of Dorian taking off those robes and climbing into bed with him.

Instead he focuses on the brandy.

"Always a good choice. Shall we get started?"

"Lead the way," Dorian says.

Trevelyan endures a pleasant case of nerves as he takes the stairs to the cellars and unlocks the lower library. He's been looking forward to this all afternoon, and now that the moment is here, he hopes Dorian won't find fault with his choice of venue.

His worries disappear as soon as the door shuts behind them.

"Very interesting," Dorian says. "A mage's library."

He pauses at a shelf near the entryway to have a look at the spines of the nearest books.

"Old, but not ancient," he says. "I wonder who was living here several hundred years ago."

Trevelyan doesn't have answers. While Solas seems familiar with Skyhold, he doesn't speak as freely and generously about it as he does when he's asked about the Fade.

"Hard to believe we found this site just when we needed it most," Trevelyan says.

"Or you were, in fact, chosen by Andraste." Dorian doesn't sound like he's joking.

"I can't rule it out," Trevelyan says. "But I'm not claiming it either."

"Fair enough. Here."

Dorian pours for both of them and hands Trevelyan a glass. The first sip warms his throat delightfully. He takes a seat and Dorian pulls up the other chair, moving it closer to Trevelyan before he sits down.

"Here we are in a southern mage's library," Dorian says. "I think you should tell me what it's like to be a southern mage."

"What would you like to know?"

"About you? Probably everything," Dorian says. "But start with what it was like to learn magic at your Circle."

Trevelyan shares a few stories from his younger days at Ostwick — of learning magic along with his peers, and being cautioned all the time about its dangers. In contrast, Dorian offers some details about his own elite, but tempestuous magical education in Tevinter. The differences in their training are vast, and yet the more they talk, the more Trevelyan appreciates the similarities in how they both turned out.

Openly and without shame, Dorian loves being a mage. It's obvious just from watching him. He loves the way it feels to use magic — and he's exceptionally good at it. Trevelyan knows that feeling also. Not the total lack of shame, of course. But in the months since he's left the Circle, he's grown to love his own magic in a way he never truly did before. The chance to use it fully for a good cause, to push himself to the limits of his capacity, and to see, for the first time in his thirty-five years, what a powerful mage he is — it's an unparalleled experience.

One that Dorian understands.

Trevelyan reaches for the bottle and pours them both another drink. He can feel the warmth in his belly, relaxing him.

Dorian smells good, he thinks. He'd like to hold this man close — press him against the bookshelves and kiss him, perhaps — all the while breathing in deeply to appreciate his scent up close. Trevelyan is far from anything he'd find so embarrassing as being fully aroused by nothing more than conversation and fantasy — he's not a teenager, for Maker's sake. But he is aware of the early stages of that particular reaction, and his close-fitting robes don't help him. He shifts in his chair for better comfort and discretion, and tries to stop the flood of mental imagery from pouring in.

Soon enough, he and Dorian are falling back into the friendly give and take of a conversation in which they don't quite agree.

The topic is templars — more specifically, the need for the power of mages to be held in check by a group of trained professionals with the ability to suppress magic when needed. Trevelyan finds it essential, given Tevinter as the cautionary tale. Dorian finds the south to be an example of a system both poorly designed and horrifically implemented — "hence the mage rebellion, yes?"

"Well, obviously the Circles here need to change drastically," Trevelyan says.

"And yet you were loyal to yours," Dorian points out.

"It's complicated."

"How so?"

Their exchange continues over drinks refreshed a third and fourth time.

Trevelyan replies with some details about Ostwick, but witholds others. He explains it as more lenient than most, without dragging his family into it. He may be keeping things back, but it's mostly because he wants to stay on topic. He likes these conversations.

He's being pushed, yes. But in the process, he's clarifying his thoughts — revising and rethinking them. Sometimes he agrees that he's wrong, or concedes that he's too accustomed to one way of thinking to change it immediately. And Dorian takes as well he gives. He's got a certain arrogance about him, sure, but when they start talking this way, he often yields a point and backs off without rancor when he knows he's mistaken.

It's refreshing and interesting to speak so candidly.

"Alright," Dorian says after the fifth drink has been poured. "If your Circle wasn't abusive towards you, then what about your peers who voted to rebel. What did they want?"

By now Trevelyan's thoughts are feeling nicely fuzzy.

"I don't know," he says. "More from their lives? The chance to move freely, live where they choose, visit families, get married, have children, that sort of thing."

"And that didn't matter to you?"

"I agreed with them. We all deserve those chances if we want them."

"But?" Dorian asks.

"Complacency? I'd begun to accept my life for what it was. A limited one."

Dorian shakes his head, disbelieving. "You don't strike me as complacent at all."

"Oh?" Trevelyan asks. "How do I strike you?"

Dorian smiles, but doesn't answer. At least not at first. He finishes the last of his drink, holds the glass forward, and then watches as Trevelyan pours him another.

"You strike me," he says. "A lot of ways."

"Good ways, I hope."

Dorian tilts his drink until it shines with reflected candlelight. He studies it a moment, then looks at Trevelyan.

"You're not as well-read as some, but more clever than most. Good-natured, though I suspect you have a temper under there somewhere, and that's intriguing," he says.

"Also, you seem to genuinely care about everyone. Including the people you don't like — which I can't even fathom. What sort of forbidden magic granted you that ability? Please tell me so I can avoid it — it looks exhausting!"

Trevelyan laughs. "And here I was expecting insults about southern mages with our backwards ideas."

"Yes, I was getting to that part."

Drinking and laughing with Dorian is a wonderful way to spend the evening. As the haze of intoxication sets in, Trevelyan finds he's happiest to talk about the battles they've won while fighting together.

"Do you know," Dorian says, "how thoroughly I underestimated you when first we met? I thought I'd have to look after you at Redcliffe castle — get you through the ordeal with my superior knowledge and abilities."

"Hah! How altruistic of you."

"Not at all. You were very nice to look at — I considered it a pleasant burden."

"Wow, that's– I'm speechless." Trevelyan can hear the drunken slurring of his words. It only makes him giggle.

Dorian's still lost in the story.

"When you took down that first guard with one hit, I thought, alright, perhaps this one can handle himself. And that was before we stumbled into the large hall full of Venatori."

"Ugh, there were nine of them, I remember."

"Yes, and I didn't like our chances," Dorian says. "But then you said, 'You take those three, I've got the rest,' and I started to think that between the two of us, maybe I wasn't the unbearably arrogant one, after all."

"No, hold on," Trevelyan says. "Did I not get all six of them?"

He knows he did. And he's sure it doesn't count as arrogance if you're actually capable of doing the thing you claim you can. But he thinks he might have that backwards. Thoughts are increasingly difficult to keep hold of.

"You did get all six!" Dorian says, sounding delighted. "I was very impressed."

"Glad I wasn't too much of a burden for you."

"I'm honestly surprised you trusted me. I doubt I would have."

"I didn't," Trevelyan admits. "I was expecting a double cross. But I was desperate enough to risk it."

Dorian grins at him and raises his empty glass.

"Here's to desperation!"

"To being wildly desperate for things," Trevelyan says, and clinks their glasses together.

Dorian tries to drink, only to find nothing left of alcohol.

"Fuck, I'm drunk," he says.

"I'm the same. And I should go to sleep," Trevelyan says. "I have meetings in the morning."

And so the evening ends with friendly words of goodnight and a hazy walk upstairs to his quarters.

.

When Trevelyan wakes in the morning, the sunlight is painful and a headache sets in. On his way to the kitchens to grab a late breakfast, he runs into Dorian doing the same. He looks perfectly groomed, as always, but Trevelyan can see the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"No," Dorian says. "And you?"

"Terribly," Trevelyan admits. "But that was fun. We should do it again some time."

"Find a strange old room that frightens other people and go there to get drunk off stolen brandy?"

"Exactly," Trevelyan says.

The hangover is worth it for the way Dorian smiles at him.

[dragonagecompanions]

DA2 You've probably got this many times - how would companions react to mage Hawke being made tranquil? Particularly interested in how a friendly/friendly romanced Fenris would react

Carver: While he might have resented many things about his older sibling and how their family’s magic affected their childhood, Carver would never ever wish for something like this. Ever since they had gotten to Kirkwall, Carver had warned his older sibling to be careful with all of the templars roaming the city. This place wasn’t like Lothering which only had a few templars in the Chantry that could be avoided; no, Kirkwall was teeming with templars that would look for any reason to lock up Carver’s older sibling. But did they listen to him and his warnings? Of course not. They had taken risks and look where it had gotten them. As much as Carver almost wanted to say ‘I told you so’, seeing his sibling in this state just left him heartbroken and full of anger. Not anger at his sibling like usual, just anger. Who the hell thinks that doing this to someone is a solution to anything?!?!?! And as Carver holds his sibling close, a sentiment they don’t really return, a pit in his stomach and the feeling of bitter bile rise in his throat as the worst kind of thought hits him. Now he won’t live in their shadow, and even if that thought would have been nice, these circumstance were not ever how he would have wanted this.

Aveline: Aveline might have married Wesley, who happened to be a templar, but that doesn’t mean that she agrees with the Order. The rite of tranquility was often something that she did not agree with the templar order on. Since she became a guard in Kirkwall and she was taken to the Gallows for guard work or with Hawke, she has not ever liked the sights of the Tranquil mages. So when there is a pounding at the door to her captain’s office, a pit starts to form in her stomach. Pounding is never a good sign. She opens the door to her office and the sight outside makes her sick to her stomach. Hawke is in the arms of two templars, but they aren’t fighting the templars as they usually would. There is no more of Hawke’s fire in their eyes and the calm voice that greets Aveline is not right. Hawke is unceremoniously shoved in her arms and her nauseous feeling melted away a bit to anger. This…. this was not the Hawke that she had fled into the Korcari Wilds with, the Hawke that would have died to protect their younger sister from Wesley when they met. There Aveline was left, with this broken version of her friend, seething with anger and a sense of pity for what had been done. 

Varric: There is basically one way to get onto Varric’s bad side and that is to fuck with his people. This means that the templars that brought Hawke to him in this state as well as every other stupid templar in those Gallows that allowed this to happen had made an enemy of Varric. However, that is an issue for another day as Varric would never abandon his people, which includes the now tranquil Hawke sitting at his table in the Hanged Man. It becomes quickly apparent that they are not like the Hawke he has known. They listen to the stories that Varric spins as he drinks to handle all this, but any of his clever quips that would have at least gotten a smile from Hawke now seem to just go over their head. As was said, Varric does not abandon his people, including Hawke, so he will always make sure to take care Hawke. But, the Black City will crumple before Varric gives up doing everything that he can to find a way to help Hawke, using whatever connections he has to gather that kind of information.

Anders: The minute that Anders finds out, from the moment that tranquil Hawke seems to stumble their way into his clinic, he snaps. Karl had been bad, and the threat to the girl had been worse, but this? All Hawke ever seemed to do is try to make a difference in Kirkwall and now they had been dealt the worst punishment out there. Vengeance roars inside of Anders and all of his self restraint is gone was he looks upon another friend made tranquil. There is nothing left to hold Anders back and if you think that what he did to the Chantry before was brutal, then the hell he would raise for Hawke would be at least ten times worse. And just like with Karl, I think that Vengeance’s powerful presence would bring some of the fade back to Hawke, but it would not be permanent to bring Hawke back. They would be gone, deprived of the fade, and while Vengeance roars within Anders, he also is taken with a sense of grief as he has lost another person to tranquility. 

Merrill: The Dalish do not concern themselves with the things that humans do, but that does not mean that Merrill has not heard rumors about the Rite of Tranquility. Especially after she moved to Kirkwall and suddenly the threat of templars was so much stronger, she had to keep from being discovered. However, when the short knock came to the door of her home in the alienage, she had not thought that she would be confronted by that reality in the form of Hawke with the tranquil brand burned into their skin. Everything was wrong, even their greeting of her was wrong and Merrill started crying immediately. This was Hawke, the one who brought her to the city and helped her settle her, but without their magic, they were so much duller. Merrill tries to offer them tea since they had come to visit her, but in the end, she breaks into sobs over lost friend. She already lost Tamlen to that mirror and now Hawke is gone. Merrill becomes even more sure of her decisions as she sees Hawke like this. It seems that though blood magic might be the only way to bring them back, all of her lost friends.

Isabela: Before Isabela had come to Kirkwall, she couldn’t say that she knew that much about this conflict between mages and templars. Those kinds of things tended to have a habit of staying on land and away from her ship. Even still, isabela has her morals that everyone deserves freedom and well, the tranquil she met in the Gallows... they creeped her out. When she wraps her arm around Hawke’s shoulder, there was something just... wrong about their postures. She quickly sees the brand on their forehead and sucks in a breath. She isn’t drunk enough for this. Every time she glances at Hawke staring blankly at her, Isabela has to take another shot. She might not have heard much about the mages and templars on the seas, but she sure as hell can use the seas to travel, searching for anything for Hawke. All she needs is a ship! This time, for Hawke.

Fenris: Fenris is dully aware of every single comment to support the rite of tranquility when he arrives at the Hawke estate to see his friend. Seeing Hawke just standing in front of the fireplace as their mabari whines at their feet was... startling. Fenris is aware that this might be the first time he has seen a tranquil mage, except maybe Karl, but this was disturbing. Tranquility was for blood mages, not good mages like Hawke! Everything that Fenris had learned from Hawke had taught him this: not all mages were bad and Hawke was one of the good mages. The lyrium in Fenris’s skin hums as his anger causes them to glow. What was it?! What was the reason to do this to someone as good as Hawke?! Why?

Sebastian: There had been plenty of times that Sebastian had made comments about Hawke being a mage or made comments that preached the Chantry’s ideals, but he wasn’t aware that this would actually happen. There is a pit in his stomach as Hawke dully enters the Chantry and Sebastian approaches him. Throughout all of his years with the Chantry, he can’t actually recall seeing any Tranquil come into the Chantry in Starkhaven. No, he knows he would remember it as he sees the way that Hawke moves, without any life that they once had. The Tranquil are made the the templars, servant of the Chantry, so why does seeing Hawke like this make Sebastian’s stomach hurt so badly? This is the Chantry’s rule, right? So why does this feel so wrong to Sebastian? 

Dog: From the moment their master comes home, Dog can tell that something is terribly wrong. They don’t smell right and they gave a whine confusion. They didn’t hug Dog, didn’t bend down and affectionately kiss Dog, didn’t call Dog the best mabari in all of Thedas like they usually did, merely patting Dog as they approached their master. It’s not right and they whimper, burying their nose and their master doesn’t paying that much mind at all, instead going to their room without a weird. (I know that Dog is typically just in origins but Hawke can also have a mabari and I wanted that angst)

-Direct From Orzammar

[melisusthewee]

Fic - The Brothers Trevelyan (Dragon Age)

Summary: Templars, mages, and Chantry soldiers mingle uneasily in the Valley of Sacred Ashes.  Among them is a single templar who doesn’t care about mage rebellions or broken Circles, and is content to stand guard and do as he’s told.  Moments before the world turns itself upside down, Aloysius Trevelyan is just trying to be a good soldier while his brother Quinn seeks to stir up trouble.  A look at two very different brothers and a tumultuous relationship in a place where only one of them gets to be the hero.  Based again on a prompt from the DA Subreddit’s Weekly Writing Challenge.

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairings: none

Rating: G

Words: 1,367 words

Notes: Introducing the “Archers Do It With Flair” series - a collection of all the little one shots and drabbles written as part of the DA Subreddit Weekly Writing thread that quite frankly don’t fit into any larger or longer fics but serve to flesh out my world state and all the poor souls who inhabit it.  (Or at least the Inquisitor.)  Some will be long, some will be short, some will be smutty, and some will be... I don’t know.  Stuff.  And things.  This one is more character introduction than anything else, but was the drabble which led to me developing Quinn and his relationship with his family more.  And I’m kind of proud of that.

As always, click the link below to read this on AO3 or you can read the rest directly on Tumblr below the cut.

The Brothers Trevelyan on AO3

His relief was late.  It had been nearly half an hour and Aloysius was beginning to grow hungry.  Some of the other templars who had passed by his post had mentioned there was a bit of a commotion further down the mountain, something about the Champion of Kirkwall… or maybe it was someone else from that corner of the Marches… everyone he asked told it differently.  In any event, it didn’t seem too relevant to active guard duty around the temple, and was no reason for his relief to be as late as they were.

Movement off to his right caught his attention, and Aloysius turned hoping to see an approaching soldier.  Instead it was a mage, hurrying from some small side entrance of the temple.  Aloysius frowned on instinct; seeing mages running about the place unchecked was not something he was used to.  But they’d been told to stand down and not bother anyone unless something seemed suspect.  And very little about the woman looked suspicious, especially when a second mage appeared shortly after her, his cheeks flushed and his robes still slightly askew.

Aloysius sighed inwardly.  He was fairly certain that romantic entanglements on sacred ground was cause for discipline, but as his stomach growled he realized he had far more pressing concerns than a couple of mages sniffing around beneath each others robes.

He turned back to his diligent watch up the mountain path, hoping for any sign of an approaching figure.  But once again his concentration was interrupted by the sound of a door being swiftly shut and Aloysius turned to see a familiar person appearing from where the mages had come from.  He made a sound of disgust, loud enough for the person to hear.  The man looked up from where he was pre-occupied buttoning up his coat and adjusting his trousers, and flashed Aloysius an arrogant grin.

“Is nothing safe from your debauchery?” he said, frowning in disapproval.

The grin wavered only for a moment as the man ran his fingers through his hair and sidled up next to Aloysius.  “The Maker loves all his children, dear brother.”

Aloysius looked his younger brother up and down carefully.  His cheeks were flushed and he wasn’t quite quick enough to wrap his scarf around his neck in order to hide the several telltale marks that made it very clear exactly the sort of thing he’d been up to with the mages.  “I doubt the Maker gets involved in any of your business, Quinn.”

His brother looked entirely unapologetic.  “How are we to know?  He never speaks, no matter how loudly one calls out His name.”

Aloysius thought he was going to be sick and made a very distinct sound at the back of his throat.  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Eventually,” Quinn replied, reaching into his coat and taking out a well-worn pipe.  It wasn’t long before the pungent smell of smoke filled the air.  Aloysius hated the smell, and his brother knew it.  His brother also had likely figured out that Aloysius was on duty and therefore unable to leave despite how much both men preferred to avoid each other’s company.  “Sadly, they don’t give me the exciting jobs like standing vigil on a mountain far removed from anyone of any importance.”

“Being assigned to the temple is an honour,” Aloysius said stiffly.

Quinn laughed, although Aloysius thought it sounded more like a snort.  “So you’ve seen the Divine then?  She’s come round to bring the blessings of Our Lady upon you?  The Lord Seeker requested that Ser Trevelyan specifically guard this out of the way corner of the temple?”

“Shut up.”

Quinn looked surprised at the outburst.  Yes, Aloysius was usually patient with his brother and not only because his patience often frustrated Quinn to no end, but his belly was empty and his temper short - especially in his present company.  Aloysius watched as Quinn took a step back, seeming to consider him carefully in a manner that looked like there was far too much going on inside that silly blond head to be good for anyone.

“You haven’t seen the Lord Seeker, have you?”  That insufferably sly smile was back on Quinn’s face.

“I’ve spoken with a Seeker,” Aloysius said, choosing his words carefully.

“But not the Lord Seeker?  The one who’s supposed to be leading your side in the talks?”  Aloysius began to tell Quinn how the templars were not his side and that he wasn’t invested in the ongoing war beyond whatever orders or duties his commanding officer gave him these days, but his brother wasn’t listening.  “The mages hadn’t seen the Grand Enchanter either.  They’d been told she was supposed to be arriving from Redcliffe, but everyone of importance is just… around… somewhere.”

“You managed to get all of that out of a couple of mages?” said Aloysius, his voice dripping with skepticism.  For the first time, Quinn appeared to look genuinely offended, gesturing to himself as if the answer should have been obvious.  Aloysius rolled his eyes, and went back to staring up the mountain road, praying his relief would come and give him an excuse to leave.

He heard his brother grumble something to himself, and smiled knowing that his reaction had not been the one Quinn was hoping for.  For a moment, he thought that perhaps the man would leave to find some sort of entertainment elsewhere, but no such luck.  Instead Quinn kicked absently at the snow with his boot, pouting like a spurned child.

“You’re grumpier than usual.”

“My relief is late,” Aloysius replied stiffly.

Quinn scratched his head, looking genuinely confused as he cast about the area, taking note of how empty their surroundings were.  “You could just leave.  I don’t think the Conclave is going to fall apart just because a single templar went for lunch.”

“I take my duty seriously.”

The younger man sighed dramatically.  “Yes, yes, we know… darling Aloysius, pious as a saint.  It wouldn’t kill you to break the rules once in a while.  You might even find you enjoy it.”

“We all have our parts to play.  You might consider yours sometime.”

The frown that fell upon Quinn’s face made him look an awful lot like their father.  Aloysius considered that was something better kept to himself, however.  It was clear that his words had touched a nerve, regardless of whether he’d intended to insult his brother or not.  In retrospect, he probably should have known better.  It was common knowledge among their siblings that despite their best intentions in trying to bring the youngest of them around to a respectable path, any time one of them said a word, Quinn doubled down on his embarrassing habits at the best of times, and tended to cause a scene at his worst.  Aloysius wasn’t sure which one he was about to be witness to.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve considered it at great length,” Quinn said coldly, tapping the bowl of his pipe and scattering the ashes across the snow.  He took a moment to stamp on them for good measure - a bit aggressively, Aloysius thought - before returning his things to his coat pocket and turning to leave.  “I hope your relief arrives soon.  Mother and Father would be terribly upset if they lost one of their good sons because he starved to death in the line of duty.”

He knew he should let him go.  Quinn was not a child and should not be treated as such.  But he was still his brother, and a Trevelyan, and ever since he’d turned up among the Chantry brothers, Aloysius knew that he was expected to try and keep him level headed and out of trouble if not for the family’s sake but for Quinn’s.  But as he called after him to stop, Quinn only replied with a rude gesture and kept walking.

Well, if that’s how he wanted it then fine with him.  Aloysius straightened his shoulders and settled back into his post, watching the top of the path that led back to Haven.  Still no sign of his relief.  And try as he might to ignore his stomach, he was becoming awfully hungry…

[greenjudy]

Inquisitor Ask Meme

Reposting this for fun.

Anyone else want to take a crack? What kind of Inky would you be?

@allsortsoflicorice? @tyramir ? Bueller?

1. Race:

Human.

2. Class/Specialization:

Rift mage.

3. Your homeland?

The Free Marches. Wycome, to be precise. 

4. Your family?

Keep my family out of this; they have things to do besides die.

5. Who were you before?

A Circle Mage of some skill and much fear. Given my personality, the Circle would probably not cater to my strengths. It would make me more nervous and paranoid than I already am. The Inquisition would force me out of my comfort zone and give me some resilience I would never otherwise develop. Left to my own devices, I’d fall prey to obsession, and possibly possession by a Pride demon.  

6. Would you be religious?

I’ve read a lot of books by Brother Genitivi and Philliam! A Bard; I’m actually using my clout as Inquisitor to gather whatever is known about the Black City. You might say I’m an originist, I want to know where we came from; Andraste is kind of late on the scene for my interests. 

Post-Trespasser, this quest will more or less eat my brain.

Short answer: obsessed with “religious” subject matter, not religious per se. 

7. Do you have a mabari?

Nope. But I spoil Cullen’s baby. 

8. Your opinion on other races?

Raised to “not be racist” (as far as that goes) in cosmopolitan, edgy, free-wheeling Wycome; family with a ton of Dwarven trading connections. Angry about the elves. Knew loads of elven enchanters in the Circle, but I have awkward awareness of human privilege around the Dalish. 

Fascinated by the Shaperate. Wish all Thedas had those. Can you imagine? 

Worried about the Qun, but deeply impressed with the handful of Qunari I’ve met in person. Not mindless drones at all. Disciplined. Community first has some virtues, must say. 

9. What would Varric’s nickname for you be?

Baffler.

10. What would your tarot card look like?

The High Priestess: an older, abbess-looking chick standing at a scriptorium, surrounded by magical paraphrenalia and a gorgeous view out my high window. Raven (with message) standing on the windowsill.

11. Where would you hang out in Skyhold?

My bespoke mage tower, if I’m not in the Undercroft picking Dagna’s brain. Do a little weeding in the herb garden from time to time; we’re growing some fascinating things in there. 

After Solas leaves, I’d go spend time in the destroyed holding cells, watching the water fall.  

12. What would you do for fun?

Study. Knit. Paint. Visit my horses; the smell of horses is very comforting. 

I’d have highly technical arguments with Dorian and spend a lot, a lot, a lot of time talking to Solas.

13. What armor would you wear?

Cutting-edge tactical enchanted fabric. Light, layered, tweedy, enchanted.

I’d probably get sucked into magical materials research, specifically, making improvements to armor base-layers. I’m obsessed with armor. I have a whole research group (headed by Dagna, Cullen consulting) devoted to armor improvement.

14. What would your room look like?

Given the state of my current room, a chaotic mess of books, papers, research tools, letters from colleagues, blueprints, schematics, dirty dishes, orchids, and automata (Josie and I would be doll-geeks together).

15. Who would be your friends at Skyhold?

I try to make sure that the Inner Circle understands how much I appreciate them as a general rule. 

As for friends: 

Cassandra is one of the great ones. Just about the best person I know. Never met anyone so ready to acknowledge her mistakes. I’d trust her to be the next Divine. 

Dorian is a dear. One of the best sounding-boards. Somebody peel that man a grape. 

Cullen and Josephine are terrific advisors, couldn’t ask for better, their own problems of course, we’re all doing our best. I’d like to know Cullen better—suspect we have things, Circle things, to talk about. In another life, maybe. 

I’d get on with Varric—everyone gets on with Varric, come on—but I find him ultimately very armored, hard to know. Hid his best friend, didn’t he? Never talks about the lady he loves. 

Sera is actually easy to understand. Raw genius with a bow, one of the best to have along, out in the field. Not exactly my friend. So down on the Dalish. It’s her business, though. She and Dagna are adorable together. She makes Dagna happy, that’s good enough for me. 

I have a bit of a GP for the Iron Bull. (He had me at “front-line bodyguard.”) Never acted on it, though.

Solas is my… see… well, see below. 

16. Would you have any friends outside of the Inquisition?

I’d have the Thedas version of LinkedIn comrades in Antiva, Nevarra, and Orlais—researchers all. Plus one brilliant friend who’s a materials mage based out of Denerim, working with Sandal on woven metal enchantments; call her my “knitting buddy.”

17. Who wouldn’t you get along with?

Leliana would trouble me. Don’t like having someone this emotional and vindictive managing our intel networks. It’s bad juju, Ambassador; can’t trust her judgment, can you? And that feels like a loose end. Put us in a tight spot someday. Couldn’t we ask Varric…? No, I quite see that. Still. 

I’d understand Vivienne, and try to maintain a cordial relationship because I think most of her head is in the right place, even though she is entirely too power-oriented for a real friendship. 

Blackwall’s “find Darkspawn, kill them, repeat” approach would bother me. When I found out the truth about him, it would confirm my feeling that you need to lie to yourself, a lot, to just have enemies and kill them without compunction. I would also find myself highly influenced by Solas’s take on the Wardens. 

18. Who would you romance?

I’m a Circle mage who’s watched close friends be tormented by romantic love. Demonic possession and Tranquility. Babies taken away. This is not the kind of conditioning that disappears just because you take me out of a Circle. In my youth I worked it out by restricting myself to impossible love objects—there was this one Templar, very stern, very disciplined…he’d barely speak to me… Well. That was many years ago. 

That said, the best impossible love object I’ve ever encountered in my life is Solas. 

What does it matter, really? Bonds of friendship, don’t you know; romantic love leads to envy demons. I’m old now, at any rate. Inquisigeezer not exactly a romanceable character. 

19. Would you do pranks with Sera?

Probably not. Too busy. Too tired. Feel too much sympathy for her innocent victims. 

But I would do operations with Sera, with pleasure. 

20. Would you sleep with the Iron Bull (casually if not romance)?

My front-line bodyguard? Get on with you. It would get too complicated—for me, I mean, not him. 

21. Would you keep Cole around?

Yes. And I’d agonize about what would be the best path for him to take, and probably make him a spirit.

22. Can you play the game (politics)?

Yes. I’m better at it the more distant it is. If you’re talking about what to say at a party, I’ve developed a persona for that sort of thing. Stakes are high. Can’t be fooling around. A mage, remember? This guard drops, I get possessed; lose my temper, might incinerate you, can’t have that. 

23. What would be on your tombstone in the fade (What are you afraid of)?

“The world fell apart on my watch.”

24. Who would you recruit to seal the breach?

Mages. I understand mages. Their leadership’s been simply awful. Not sure what Fiona did with her spine. Without decent leadership, it’s mages running amok, trying to protect themselves, doing awful things out of fear; can’t have that, they’ll pull their own house down. Get them out of the weeds, stick ‘em in the Inquisition, give them a chance to show what they can do for the right cause. 

25. Opinion on Mages versus Templars?

It’s all about training, though, isn’t it? Templars and mages both need much, much better training. Without training, without a penetrating education with a solid grasp of magical theory, history, ethics—co-train the mages and templars, make ‘em take core courses together. Make them work together in strike teams; I’ve been doing that since we recruited ‘em, they actually partner well, as long as you’re not, you know, mad.

I would become obsessed (do you see the recurrence of this word) with the idea that mages could be Seeker-trained to resist possession and mind control, obviating the need for Tranquility. These disciplined (another key word) and trustworthy mages could be placed in a position of joint authority with properly educated Templars to create a College of Magi with research cells all over Thedas…

Yeah. We’ll see how that works out.

26. Who would be put in charge of Orlais and why?

Celine and Briala. Celine is the one with the right temperament, and for some reason I viscerally understand Briala. I’m all about reparations and integrating elven populations and something something protect the Dalish (can’t we actually give them the Dirth?).

27. Would you sacrifice the Chargers?

I couldn’t.

28. Would you go after Blackwall?

Oh, yes. And I’d keep him on, as Thom Rainier. 

29. Would you drink from the well?

Knowing me? Not knowing the implications except for those vague warnings? Yes, I would, and it would affect me for the rest of my life. 

I’d spend what’s left of myself using whatever insight and connections the Well gave me to work on Solas. 

30. Where would you go if the Inquisition was disbanded?

Under ordinary circumstances, the College. Daresay they’d want me to do something draining and administrative because of my being the (ex)Inquisitor; I’d look for a research niche but probably not get to keep it. 

Solas is not ordinary circumstances. I’d dedicate the rest of my life to that problem. 

31. How do you react to the egg telling you he is an elven god? 

I’d naively and arrogantly imagine that I could—if we could just get enough time to sit down together—he must understand what he’s likely to bring about, he needs people to talk to, dammit—

He would be the death of me, I’m afraid.

[lesetoilesfous]

"Inappropriate location" from the NSFW prompts for Handers for the DADWC?

Oh now see this is incredibly fun. Thank you so much for the prompt! 

(If you’d like me to write you a da2 fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: M!Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders

Tags: set at a vague point after da2, AU, Anders is incorrigible, past Karl/Anders

Rating: Mature

*

“This is a terrible idea. And considering the fact that I’m the one saying that, there’s a strong chance the sky will fall, imminently.” Anders sniggers, and Hawke gives him an unimpressed glare, even as he allows himself to be tugged into some poor absent Senior Enchanter’s bedroom. 

“Come on Garrett. For me?” Anders bats his eyelashes and looks like a man nearly fifteen years his junior, coquettish and proud. Hawke rolls his eyes and double checks the lock on the door, mostly as an excuse to hide his blush from the mage who insists on making him feel like a teenager. 

A wave of power brushes against his arm, shimmering in the air for a moment before a Glyph of Repulsion glimmers over the wood. Hawke turns back to his lover, raising an eyebrow. “Won’t they know how to dispel that?” 

Anders shrugs, stepping closer and walking his fingers up Hawke’s armour. “I guess it depends on how efficient you are. Besides, I like to think only the Senior Enchanters could break my Glyphs. And they’re not here right now.”

“As far as we know,” Hawke warns, without much feeling. It had been...a while, since Anders had looked at him as playfully as he’s looking now. Ever since Kirkwall - sometimes Hawke got the impression that Anders was a dying flame, and he was the poor fool cradling his embers, trying desperately to keep them burning. Some days, it felt like that light could be snuffed out with a word. Right now though? Now he’s like the sun, bright and burning and full of life. Hawke wants him to stay this way forever, and be the happy, fierce, powerful man he’d fallen in love with.

Hawke has known enough of grief to know that won’t happen. But he wants to live in this daydream for a little while longer. Sighing, he lifts his hand to Anders’ cheek. Anders nuzzles into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Why did you want to come back here, anyway?”

A faint frown creases Anders’ freckled brow. He opens his eyes, and they’re yellow as a cat’s and just as indignant. “Are you going to bed me or not?”

Hawke shrugs, and doesn’t fight the playful grin pulling at his lips. “I’m thinking about it.” Anders scowls, but he doesn’t move away from Hawke’s touch, and Hawke gently runs his hand through his lover’s hair. It’s gotten long, in the last few months. He wonders whether Anders will cut it. “Tell me.”

Anders looks away from him now, long fingers tapping his thigh. The late afternoon sun falls into the room from high, narrow windows - too small to crawl through, though Hawke has no doubt Anders had attempted it. “Think of it as laying my demons to rest.” Hawke makes no effort to hide his feelings about that choice of words, and Anders snorts. “Figuratively speaking.” He looks around them, at the small, cramped room. “There was a time when this seemed like the height of luxury. Your own space. A soft bed. A door you could lock.” He gestures at the armoire and the desk beside it. “A place for your own things. Your own things! I couldn’t even imagine what I wanted to own.”

Hawke thinks about the wide, sparse dormitories in which the apprentices had been kept on the floors below them. “It’s...hard to imagine what it must have been like.” He admits, softly. Anders gives him a gentle, tired smile, and shrugs.

“We all have our own battles.” Hawke nods. He’d spoken more than once to his lover about what it had been like to grow up on the run, with an apostate for a father and then one for a baby sister. It wasn’t about who had it worse. But still - the idea of Anders living here chafes at something in his chest. He tries to imagine Anders small, and quiet, and scared, flinching from the templars that had once haunted this place. Hawke doesn’t like the image it presents.

In the present, Anders sighs and tugs a hand up and back through his hair, swallowing. “Karl would have lived here. Not in this room specifically. Well.” Anders frowns. “Probably not. But somewhere like this. I used to joke with him about the favours I’d trade to get a room next to his.” Anders’ mouth curls into a sad, bitter smile. “He never really approved of those jokes.” Anders folds his arms around his chest. He’s still not looking at Garrett. Behind them, the bed is dusty and abandoned, like the rest of Kinloch Hold. As it has been for months.

Hawke steps forward and gently rests his hands on Anders’ shoulders, waiting until his lover looks at him before lifting a hand to brush his knuckles against his cheek and tuck a strand of red gold hair behind his ear. “Is that why we’re here? For Karl?” He speaks very quietly. The words are swallowed by the silence of the empty tower.

Anders shrugs, stiff and awkward. He doesn’t move away. “I don’t know. I had a life here. So much - so much of what I’ve done has been informed by what happened here. What happened to me here. What I learned, what I was taught, what I survived.” Anders swallows. Hawke’s hand tightens around his shoulder. Anders looks up at him, and his nose is brushed with sun-browned freckles. His golden eyes are bright. “I thought I’d find answers. Or guidance. But now I’m here I just feel haunted by the person I used to be, by what they did.” Anders voice breaks, and Hawke pulls him into his arms. It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is a sudden, violent need to keep him safe and hold him, where no one can ever make him sound like that again. Hawke presses a kiss to Anders’ head, and Anders chuckles, a little damply against his chest. “You’re such a softie.”

Hawke hums, and presses another kiss to his lover’s forehead, gently lifting his chin with crooked fingers. “When it comes to you? Absolutely.” Anders laughs again, and looks away, but blood rushes pink and lovely to his freckled cheeks. Hawke dips his head to kiss the warm skin. When he pulls back, he catches Anders’ tears with his thumb, gently wiping them away from under his eyes. “So what do you want to do now?”

Anders smirks a little, rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. “I want to take it back. When I lived here it was on their terms, under their rules. I was a different person. I was so scared, all the time. But I’m not scared of them any more.” He glances up at Hawke, and smiles shyly, tanglling their fingers together. “I’ve got you.”

Hawke squeezes Anders’ hand, and lets go of his shoulder to scratch his beard. It really needs a trim. He looks, doubtfully, at the dusty bed in the middle of the room. The room smells like old blood and magic. He already knows he’s going to agree. Anders watches him hopefully, and Hawke draws it out, waiting until realisation glitters in Anders’ eyes. Then he grins. “You know, I always wanted to see what these Circle beds were like.” 

Anders laughs, and catches Hawke’s face in his hands, pulling him down for a quick fierce kiss that melts into something deeper as Hawke wraps his arms around his lover’s waist. Anders is warm and solid in his embrace, and for a moment Hawke imagines holding him here forever, where he knows he will be safe. After a long time - and not nearly long enough, Anders pulls back, long fingers tracing the shell of Hawke’s ear. He grins at him, in the space where their foreheads and noses are touching. “Honestly, they’re the worst.”

[abbeyfangirl]

dragon age: all characters (companions)

I’ve been in this fandom for a hot minute now and I want to update my opinions on characters :)

Origins

Alistair: super sweet dude who literally is not the stereotypicalchantryguyfightme. He’s a great example of healthy masculinity and I totally wish he was bi because I have an entire essay on that— also: he’s a poc! His mum was brown. In game he’s got dark features. if you really want a blond/blue-eyes/white guy, make your warden that. or accept that brown people can be noble and moral. or just draw cailan, idk. just because BioWare whitewashes doesn’t mean you should.

Leliana: someone hug my singing girlfriend before I crush her under with my own hugs. Also: nugs. Yes! Shoes. Yes! She likes how I style my hair? YES!! I honestly think she’s super duper and it pisses me off whenever someone’s like: yeah she enjoys killing people and the Game. ok. and michel de chevin willingly participated in genocidal marches through the alienage he grew up in with his elvhen mum. 

Morrigan: dirty swamp witch that i stan and also have a v big crush on. tiddies. Have a son with a GW so we can raise him with our tiddies out in the forest. she’s also white-passing, as her father was chasind and all people we’ve seen that are chasind are black. therefore, she is biracial. therefore, poc can be goths and don’t shy away from giving morrigan a darker skintone. if the devs had of been thinking, she’d have a darker skintone.

Zevran: Actually is the best romance, I think. Loves consent, therefore I will stan him so hard my skull cracks a little. Also: he is a very brown boy and if he’s white in da4 I’m seriously going to throw all canon out the fucking window. genuinely a good person who needs to be told so. 

Wynne: grandma who only likes my friends who go to church. but also super sweet and I’d rest my head on her bosom (in a platonic way omg ZEVRAN)

Sten: angry quiet boi. the bestest boi. I totally would give him a kitten for a gift and bake him cookies. Thicc softie. I think if I had DA:O and i knew how to use mods i would mod the fuck outta him. sorry.

Sha(y)le: who’s gender? idk her. See also: fuck birds and authority. pound ur ass into the ground you feathery meatbag little shits. fuck songbirds.

Dog: such a good boi. thicc. thinks Alistair is a whiny fuck and is Morrigan’s only friend. love him. he’s the cutest companion. bet.

Ohgren: honestly forgot about him bcc he’s such a shitbag. also: he could’ve been a really cool addiction recovery type but NOPE. probably would have a trump shirt in a modern au and would catcall wlw and hit mlm. no thanks.

Awakening

Anders: he acts like rlly straight but he’s so gay I can smell it. also he’s rlly cute and fun and I love him so much.

Justice: MAYBE i’M selF CONSCious OF THE twitchING. is the friend that genuinely doesn’t get dick jokes but is ur 110% ride or die.

Nathaniel Howe: honestly is sort of a white knight/neck beard a little, but it’s kind of charming with his whole velanna m’lady?? grump boi. annoying soul patch that I’d mod out SO FAST—

Sigrun: would have ROMANCED the FUCK out of her. why she even entertains the idea of fucking with ohgren makes me realize most of the writers are dumbfucks.png. peppy little emo. 12/10 would die if she kissed my cheek teasingly.

Ohgren: why. why. why. I’d have brought Shayle over. Maybe Zev? Definitely Dog.

Velanna: she was written to be an annoying feminist and you can tell but I deadass am a kindred spirit with her bcc I too am deadpan annoyed with Thedas’ general population too. love her. Would’ve loved to romance her. She’d totally be one of those who’d get all tsundere and be like “n-no i hate you” *kisses the fuckin soul out of you then blushes so hard she’s now a tomato*

Dragon Age II

Anders: fuck the cops. i don’t care. fuck the cops. (vine reference). also: do i hate him for blowing up the chantry that would eventually annul a huge collection of his people? no. read dalishious’s meta on Anders. v intriguing. didn’t they retcon the fuck out of the reported deaths too? like there was like eight Templars and Elthinia in there. Templars killed more “abominations” in a day than Anders in the game canon—

Aveline: initially thought she was fine and then realized she’s shit to my lil brother and I will fucking clap her ginger ass. See also: whorephobia isn’t a joke so fuck off with treating Isabela badly, you tit.

Bethany: sunshine. Literal sunshine. I feel my freckles grow in her presence and i love it. she’s my little baby sister and I’d slam that ogre so fuckin hard before it touched either twin.

Carver: there has to be a mod where both twins survive. I love them both to bits. My babies. carver is my bitter, angry little brother and I can relate because I too am very angry and would totally clap my own ass. hes so genuine and I don’t get the competition between Beth and Carver. Like, both are fuckin stellar in different ways. In this essay I will—

Fenris: honestly, I don’t get the general hate between him and Anders. Fenris’ main arc should’ve been a recovery arc, not drunken moping and revenge. he deserves better. give him a soft sweater instead of his spikes and let him love himself as much as I love him for MAKERS SAKE. like when you really think about their relationship, it could’ve been an eye-opener for fenris and finally some legit sympathy for anders. but we all know that if they had of teamed up that Meredith would’ve been dead before the end of Act 1 so.

Isabela: whorephobia is not a joke. oversexualizing your only appearing brown woman is so poorly written. how about we appreciate her and her lovely bosoms but also let people tease her about her heart of gold? her innate understanding of freedom? instead of just a wave of dick? please?? can we give her some pants for when she fights? can we accept that i fall for rogues who hate themselves?? fuck. also whomever draws her x femHawke x Merrill literally is after my own heart.

Merrill: my fucking babygirl MARRY ME. Fenris could’ve been her older brother type, but NO. she and Isabela should’ve been canonical gfs instead of Isabela/Fenris (no shaming the pairing tho!!). I love how she’s written as neurodivergent. V nice. Sometimes I just look her up and cry because she’s fucking everything. Also: she’s in the Dalish origin and she’s far from being white. Why did they make the most innocent/naïve character really white? hmmmm.

Sebastian: whew that boy. Would totally be that annoying Mormon at your door but you still let him in bcc he’s super sweet. Also: huge ass bible thumper and should get his head slap because you said the maker loved all his children why do you defend a complicit old hag you annoying attractive fuck—

Varric: totally is a bard and the devs couldn’t handle the idea of him being one bcc it might make him look less straight. is the only grey morality person I don’t want to fucking bash in with a fry pan. he sees people and I like that, but you totally know he’s siding with mages every time bcc him and Anders are like besties. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules. “Professional Younger Brother”.

Tallis: I know nothing about her but she seems okay. I think she was an escaped slave and honestly? Fucking props. Spy on a shitting organization, idk what you’re doing, but your VA was that cool lesbian from SPN so I think ur okay?

Inquisition

Blackwall: Redemption Arc 101. Love him to bits. Sad dad bunwall. good man. actually atoned for his sins by actively becoming a good person. his initial design is 80% hotter im so sorry but so not.

Cassandra: was way browner in the last game. would romance the fuck outta her. I love me a butch lady who melts at my dorky recitation of poetry. BioWare is a coward. also is the worst choice for divine. but not a bad person. could use some more guidance or get her ass whipped by a dalish elf about religion or a circle mage kid whos like “yeah bud i didn’t ask for the templars to whip my ass everyday for existing.”

The Iron Bull: I think the Qunari/Vashoth were a little based off black people (the whole anti blackness thing where ppl are scared of them bcc of whatever reason) and it pisses me off that he had a weird ass dubcon thing with Dorian in banter. It doesn’t make sense— he’s an A+++ dom and would not jump straight in role play without at least checking in at first like wtf BioWare.

Cole: his mother was chasind so he’s like not supposed to be that white? or like biracial? albino? idk. love him to bits tho. He’s neurodivergent and I deadass love him. romancing him? idk. I see why ppl think it’s fuckin nasty but also like as a writer I’d age him the fuck up so fast before my inquisitor even THOUGHT about that. like idk. I’m down with him being a sweet little bro character tho. he’s a babe. love him.

Sera: had the worst fucking writer I’ve ever seen and I willingly read the twilight saga twice by a shit ass racist white lady who okay’d pedophilia. like. Fuck you Kristjanson suck your own dick you fuck. had the worst options in regards to speak to her. has a thicc case of internalized racism that literally most of the fandom just loves to use against her. my lesbian neurodivergent queen. Would write a thousand fix it fics for her. Love her to bits. im gay.

Varric: I haven’t played DA2 so i don’t get why everyone wants to romance him but like. a dwarf romance? yes please. Idk he reminds me of my uncle so I only see him as fun uncle material. Deadass should adopt Cole and Merrill and co parent with Blackwall for Sera. dads? fuck yeah. love me some wholesome, present fathers.

Dorian: is a gay stereotype that I love/hate so much. and he’s also just as bad about being a creep bcc he sexualizes qunari men (in banter). I attribute that to shit writing tho. I want to protect him from all the “omg gay best friend!” people. he’d clearly be that tired gay that wouldn’t give a diddly damn about ur het romance. wanna talk about politics? he’s ur guy/gay.

Solas: “me, an intellectual:”. I don’t hate him, but I’m not about him. He comes off as mysterious and suave (which he totally is) but I deadass would not save him from himself because he’s a racist, exclusionist eggshell. idk. not my cup of tea, but I can totally see the appeal. And he’s interesting, I’ll totally say that. “I think the Dalish are garbage but they made you” is not a compliment. it’s so offensive. and such bait for “quirky girls” which I’m no fan of. Would be Achilles and let Patroclus (Lavellan in his case) die before he realized how his pride is literally a waste of time. If he gets a redemption arc I hope Lavellan gets to slap him before getting him to teach all about ancient Arlathan and show that the Evanuris weren’t all total dicknozzles. (Aka I really have a hard time believing that they’d be slavery cult things. especially since they’ve compared elves to indigenous ppl, Jews and the Romani.)

Vivienne: it’s so racist that they’d make a black woman be pro-slavery. That’s such internalized racism. She could’ve been the cool ass “educate yourself first before you speak, fool” ice lady, but NO. the devs could’ve kept the “Templars are a tool that I proudly can mandate” and the “circles are very good education” and we. Could. Have. Romanced. Her. Like. Fuck. Sake. I just wanna give her a hug and say “love yourself omg!!” and not even in a romantic way. Also: she and morrigan should not have been so antagonistic towards each other. I’d expect them to have great respect for each other, as they both moved up in the world through hardwork and very little help. They could learn different magic from each other too and still maintain that rival respect “oh you” mood. Sidenote: probably the cooler option for Divine. if her approval is high enough she’ll love and be loyal to you forever and i can’t see her agenda being bad. she improves the circles exponentially and tells all the antis to suck her pretty painted toes.

Josephine: an actual disney princess. romanced her my first playthrough. I love her so much. she just makes me so happy. And she’s like: “Integrity, Loyalty, peace. That is what it means to be a GREY WARDEN good fucking person.” she’s the person who would let you hold her hand if you got anxious and she’d be that person who shouldered the whole group project with finesse and poise and would probably lie for everyone as to not be mean. i love josie. her and leliana’s relationship is so cute, too. whether it’s romantic or not: women supporting women.

Leliana: if you leave her hardened you must hate her. why. she becomes so against herself. i like how shes feminine and lighthearted because that’s so powerful-- to remain hopeful when the world is hopeless. (its hard to know when to soften her/harden her so i get it but. google it. she deserves to be happy and sweet again.)

Cullen: uwu war criminal with shit ass “redemption arc” that was actually a half-assed (at BEST) recovery arc. Recovery isn’t linear, it isn’t pretty, and even the broken need to be told they are wrong in order to heal right. Like I’m offended by that bullshit. I’ve had to do some mental health recovery in the past and unlearning lots of toxic ideologies— which I’m still unlearning— and it bothers me that he gets an easy pass because he’s hot. It’s one thing if you like Cullen, it’s another thing if you hold him accountable.

[5lazarus]

Labyrinth

Chapter Two: Kirkwall Read on AO3 here. Read Chapter One: The Circle here. Summary: Anders tries to enjoy a life roving without a care, but destiny--and justice, and letters from Karl--draw him to the City of Chains. A better world is possible, and though Kirkwall's a shithole, Anders is convinced that once he breaks Karl out of there, they can do anything. If you want the full story of how Justice and Anders take on a despair demon that's clogging people's lungs in the Foundry, check out my story Phosphorescence! (and read on, to find out why that's referenced!)

Anders wakes up in a dirty bed in the Gnawed Noble to Isabela tying a kerchief to keep back her hair. He watches her a moment, enjoying the suppleness of her back. She is lovely, nude but for the blue in her hair.

She glances over her shoulder carelessly. “Oh. You’re still here. I liked that thing you did with the lightning.” She picks up a letter, bound with a lyrium sigil pressed into the wax seal. “This came for you.”

“From who?” he asks, rolling out of bed. He stretches, enjoying taking up space with his nudity. He loves the lankiness of his body, he loves letting it feel good, the magic running through his veins, the pleasure this all brings to him and to others, the woman who took him to bed.

“Some mage in a silly hat,” Isabela says. “I don’t ask questions. Are you going to leave, or what?”

He snorts and gathers his clothes. Dressed now, Anders grabs his satchel and ambles down to the inn. The innkeeper places a fryup in front of him, generous because he fixed her back and hand tremor. Ferelden has never cared that much about mages, either locking them up or letting them go, and Denerim everyone always looks the other way. Anders eats until he’s full, luxuriating in the looseness of his body, and contemplates the letter in front of him. Who would reach out to him at this point?

Justice says, You left a lot of people behind. Karl? Mahariel let you go but she wasn’t happy about it.

I don’t want to think about that.

He slips the letter into his pocket, downs his ale, and leaves with a clatter of dishes. He should leave Ferelden soon, but cutting through Orlais seems a nightmare. There’s only so much amnesty the Wardens provide.

Anders finds himself at the city gates, slightly befuddled, and blinks. He draws in breath suddenly and coughs on the sweetly rotting smell of gutter garbage. Justice says, You should read that letter. I bet you it’s important. Taste that lyrium. It’s familiar, isn’t it?

“Shut up,” he murmurs.

The guards eye him warily. He hitches his satchel on his shoulder and passes through the gate without incident. The roads are busy now that spring is here and the slushy mud has dried again. Anders passes families returning to Denerim and merchants heading up the King’s road. At a crossroads he sits under the old wooden signs and pulls out his satchel. He’s got some hardtack left, and he nibbles at the corner of a piece while he contemplates what to do next. There is always the Anderfels. The Mages’ Collective needs more messengers, too, if he wants to be useful.

Justice says, You need to read that letter. You owe it to whomever wrote it.

Anders snorts. What are you now, my conscience?

If you need it. Justice is unplaceable. If it is right.

Sighing, Anders pulls out the letter. He presses his thumbnail onto the wax seal and surges a quick snap of lightning. Faintly, the lyrium sigil glows. The wax releases the paper. He opens the letter and begins to read. To his surprise, it’s not written in Common, but in Anders instead--clunky, constructed like it were Common, but understandable nonetheless.

“They’ve sent me to Kirkwall and I don’t even know why. Every few months someone goes missing and I can hear the Gallows screaming, no one knows where they’re going but it’s clear they’re trying to kill us. There are no old mages in the Gallows. The First Enchanter is the oldest and every day he is looking more pinched, more worn, he talks to himself or something, I don’t want to know. That’s how this place gets you. There is so much I don’t want to know but every night the dead rise teeming in my dreams, and they tell me this city was built on blood.

“I’ve heard rumors the Divine sent the Seekers to investigate and no one knows whether it’s to annul us or reconsider the Chantry’s puppet, Meredith. She killed the last Viscount and sent the new one his bloodied ring, as a reminder. This is where they send the liberati to die, if Uldred couldn’t ground them down first. Every month there’s a new disappearance and I do not know if it’s despair--you know me, I have never had patience for despair--but I wonder, when will I be next?

“Do not let me be next. Let the Mages’ Collective know--Kirkwall cannot be forgotten. We need help. Orsino is trying his best but the nobility is terrified of the Knight-Commander and clearly the Divine finds her useful. Get me out of here. Get us out of here. Or there will not be a Circle left.”

He heads back to Denerim and convinces Isabela to take him as far as Highever. He could get himself a bunk at the castle if he felt like it, Teyrn Cousland is generous to stray wardens since his sibling ran off with the Crows, but he wants to say unnoticed. He finds the Collective’s safehouse. A mage, fled from the White Spire, is sheltering there. When he tells her he’s heading to Kirkwall, she laughs.

“I promise I’ll get a drink for you, when I see your name of the missing list of the collective newsletter,” she says. “Me, I’m heading towards Denerim. I heard the Wardens are taking anyone, nowadays.”

“The Deep Roads suck,” Anders says flatly. “And they wouldn’t let me take my cat.”

“Why the fuck would you take a cat to the Deep Roads?” she says. “What sort of darkspawn cruelty is that?”

Needless to say, he does not make a new friend.

He leaves a letter at the Collective, for them to forward faster than he can get there: “I’m coming. I love you. Stay strong.”

It takes him another two weeks to get across the Waking Sea and into Kirkwall proper. Though it’s summer, the seas roil. The Wardens say that all the seasons fall out of joint after a Blight. It snows in Seheron, it rains upon the Hissing Wastes. He doesn’t get seasick; Justice keeps him strong, helping him ease into the gravity of the waves.

Sometimes you gotta lean into it, he says. Sometimes you gotta be swept away.

Rainsplattered and queasy the ship drags itself into the City of Chains. The bronze of the statues of screaming slaves shines dully in the low morning light. Anders feels suddenly the great despair of acceptance the millions who have passed through these gates grasp at his heart and tug lightly. Above the Gallows Hightown shines, clad in marble, on the literal backs of these statues. Karl had never sailed before. Stumbling down the plank, pushed by the eager crowd at his back, did he contemplate falling into the waters instead? Did he know how to swim? He had never been in a body of water larger than a bath.

Anders draws his hood over his face and disembarks, shaking. Justice says, steady, steady. This is where you’re meant to be. There’s work to be done yet.

“I need to get him out of here,” Anders murmurs. “All of them.”

Some nobleman’s Tevinter wife bribes the guards to let him through unquestioned. He gets a piece of paper that certifies he is sent by the Wardens to provide holy aid for the lost souls of Darktown, after the Blight. That isn’t forged, Mahariel sent it ahead of time; she keeps tabs on him, to remind him whose, exactly, he is. Karl’s, the Circle’s, the Anderfels’, Kirkwall’s--he is beaten and robbed on his way to meet the messenger from the Mage Underground. They take his shoes. Kirkwall’s cobbles are hard under his feet, and positively grotesque in the rain. He drags himself there regardless.

Justice says, Karl. The mages. There’s rot here, can you feel it? Millions dead. I came here too late. Or soon enough. There’s a grimness to his thoughts. Get yourself some clothes. Beg. Fuck. There are things in motion and we must be part of it.

Eventually he finds the right tenement and someone washes the grime off of him and gives himself to drink and ill-fitting boots, bought with Tevinter money. Sure, magic is made to serve man and not to rule over him, but the First Enchanter sends all records of  the money the Formari bring in to the Chantry, so they take what hidden cache that can be ever-so-conveniently found. Someone explains to him that Tevinter has interests in the city.

“No shit,” Anders says. “I saw the statues. Got anything stronger to drink?”

He jots down a note in Anders, drunk and tired, as the rain floods the streets below: “I’m here. Where/when can we meet? I love you.” He tucks the note into a hollow gold coin. The next morning, as the neighbors bail out the basement apartments, Anders slops through the gutters to the Gallows. He heads to the Formari stand and slips it to the buyer. Then he hurries back to Darktown and makes himself useful. He patches houses and welds leaky pipes shut. He fights a Despair demon that mired itself in the muck of the Foundry. He develops the classic Kirkwall cough, and learns how to heal it.

He watches a lot of people die--starved refugees from the Blight, miners possessed by those who were sacrificed to the quarries centuries before their time, too many babies who seem to have been born listless, without the will to survive. Lirene calls it the Kirkwall disease.

“Mages don’t do well here,” she says, late one night in her shop, eating the last scraps of stew after a long beggars’ line. “You should try your luck elsewhere.”

Anders says, “Where? Tevinter? I’m not a slaver. No. This is where I have to be. You know.”

Lirene frowns over her bowl. “Yes,” she says.  1. Her spoon clinks as she places it down. “You know, while you wait for your boyfriend to contact you, you might as well make yourself useful. We can scrape together the bribes for the templars, if you want to do more than mix poultices.” Anders does not immediately answer. He does not want to return to the Circle, to die another slow death, humbling his temper and mastering desire, accepting that he must be watched. But you gotta, Justice says. Aren’t you sick of watching children die? Anders says, “Don’t worry about the bribes. I’ll talk to--” He stops. Lirene smiles at him. “I have a lover,” she says frankly. “He’s a templar. Oh, don’t give me that look. He’s a good one.” Anders scoffs. “Yes, yes, I know--the only good templar is a dead templar, or ones like Samson, who make themselves useful. He’ll pay the bribes, and he’ll deliver your letters too. If you make yourself useful.” “I want the right to fuck around,” Anders says, leaning back in his chair. The chair creaks warningly. “I’ll help out, sure. If your good templar can cover for me, then yeah. I’m sick of seeing babies die of depression. This city’s fucking miserable. I’m down to clean it up.” Lirene says, “Good. How good are you at fighting? There’s a set of rooms in Darktown the Seven Sisters have been using, but with my people and your mage connections, I’m certain we can talk them on.” Anders writes Karl: “L.’s helped me set up a clinic. I know, you remember how I’d always complain during those anatomy lessons. But it’s paid off, literally. I don’t make my patients pay, of course, but other people are happy to see me taking care of the detritus of Darktown. The shipworkers’ guild and the dockworkers’ guild pay me to treat their workers well. Which you know is getting me drawn into labor disputes which is fascinating but not really the point. What I want to say is that there’s a life outside the Gallows and even though it’s all literally underground, in a quarry where you can still see the clawmarks left by elves falling to their deaths, you can hear the screams at night and in the Fade, and the moss glows phosphorescence, even after Justice and Purpose and I took on that demon in the Foundry--I can feel something building. Something growing in this dank. Something’s gotta give, and it won’t be me. If that makes sense. I love you. Reply soon. Tell me, how are we going to meet?” Karl writes, “I would suck Ser Alrik’s dick for the chance to see phosphorescent moss. Well. Perhaps not Ser Alrik. He leaves me well alone. A mercy. Others aren’t so lucky. Our friend’s wife says the Seekers were last seen sniffing around the Viscount’s office, which is a good sign. Dumar’s M.’s puppet, and behind her is Elth and behind her is of course our great DVine. But I think it’s a good sign that she’s conducting an independent investigation of what makes Kirkwall hell. The entire apprentice class failed their Harrowing this week. It is so hard to keep the Tranquil safe, my love. We cannot risk leaving them alone but they stare and they stare and these ones, they’re barely more than children. Kinloch Hold was a slow death but this, I sometimes wonder how Jowan is doing in the Aeonar. Because I think it’s better than here. I’ve volunteered to watch the Tranquil in the market next week. We’ll be under heavy guard, we won’t be able to talk. But maybe you and L. can walk by. Even stand on the stairs. A glimpse, that’s all I need, to get through this. I love you.” Anders writes, “Your hair’s gone gray and you’ve let your beard eat your face. That’s how I know you’re suffering, my love. And you’ve lost weight. I don’t know how you can stand to be surrounded by Tranquil. They enrage me, they drive me past any control, and I don’t know if it’s Justice or grief or this fucking city, but I can’t stand seeing them, it makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. And there’ll be Anders-gore plastered all around the fucking Gallows courtyard, like when Kirkwall had its first of many uprisings. Well, it’ll happen

eventually. My tribute to the sacrificed of the city. Except we’ll win, too. Every day I’m more and more convinced that not only a better world is possible, but it’s happening. So much that I can’t write here but the M.U. and the collective has eyes and ears everywhere and you’re right that it’s a good sign, what you told me. There’s more sympathy in high places than I thought, and all of the low. In my clinic I’ve met all sorts of people. Too many Fereldens, and they all think I’m Ferelden. Lots of elvhen nationalists. That’s how they spell it in Common, with the extra-H. Makes me wish I paid more attention to how Leorah used to write. There’s a Dalish clan nearby but they’re not from the area, they’re from the Korcari Wilds, and they don’t deal with the alienage. But I’ve been hearing a lot from the elves who work down on the docks, that’s not what they’re all like, and they’re so different about magic. They take it for granted, almost. None of the shame we get fucked with. They’re proud when little Ellana or Mahanon starts shooting sparks from their fingertips, and they’ll move their kids from alienage to alienage and clan to clan to keep them safe. I met a woman who’s been running a long time, to keep her son safe. He has bad nightmares, Kirkwall makes it worse, but she doesn’t have the money to move on. I gave her more than I can spare. If you could leave where would you want to go? I’m sorry. It’ll take longer but I swear I’ll get you out of there.” Karl writes, “My love, don’t worry. We can wait. We have time. You did the right thing. Maybe she can talk to the Dalish? Orsino’s complained about how Clan Sabrae has made dealing with M. more difficult. Huon was recently captured, he’d been living quietly in Kirkwall for years. He’s not taking the Circle well, but do any of us? I thought I could survive Kinloch Hold but now I see what you mean. I will kill to feel the grass under my ass. I mean it, Anders. I will. So, I suppose I want somewhere with grass. Do you remember the high grass on the steppes, how the frost would linger on the wheat? I remember my last harvest. It was beautiful, even if it meant that some of us were going to die. It came as a relief that the templars came. One less mouth to feed that hard winter. I wonder if any of my family survived. My mother was never good at rationing. I’d like to check. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a child but perhaps we could steal horses and ride hard across across the Imperial Highway, through the wastelands of the Blight to the Wandering Hills. Do you remember crossing the Hunterhorn Mountains, when they dragged you to Ferelden? I want to see the sun rise on the mountaintop, above the frozen wastes, and tuck my hands under your tunic to keep them warm. I want to fuck you slowly as the bird wake up in the valley, in some forgotten corner of the mountains where no one will ever see us, and it will take centuries for anyone to stumble across our campsite. Promise me that. That you’ll keep me warm.” Then Anders does not hear from him for weeks.

[rxdonmyledger]

Coming home

Summary:  Sometimes you can't help it. Sometimes you want to forget. But sometimes you just need someone who you can call home.

This was not one of my best summaries, I'll admit. But we all love a sassy and cute Alistair.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or their characters/lore/story.

I hope you enjoy it. I think we all have a thing for this sweet puppy. I tried to keep my female Amell without description except for the hair, so anyone can immerse themselves in the story.  I do not ask anything but if you want to support my writing and my economic situation, I could give you my Ko-fi! Thank you in advance. Anyway, enjoy my stories!

Besides, I’m not as active as I used to be here but if you want to keep reading my stories you can find me in my AO3 account. I am currently working on a Loki x Natasha fanfic if you want to read it!

The sunset turned the sky into a purple mantle that covered Denerim. The voices of the last merchants in the market echoed in the void. It could be possible to hear a fainted reminder of the Elf Alienage.

Another day passed.

He sighed and looked at his cup of wine, twirling it so the liquid caressed the inside. He was wearing simpler clothes than he was used to, the mantle long forgotten in his wooden chest, in the room. It was a weight on his shoulders he did not want to carry. At least not when he had the opportunity to be alone.

Claiming Ferelden’s throne had never been in his mind. In his own opinion, he was the last person capable of giving orders. Or leading. Maker, he didn’t even feel capable to lead the Mabari during his Blight days. And yet, it seems that it had not been his choice. It never was. Neither was his marriage to Anora.

Anora.

He snorted as he thought of his wife, emptying the cup before filling it again. The sweet smell of wine calmed his senses and he leant against the stone banister. One of the rooms near his had the windows open and he could hear the maids talking and chuckling, trying to muffle their sounds. He smiled at it, trying to remember when everything was easier. When he was a child, running down the halls of Redcliffe, or when he was a young man, training to be a templar.

His mind wandered to his wife again. Anora. How could someone describe Anora? Well, she was ambitious. She was determined and knew how she wanted things to be done. And she knew how to have them done. She was strong and she knew how to rule a country, that was out of question. Actually, she had been doing it for years while she was married to Cailan.

Yet, he didn’t like her. They got on well in the end, after a quite…difficult start in their marriage. The idea of beheading her father was a tricky matter. Yet, in the end he had learnt plenty of qualities from her and Eamon. How to rule, how to be a tactician. He could be well-versed in war and battlefield, but she was an expert politician and she knew how to manipulate those arrogant noble people to act on Ferelden’s benefit. He had to admit that.

She was good.

They were not close friends. But they respected each other and tried to improve their relationship. They would never be lovers, they both knew that. But the alliance had been better than they had expected.

Up to this time, he was still confused with her decision. The night he had come to his chambers and asked him to marry Anora if he wanted to go on with his birthright as Maric’s son and Ferelden’s heir. He had been astonished and he remembered himself standing in the middle of the room, the fire with a glowing orange light that outlined her figure, leaning against the fireplace. Maker, it seemed her ginger hair was on fire too.

“Don’t you…don’t you love me?”

Oh, sweet Andraste. The deeply sad smile she had forced in her beautiful lips. The way her shiny eyes had gone over his own face, as if he were still a child who needed to learn more about the real world. Probably that was the most probable option.

“I’m doing this because I love you, idiot” she replied with a faint voice and a playful tone. “Do you think you’d be allowed to marry someone…well, someone like me?”

Yes, he was an idiot. An idiot in love who thought that would be enough. But sometimes, desire was not enough. And then Morrigan’s thing had come. Maker, he hated when his mind wandered to that night.

What he remembered perfectly was him going back to his own chamber, finding her sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and hugging her knees. Seeing her like that broke his heart. His mind was blank, and he just approached the bed, laying on the soft mattress, too good to be real, after years of sleeping on a bedroll or the ground. She just laid by his side and opened her arms, as she always did, welcoming him. Her whole body surrounded him, and her hands rubbed his hair the way he loved.

They had made love. Slowly. Intimately. He wanted to erase every single rest of Morrigan’s touch. And she was the only one capable of doing that. Nobody knew what would happen. Would they defeat the Archdemon? Would they survive? Or would the world immerse in a future of darkness and despair?

If they had to die, at least they would live first. Together.

At first, he had his doubts about keeping her as his…Maker, he hated that word. Mistress. She did not deserve that. He wanted to be with her, marry her. Yet, she had been terribly pragmatic as always. Even Anora agreed with the deal, claiming Cailan had his own lovers. At least she would like this one.

It was done.

The arranged marriage was made public in the Landsmeet, after she had defeated Anora’s father, punishing him for his crimes. He thought about Loghain sometimes. He had betrayed his king and fellow warriors. He had committed treason. And yet, he had been helpful and valuable to Ferelden for years. Time had passed and he sometimes considered if it was the right thing to do.

He had made a speech and promised to come back to marry Anora after fighting the Blight. Everyone had celebrated the coronation of a Theirin heir. But his mind was not on the speech or the people who listened to him. He was like a tranquil, repeating the words that had been handed to him. His eyes wandered on those surrounding him, looking for his companions.

But they were nowhere in sight. And that broke his heart. Specially when it came to her.

He was alone in this.

Yet, he didn’t blame them. His companions had followed her to the fight. She was the natural leader, a sweet-caring woman with the rage of a dragon that could sew a mouth with her magic, a simple movement of her long fingers. She loved him, and he understood it was not easy to her to watch the man she loved marrying another woman, even if their relationship was going to continue.

He sighed and heard a soft knock on his door, followed by the creaking of the wood. He didn’t turn. It was probably Helena or one of the maids with his dinner.

“Leave it on the table. I’m not that hungry now”

But a king must be strong and healthy. You must eat something.

He could hear Eamon’s and Teagan’s voice in his mind. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts while the sun started to disappear in the horizon. The night was calm and silent. And that was when he noticed.

Too silent.

He had not heard the maid leaving the room and a shiver ran down his spine. His hand left the cup of wine with deliberate movements and went for the dagger in his belt, prepared to defend himself from the threat. Even if he was not a fighter anymore, he was still skilled and prepared. Strong and fast, ready to attack.

Suddenly, a painless aura seemed to envelop his body and he discovered with fear that he couldn’t move a single inch. He tried to resist, to wriggle and escape from that magic prison. Maker’s sake, he hated that. Magic was something that kind of admired but feared, knowing he could be powerless in a battle with a mage.

Then he heard it. A chuckle.

Her chuckle.

“Alistair Theirin. I’m surprised you let me defeat you so easily” Her voice. Soft like silk sheets. Like a Sunday morning with the sun peeking through the curtains. Even in his state, without looking at her, Alistair could notice she was grinning.

“Eyra” The feeling of her magic surrounding him disappeared and he sighed, rubbing his muscles before turning.

There she was. With her light purple tattoos on her face. Her red hair framing her beautiful features and her clothes, typical of a mage. She never felt comfortable with the heavy Grey Wardens clothes. She always said they made her feel slow.

Memories hit him as if someone had punched him in the stomach. The first time he saw her when she was a mere recruit, brought by Duncan from the Circle after doing only the Maker knew what. The way they had survived, how he had hugged her when she appeared from the inside of Flemeth’s house. Camp nights, telling stories and mocking the other.

Their first kiss. Their first…Oh, sweet Maker.

Eyra approached the man with a smile and the air was cut from their lungs. Even if she kept her façade, she was as nervous as he was. It had been too many years. A long time separated from each other.

“I…I…” he stuttered, and she laughed, watching as blush crept from his neck to his cheeks before his lips twitched in that boyish smile she loved. The way she could make him nervous was unbelievable.

“You…you” she teased, crossing her arms over her chest before Alistair ran and picked her up, making her to scream. “Alistair, no!”

They twirled and laughed, not caring about anybody hearing them. They knew. Everybody knew about their king being in love with the Commander of the Grey Wardens and they did not care. Anora and him were good, so what?

“I can’t believe you are here!” he exclaimed, burying his fingers and face on her hair. She still smelled like blueberries. “Unless I fell from the balcony and I hit my head. That could be a possible reason as well”

“It seems you are the same idiot I left here” Eyra replied with a smile, nuzzling her face on his shoulder, resting her body against his. His hands went to her waist and he chuckled, the vibrations rumbling against her chest.

“C’mon. You love it”

“Just because I have no choice with you it doesn’t mean I love you”

“Ahhhhhh, you said it. You said you love me” Alistair started to pinch her and hit her with his index finger, only for her to laugh and try to escape from his strong grip.

“Maker’s breath, you’re the king of Ferelden. Behave!”

“That’s why I can allow myself to misbehave”

“You are unsufferable” She replied, and Alistair stared at her. The last sunrays made her hair shine. It was like a fire, threatening to consume him all. Her sweet smile and her lovely eyes on his own. “How you have you been here?”

“A few hours”

“What? And you didn’t come to see me?”

“I was having tea with Anora”

Alistair’s face was priceless at this information and Eyra chuckled, walking inside the room and taking off his cloak, tossing it on a chair. The man followed her like a puppy, and he moved his hands in an exaggerated manner.

“Are you telling me you went to have tea with my wife before coming to see me?” Eyra bit her lip and nodded, smiling like a child. Alistair huffed and feigned indignation. “My wife and my lover together! I can’t believe! Having tea and pastries without me”

“Don’t forget the cake, dear”

“Of course! You had cake without me! I despise you, Mage” he added with a voice that was intended to sound cruel and mischievous but failed in the attempt.

Both women had forged a bond over the years. Eyra had admitted Anora’s qualities as a queen and Anora was surprised with her work as the Commander of the Grey Wardens and her title as Arlessa of Amaranthine. When some political matters had to be discussed, Eyra usually went to Anora and the queen looked for her advice when necessary. All of this under the astonished gaze of Alistair, who could not believe it.

“Cailan had his affairs, dear” Anora had said one night they were having dinner together. “I don’t mind you having one. Especially if you truly love her. I can’t blame you and this political situation. Besides, she’s an exquisite person. A natural leader and an incredibly talented mage”

Maker, he had not only one but two pragmatical women.

“Did you even bring me a piece, at least?” Eyra pointed at the tray with her head and Alistair grinned like a child. “Andraste’s breath, I love you. Did I say that? Yes? Good”

“You love me because I brought you cake?”

“AND cheese!” Alistair exclaimed, raising his plate before taking a mouthful of food, much to Eyra’s disgust.

“Honestly, my mabari has better manners than you while eating”

“But I smell better”

“Well” Eyra scrunched her nose. “You are levelled with him”

“Hey! Don’t hurt my manly feelings, you woman!” Eyra raised her hands, smiling and took the fork to grab some food.

Time passed and both enjoyed a delightful dinner. It was summer and the balcony’s door was open, allowing the soft night breeze coming into the room. The candles lightened Eyra’s face and made her eyes shine with sparkles. Even her tattoos seemed brighter. Alistair had his chin on his hand, listening to her stories about how she had wandered around the world.

“Honestly, I thought that beast was going to bite me” she finished with a chuckle, shaking her head and taking her cup to drink. Before it took her lips, Eyra smiled sweetly at her lover’s gaze. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…I missed this. I missed you” Alistair grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one, making her giggling. His brown eyes looked at her intensely. “Did you…come here to tell something about…?

He didn’t even finish the sentence before she shook her head. Eyra already knew what the question was.  The reason why she had left Amaranthine to go all over Thedas. The reason why Alistair and the mage had been separated for years.

He knew he was pressured to have a child. An heir to the Theirin legacy. A new king or queen of Ferelden. Yet, with the taint, it was difficult. He had tried several times, even if he avoided Anora’s chambers as much as he could. Yet, it was useless. She was not pregnant.

Alistair remember their wedding night. He was nervous, sweaty, and the looks she was giving him didn’t help. He didn’t want to sleep with Anora, he wanted to sleep with Eyra. Still, his wife talked to him, trying to calm him down enough to perform his duty. And he did, with a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

“I’m sorry, my love” Eyra muttered in a mere whisper. Alistair’s eyes softened and he leant to press a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s not your fault. You will do it. If someone can, it’s you. I still remember our days in the party, from one side of Ferelden to the other, fighting darkspawns and monsters and dragon and you were the sweetest girl I’ve ever met” Eyra smiled softly, leaning against his shoulder. She loved the sound of his voice. “And you were always caring for us. Protecting us”

“And trying to stop Morrigan and you from killing each other”

“Oh, and do you remember when I felt jealous of your mabari?”

“What?” Eyra frowned and observed Alistair’s face turning crimson. Her mouth opened and she squealed. “Andraste’s breath! You were jealous of a dog!”

“No, I…did I say that? No, no. Of course not” Alistair coughed and tried to cover his blush with his cup, while Eyra held her head with her hand, grinning at him. “Okay, fine! Maybe I was a bit jealous of your dog. I mean, he could sleep with you!”

Eyra laughed heartily until tears rolled down her cheeks and her stomach hurt. Alistair had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so funny. It seems they were right”

“What? Who?”

“Leliana, Zevran, Morrigan…” she counted with her fingers and Alistair slapped his face, shaking his head.

“Maker…I’m embarrassing myself”

“Yeah, well. That’s part of your charm, I guess”

“Is that so? Well, then…” Effortlessly, he grabbed Eyra and placed her over his lap, with her legs on the sides. He nuzzled his nose against hers, smiling. “Tell me, what other charms are irresistible to you”

“I didn’t say you were irresistible”

“You don’t have to. I can see it over your beautiful puppy eyes when you look at me”

Eyra sighed when he wriggled his eyebrows, his smile always in his lips. She chuckled and put both arms around his neck, lowering her voice while biting her lip. It had been a long time since they held each other. It was like an echo of another time. Their bodies had memory and remembered every single kiss and touch. And sweet Andraste, how much they had missed it.

Alistair’s hands cupped both of her cheeks and she leant, closing her eyes and enjoying that feeling. He stared at her, mesmerized, trying to memorise every single feature of her for when she left. Unable to hold himself any longer, he leant and pressed his lips against hers, a soft, delicate, and feather-like kiss that made their heads to spin. They felt dizzy as their mouth moved in a non-spoken agreement.

“Eyra…” he muttered when they moved back, breathing each other’s air and staring at their eyes, blown with not-so-subtle lust. The mage kissed the tip of his nose and moved over his jaw, feeling Alistair’s hands gripping his waist. When she reached his earlobe and licked it, he groaned and stood up, forcing her to stand.

His brown eyes looking at her as he walked until her knees hit the massive mattress. Even if time had passed and he was no longer a warrior, Alistair was still strong and could lift her without problem. Eyra bit her lip, just to tease him and his eyes followed the movement, tongue licking his own lips. His breath was ragged, as if he had been fighting darkspawn for hours.

Eyra went to unlace her shirt but his hand, bigger than her own, stopped her.

“No, I want to do it”

She smiled and nodded, letting her arms hang by her sides, observing his movements. They were deliberated, slow, enjoying every inch of skin displayed to him. His calloused hands caressed it before replacing them with his soft lips, peppering kisses over her jaw and neck, nipping and biting. Eyra’s breath hitched and soon her upper part was bare except for her breast band. Alistair frowned and stared at the cloth.

“I still hate that”

The woman chuckled and shook her head, feeling his hands caressing her hips, circling the skin with his thumbs. Soon they moved upwards, where her breasts were craving for his attention. Alistair bit the tender skin between the neck and the shoulder, and she gasped, noticing his smile against her skin. Her hands buried in that hair she loved and pressed his body against hers.

Soon the knot that held the band together and tossed it on the floor, staring at her body with admiration. To Alistair, not even Andraste could compare to his lover. She smiled shyly, as she did the first time they slept together inside her tent.

He felt a twitch in his heart, the memory of his camp nights still fresh in his mind. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had left with the Grey Wardens, being her second-on-charge.

“Are you going to stay there all night, or will you do something?” she teased, biting her lip and wiggling her hips so the rest of her clothes fell, leaving her bare in front of him. Alistair felt his throat dry and swallowed hard. “Yet, I think it’s not fair that you are still dressed”

“No? Well, I’m the king here, and I think I might deserve having a little bit of advantage” he winked, and she punched him in the shoulder playfully before she started to undress him.

His broad chest was still tanned and strong. He had some scars here and there, the results of his time as a Grey Warden with Duncan and the travelling he had done with Eyra and the rest of the companions. He had some chest hair down his navel, where his breeches started. Alistair picked her up and placed her on the mattress, straddling her hips. He peppered his neck with kisses while his hands went to her breasts, touching and caressing them. Eyra gasped when his thumbs circled her nipples and arched her back.

“So sensitive. As always.” he grinned against her skin and lowered his head, capturing her nipple with his mouth, making her moan. “I miss those sounds. The softness of your skin…” Eyra pulled at his hair, placing her legs around his waist. His clothed length rubbed against her thigh and she felt her mind going blank. “I wonder…If I can make you come as I used to…”

Alistair’s wicked smile remained in his features as he went down her body, pressing kisses on her skin. Eyra knew where this was going, so her head hit the pillows, biting her lower lip. His hands caressed her thighs almost tenderly, peppering kisses all over the skin until his breath fanned against her folds.

“Oh, sweet Maker…I missed this”

Before Eyra had a chance to reply, he pressed his tongue against her clit, circling slowly, teasingly. His calloused fingers caressed her wet folds while his free arm forced her waist to the mattress. The mage huffed and writhed, letting small whimpers escape her throat.

“Alistair…” she muttered, grabbing and pulling his hair with both hands.

“I love when you say my name, my dear”

She moaned and tried to get free from his grip, only to be stronger. Alistair moved his head both sides, tapping and licking. Eyra screamed his name when she felt two fingers inside her, looking for that spot that made her mind go blank. In a few minutes, that man had the Commander of the Grey Wardens begging for release, which he gladly complied. The knot in her stomach tightened and her legs shook around Alistair’s head. His brown eyes observed her, not wanting to miss a single thing.

And oh, how he loved watching her come like that, eyes shut and hands gripping the sheets as if her life depended on it. Her chest moved as she tried to catch her breath and he rode her orgasm until she couldn’t take it any longer. When Alistair moved away, his chin was covered with her fluids and Eyra felt her whole body burning in shame.

“Oh, Maker. Are you blushing? The great Hero of Ferelden?”

“Stop mocking me” she replied with her muffled voice, as she had covered her face. He laughed and kissed her body, cupping her face.

“It was beautiful. You are beautiful”

Eyra Amell felt the sting of tears on her eyes and closed them when their lips touched. Her hands caressed his back, feeling his taut muscles. Soon they moved down the spine, raising goosebumps under the touch until they reached his ass, grabbing it.

“Hey!” Alistair shrieked with a smirk, making her laugh.

“Stop complaining, you love it” she replied, pecking at his nose before helping him remove his breeches. He stood there, kneeling by her side and Eyra couldn’t stop herself.

She pushed him until he fell on the mattress, his gaze following every single movement. She smirked and straddled him, rubbing her core against his length. Alistair gasped and grabbed her hips. Eyra placed her hands on his broad chest and, without taking his eyes off him, sank herself to the hilt. Slowly, intimately. The only sounds in the room where their breaths, rhythmic and ragged. Alistair groaned when he filled her completely.

“Maker…” he muttered, feeling his head dizzy at the feeling of her warm inside around him. “It’s been a long time…”

“Too long” said Eyra with a croaked voice, rocking her hips.

It took her a while to get used to it, but soon they moved at unison. Their bodies were like a puzzle that fit perfectly. The moans, the sweat, rolling down their bodies. The movements were deliberated, slow. They had all night to feel each other, taste each other. There was no need to rush.

His feet were on the mattress and his hips moved to meet her movements. They became faster, harder. Skin slapping skin, the sound echoing in the room. Moans, whimpers and soft words of love. Everything they wanted to say and couldn’t over the years. In that moment, they were no longer king and commander. They were just to lovers, as they were in their tents.

Eyra’s nails dragged lines over his shoulder and Alistair sat down, circling her body with his arms. His forehead against hers. One of his hands went to his small bundle of nerves and her body tensed. He knew she was close. She could feel it.

“C’mon, my love…oh, sweet Andraste…”

He pumped his hips faster and her body shivered while pleasure ran over her veins. She closed her eyes and Alistair kissed her, swallowing her moans. Her hands pulled his hair and he felt himself coming inside her, shuddering.

“Alistair���” she muttered with half-lidded eyes, peppering kisses over his face.

Without saying a word, they laid down and covered themselves with the mattress, caressing each other and making the other laugh. The following day they would have to remain serious and professional. And soon, she would leave again.

For now, that was not important. They had each other in their arms.

[anora-mac-tired]

Anora and Loghain - a missed reunion

During the Mage Templar War, Anora, Former Queen, is on the run for her life but now leads a group of displaced mages, hiding from the templars. Loghain is a Warden. Neither knows the other lives.

Anora bit back a wince at the bitter smell of the salve Marlin was applying to her leg. The mage was young, younger than Anora at least, but wiser than his youthful appearance suggested, and he was fixing Anora with a stern glare. "You have got to be more careful Celia." 

She gave the herbalist a small, if somewhat sheepish smile. 

"Templar's are aggressive bastards, not my fault."

They had walked into an ambush, sort of. Anora had known they were there, in the area, just not where specifically. She had led 5 others to hunt them down, so that their group could move on. She had lost two in the fight, but every templar - ten in total - had lost their lives that day. 

That was 5 more marks to add to her helmet, personally. She was running out of space to be honest. 

They burned the two who had fallen, in a solemn ceremony. Anora had never gotten used to this guilt, when she lost one of her men. Their names had been Darren and Felicia. Darren had had combat training, having served in the Denerim guard, Felicia had only what she had learned from the band. Both had been volunteers, all the warriors were. They were the siblings, lovers, friends etc of the mages in Anora's ever growing band, dedicated to protecting their loved ones. 

Darren had joined up entirely on his own, he had been with the band since just after it started. He was a grizzled old veteran, but claimed he had once had a daughter in the circle. Felicia had a sister, a mage of 14, barely able to cast a spark, she and her sister had joined up at the same time, finding Anora's band while they moving through the hills around Wycome. 

That was 2 years ago. 3 years ago was when all this had started. 

Anora had been in the Marches when all the circles rebelled, she had not been privy to that though, as she was travelling through the wilderness at the time. Then she stumbled across three robed figures being chased by templars. The templars were raving mad, as any man would have to be to attack children. Two of the mages were barely adolescents, and the one leading them could only just have reached his 20th year. 

Anora had leapt to their defense, surprising herself by her ability to take down 5 templars by herself, but later she realized it was that Templars were not actually good at fighting against other warriors. They were trained to stab helpless mages to death, not defend against a trained, armed and armored opponent. 

From then on, her group grew, as she found more mages, and occasionally the odd few templars, though there was nothing to be done for their lyrium addiction and she sent them on their way, lest they begin to endanger the group. 

Now she led a group of fifty, thirty five of which were mages. Teaching people who had grown up in the relative comfort of a tower how to live and survive in the outdoors had been an arduous task, but one she took to gladly. 

At first, it had been extremely unnerving, to go from a life of solitude on the run, to suddenly having people under her care, looking up to her and relying on her for their protection, and most unnerving of all, trusting her. Even though she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, they trusted her. They had hope in her. 

Anora had forgotten what that felt like. Perhaps she never truly knew. She did not know if the people of Ferelden had looked up to her or even trusted her when she was Queen. 

And she would never know now, having being bested to the throne by a bastard and an elven mage of all things. 

King Alistair was a fair ruler now or so she had heard, but, there was still the bounty on her head which he had never lifted. And she knew why. Eamon had all but ruled through the boy, Eamon was the reason Anora was on the run for her life to begin with - a death sentence for not swearing fealty to Alistair. 

As if she would swear loyalty to the man who killed her father. 

"Celia?" 

Anora blinked, torn out of her thoughts and her eyes met with Marlin's, which carried concern. 

She waved her hand, "Just… thinking. I'm just… angry over Darren and Felicia." It was not a lie, she was, but Marlin did not need to know of her past. None in this camp did. 

Marlin put a hand on her shoulder, she felt it faintly through the thick black gambeson she wore, but the gesture was comforting all the same.

"They knew what they signed up for. Don't blame yourself. Blame-" 

"-The templars."

It was a motto she had repeated to herself time and time again. Darren and Felicia were not the first she had lost, and they would not be the last. Still, it did little to comfort, but it did fuel her for the next fight. 

She was not in a rush to face off against a group of templars again, but she would not mind getting the chance to remove ones' head from his shoulders again. 

That thought sent a shiver down her spine. Marlin raised a brow but said nothing. 

She was left to wonder to herself when she had begun to start looking forward to fighting, to killing. When had Queen Anora died and Anora the warrior been born? 

Perhaps, when she had been dragged out of the throne room and tossed in a cell, and then sentenced to hang. Good a guess as any. 

"Keep this bandage on for a bit, then come back around evening. The wound should heal up by then, but for now, please get some rest." He fixed her with a stern, knowing look, "Of the laying down and eating kind, not the sparring kind."

Anora grinned and waved a hand as she stood, "I know, I know. I learnt my lesson that time, Marlin. Especially since you won't let me forget it."

_

Loghain was utterly miserable. He was not soft, he had lived the first half of his life in the wilds, in tents, or just in the outdoors alone, But this trek through these forests in the Free Marches had proven to be utterly miserable.

It had rained earlier, and he was soaked completely through. He had not even bothered to remove his helmet, since it at least kept his head dry, and there was the possibility of it raining again. Delightful, he looked forward to that, truly. Their rations had been low, but the commander refused to stop until they reached further north, for reasons beyond him. 

He was just glad he was not the only one. Kallian Tabris, the normally smart mouthed elf with an infallible smirk, was glaring at her boots the entire way, the scar on her lip that reached from her left nostril to her chin twitching in that way it did when she was particularly pissed off, and she gripped her bottle of warden reserve - "Alienage Finest" - longingly. 

Loghain related, but the commander had said no drinking, they had to be sharp. He glared at Stroud's back, wishing it would pierce the metal there. 

"Hold there, wardens!" 

A female voice cried from the trees and the entire group stopped, and turned to it. The voice sent a bolt of familiarity through him, settling in his heart, which began to race. Could it possibly be…? 

The woman stood near one of the trees, on an overhanging rock. She was dressed in a dirty black gambeson and a dull steel breastplate. Fur had been thrown over her shoulders, though it was flat and low quality as far as craftsmanship was concerned. A dull black scarf was about her neck, and her face… 

Her hair was gone, the right shade of blonde, though it was damp and dirty. It was short, Shaved on the sides but long enough on top to be hanging in her eyes. And her face, a sharp square jawline and ice blue eyes. 

He would never forget that face. Anora. It had to be her!

He started shaking, he could not help it, though it was imperceptible to anyone around him. 

Except Kallian, who eyed him with concern and then looked back at Anora, understanding dawning slowly on her scarred face. 

He had heard she had escaped, after being sentenced to death. No one could confirm it though, as she had not been seen anywhere after the landsmeet. The sight of her being dragged off in chains still haunted him to this day. If he was not stuck in the wardens, he would have laid siege to the castle himself, and killed that bastard who claimed the throne, Alistair too for good measure. 

But here she was, looking for all the world like a bandit or mercenary. Why was she here? 

"Hello there, stranger. What do you seek with us?" Stroud asked, removing his helmet.

"There are templars prowling these woods, further ahead especially. I warn you, they attack any and all on sight. Even Grey Wardens."

They had already encountered Templars, further back. Nasty business that lot, but was Anora doing in a forest infested with them? He had half a mind to remove his helmet, step forward and ask just that. 

But he could not. 

Not in front of all these wardens. He knew Anora probably thought he was dead, as she never saw the aftermath of his trial, and it was not exactly public knowledge that he had been made a warden. 

His heart ached, painfully, as he realized he would have to leave without saying anything. Anora wouldn't know that he was alive. He had the luxury, and his relief was immeasurable, but she would not get the same. 

Tears stung in his eyes and he let them fall silently, hidden beneath the helmets visor. Stroud and Anora continued to talk, she was telling him which areas to avoid, which routes were the safest, where the Templars had likely set up ambushes, all but giving the man a mental map of the area. Her information would likely save them a lot of trouble and pain on the way. 

He burned to know how she knew all this. As he gazed at her though, he was struck by a different familiarity. The way she was so confident of the land around her, how she knew exactly where her enemy was. 

"If I may ask, what are you doing out here?" Stroud finally asked, much to Loghain's relief.

Anora shrugged, "I lead a group of refugees whom the templars hunt."

And there it was. Anora may as well have been the spitting image of Gareth, the grandfather she would never know, at that moment. He had led displaced fereldens during the orlesian occupation, helping them live out a life in the woods, albeit as outlaws. It was clear that refugees meant mages, and Loghain felt immense concern over the fact that his daughter was becoming involved, or perhaps had been involved for a long time, in this conflict between mage and templar. But as much concern as there was, there was even more pride and his chest swelled. 

Anora may have lost the crown, or rather had it taken from her, but she was a born leader, and she could not have made him more proud. 

Then the wardens were moving again, and Loghain had to settle for a brief final glance at his daughter, whom he had no idea if he would ever see again. They locked eyes for the briefest of moments. Anora's brow furrowed, but then Loghain turned his head, and they were gone.